Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 74: Lyre: Something Wicked This Way Comes (1) LYRE Life was a lot easier when I roamed free.

This strange urge I have to help Grace has pushedto do things I haven't done in centuries. Things I've almost forgotten about.

But shabits die hard—like my talent for making tic entrances.

The reinforced steel door crumples under my foot like it's made of aluminum foil. Pathetic. Not even warded properly. The crash echoes through the underground chamber it guarded, and I step through the wreckage with practiced nonchalance.

"What the fuck-" "Intruder!" "Kill her!" Spredictable script, different basement. I don't bother wiping the boredom from my face as three young wolves lunge at me, all snarls and extended claws.

Amateurs.

I've been dealing with their kind when their great-great-grandfathers were still pissing on trees.

A flick of my wrist sends arcana pulsing through the concrete floor. The energy responds to my command instantly, gravity suddenly quintupling beneath their feet. All three slam face-first into the ground with satisfying thuds.

"Stay." I twist my fingers, condensing the air around their mouths. "And shut up." Their muffled protests turn to wide-eyed panic. Shifters always forget sof us breathe magic rather than simply use it.

The corridor ahead stretches into darkness, lit only by intermittent bulbs, flickering like dying fireflies. The stench here is about what I expected—a nauseating cocktail of rotting meat, puddles of blood congealing along the packed dirt floor, unwashed bodies, and the product of their existence in this place. I grimace, wishing I'd thought to bring a mask. Seven centuries, and I still haven't mastered the art of proper preparation.

"Humans have invented air fresheners, you know," I mutter to no one in particular as I stride forward. "Decent plumbing, too. Revolutionary concepts. More dungeons should have them." The corridor opens into a wider chamber, and my stomach tightens. Cages. Rows of them, stacked two high along both walls. Inside each, ten to fifteen bodies crammed together-shifters ranging from infants to teenagers. Swhimper as I pass. Others stare with hollow eyes. There's no hope when they seepass. They've long since stopped hoping for rescue.

Perhaps they never learned how.

I've seen atrocities to curdle the blood of gods, but this particular brand of cruelty never fails to ignite that dangerous pocket of rage I keep carefully contained. Humans call it trafficking. Supernaturals call it breeding programs. I call it the sbullshit with different packaging, century after century.

The strong will always cout to oppress the weak.

A toddler reaches through the bars as I pass, tiny fingers grasping at my sleeve. His eyes flash amber in the dim light. The sight twists something ancient and painful inside me.

"Not today, little one," I whisper, gently untangling his fingers. "But soon." I continue deeper into the labyrinth, following the pulse of familiar magic tingling against my skin. Distinct, unmistakable-like recognizing someone's voice in a crowded room. It leadsto a heavy metal door at the corridor's end, marked with symbols I haven't seen used in proper fashion since the Inquisition.

Amateur hour continues. Then again, she was never great at learning her lessons.

I don't bother with subtlety. Another kick, another crash, another doorway reduced to scrap. The room beyond is larger, circular, with sigils etched into the floor and blood pooling in the carved channels between them.

And there she stands—small as a child, with wide eyes and porcelain skin. Dressed in a pristine white dress, as if she's headed to Sunday school instead of conducting blood rituals in a gross, damp basement.

"Isabeau," I sigh. "Still going for the creepy Victorian doll aesthetic, I see." Her face contorts with rage, her eyes crimson with madness.

Again; she's bad at learning her lessons.

"Echo Witch," she snarls, and I bow.

"In the flesh." With a shriek, she lifts her hands, and the blood pooling around her feet rises in dozens of crimson missiles, hurtling towardat killing velocity.

I stop them mid-air with a lazy wave and slight fluctuation of arcana, transforming the attack into a suspended crimson constellation. Pretty, in a macabre sort of way.

"Missed me, Belle?" I grin, using the nicknshe's always hated. "It's been what-Leipzig, 1843? You were selling werewolf children to aristocrats as exotic pets back then, too. At least be original." "You interfering bitch." Her voice doesn't match her childlike appearance-deep, rasping, ancient. Creepy, but my spine refuses to tingle. "This territory is protected. You have no right—" "Protected by whom?" I interrupt, walking casually around the suspended blood droplets. "Your new wolf friends? The ones currently eating dirt in your hallway?" She snarls, fingers twitching as she attempts another spell. I shut it down before she can finish the first weave of magic, compressing the air around us until the pressure makes her gasp.

"Two hundred years, Belle. Two hundred years since I last caught you doing this exact sshit, and you haven't learned a thing." I click my tongue in disappointment. "Still the sparlor tricks. Still the sbusiness model. Still the sterrible security." "What I do is necessary," she hisses through clenched teeth. "The balance—"

"Save the lecture. I've heard it from better witches than you." I release the tolethen m pressure just enough to let breathe "What you're doing isn't balance. It's exploitation wrapped in mystical bullshit to make yourself feel better about being a glorified supernatural trafficker."

I move toward her, closing the distance until we're inches apart. Up close, the illusion of youthstips ancient malice gleams in her eyes. Those who wax poetic liken them to rubies, but they've always been the color of blood. "Here's what you never understood about the 'natural order,' Belle." I lean in, my voice dropping to a whisper. "Nothing about it says I can't rip your still-beating heart from your chest and feed it to you." She flinches, and I smile.

"Now, let's discuss why your disgusting scent is all over this city. It tooka little tto find you, I'll grant you that. The only thing you've learned in two hundred years is how to hide."