Grace of a Wolf (by Lenaleia) novel Chapter 99

Chapter 99: Grace: Too Young For This

“The Great One. Isabeau. She’s who’s after us.”

Ron’s words come out flat and even, like he isn’t talking about the scariest person in his life. My heart clenches further at how he doesn’t even have the freedom to be a scared child.

Granted, he’s what… fifteen? Fourteen? I’m sure he doesn’t want to break down in front of strangers.

But he should be able to, if he wanted.

“Lyre took care of her, I think. You should be safe now.” She hadn’t mentioned names or any real details, but I’m assuming the sanguimancer Lyre dealt with is the same as the monster Ron and the children are hiding from.

Caine gives a slight nod. “She did. I recall the name.”

Ron shakes his head and looks back at the sleeping children. “She’ll be back. She’s been around for ages. Older than a witch’s ti—uh.” His face goes pink. “Older than your grandparents, even. Blood witches don’t die easy. And she’s got minions. It isn’t safe.”

“But Lyre said she killed her,” I point out. “I thought—”

“Killing her body doesn’t kill her magic. And she’s not the only one. There are others, all over the world. They hunt kids like us. We might be the oldest ones still living.”

“But why? Why would they hunt you?”

Ron looks directly at me, his eyes empty in a way that scares me more than rage ever could. “Because we’re batteries.”

“Batteries?” I repeat blankly.

Caine shifts beside me, cutting off the faintest rumble out of his chest.

“Sanguimancers feed on the energy of the living. Soulspliced energy is even better for ’em. That’s what Owen calls us—soulspliced. Aberrants. Our energy runs different. Stronger. More… conductive.” He rubs his hands together, and shudders. “Normal shifters give them power, sure. But us? We’re like their own personal nuclear reactors. They’ll kill thousands to capture one of us.”

My brain struggles to process the idea of young, defenseless children used as batteries. They’re children. Even Brax took care of me until I was an adult—whatever his reasoning might be.

But there were some in the pack…

Maybe they would have sided with this strange Isabeau.

“Most don’t survive long. Blood witches will feed on every last drop if you let them.”

“That’s…” I can’t find the right words. Horrific? Evil? Those seem inadequate.

Ron shrugs, like this is just the facts of life and I should be used to it by now. But it’s not. This is strange and bizarre and so beyond normal, and every part of me aches to grab him and hug him and show him there’s a better world out there. Even if he’s taller than I am and has the faint hint of a mustache on his upper lip, all I can see is a young child, alone and unloved in this world.

“The irony is what they do creates more of us,” he says, unusually talkative now that we’re on the subject. I don’t know if he wants to educate us or if he just needs to get it all off his chest. Caine remains quiet as he talks, letting him say as much as he wishes. I want to beg him to stop. To never speak of it again. I’d rather him live pretending none of this ever happened.

But it’s his reality, so he continues, “Every time they destroy one, the imbalance grows wider, and more come to fill the void. So they’re making more batteries by draining them over and over. They just need to keep making babies, and more aberrants will pop out.”

The cave suddenly feels colder. I wrap my arms around myself as my stomach twists into knots.

“That’s what Fiddleback wanted us to be,” Ron adds, his voice now barely audible.

Caine grunts. “That explains…”

But he trails off and doesn’t finish his thought.

My nails grip into my forearms. They might even draw blood. My entire body keeps trembling, and I can’t make it stop. “What was Fiddleback, exactly? Aren’t they the local pack?”

“Yeah. But they’re not really a pack. They’re just a breeding farm.”

My mind flashes to livestock, to animals kept in pens, forced to reproduce for human consumption. But he’s talking about people. About shifters. About children.

None of this can be possible, right? Who’s evil enough for this kind of horror?

“The adults weren’t worth much,” he continues, eyes fixed on some distant point. “Old wolves were kept around to make babies. That’s it. More stock.”

“And the children?” I ask, though I already know the answer will haunt me.

“Sorted.” Ron’s fingers dig into his arms. “The ones with shifting anomalies, strange scents, flickers of power—they’d be sent away once they were two or so. They’re lucky to make it to five, usually.”

“Five?” My voice cracks. Five isn’t nearly long enough. “Why only… five?”

“Best energy-to-lifespan ratio.” His clinical tone makes it worse somehow. “Younger, and they’re not strong enough yet. Older, and they start becoming individuals. Hard to control. Five is optimal.”

Bile rises in my throat. “And ’elsewhere’? Where is that?”

“Don’t know exactly.” He shrugs one shoulder, looking at Caine when the man blows out a deep breath. “It’s one hundred percent mortality rate. That’s all I know.”

The Lycan’s energy beside me feels like a thunderstorm, contained in a tiny bottle. A glass one, ready to shatter at any moment.

“Your parents…” I begin hesitantly. “Were they from—”

“Fiddleback? Yeah.” Ron nods. “My mom was one of Halloway’s favorites.”

The way he says it—so detached, so matter-of-fact—breaks my heart. “Do you know her name?”

“No.” He shrugs. “Just her face. Saw her once. Before.”

“And your father?”

Ron snorts. “Who knows? All the old wolves fuck around. Part of the program. Halloway’s the worst, though.” His lip curls in disgust. “He sold his honor. He didn’t want to be a pack alpha. He wanted more power than that.”

I think of Alpha Brax, of how he cast me aside the moment he learned I wasn’t his biological daughter. I thought that was betrayal. But this—this systematic cruelty, this calculated evil—makes my own pain seem small in comparison.

“How many children?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

“Hundreds over the years.” Ron’s eyes dart back to the alcove. “Most don’t make it out.”

“But you did,” I say softly.

Ron’s face hardens. “Yeah.”

“Are… Jer and Sara? And Bun? Are they all Fiddleback, too?”

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