Dreven is there instantly, a wall of dark leather and disapproval blocking my path. Call me inappropriate, but all I can think about is his massive dick. “You are not well enough to stand.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, even as the room does a lazy pirouette. “I just need a shower that doesn’t involve grave dirt.”
“You were dying,” Voren points out. “Corruption in the bloodstream. Nasty business. If I hadn’t stuck my hand in your soul, you’d currently be haunting my hallway, and frankly, I’m not letting Surgeon Scissors get his ghostly hands on you.”
“Who?” I croak but then shake my head. I don’t reallywant to know. “Well, thanks for the spiritual enema. Now move, Dreven. I have a patrol to finish.”
“The patrol is done,” Dreven says, coldly.
“No, it’s not. There are things out there that the mortals of this village and beyond are not prepared to face.”
“Last line of defence, blah, blah,” Dastian mutters. “Don’t you slayers have another record?”
I glare at him and push past Dreven. “I’m going. Thanks, Voren, for the invasive soul cleansing, but touch me again and you will lose more than a hand. Got it?”
Without waiting for a reply, I remove myself from their overbearing presence, down the hallway and take the stairs two at a time. I suddenly feel better than I have for a while. Maybe there is something to be said for soul cleansing. Perhaps the exclusive spa in Mowbray should offer it up. They’d make a fucking fortune.
Remind me not to tell Voren. He’d probably be all in, touching souls all willy nilly.
The thought grates on my nerves in something that is possessive-adjacent, which just pisses me off even more. I shove through the heavy front door, half-expecting it to be locked or blocked by a shadow wall, but it swings open with a compliant groan. The night air hits me like a wet slap, carrying the scent of salt and rain. Typical Irish welcome. I take a deep breath, waiting for the familiar ache in my ribs or the heaviness in my limbs to return, but there’s nothing. Just a hum of cold electricity under my skin where Voren touched me.
It’s unsettling. I’m used to earning my recovery through days of limping and complaining. This instant bounce-back feels like cheating. Or a trap.
“You’re forgetting something,” a voice calls from the upstairs window.
I don’t stop, marching down the overgrown path, my boots slipping slightly on the wet leaves. “If it’s my dignity, I lost that hours ago.”
“Your blade,” Dastian calls out.
A split second later, the heavy weight of my weapon whistles through the air and lands point-first in the mud mere inches from my toe. It quivers there, runes dark, looking innocent enough.
I stop, staring at the hilt. “Touch that again, and I won’t think twice about using it on you.”
“You’re full of threats for someone who nearly died by supernatural death,” he says, leaning out of the window.
“Welcome to my world,” I murmur, gripping the blade handle and yanking it out of the mud. “Just another day at the office.”
“But it doesn’t have to be,” he says and then disappears.
“Doesn’t have to be what? Another day where I risk my life to save everyone? Unfortunately, you are wrong,” I mutter and stride off down the hill, hoping the graveyard is full of creepy crawlies. I have some energy to burn off.
The walk back to the cemetery doesn’t take me long. It’s like I’m moving at increased speed. It’s like I’ve downed five espressos, except instead of the jitters, I’ve got the urge to punch a hole through a tombstone. Voren’s supernatural triage might have saved my life, but it’s left me feeling like a stranger in my own skin. I hate it. I prefer my exhaustion honest and earned, not gifted by a god with a superiority complex and a house full of ghosts.
I kick the cemetery gate open. The rusted iron screeches a protest against the silence.
“Anyone want a go? I’m feeling surprisingly sprightly.”
Silence answers me. The wind rustles the yew trees,shaking loose a fresh cascade of raindrops, but the dead are seemingly sensible enough to stay in their boxes tonight.
I do a sweep of the perimeter anyway, checking behind the crypt and even poking my nose into the tool shed where the groundskeeper keeps his lawnmower. Fuck all.
It’s typical. The one night I have the stamina of a marathon runner on steroids, the supernatural community decides to take a collective nap. Or maybe word got out that Marrow House is under new, terrifying management, and everything with half a brain cell has scarpered to the next county.
I sheathe my blade with a frustrated snap. The hum in my veins isn’t fading; if anything, it’s getting louder, a static buzz that demands action. Voren didn’t just clean me out; he overcharged the battery. I turn back toward the town and come face-to-face with a beastie that needs to die. It looks like a badger had a dirty weekend with a gargoyle, and neither of them called the other back. Massive, hunched shoulders, too many teeth, and a smell that could strip paint. It growls, a wet, rattling sound that vibrates in my chest.
“Finally,” I breathe, cracking my neck. “You’ll do.”
The beast lunges without waiting for a formal introduction. Usually, I’d brace for impact, calculate the angle, and hope my ribs hold up. Tonight, I don’t even have to think. My body moves before my brain issues the command, a blur of motion that feels exhilarating and terrifyingly foreign. I sidestep the snapping jaws with time to spare, the world slowing down just enough for me to appreciate the sheer stupidity in its glassy eyes.
