She gulps. “I see. That sounds ominous.”
“And you thought the Tidewraith was?” I ask, arching an eyebrow at her.
“Fair point. So, it’s like the Tidewraith only bigger?”
“Bigger doesn’t quite cover it,” I say. “Comparing the Tidewraith to the Devourer is like comparing a puddle to a black hole. One gets your boots wet; the other erases the concept of boots entirely.”
Nyssa looks from me to Dreven. The ghosts near the ceiling are agitated, swirling in disturbed eddies as if even the mention of the name unsettles the dead.
“It doesn’t destroy,” Dastian chips in, popping another grape. “It unmakes. It consumes essence. Magic, life, divine energy is sucked down like a cosmic milkshake.”
“And it is starving,” Dreven adds, his voice grave enough to wilt the fresh flowers Dastian conjured in the vase by the window. “It has waited for this moment.”
“And what moment would that be?”
“Aethel dead, the Pantheon realm bleeding into the mortal realm?—”
“Chaos,” Dastian finishes.
“Aethel dead. Does that mean she could kill it?”
“Not exactly,” Dreven mumbles and purses his lips as Dastian and I snicker. We know the truth he doesn’t want to reveal. Shouldn’t reveal. If she knew… she would kill him where he stands, and we would be next.
“Then what?”
“She was a very strong goddess,” I say. “It gave the Devourer pause.”
“Pause.” She narrows her eyes and inhales slowly before releasing it. She goes back to her sandwich, chewing methodically in silence until she is finished. She upends the crisp packet over her mouth and shakes the crumbs in before she scrunches it up. “Drink?”
Dastian magics up a pint of Guinness, which she turns her nose up at, but then shrugs and picks it up, gulping back large swallows before she sets the half-empty glass on the kitchen island. She is hardcore for a woman who probably weighs eight stone wet through.
“So how do I get rid of it?” she asks.
“We get to the crown before it erases everything in its path.”
“Crown?” she asks, her gaze boring into mine.
“The Wraith Crown.”
She locks gazes with me. “The Wraith Crown. Let me guess? That’s not a coincidence?”
“Nope,” I say with a slow smile.
She sighs. “I need more than you are giving me. About yourselves,” she says unexpectedly. I thought she wouldhound us for details about the crown, but instead she wants to know about us.
“Meaning what?” Dastian asks, moving closer.
“Meaning, there is clearly a hierarchy here that I’m not privy to. You either tell me exactly what the fuck is going on, or I walk and let everyone be erased.”
“Liar,” I snort. “There isn’t a single cell in your body that would allow you to walk away.”
She scowls at me, knowing I’m right. “Try me,” she growls anyway.
The problem is, even the empty threat is enough to constitute a problem.
“Aethel was the Queen of the gods,” I say, ignoring Dreven’s burning gaze. He might not want to reveal all, but we have to give her something, enough to appease her.
“And I killed her,” she says, looking rather impressed with herself. She should be. That was no mean feat.
