Grace of a Wolf (by Lenaleia) novel Chapter 74

Chapter 74: Lyre: Something Wicked This Way Comes (I)

LYRE

Life was a lot easier when I roamed free.

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

But some habits die hard—like my talent for making dramatic 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!"

Same predictable 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 some of 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. Some whimper as I pass. Others stare with hollow eyes. There’s no hope when they see me pass. 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 same bullshit with different packaging, century after century.

The strong will always come out 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."

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