Lyre: Time-Locked
LYRE
The trail's not cold. It's frigid. Cryogenically sealed in regret and futility.
I knew this place would be empty before we even turned onto the access road, but thoroughness is one of the many lessons learned over agonizing centuries. It means checking every lead, even the ones that reek of wasted time.
Better to knock out the possibilities now, before they come back to spirit you into another dimension for three weeks, four days, seventeen hours and eleven minutes.
Those are memories I'd rather not revisit. Or experience again.
Jack-Eye gets out first, stretches his long frame like he's been folded into an origami wolf for too long. The others follow. And me? I'm too irritated to even open the damn door.
I already know what's inside.
Tapping my fingers against the steering wheel, I stare at the front door, wondering exactly how hard the restrictions would hit if I went on a rampage here.
It's tempting. Oh,sofucking tempting.
But being without power while trying to chase down the asshole trying to reanimate Isabeau would be a stupid decision, so I have to calm down before I lose my shit.
Deep breath.
Meditation was never my strong suit. Too impulsive, too fiery, toomuch—the excuses are endless, but it all boils down to the same basic issue. It doesn't fit with my personality.
Still, I borrow from it a little to cool the rage flowing in my blood.
Deep, deep,deepbreath.
Gotta do it in the car, because sucking in a lung full of death and bloody arcana's only going to raise my blood pressure more.
Finally centered and in control once again, I slip out of the car, pretending like nothing awful's about to happen.
Jack-Eye edges in front of me, straightening his shoulders as he scents the air.
Well. That's unexpected.
His wolf might be cowering, but his human half still maintains some functional instincts. Huh. Good to see he's still functional, even when he's afraid of my power.
I guess I can see why the annoying King appointed him as beta. He's an alpha-level Lycan, which means he has the right to challenge Caine for his throne. Instead, he serves with absolute loyalty.
His Royal Dumbass makes good choices. Sometimes.
The magic in my veins prickles harder as I approach the shed. I already knew what I was going to feel, but it's still strange andwrongto my senses. The rot stench hangs in the air, thick as syrup, but the magical landscape is scrubbed clean. Clinical.
For humans, it's as if we stumbled onto a loody crime scene wiped free of fingerprints and DNA.
A deliberately manufactured void.
My stomach clenches.
Even Isabeau, that festering parasite, left grime and residue behind. Magical evidence. A mystical fingerprint that could be tracked.
This? This is nothing.
This is Reaper-level sanitization.
Something even Owen, an angel-descendant, can't quite copy.
