Grace of a Wolf-Chapter 76: Lyre: Something Wicked This Way Comes (III)

LYRE

Her attempt at offensive magic is... cute, I guess.

I flick my fingers in her direction with a sigh. The blood missiles dissolve midair, raining harmless droplets across the floor, splattering across my boots. The corrosive spell makes it a few more inches before dissolving with a faint hiss, leaving only the faintest etching on the floor.

Isabeau stumbles back, throwing a few more spells my way.

They all fail. Spectacularly.

It isn’t hard; disrupting arcana isn’t something anyone can do, but it’s been a special talent of mine since childhood. Chaos, after all, is my purview.

Seriously, does this girl remember nothing? Perhaps all her deaths have addled what little capacity she had for thought.

"You should be weak," she hisses, unable to fathom her terrible reasoning being... well, wrong.

I uncross my arms, genuinely perplexed at this point. Her stupidity is almost endearing in its persistence. Almost.

"Why would you think that? For even two seconds?" I gesture around at the carnage of her failed defenses. "After I waltzed in here like I was taking a stroll through a public park? I put my strength on display, and you decided it never even happened."

Isabeau shakes her head, her hair flying almost violently around her face with the movement. "The amount of mana required to break through those wards should be exponential. Even for you. Especially when you’re no longer under divine grace." She points at the scuffed sigil. "That was calibrated to require the energy of three full covens to breach. Three."

I don’t bother explaining. It costs me almost nothing to disrupt arcana, but she would never understand. For creatures like her, magic is always transactional—power for power, energy for energy. Always with a cost, always with limits. Must be exhausting, living like that.

"Your pathetic concept of limitations doesn’t apply to me." I inspect my fingernails, deliberately casual. The blood spatter is going to be a nightmare to clean later. I’ll have to shower before I see Grace. She’s an anxious little thing. "Maybe it’s time to accept that your little calculations aren’t universal laws."

The look of outrage on her face is almost worth the effort of this conversation. Almost.

But I’ve dallied too long. If I add the time it takes to shower... Ugh. Grace will definitely be awake by the time I get back. Worse, Caine might even be there. I want to help Grace, but I don’t want to see them making googly eyes at each other.

"All of us have limitations," she snarls. "Even the highest denizens of Order and Chaos are bound by rules."

I bite back a laugh. Her certainty is charming in a pitiful way, like watching a toddler confidently explain how the world works. She knows what I am, and yet she still doesn’t understand.

"I see motherhood hasn’t improved your intellect. Still living in the shadow realm of your own ignorance."

Her eyes widen. "You know about—"

"Of course I know. I know everything about you, Isabeau. I’m just not particularly interested." I take another step forward, deliberate and unhurried. "Now, what to do with you..."

She retreats, backing toward the far wall. "You’re violating territory rights. The ancient accords—"

"Ancient accords?" I laugh then, unable to contain it. "Those were written by the same creatures who believed the earth was flat and bleeding people cured disease. Perhaps you’d like to cite some medieval property laws next?"

The room trembles slightly—not from her power, but from mine seeping into the foundations of this pitiful place. I’m not even trying. It just happens when I stop caring enough to contain it.

"You’re a relic," I continue, watching her eyes dart around for escape routes that don’t exist. "Clinging to outdated paradigms, feeding on creatures half their former strength, and thinking you’re building something that will last."

Her chin lifts in defiance. "The wolves here are more than pleased with our arrangement. They get power, strength beyond their natural limitations. Youth. Vitality. I’m doing nothing wrong here."

I gesture to the cages beyond the room. "Those poor creatures. Did you tell them the fine print? That after you’re done with them, they’ll be hollow shells? That each time you feed, you take a little more than you give back?"

"They know the cost."

"Do they?" I tilt my head. "Do they know you’re the reason shifter magic has grown thinner over the centuries? That your kind drained the power of their bloodlines for generations?"

Her expression falters for just a moment, and I see the truth. Of course she hasn’t told them. She’s selling them a fantasy of power while delivering a slow death.

"The Lycan King knows," she whispers, a sly smile creeping across her face. "He was more than happy to accept my gifts."

That gives me pause. If Caine has made deals with this parasite...

No. He might be an idiot, but his arrogance would never allow him to deal with a sanguimancer.

Ah, Grace. I want to get back to her. She likes to pretend she’s okay, but she hates being alone.

I need to finish this.

"Even if that were true, it changes nothing about our current situation. You have exactly two choices: leave peacefully, or leave in pieces."

"You would destroy a mother?" She places a hand protectively over her abdomen, her eyes wide with feigned innocence. In her ten-year-old body, it’s... disgusting. Even for me.

"That doesn’t make you a mother." My voice drops, all pretense of amusement vanishing. I can sense what she’s incubating, but it’s not a child. Not in the sense humans would think of.

It’s more like a parasite. A servant created of her own flesh, blood, and magic, with no soul to speak of.

It takes more time to blink than it does to gather the ravaged threads of chaos in this place. The residual discord becomes orderly, focused, and arcana thrums in the air.

Her face contorts. "You’ll regret challenging me, Lyrielle. I am not the only one here. There are others, more power—"

I don’t let her finish.

The blast isn’t dramatic. No blinding light, no thunderous boom. Just a sudden rush of energy tearing through her defenses, ripping through the resistance of her physical body as if it were air.

Her body—that stolen child’s body—convulses once, then falls apart like wet tissue. Blood droplets hang suspended for a moment before gravity reclaims them, spattering across the concrete floor.

Those crimson eyes fade slowly to a mundane brown. They stare upward, unblinking.

I grimace, looking at the small crumpled form. No matter how many centuries I’ve lived, no matter how many monsters I’ve dispatched, deaths involving children’s bodies never sit right with me. Even though Isabeau wasn’t a child and just a body-hopping parasite wearing a child’s form, my discomfort doesn’t ease in the aftermath.

Isabeau isn’t dead. She’ll be back in another ten years. Twenty at most. Sanguimancers are notoriously hard to kill, and Isabeau always has an escape plan. She might be an idiot, but her ability to escape death is unparalleled.

My boots leave bloody footprints as I walk through the corridor of cages, ignoring the bodies within.

The toddler from earlier stands by the bars, her hands reaching toward me. I pause, guilt tugging at me. But then I glance away.

I’m not the hero of their story. It’s never been my role.

Besides, there’s someone whose actual job description includes this sort of thing. Someone with resources, authority, and a tedious sense of honor compelling him to protect his people—even if he’s a little bloodthirsty. Someone who’s probably wondering why I haven’t texted him any updates in a while.

The Lycan King can clean this up. They just have to wait a little longer. An hour. Maybe two.

As I climb the stairs out of that blood-soaked basement, I hum an old tune. Something from the 1940s, I think, but I can’t quite recall. By the time I reach the exit, I’m almost chipper.

Fresh air hits my face as I step outside, and I breathe deeply, letting it cleanse the stench from my nostrils. It’s dark. Grace will be awake soon. Maybe she already is.

I pull my phone from my pocket to check the time, but the screen remains stubbornly black.

I press the power button. Nothing.

Damn. Did I forget to charge it?

Now I’ll need to shower and charge my phone before heading back to Grace.

I hope she hasn’t tried to call me. The girl puts on a brave face, but she’s deeply anxious underneath all her forced composure. She hates being alone.

Well, nothing to do but get moving. I’ll be back to her soon enough.

More important is what I’m going to tell her little guard dog boyfriend. How do I explain a basement full of caged wolves? And a dead sanguimancer. From what I’ve gleaned over my years of travel, people here have never even heard of sanguimancers.

Maybe I’ll just leave an anonymous tip. The less I have to explain myself, the better.