A massive four-poster bed sits on one side of the room, covered in cobwebs that would make the spider goddess proud. I ignore it. Sleep is a mortal concern. Instead, I find a high-backed armchair facing the boarded-up windows, its leather cracked but still holding its shape. It’s newer than the bed; perhaps the final owner purchased it. I sink into it, the old frame groaning under my weight. This will be my throne.
Closing my eyes, I reach out not with sight, but with a sense that has been starved for centuries. The whispers of Marrow House answer, a thousand threads of memory and pain weaving a tapestry of this town’s history. They tell me of deals made in darkness, of bodies buried where they shouldn’t be, of secrets festering beneath the placid surface of Blackfen Edge.
The dead are my legions. My spies. They will tell me everything I need to know about how and why we are back, and how this slayer girl intends to stop what’s coming.
Chapter 7
Nyssa
The morning brings a pounding headache and the unshakeable feeling that I’m being watched. I drag myself out of bed, every muscle screaming in protest. The bruise on my ribs has bloomed into a spectacular shade of purple, and my wrist throbs under the bandage I wrapped last night. The blade is on my bedside table, where I left it, wrapped in its oiled cloth. I flick it aside and glare accusingly at it. The blue glow has faded, but I can still feel the hum of power vibrating from it. Like it’s waiting.
Tea, I need a strong cup of tea before I can even begin to process what the fuck happened.
There is no way I can go to the Order about the shitshow of last night, rambling about my light-up blade, gods, and madmen. I’ll sound like a madwomanif I do that. I need clarity and cold, hard facts to retell.
I shuffle into the kitchen as sunlight attempts to break through the late autumn clouds. I grab the kettle and fill it, my gaze darting to the back garden to see if what’s-his-faceis lurking again. I shake my head. See? I can’t say that to the Order. They work in detail and clear-headed thoughts.
“What was your name again?” I murmur, trying to sort through the flotsam in my foggy brain.
While the water boils, I unwrap the bandage on my wrist to check the damage. The wound is already healing, which is odd. Usually, it takes me a few days to bounce back from something like this. The edges of the cut are knitting together, leaving only a thin red line. A slayer has accelerated healing powers, courtesy of our not-so-human-but-not-quite-supernatural heritage, but this is weird, even for me.
My mobile buzzes on the counter, making me jump. Three missed calls from Rynna. Shit. I was supposed to check in last night. What is happening to my structure? My borderline obsessive need to have my ducks in a row?
I hit redial, and she picks up on the first ring.
“Finally! I was about to come looking for your corpse,” Rynna says, her voice sharp with worry and irritation. “Three calls, Nyssa.Three.”
“I know, I know. Sorry. It was a long night.”
“How long?”
I pause, staring at the thin red line on my wrist. How do I even begin? “Longer than usual. Got a few demons, the standard fare. It rained. I got muddy and soaked. The usual shit.”
“And?”
Damn it.She can always tell when I’m holding back. It’s the curse of having a younger sister who’s been training to take my place since she was old enough to hold a blade. She knows all my tells.
“And nothing. Just tired. Bruised a rib, but I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not?—”
“You always do that thing with your voice when you lie. It goes up at the end, like you’re asking a question instead of making a statement.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. The kettle clicks off behind me, steam curling up like accusing fingers. “Rynna, I’m fine. Really. Just need some rest.”
Silence on the other end. Then, “I’m coming over.”
“Suit yourself, but I have to report to the Order, and then I’m going to training. I won’t even be here.”
She lets out a huff. “Fine, but pull that stick out of your arse once in a while, sis. Live a little. All work and no play makes Nyssa a dull girl.”
“You play enough for both of us,” I say, grabbing a mug from the cupboard.
“Someone has to. You’re going to turn into a dried-up old crone at twenty-eight if you keep this up.”
“Twenty-eight is hardly ancient.”
