“Delightful,” I drawl. “You definitely owe me a drink for this. Something expensive.”
I clench my fist around the coalesced smog, crushing the writhing energy until it dissipates with a sound like a wet cough. The room temperature drops another ten degrees, enough to frost the inside of the grime-caked windows, but the oily stench finally vanishes.
Nyssa gasps, a sharp intake of breath that rattles in her chest, and then she goes limp against the mattress. The frantic drumbeat of her heart slows to a rhythm that suggests she might actually live to annoy me another day.
“Better,” I murmur, brushing a strand of damp hair off her forehead. Her skin is cooling rapidly, the unnatural grey pallor fading to a more acceptable, albeit pale, human tone. She’s still covered in graveyard muck, ruining the vintage aesthetic of the bedding, but she’s alive. Mortality is such a tedious, fragile state of being. They break so easily, yet they cling to existence with a ferocity that puts most gods to shame.
“You’re welcome,” I say to Nyssa’s unconscious form, wiping my hand on a relatively clean patch of the sheet.
A ripple in the air near the door announces an arrival. I don’t need to look up to know who it is. The sudden spike in static electricity gives him away.
“You kidnapped her,” Dastian says, sounding delighted. “Dreven is going to have a godly stroke.”
“I prefer the term ‘emergency relocation,’” I reply, turning to face him. Dastian looks entirely too cheerful for a room that smells like century-old dust and sickness. “She collapsed in the cemetery. Leaving her there seemed unsporting.”
Dastian saunters further into the room, his eyes glowing with chaotic golden light. He peers down at Nyssa, tilting his head. “She looks like she went ten rounds with a mud wrestler and lost. Is she breathing?”
“Barely. That stitched-together beast left a souvenir in her system. A corruption.” I pick up my tea again, though it’s gone stone cold. “I pulled it out.”
“Did you now?” Dastian raises an eyebrow, a spark of red electricity jumping between his fingers. “Touching a slayer’s soul without permission? That’s bold, even for you. Dreven is going to be absolutely livid that you got your hands on her spiritual bits before he did.”
“Dreven can get in line,” I say, taking a sip of the cold tea and immediately regretting it. I grimace and set the cup down. “Besides, if I hadn’t intervened, she’d be dead, and then who would we annoy? The options in this town are severely limited.”
Dastian laughs, the sound bouncing off the peeling wallpaper. “True. Speaking of our brooding shadow-friend...”
The shadows in the corner of the room suddenly violently expand, swirling into a distinct, furious shape. The temperature drops again, but this isn’t my cold. It’s the chill of the void.
“Right on cue,” I sigh, bracing myself. “Try not to break the furniture, Dre. It’s an antique.”
Chapter 17
Nyssa
Waking up feels less like rising from a peaceful slumber and more like being dragged backwards through a hedge. My head is pounding, but the furnace that was roasting my insides has been replaced by a deep, shivering chill.
I peel one eye open, instantly regretting the decision. The room is dim, smelling of mildew and wet dog, although that’s probably me. Standing at the foot of the bed are three looming figures, radiating enough testosterone and supernatural energy to power EirGrid.
“You had no right to move her without consulting me,” Dreven growls, his voice vibrating through the mattress springs. The shadows around him are lashing out like agitated snakes.
“She was drooling in the mud, in the cemetery, Dreven,” Voren retorts, sounding bored as he inspects his fingernails. “I figured she’d appreciate not waking up dead, or worse, a vampire.”
“You touched her soul.”
“Standard triage. You’re welcome.”
I try to sit up, but my body feels like lead. “If you’re going to argue over my unconscious body,” I croak, my throat dry as a desert, “could you at least do it quietly? My head is splitting.”
Three heads snap towards me.
“Where the fuck am I?” I manage to push myself up on one elbow, eyeing the peeling wallpaper and the heavy velvet curtains that look like they haven’t been washed since the Victorian era.
“Marrow House,” Voren says, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “My humble abode.”
“Oh, this bed is ancient and smells like it,” I groan.
“You are not one to talk about smells,” Dastian pipes up.
I glare at him, though it lacks its usual venom, given that I probably look like a scarecrow that’s been submerged in a swamp. “I smell of hard work and professional competence,” I retort, swinging my legs over the side of the mattress. “Something you three wouldn’t know much about.”
