I slam him up against the nearest headstone, my shadows pressed against his chest. “I said… don’t call her a pet again.”
Voren doesn’t flinch. His eyes glitter with amusement, not fear. “Point taken. She’s not a pet. She’s a significant mortal anomaly with a penchant for stabbing things in the face. Better?”
I release him. The shadows retreat, and he pushes himself off the stone, brushing non-existent dust from his greyduster. He’s testing me. He always does. It’s the nature of our relationship—a constant, low-grade war of wills that has spanned the ages.
“Much,” I say, my voice flat. My gaze drifts back towards the path Nyssa took. The scent of her blood is fading, carried away on the damp night air, but I can still feel the echo of its power. It calls to a part of me I had no idea existed.
“So, what is she?” Voren asks, his curiosity finally overriding his sarcasm. “Notjusta slayer.”
“I don’t know,” I admit, and the not knowing is a sharp, unfamiliar irritation. “But her lineage is old. Ancient. It sings the same song as the First Slayers, the ones who carved the runes on that blade of hers.”
He whistles softly. “The ones who helped lock us away in the first place. Irony is a bitch, isn’t it?”
“A beautiful one,” I murmur, thinking of her amber eyes, spitting defiance as she raked her gaze over me. It makes my cock hard. I turn away from the graveyard. The mortal world hums around me, a symphony of souls and secrets. My kingdom is no longer a prison. It is everywhere. “Have your fun with the lost souls, Voren,” I add, dismissing him. “Don’t make my business yours.”
He gives me a mock salute. “Wouldn’t dream of it. The dead are far better company. They don’t argue back.” With a final, lingering look in the direction the slayer went, he dissolves, not into shadow like me, but into a shimmer of cold, spectral mist that the wind quickly disperses.
Alone again, the silence of the graveyard settles around me. Voren is a necessary annoyance, a piece on the board I can’t afford to lose, but his extended presence grates on my last fucking nerve.
My focus returns to her. Her scent lingers in the coolIrish air of blood, sweat, and that fierce, untameable spirit. I bleed into the nearest shadow, the world losing its colour and texture, becoming a landscape of grey and black. I flow through the darkness, silent and unseen, following the trail of the mayfly who just might burn down the world.
Chapter 5
Nyssa
The wrought iron gates of Blackfen Edge cemetery groan shut behind me, the sound a final, rusty full stop on one of the worst nights on the beat. And that’s saying something. I trudge down the empty street, the orange glow of the streetlights making the world look jaundiced. My wrist has a tender scab on it now, and I know it will pull open the second I move it in any direction. It needs a bandage, and I need a fucking drink.
Which says a lot, because I don’t drink. Demons don’t wait for you to get over your hangover before they make menaces of themselves.
A goddess.
It bounces around my skull like a tennis ball. I’ve read about them. I’ve studied them. I know the Pantheon realm was cut off from the mortal realm by the First Slayers, once a group of ancient women, who combined their power to one single girl to take down the gods and shut them off from the mortal world.
Out of all the demons, vampires, ghosts, ghouls,zombies and whatever else I’ve fought over the last twelve years, I have obviously never faced a god. The texts warn of them. Tricky, seductive, sly, they will worm their way into your head and spin tales of whatever they want you to hear to get you to do their bidding.
I was taught to never, ever trust a god.
But I was also taught that I wouldn’t ever have to fight one. The seal between worlds was supposed to remain zipped up tight. Somehow, that madman not only knew about the veil but tore it open with his rantings. How? Why? Is this even relevant now? I stabbed Miss Golden Glow and closed the fissure.
And what about the mysterious coin twirler? Is he a god, too? Did he slip through the cracks with MGG? He certainly had the arrogance for it. His warning echoes in my aching head.Make sure she stays down.I’m pretty fucking sure I did that already. I stabbed her. In the face. With a blade forged to kill monsters. Usually, that’s a pretty permanent solution. It’s not like there’s a manual for this shit.‘So You’ve Pissed Off a Pantheon: A Slayer’s Guide to Divine Pest Control.’
Rolling my eyes, I open the small iron gate that leads up the short garden path to my little cottage on the outskirts of town.
I dig the key out of my pocket, and it slides in effortlessly. Pushing open the door, I enter my immaculately kept home. Everything is in its place, everything has order. I toe off my muddy trainers, leaving them on the mat in the small vestibule, and cross the cold stone floor towards the kitchen. The first aid kit is under the sink, right where it’s supposed to be.Everything in its place.It’s the only way I can function. The only way to keep the chaos of my life from spilling over into the four walls I call home.
I run my wrist under the cold tap, hissing as the water hits the open wound. It’s not deep, but it’s messy. A jagged line of torn flesh courtesy of my own fucking blade. I pull the blade out of the back of my leggings with my free hand and glare at it. “You certainly woke up tonight, didn’t you?”
I swap my wrist for the steel, sluicing it under the tap, then add hot water. It sizzles and cracks in a way that it never had before. Must be some leftover static electricity. After drying it, I wrap the blade in its oiled cloth and set it on the counter. The runes are definitely glowing, a faint, pulsing blue that casts tiny shadows across the stainless steel. It’s never done that before. It feels different. Sated.
My one reliable tool is now acting as weird as the rest of this night has gone.
I rummage in the first aid kit, pulling out antiseptic wipes and a bandage. As I clean the gash on my wrist, hissing as the wipe stings, something outside catches my eye. It’s like a ripple in the air. Nothing substantial about it, but it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I drop the wipe, snatching my blade from the counter. The runes flare bright blue. Creeping towards the back door, I peer through the small glass pane. My garden is as neat as my house, with pruned hedges, potted plants, and flowers, silvered by the moonlight.
Standing at the back hedge, by the small apple tree, is him. The coin-twirler.
He’s not looking at the house. He’s looking right atme. He hasn’t moved, but the shadows swirl around him, clinging to him like a living cloak.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I hiss, all attempts at stealth gone. I yank the door open with a crash, letting the cold night air rush in. “Are you stalking me now? Because I’m pretty sure that’s still a crime, even for whatever the hell you are.”
