I stare at him. “You don’t know if you have boundaries?”
“Gods are not mortals, Nyssa,” he says, looking around my living room. “The same rules don’t apply.”
I strip out of my sodden hoodie, not caring that he’s watching. I’m wearing a long-sleeve shirt underneath, and modesty is the least of my concerns right now. “Well, they should. Because breaking and entering is still a crime in the mortal realm, god or not.”
“Breaking implies force. I simply followed you in.”
“Through a door I was actively trying to shut in your face.”
He grins, utterly unrepentant. “Details.”
I toss the soaked hoodie over the back of a chair, although the desire to throw it athimclaws at me, and head for the kitchen, needing distance and something hot todrink. My hands are still shaking from the cold and the adrenaline crash. The kettle goes on with more force than necessary.
He joins me, examining the décor like it’s a museum exhibit. My life is functional, not decorative. Everything has a purpose.
“Cosy,” he says, and I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic.
“It’s functional.”
“It’s depressing.”
“Why, thank you. How much do I owe you for your expert fucking opinion?”
“You’ve got so much bite,” he says, fixing me with an intense look that feels like he is probing my soul.
I busy myself with the tea, trying to ignore the heat creeping up my neck. “And you’ve got a death wish if you think flattery is going to work on me.”
“Who said anything about flattery? I’m stating facts.” He leans against the counter, too close for comfort, and I resist the urge to step back. That would be admitting he’s getting to me. “You’ve got fire, slayer. It’s refreshing after centuries of dealing with spineless sycophants.”
“Glad I could provide you with entertainment.” The kettle boils, and I pour the water over a tea bag. “Now that you’ve been entertained, you can leave.”
“Not until we talk about what happened at the docks.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. Monster showed up, Dreven made it piss off, I came home. End of story.”
“Except it’s not.” His tone shifts, losing that playful edge. “That Tidewraith should never have surfaced. It’s been dormant for centuries. Something woke it up, something powerful enough to disturb the natural order of this realm.”
I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into my frozen fingers. “The fissure.”
“Bingo. Gold star for the slayer.” He’s watching me with those unsettling eyes that shift between red-amber and molten gold. “When you sealed it, you stopped more things from coming through, but you didn’t undo the damage already done. Think of it like a dam with a crack. You’ve plugged the hole, but the pressure behind it has already caused structural damage. Things are leaking through the cracks.”
“So what? More gods? More monsters?”
“Both.” He moves closer, and I catch the scent of something spicy, like cinnamon and lightning. “And they’re all going to be drawn to the same thing.”
“Which is?”
“You, because your blood sealed a divine fissure. Because you killed Aethel. Because you’re the only slayer in this realm right now who carries the bloodline of the Firsts.” He tilts his head, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve. “You’re a beacon, Nyssa. A bright, shining target that every power-hungry creature within a hundred miles can feel.”
“That’s not a first for me. Slayer of demons, remember. I’ve had this gig for a while now.”
“Not like this,” he insists. “Demons are drawn to mortal energy, to chaos and suffering. This is different. You’re not just prey anymore; you’re a prize. There’s a difference between being hunted to be killed and being hunted for power.”
I take a long sip of tea, buying myself time to think. Everything he’s saying makes a horrible kind of sense, and I hate it. “So what do you suggest?”
“I’m suggesting you accept help. From those of us who actually know what’s coming.”
“Help from gods.” I set the mug down. “The same gods that my ancestors locked away for being a threat to the mortal realm. Forgive me if I’m not jumping at the offer to trust you.”
