Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 105: Lyre: Time-Locked

LYRE

The trail’s not cold. It’s frigid. Cryogenically sealed in regret and futility.

I knew this place would be empty before we even turned onto the access road, but thoroughness is one of the many lessons learned over agonizing centuries. It means checking every lead, even the ones that reek of wasted time.

Better to knock out the possibilities now, before they come back to spirit you into another dimension for three weeks, four days, seventeen hours and eleven minutes.

Those are memories I’d rather not revisit. Or experience again.

Jack-Eye gets out first, stretches his long frame like he’s been folded into an origami wolf for too long. The others follow. And me? I’m too irritated to even open the damn door.

I already know what’s inside.

Tapping my fingers against the steering wheel, I stare at the front door, wondering exactly how hard the restrictions would hit if I went on a rampage here.

It’s tempting. Oh, so fucking tempting.

But being without power while trying to chase down the asshole trying to reanimate Isabeau would be a stupid decision, so I have to calm down before I lose my shit.

Deep breath.

Meditation was never my strong suit. Too impulsive, too fiery, too much

—the excuses are endless, but it all boils down to the same basic issue. It doesn’t fit with my personality.

Still, I borrow from it a little to cool the rage flowing in my blood.

Deep, deep, deep breath.

Gotta do it in the car, because sucking in a lung full of death and bloody arcana’s only going to raise my blood pressure more.

Finally centered and in control once again, I slip out of the car, pretending like nothing awful’s about to happen.

straightening his shoulders

Well. That’s unexpected.

human half still maintains some functional instincts. Huh. Good to see he’s still functional, even when he’s afraid of my

him as beta. He’s an alpha-level Lycan, which means

Dumbass makes good

harder as I approach the shed. I already knew what I was going to feel, but it’s still strange and wrong to my senses. The rot

onto a loody crime scene wiped free of fingerprints

A deliberately manufactured void.

My stomach clenches.

left grime and residue behind. Magical evidence. A mystical

This? This is nothing.

This is Reaper-level sanitization.

even Owen, an angel-descendant, can’t

feeling the familiar pattern of a time-anchor spell forming beneath my skin. Arcana flows from my fingers to the air around this place, weaving itself into a large bubble of

phone dings. Right

ignore it. The Divinity Connect app can kiss my ass. I’m not letting these idiots stumble into a Reaper’s path. I’m the one who brought them here; protecting them shouldn’t be a fucking plausibility issue. Of course,

asks, and I can feel the anger simmering beneath

In some ways

so much as a creak, of course. They’d never

others, nothing has

of suspended time. Colors fade just slightly. Sound dampens. All momentum bleeds away into perfect stillness, like I’ve closed a snow globe

and I fight

everything and absorbing nothing. He’s wearing the ridiculous uniform they all insist on: matte-black cloak with shadows that

reap souls, and they aren’t allowed to harm anything living. I guess they could use it in a battle against divinity, but those are all strictly regulated, thanks the rules of Plausibility and

those for balance, I see," I say

curves into a smile, but it doesn’t disturb a single muscle in his face. Creepy to humans, normal

my weight shift to one hip. "Stop playing around. Why are you here so early? There’s a reason,

did three centuries ago, which is none. Monotone bastard. "We aren’t the only

ass-covering you need to do. But