“It might not even be the same photo.”
Jack-Eye bends over my phone again, blocking my view.
“See the text on Lyre’s book? It’s different every time. A little strange, too.”
Fenris growls. Grace.
“It might be AI. You’d be surprised at how good it’s become-“
“Jack-Eye.”
“Yeah?”
“Shut up.”
I tap open my contacts, selecting Lyre’s number. It goes straight to voicemail.
My pulse drums against my temples as I try again. Nothing.
Her phone’s off. Explains why all my messages have been sitting there, unread and unanswered.
Damn it. I should have known better than to trust someone the Fiddlebacks sent to the hospital, but I hadn’t expected them to be this rotten.
Whatever their secret is, I’d expected it to have more political impact than anything. The pack is too small to pose a threat, even with only two Lycans in the area. Their strength is underwhelming, and I’d been arrogant.
Of course they’d go for Grace. It’s the only way to cut our power off at the knees.
Having a weakness is new to me. It’s a lesson I won’t soon forget.
“Call the hospital,”
I order Jack-Eye, already striding toward the terrace doors, ready to start violence.
“Find out if Grace is still there.”
Kill them, Fenris snarls, padding behind me. His glow is brighter now, enough to hurt your eyes if you look directly at him. All of them.
Jack-Eye’s phone is already pressed to his ear, but I don’t wait for the answer. I know what it will be.
Fenris stalks alongside me, his ethereal blue glow intensifying with each step. She’s gone. They’ve taken her. Kill them all.
Andrew and Thom jump forward from where they stood near the terrace doors. The Blue Mountain pup must have some insight, because he frowns when he sees me. The wizard, meanwhile, hangs his head with his signature tremble.
“Stay back,”
I warn them both. They don’t have the protection of my pack link.
The Blue Mountain pup grabs the shaking wizard and yanks him behind me. If he wasn’t a sniveling little shit, I’d be proud of his ability to assess a situation.
Dominance rolls off me like a rogue wave, flattening the crowd to the ground and cutting off the music and soft background chatter in an instant.
“Halloway.”
My eyes roam the room, but there’s no hint of their alpha anywhere. My voice booms through the crowd.
“Where the fuck is Halloway?”
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.”
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 leads me to 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 toward me at 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 nickname she’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 same shit, and you haven’t learned a thing.”
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.