A visible ripple weaves through the air, altering the old mansion.
“You couldn’t do that before?” I ask.
“It’s surface level,” Dastian explains. “And takes a lot of energy to maintain.”
“So why do it?”
His cheeky gaze locks on mine. “Because nothing gets my dick harder than a woman throwing violence around.”
And with that one sentence, he handed me back my power that has been sorely lacking around these gods, and it feels… good.
Chapter 25
Voren
“Subtle as a brick to the face,” I murmur, watching Nyssa fight a smile that softens the hard lines of her jaw. It’s a good look on her.
I look around the hall. The stone floors are polished marble, the rotten wood panelling is back to its former glory, chandeliers hang, glinting in the shadowed entrance hall, and the smell of damp dog has been masked by a floral scent, wafting from the hundreds of fresh flowers in cases everywhere. It’s a masterclass in deception, but I can still see the ghosts flickering in confusion near the ceiling. Poor old Agatha is affronted that her favourite water stain is gone.
“It’s a lie,” I remind Nyssa. “But a pretty one. The rot is still underneath.”
“Story of my life,” she mutters, walking toward the back of the house where the kitchen is now a gleaming, modern marvel rather than a health hazard.
I follow her, amused by the way she tests the solidity of the new island counter with a sceptical thump of her fist. “Dastian’s chaos is thorough, if nothing else.He manifests based on desire. You wanted a sandwich; the universe provides.”
I open a sleek cupboard and pull out a loaf of bread that smells freshly baked. “Ham or cheese? Or do you prefer the blood of your enemies?”
She glares at me, climbing onto a barstool. “Ham. And don’t push it, Voren. I’ve had a long morning lying to my family and the Order.”
“Lying suits you,” I say, grabbing the butter and ham from the new fridge and slapping it onto bread with perhaps more force than necessary. “It adds a layer of complexity to that rigid moral code. Makes you interesting.”
“It makes me nauseous,” she corrects, but she takes the plate I slide across the marble.
“Eat,” I command softly. “You’ll need your strength. The truth is far harder to digest than Dastian’s magic bread.”
“Crisps?” she asks before taking an enormous bite.
I dig in the cupboard and find some. I toss a packet of Cheese and Onion at her. She catches it with reflexes that are annoyingly sharp, ripping the bag open before it even settles.
“You’re a savage,” I tell her, watching her inhale the processed potatoes. It’s strangely captivating to watch a slayer reduce herself to crumbs and crunch.
“I’m fuelling the engine,” she mumbles around a mouthful, not looking the least bit ashamed. “Now, talk. You promised answers.”
Dastian wanders in, plucking a grape from a fruit bowl that definitely wasn’t there a moment ago. Dreven materialises from the shadows near the fridge, sucking the warmth right out of the room. Nyssa jumps, nearly choking on a crisp.
“Must you?” she wheezes, glaring at him.
“We don’t have time for pleasantries,” Dreven says, ignoring her distress. He looks like a storm cloud poured into leather. “You want to know what is coming. You want to know why we are here.”
“I’m all ears,” she says, wiping crumbs from her mouth.
“The thing that woke the Tidewraith, the thing that stitched those corpses together... it isn’t a monster, Nyssa. It’s an appetite. A sentient void that eats gods and realms alike,” I say, knowing we have to come clean, at least partway.
“The Devourer,” Dreven names it. The weight of the word seems to crack Dastian’s illusion; a fissure appears in the plaster above the stove before sealing itself.
Nyssa stops chewing. “The Devourer?”
I nod.
