His expression darkens, the playful mask slipping. “Your ancestors locked us away because Aethel convinced them we were all monsters, because she wanted to rule without opposition. She was always the real threat, and your precious Order only looked at that.”
I freeze, my hand still on the mug. “That’s not how the texts read.”
“History is written by the victors, slayer. Aethel lost that round. She got us all locked away, even though some of us were quite happy not to make too many waves in the mortal realm.”
“How come they didn’t kill her? Clearly, it can be done.” This has me curious.
Dastian shrugs. “Maybe they didn’t have the power? Maybe only you do.”
I take in that information with a pinch of salt. I’m no more special than the slayer before me, and so on and so forth. “You?—”
I’m cut off by Dastian disappearing suddenly. I look around, but he hasn’t moved position; he has simply vanished.
“Ugh, good riddance,” I mutter and finish my tea.
He has thrown me off my mission. In fact, everything that has happened today has done that. I was supposed to hit the Order’s library to see if I could find out anything about these gods. But that was before I lied to the Order andTaye tried to get me killed by some ancient water beast. The gods are just an annoyance that I hope will move on soon, once they get bored with the sleepy town of Blackfen Edge.
“Gods,” I mutter, and purse my lips. I’ve only met two of them, and apparently, there are three lurking about. Maybe more. But Dastian said three, so we’ll go with that for now. I need to find the third one before he finds me, and see if he is in any way less cryptic than the two I’ve already met.
But where to start? Dastian mentioned he talks to ghosts, so the cemetery seems like a good place to start, if a little cliché. I rinse my mug and leave it on the draining board, my mind made up. Waiting for them to show up on my doorstep one by one is a reactive strategy, and I am not a reactive person. I’m a hunter. It’s time I started acting like one. If this Voren character likes to chat with the dead, the biggest collection of them in Blackfen Edge is the cemetery.
Grabbing a fresh, dry hoodie and my coat, I shove my feet back into my still-damp trainers with a grimace. The things I do for this village. The rain hasn’t stopped, and the sky is the colour of a bruise, which seems fitting as my ribs ache. As I walk, the familiar streets feel different, tainted by the knowledge of what’s now lurking in the shadows.
The gates of Blackfen Edge cemetery are just as imposing in the grey daylight as they are at night. I slip through the side entrance, my hand already on the hilt of my blade. I do a quick sweep, but it’s dead.
I snort at my own joke and then stop to have a good look around. My gaze sweeps over the crypt from last night, but all seems quiet. I extend the reach of my search, and I turn around, feeling a sudden chill that goes past the wind and rain.
My gaze lands on Marrow House. Sitting on top of the big hill that overlooks the stormy sea, it hasn’t beenoccupied in over a century. The last owner, Edward Marrow, killed himself by throwing himself off the cliff. He died alone and childless, and miserable by all accounts. “Bingo,” I mutter and leave the cemetery to start the trek up the hill to the abandoned mansion.
Chapter 11
Voren
The spirits of this house are a chatty bunch. After centuries of silence, they can’t seem to shut up. They whisper of the slayer’s approach long before I see her trudging up the hill, getting muddier and wetter by the second. She is cursing like a sailor of old as I follow her trajectory through the rusty gate and up my garden path.
She looks up, squinting as the rain falls into her eyes. She raises a hand to shield the worst of it and scouts the place like a pro, looking for the big bad.
Her gaze lands on me, staring at her out of the top-floor window, and she grimaces.
“Looks like you found it,” I murmur, not moving as she gestures to the front door. At least she has manners.
She gives me a filthy glare and moves forward, kicking the door in with enough force that she probably knocked it off its rusted hinges.
“Now, now, there was no need for that.”
I drift from the window, my feet making no sound on the ancient floorboards. The spirits of the house part for meas I descend the grand staircase, their spectral forms swirling like disturbed smoke. She’s standing in the centre of the hall, dripping rainwater onto a century’s worth of dust, her blade held ready.
“You’ve made quite an entrance,” I say, my voice carrying easily in the cavernous space. “And a mess. The door was a historical artefact, you know.”
Her head snaps up, amber eyes narrowing as they find me on the stairs. She’s drenched and furious, a storm in human form. “Voren, I presume? The one with the questionable coat.”
Dastian.
“And you are the famous Nyssa Vale. Slayer of goddesses, disturber of ancient sea beasts, and now, apparently, a vandal. You’ve had a busy twenty-four hours.”
Her grip tightens on her knife. “I’m hoping talking to you will be less annoying than the other two. Prove me right. Why are you here?”
I descend the final few steps, my boots silent on the stone. “Dastian wouldn’t know good taste if it bit him on his chaotic arse. As for why I’m here…” I gesture to the cavernous, shadow-filled hall. The spirits around us stir, their whispers rising from a hum to a sibilant chorus of her name. “This place is full of stories. The dead are excellent conversationalists once you get past the initial moaning. They see everything. They remember everything.”
