I don’t black out completely. That would be too merciful. Instead, I drift in a grey slush of consciousness where the cold mud against my cheek is the only thing tethering me to reality. Even that is fading, replaced by a furnace heat that seems to be radiating from my own bones.
“Well, isn’t this tragic?” a voice draws gracefully through the ringing in my ears.
I try to tell Voren to sod off, but all that comes out is a pitiful groan.
“Sleeping on the job, slayer? The dead won’t be impressed.” The air around me grows colder, but it’s a crisp, clean chill, not the feverish clamour of my own body. Strong hands grip my shoulders, hauling me out of the muck with insulting ease and slinging me over his shoulder, fireman style.
“Put me down,” I slur, my tongue feeling too big for my mouth. “I’m working.”
“You’re drooling in the dirt,” he corrects. “And you are burning up.”
“Just a cold,” I mutter, leaning my head against his questionably fashionable coat. “Took some paracetamol.”
“I don’t know what that is, but it’s not working,” he says.
The next second, I’m placed gently down on a bed that smells of dust and must. “Eww,” I groan and try to crawl off, but Voren places a hand on my forehead that stills me. Mostly because the coolness seeping into my sweaty forehead is bliss.
“Stay there,” he says. “You’re not well.”
“No, shit, Sherlock.”
“It’s Voren,” he murmurs. “You are far gone.”
I don’t have the energy to explain, so I grunt and close my eyes.
Chapter 16
Voren
Being the God of Wraiths sounds impressive on paper, but in practice, it’s mostly just trying to ignore a billion souls screaming for attention while you’re trying to enjoy a decent cup of tea. Today, the noise is a cacophony. I rub my temples, attempting to filter out the wails of some poor sod who died in the potato famine from the fresh, confused spirit of a sheep that just met a lorry on the main road.
It’s not glamorous, despite what the crumbling statues in the Divine Ruins might suggest. Right now, however, my primary concern isn’t the existential dread of the sheep, but the slayer currently sweating through the crumbling sheets of the ancient bed.
I take a sip of the tea I was enjoying before I felt her hit the ground. It was like an earthquake that rumbled the souls of the dead.
“Quiet down,” I snap at the empty air. The chorus of whispers dips in volume, a sullen retreat. “Unless one of you has a medical degree from this century, bugger off.”
A surgeon from the early twentieth century approaches,snapping his barbaric-looking scissors with a sinister grin splitting his face.
“I saidthiscentury, you savage moron,” I snap, and his smile turns upside down before he drifts away.
I set the cup on the dusty nightstand and lean over her. Nyssa looks small like this, stripped of her sarcasm, which can be sharper than her blade. Her skin is an alarming shade of grey, slick with sweat, and when I pluck her hat off and place my hand against her forehead, the heat is almost offensive. This isn’t a mortal illness. A slayer of her lineage doesn’t drop from the sniffles. This is backlash.
“You are a complication I didn’t order,” I murmur, sliding my hand down to rest over her heart.
It’s beating like a trapped bird, erratic and frantic. Beneath the fever, I sense a cold, oily residue clinging to her life force. It tastes of that stitched-together monstrosity that attacked earlier. The corruption is trying to unravel her from the inside out.
“Filthy stuff,” I mutter, curling my lip.
The spirits press closer, a gallery of grey voyeurs eager to see if the slayer joins their ranks tonight. An old woman with a missing jaw drifts through the wardrobe, leaning in with keen interest.
“Don’t get your hopes up, Agatha,” I tell her without looking up. “She’s not checking out yet.”
I press my palm harder against her sternum, ignoring the searing heat of her skin. I call upon the absolute zero of the grave. It flows from my core, down my arm, and into her chest. Nyssa whimpers, her back arching off the mattress as my cold collides with the fever. It’s a violent meeting, like ice hitting magma.
“Easy, slayer,” I soothe, though my voice is tight with concentration. “I’m just taking out the rubbish.”
I visualise the oily residue, hooking my will into it like a fisherman snagging a line. It resists, clinging to her soul with barbed hooks. Stubborn. Just like her. With a sharp mental yank, I drag the corruption toward the surface. A dark, viscous mist seeps from her pores, coalescing under my hand. It smells of stagnant water and old blood, utterly repellent.
