He offers a slow, infuriatingly handsome smile. The silver coin is gone. His hands are empty, held loosely at his sides. “Stalking is such an ugly word. I prefer observation.”
“Observe this,” I snarl, raising the tip of my blade so it points directly at his chest. The blue light from the runes paints his pale face in ethereal shades. “Get off my property before I decide to see what colour you bleed.”
His smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it widens. “You’ll have to get much closer to find out.”
My jaw tightens. The absolute arrogance of him. He stands there, calm as you like, while my blade is practically vibrating with the urge to introduce itself to his sternum. Every instinct screams danger, but another, more pragmatic part of my brain knows that charging in mindlessly is how slayers end up as cautionary tales.
“Is that a challenge or an invitation?” I ask, my voice low and tight. “Because either way, the end result is you leaving my garden in several small pieces if you don’t move now.”
He takes a step forward, then another, moving with a liquid grace that is utterly unnatural. The shadows in the garden stretch towards him, deepening at his feet. “Why not both?” he murmurs, his voice a low thrum that vibrates right through me. He stops barely a metre from the tip of my blade. The blue glow illuminates the sharp planes of his face, the unsettling silver of his eyes. “My name is Dreven.”
“I don’t care if your name is Fluffy,” I snap. “What do you want?”
“I want to see what you do next,” he says, his gaze dropping to the glowing runes on my knife. “You killed a goddess, slayer. Not many can accomplish that.”
“And? Are you looking to be next?”
He laughs, a low, dark sound that seems to absorb the moonlight. “Patience, little slayer. We’ve only just met.” His silver gaze flicks from my face down to the blade, then back up again, a spark of genuine curiosity in their depths. “Aethel’s death has created a vacuum, Nyssa Vale. Power abhors a vacuum.”
“Is this your roundabout way of telling me you intend to fill it?”
We lock gazes. He looks surprised, which just pisses me off. But I get it all the time. I look like I have never read a book in my life, but I can read in three different languages, two of them dead.
“I’ll take your dumbfoundedness as a yes,” I say with a smug smile. “I kill things that want power.”
“Who said I wanted it?” he asks, recovering quickly enough to smirk.
“You’re standing in my petunias, looking like the cover of ‘Villains Monthly’, and you expect me to believe you’re here to admire the horticulture?” I say.
He takes another slow step, the tip of my blade now only inches from the fine fabric of his suit. “Perhaps I’m simply admiring the gardener.” His silver eyes rake over me, from my scraped knuckles to the blood-stiffened cuff of my hoodie. It’s not a lecherous look, more like an appraisal. Like a collector studying a rare, and potentially lethal, insect.
“Admire from a distance,” I growl, pushing the blade forward just enough to dimple the fabric over his chest. “A very long distance. Like, another dimension would be good.”
A flicker of something dangerous crosses his face before he schools into something that resembles concern. “Thatmadman unleashed something this world isn’t prepared for.”
“I’m prepared for anything.”
“That arrogance will get you killed.”
“And trusting you won’t?” I retort, my voice tight. “Monsters tend to underestimate me. It’s their last mistake.”
“I am not a monster,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, hypnotic murmur. “I am a god. And you, slayer, have just rung the dinner bell for every power-hungry creature that felt Aethel’s light extinguish.”
My blade trembles. It’s not the aggressive hum it has for demons. This is different. Resonant. Like it recognises him.
“Then I’ll be busy,” I say, though the bravado feels thin even to me.
He takes another step, and this time I don’t stop him. He is so close now, I could stab him and be done with this conversation. But something stops me. He reaches out, his movements slow and deliberate, and his fingers brush against the flat of my glowing blade. The blue light sparks where he touches it, but he doesn’t flinch. Instead, his silver eyes meet mine over the steel.
“You’ll be dead before the week is out if you try to do it alone.” He leans in, his voice a whisper that slides directly into my bones. “He unleashed hell, and you, sweet girl, are the last line of defence against something that even I fear.”
I gulp, but I lift my chin higher to show him I’m not worried. Before I can form a cutting response, he vanishes into the shadows, leaving me alone and shivering in the drizzle that is coming down now as insistent as a gnat. Lowering my blade, I step back into the house and close the door, locking it behind me, even though I have no doubt he could get in if he wanted to.
I am a god.
Well, that explains a few things. But raises a whole other issue.
What is out there that makes a god afraid? And how do I kill it?
