Page 39 of Grace of a Wolf 2
"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 "Clinging to outdated paradigms, feeding on creatures half their former strength, and thinking you're building something that will last."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 withthem, 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 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'sprobably 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 the 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.
