I suspected as much the moment I scented her stench on the wind outside town. Still, the confirmation annoys me.
If she’s been feeding off the local wolves for long, the stink’s probably sunk into the dirt by now. This is the problem with her kind. They don’t just corrupt people. They rot places.
Grace's frustratingly obtuse boyfriend is in her territory, too. Damn. And her nasty little claws have dug deep into this pack. Am I going to have to save him?
No; he’s this generation’s Lycan King. There should be enough strength left in the old magic to help him survive whatever wretched curse Isabeau’s infected the local pack with.
The real problem stands in front of me now. She's both their captor and their source of strength.
And when the source of that arcana dries up...
Well.
You can’t pay with magic you don’t have.
I step over the smeared blood sigil, each footfall deliberately placed to avoid the worst of the viscous ooze.
“So your business modelhasevolved. Congratulations. You’ve gone from merchant to farmer. But even a glutton can’t eat the same thing every day. You need variety.”
Isabeau keeps at least five paces between us, taking a step for every one of mine. "Your jokes weren't funny then, and are even worse now."
"Tsk." I click my tongue. "You always did have a warped sense of humor."
"Why are you here, Lyrielle? Who are you working for this time? Fate? War? Pestilence? I haven't caused any issue, have I? Why hunt me down?"
As if I need orders to get rid of her unsightly face.
"Pack your things and crawl back to Europe, Isabeau." I keep my voice flat, bored even. "Do that, and I'll let you continue your miserable existence. Leave no trace you were ever here. It's simple terms. Even you should understand them."
A familiar insufferable smirk tilts her lips. I've seen it on a dozen faces she's worn throughout the centuries. Different bodies, same rotten core.
“What do you think a depleted Echo Witch is going to do about it?” Her French accent thickens, mockery curling at the edge of her vowels. “I’ve been here a long time, Lyrielle. No prophecies. No fate-weaving. No trace of your old rituals. Has the Old Magic forsaken you?”
She increases the distance—ten paces now. Her bloody footprints trail behind her like a signature.
“You’ve lost your touch,” she goads. “And your power.” I blink, staring at her for a moment.
“Does this new body come with brain damage, or have you always been this stupid and I just forgot?”
Her smirk falters.
I gesture to the crumpled steel door I kicked in. To the puddles of blood she tried to weaponize. To her sputtering sigils. Anyone with eyes can see her spellwork’s unraveling.
“Which part of my entrance screamed ‘depleted’ to you?” I ask. “The part where I tore through your defenses like wet paper, or the part where I disarmed your attack with one hand? Is it my face? I do look younger than ever, but I’m not sharing my skincare routine with you.”
Isabeau’s lip curls back from her teeth. “The old Lyrielle would never have offered negotiation. She would’ve struck the moment she walked in.” She paces now, less cautious. She thinks she has the upper hand. Pity. “You’ve gone soft. Offering mercy to hide the fact your power has waned."
I snicker. “Is that what you think this is? Mercy?”
“I hold the power now." Her voice drops to a silken purr. “Times have changed. The balance has shifted.”
Genuinely baffled, I stop moving, folding my arms. She’s serious. She believes this nonsense.
She’s clinging to a third of her strength. No matter how many wolves she consumes, the magic inside modern werewolves is diluted—faint echoes of what once was.
Has she forgotten what real power feels like?
It’s been two hundred years, after all. And she was never the brightest crayon in the sanguimancer box.
