The rain is a blessing, really. It keeps the streets empty and washes away the lingering scent of divine sex and ozone that seems to cling to me like cheap perfume. I pullmy hood up, keeping my head down as I navigate the puddle-strewn pavement toward the village centre.
The shop that fronts the Order’s HQ is quiet. The ‘Closed’ sign is still flipped in the window, which is perfect. I let myself in with my key, the bell above the door giving a treacherous little tinkle that makes my heart stutter. I pause, listening. Silence.
I creep toward the hidden door behind the counter, moving with a stealth that feels enhanced today. My body feels lighter, faster. That buzz of the Firsts is like a permanent adrenaline shot. I slip through the panel and descend the stone steps. The library is empty, thankfully. I head straight for the restricted section, my fingers itching for the forbidden texts on the Pantheon.
I scan the spines of the oldest tomes, my fingers trailing over cracked leather that smells of mildew and sanctimony. The Order loves to hoard knowledge almost as much as they love burying it. I pull down a heavy volume titledThe Divine Betrayal: A History of the Pantheon.
Flipping it open, I scan the yellowed pages. It’s exactly what I expected: propaganda dressed up as history. There are woodcut illustrations of monstrous deities devouring innocent mortals, with noble slayers standing as the only line of defence. I trace the ink rendering of a figure that looks suspiciously like Voren, depicted with horns and a tail.
“Dramatic bastards,” I mutter, shoving the book back into its slot.
I move to the next shelf, hunting for geography, maps, anything concrete about the terrain I’m about to invade. I find a thin, black-bound journal tucked between two massive encyclopaedias. It has no title.
“Well, now. What secrets do you hide?”
Opening it, I find hand-drawn sketches of crumbling spires and shifting voids. The notes in the margins are frantic, written in a hand that shakes.The gravity bleeds. The time eats itself. Do not stare at the sky.
Helpful. Truly.
The heavy thud of footsteps on the stone stairs freezes me in place.
“I’m telling you, I felt a shift,” Taye’s voice echoes down the stairwell, shrill and accusing. “Something breached the perimeter wards last night, and then nothing. Just silence.”
“Probably a fox, Taye,” Cormac replies, sounding weary. “You’re seeing omens in tea leaves again.”
“It wasn’t a fox! It tasted likethem.”
Shit.
I shove the black journal down the front of my leggings. There’s no way out except past them. I crouch low, slipping into the gloom between the stacks.
“You are imagining things, Taye,” Cormac snaps. “The gods have not returned. They are locked away as they should be.”
“I’m not wrong,” Taye whispers, sounding terrified. “They are back. They walk amongst us. We need to send Nyssa to the site.”
Cormac gives a long-suffering sigh. He is well-versed in Taye’s visions and how often they are mountains made out of molehills.
“No,” Finnian’s quiet voice joins them. “The slayer is not herself right now. We will go to the site and see if there is a tear through the veils.”
“Are you serious?” Cormac groans. “It’s raining.”
“It’s winter in Ireland, Cormac. It’s always bloody raining,” Finnian retorts, the rustle of waterprooffabric signalling they are actually gearing up. “If there’s a tear, we need to deal with it.”
I hold my breath until my lungs burn as they walk past me.
Fuck. If the Order gets there first and starts warding the place, or worse, camping out, our trip to the Pantheon realm is scrubbed. But if we don’t go, the Devourer eats reality for pudding.
Say something!My conscience screams at me, but my instincts, honed by the very people I’m hiding from, scream louder that I can’t trust them.
I have chosen my side. Gods over the Order.
I’m a traitor, a rogue. Dangerous in their eyes. Finnian doesn’t trust me, that much is clear. What happens to rogue slayers? No one knows. There hasn’t ever been one.
“Fine,” Cormac grumbles. “Let’s get this over with so we can see that nothing is amiss.”
They exit through the back entrance, and I dither before I commit to the insane decision to follow them. I have to know what they find, or don’t find. I give them a thirty-second head start, counting the heartbeats thudding against my ribs. Once the heavy iron door clangs shut, I move. Silence is usually my friend, but today it feels accusatory, amplifying the squeak of my wet boots on the stone floor.
I slip out the iron door, moving the journal uncomfortably against my hip bone to make movement easier. Nothing says ‘stealth operative’ quite like waddling through a downpour with stolen property down your pants, but needs must.
