Grace of a Wolf-Chapter 79: Lyre: Hunting for Grace

Chapter 21: Lyre: Hunting for Grace

LYRE

There’s no point in being angry with the brainless boyfriend; trusting in his authority as the Lycan King is to be expected. All wolves fall under his purview, and even rogues would think thrice before double-crossing the throne.

But I still want to kick his stupid face to the curb.

I slam through the hospital doors with enough force to make the two security guards behind the reception desk jump to their feet.

My wards should have screamed the moment anyone approached Grace’s room with harmful intent. They were simple but effective—the magical equivalent of trip wires rigged to flash bombs. Not exactly subtle, but subtlety wasn’t the point.

"Miss, you can’t—" a woman in scrubs starts.

I cut her off with a look. "Grace Harper. Where is she? Don’t give me any bullshit about her being discharged, either."

The security officers are already acting like I’m another problem in their minimum-wage day. Hands shift toward batons, shoulders square, and there’s the whole I’m-not-looking-at-you side-eye where they’re completely tuned in to every breath I breathe.

Well; there’s no point in arguing with someone manning the information desk. A quick glance at her lanyard says she’s not even a nurse. Why the hell is she even wearing scrubs? She’s a receptionist.

Spinning on my heel, I head toward the elevators. Of course, Burly and Muscles immediately step out from their little desk cocoon with a whole lot of ego and cheap cologne wafting my way. One’s hand hovers near his taser, the other plants himself directly in my path.

"Ma’am, I need you to return to the desk," says the broader one, Burly.

I don’t slow my stride, and Muscles gets ahead of me, holding out an arm to block my path. "Ma’am, you’ll need to come with us—"

With a flick of my finger, all three of them—the receptionist and both security guards—go flying backward, pinned to the nearest wall like butterflies to a corkboard. The receptionist’s mouth opens for a shrill scream—so I gag them all with air.

No one wants to listen to high-pitched shrieking. It’s murder, but for ears.

Their bodies struggle uselessly against my binding, arms splayed wide, feet dangling inches above the floor.

In about ten minutes, they’ll be free again. Maybe mildly traumatized, but I’m sure they’ll get over it one day.

Someone screams at the meager display of power and people scatter across the lobby like fleeing rats. A woman yanks her child close, shielding his eyes.

I don’t have time for any of their bullshit. If I don’t find Grace soon, the Lycan King’s going to rampage all over this city. And if he does that...

No. Better not to think about it. The moment any of this reaches their ears, my precious peace is going to become a distant memory for the next few centuries. Do you have any idea how hard it is to escape the yoke of Divinity?

Almost impossible, okay? It involves almost five hundred years of bribes, dirty little secrets, and a whole ass pirate fleet.

People stay far away from me as I approach the elevators. The ignorant few who reach the lobby give me a curious look as they exit, while everyone watching probably has a mild heart attack.

Like I’m just indiscriminately attacking people or something.

Humans are such silly little creatures, but I get it. They’re shockingly fragile.

Like a certain Grace.

I jab my index finger against the elevator "close door" button repeatedly, not caring if I look like an impatient lunatic. The doors finally slide shut.

Ascent begins with a mechanical groan. I cross my arms and tap my foot against the floor, watching the numbers crawl upward. Six more floors until I reach Grace’s room.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, glancing at the notification banner.

Divinity Connect: 3 new messages

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

I tap on the notification, knowing I’ll regret it. The sleek black interface of the app opens up, showing the group chat I muted years ago.

Unfortunately, muting doesn’t work when they specifically tag you.

[WRATH: @Lyrielle went on a rampage and didn’t invite us. Rude.]

[MADNESS: I thought we had an agreement. You kill something interesting, you send pictures. That was the deal, @Lyrielle.]

[TIME: Some of us are stuck in meetings for literal eons. @Lyrielle, the least you could do is share the entertainment.]

These idiots.

As I scroll through their complaints, a new message pops up.

[WRATH: !!! HOLD UP EVERYONE.]

[WRATH: @Lyrielle’s reading us!]

[MADNESS: LYRI DARLING. Tell us EVERYTHING. Was there blood? How much blood? Did you make that little witch cry before you ended her?]

[TIME: I told you she’d check eventually. You owe me a tropical island now, Wrath.]

[WRATH: No fair. You probably peeked ahead.]

I jab the exit button with my index finger, closing the app before they can draw me into their nonsense. Whose brilliant idea was it to create a fucking app for Divinities? Life was so much better when you could only communicate through prayer.

The elevator dings, and I shove my phone into my pocket.

It immediately buzzes again. And again. And again.

If I didn’t need it, I’d throw the damn thing into the nearest incinerator. Unfortunately, the app can’t be uninstalled.

And no matter what phone I buy, it’ll be on there. Even if I borrow someone else’s. It’s like the worst virus of all time.

When the doors finally open on Grace’s floor, I stride out with purpose. The nurses’ station is directly ahead, and three nurses are huddled behind it, gossiping about whatever and who cares.

"Where is she?" I demand.

The oldest nurse, her hair pulled back in a tight gray bun, glances at me. "I’m sorry, ma’am. May I ask who you’re looking for?"

"Grace Harper. Room 3629."

The nurse with the gray bun blinks at me like I’ve asked her to explain quantum physics in interpretive dance. Or maybe she thinks I’m here to tag the walls and summon Satan in the cafeteria. I keep forgetting I dyed my hair in various shades of vibrant on a whim last week.

"Room 3629?" She turns to her computer, tapping away with frustrating slowness. I know she’s old, but can’t she at least learn to type like everyone else?

"Oh, wait, is that Danielle’s room? The one with the girl who went to imaging, but then her record couldn’t be accessed anymore?" one of the younger ones asks, looking over the old woman’s shoulder.

"No, she was discharged. The record was just glitched for a few minutes." The other younger one.

"Ah, yes. It says here she was discharged," the old one says, after her snail-pace typing finally yields results.

"Thanks, ladies." Snail nurse was no help, but the little gossips were. Such darlings. Rumors have always made the world go round... not always for the better, but hey, sometimes they’re actually useful.

Another buzz of my phone. Probably the stupid Divinities, but I check anyway, just in case.

Thankfully, I’m wrong.

[CAINE: Thom can’t track her.]

[LYRE: Who the fuck is Thom?]

[CAINE: My wizard.]

Ah. The sniveling thing he brought with him, with the strange glasses. Well, it’s no surprise someone of his meager talent would be lost in this situation. Humans were never great vessels for arcana.

[LYRE: At hospital now. Checking for traces. I’ll update when I find something.]

[CAINE: Jack-Eye is already there.]

I lift my head with a scowl as I almost collide with a wall of wolf muscle. Jack-Eye—Caine’s beta with a ridiculous name—steps out of Grace’s hospital room, wearing an expression matching my own.

Just what this clusterfuck needs: two people with bad news and nothing else.

I shove my phone into my back pocket. "Learn anything?"

Jack-Eye shakes his head, nostrils flaring. "Nothing. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was never here."

The muscles in his jaw twitch with frustration, and I sniff at the air. My sense of smell is far stronger than a human’s, but all I can pick up is the smell of bleach and the distinct undertone of wolf, courtesy of the Lycan Beta.

"Move," I say, not bothering with courtesy as I shove my way past.

The flow of arcana—a subtle current of existence, or energy, or magic, whatever you’d like to call it—shimmers in the air like thousands of colored threads.

They’re too... straight. Clean. Perfect.

Woven by someone with a master touch, but not enough experience to understand their work only raises red flags.

Grace’s room should be a mess of magical residue—my wards, the hospital’s ambient energy, her presence, the bond she shares with her annoying boyfriend...

Instead, the pattern here is strange. It reminds me of something. I can’t quite remember, though.

Jack-Eye follows me into the room with a grunt.

"What do you see?" he asks, his voice lowered to a faint rumble.

"Shut up." Extending my hands helps with feeling the currents.

I walk the perimeter of the room, fingertips tracing invisible lines. Near the window, I pause. The pattern shifts here. This is where they began their weaving.

"Someone’s erased her presence," I tell Jack-Eye, who just nods. He gets it. To his nose, this room must smell strange. Missing things. Even a recently cleaned room has a multitude of scents, and yet there’s nothing here.

As if everything has been planted. Not just what we smell, but also the arcana in this place.

I run my fingers over the wall absently. "They didn’t just grab her. They erased the very concept of her being here."

That’s what bothers me about the symmetry. It reminds me of—

The memory clicks like a lock tumbling open.

"Son of a bitch."