Chapter Three
Kyan
THE NARROW, SHADOWED BAR WAS NEARLY DESERTED WHEN Kyan stalked inside, his boots tracking a thin residue of gore inside, his skin tight and new from a receding transformation.
He’d had to layer a sheen of Influence over himself to draw less attention.
To stop others noticing the hulking, six-foot-four immortal warrior with a recently unshakeable air of menace.
Instead, he appeared shorter and milder, his reflection flickering in the silver, mirrored bar.
Still, he didn’t miss the wary glances from the bartender, whose bottles of supernatural liquids glinted in the sunlight beaming low into the long room.
Kyan headed to the red, curtained-off booth at the back beside a door to the kitchen. Scents wafted towards him: hot oil; fresh fries, and the whisky of the owner’s drink.
The supernatural man was in his late forties. His slicked-back black hair, tattooed arms, and slim frame gave him enough of an edge to hide the essence of the inhuman about him.
Kyan placed down a card with the Wake’s iridescent, circular logo.
‘The Wake thanks you for your tip and cooperation.’ The words nearly dried out his mouth. He’d said them for so long it had never bothered him.
But now?
The older man looked up from the bills and accounting books on his table. ‘Already? You were only in here an hour ago.’
Kyan gave a grim smile. ‘I’ve been doing this a long time.’
The Spectre had been easy to find and easier to kill: drawn by the heavy emotions of those leaving the bar. Killing it had felt, in those quick, visceral moments, like a do-over for Estwood and penance for how distracted he’d been.
Enough that Nicole had suffered the consequences.
Even now he could recall her newly-transformed scent. If they hadn’t bound themselves to one another to suppress his oath, he knew the burning in his scar wouldn’t have stopped for weeks with the need to hunt her.
The owner took a deep breath. ‘I’ll be damned.’ He shook his head, half admiring, half wary, as if only now realising the calibre of immortal killer the Wake had sent. ‘Well, my customers’ll be pleased they won’t get lured to death on their way home at night.’
Kyan allowed that to mute some of his disgust at doing another job. But there was blood on his hands, a near snarl on his mouth, and impatience tapping his chest and under the oath on his arm. So, without saying another word, he stalked back through the bar and into the sun-drenched docklands.
It had been six months and three days since the binding at Lanhydrock and he was as taut as a fucking slingshot.
He’d thought after centuries that he was immune to this type of distraction.
That his training with Scáthach on the stark, wind-bladed Isle of Skye had beaten his mind into submission.
Or the years he’d been a gladiator for the Wake – killing in the arena to show off their might – had honed his focus, so he didn’t think too hard about what he’d been asked to do.
Or the missions afterwards, hunting in a haze all over the world, had taught him how to concentrate on the goal and nothing else.
And yet here he was, focus shot.
Temper short.
Patience thin.
He’d hunted daily these last months until he fell into bed exhausted and frustrated. Only to do it all over again: airports and solitary car rides to last-known sightings. No need for binoculars with his abilities, no need for listening devices. His body was the tech.
Now, he headed for his black, Wake-issued car.
A couple of harmless supernatural teenagers lingered nearby to catch a glimpse of an Empyreal, most likely having spotted the Wake’s sleek ID badge in the right corner of his front window.
One had a cheap varnish on that didn’t hold up so well in direct sunlight, another a fake vape that coated them in a cloud of Vulpe varnish.
Most of them had the new colourful sunglasses teens were wearing to hide the true colour of their eyes.
They skittered away when they got a glimpse of him prowling in their direction.
Kyan sighed and debated heading to one of the Wake’s apartments to clean up, but the mere idea set dread simmering in his gut.
They had them in every city, places where Empyreals could stay during a mission.
But every time he walked into one it revealed the quiet, impersonal life he hadn’t known he’d needed to be shaken out of.
Now, it felt … eerie and lonely after his Estwood mission and—
Nicole.
Your mate.
He supposed these feelings were natural when you met your partner after centuries of believing no such thing would happen, and then were unable to tear down the organisation that had lied to you the entire time you’d been indentured to them. That kept you alone and dangerous.
They wanted a hunter? They’d made one.
Kyan closed his eyes; hands braced on the warm bonnet of the car.
Winter had faded and spring bloomed, but with each new leaf he was reminded of the time that stretched between him and Nicole.
Of how he was unable to learn anything more about her, or allow their connection any kindling to light into something other than a nebulous bind.
Did she feel a flicker of the undercurrent of hunger that was gnawing at him night and day unless he drowned it out with another hunt?
Where was she? Had she found the painter? Was she all right? The idea of her in danger was like a frequent pick to his jugular.
But he had his part of their mission to uphold: discovering where the Wake might be experimenting on creatures like Lynch, and getting as much information as possible. That, and addressing the mysterious line of Freya’s clue from the Dante painting’s code:
A cure to the oath must be found … perhaps only the God of Oaths himself will know.
The mere words drew up deep pieces of his history he wasn’t sure he was ready to uncover. Wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready. But what other options were there?
He reached for the car door when the wind changed and a scent cut through his senses. His back locked up reflexively.
Blood.
Blood didn’t always mean a kill, but he had no desire to go back to headquarters and debrief yet. So Kyan shook off the last hunt and prowled after the scent, cutting across the busy London street, between cars and onto the pavement, his black coat flashing darkly behind him.
Hunting had never bothered him before. He’d been willing to hunt this much.
And if he was honest with himself, he’d needed the distraction and routine to keep him sane.
He felt too wired, a snarling thing that was more intense than annoyance thriving in his body.
Working out didn’t shut it up. Even – he almost winced thinking about it – satisfying himself didn’t work.
Not when he’d done so with Nicole in his mind, imagining that lush little sigh against his mouth—
No, it made it worse.
His body flexed and shifted as his powers warmed in anticipation.
He’d have to be quick and careful: city hunts were more dangerous, with so many more possible witnesses and distractions.
He’d been able to turn his last kill to ashes while he’d still been the predator his Empyreal had made him into for the kill.
So Kyan hadn’t needed to remove the body.
But this did smell like a body.
The scent coiled from an enormous, seemingly deserted warehouse.
Kyan scoped out the surroundings before pausing outside the battered metal door and checking the lock for tampering. It hung limply, its wards broken, rippling and iridescent. Evidently, someone powerful had varnished this location, and something else had broken in.
The supernatural process of glazing certain items – like paintings, and even creatures – with camouflaging ‘varnishes’ made them less noticeable to humans. Made them see a different image to what truly lay beneath. But that didn’t give an indication as to what, or who, had done this.
Kyan reached for the door and dragged it open. It gave a metallic shriek, then the wards brushed over him like shattered, softened glass.
The coppery scent burned his senses as he stepped onto the concrete, silence ringing out.
There was an incredible amount of blood.
The source became clear as he moved deeper into the shadowed interior, sunlight streaming in from high windows.
There were no tools or machines, no crates.
Instead, rising up in a sea of sunbeams like pagan lore carved into reality, were standing stones.
One, to be precise, in front of a dolmen.
And carved on the central stone was the triskelion – that mythic-looking triple spiral that had once been so familiar.
On the dolmen lay a dead human woman. He could tell from the scent alone that she’d been killed hours ago, perhaps at the last witching hour.
Kyan’s jaw ached, his teeth clamped.
Something or someone had killed her and staged it to look like a sacrifice. Or, they’d been foolish enough to actually try some kind of sacrifice.
Not that there were any gods left to hear them, now.
The altar’s stone was stained dark with blood.
It had flowed onto the floor, spattering like a profane constellation.
That, in itself, could reveal the killer’s inexperience.
If they were going to slit someone’s throat, as evidenced by the crusted red moon of her neck, why hadn’t they collected the blood to divine from it?
He stalked closer, mind spiralling through a mental list of the creatures that might have done this, not yet discounting occultist humans.
Thanks to spotty human history, many believed the Druids sacrificed humans.
He’d seen attempts to replicate their rites after the rise of Celtic fascination in the 1900s.
But as he rounded the body, a thundering, too similar to the wheels of his lost people’s chariots, began in his mind. There was something written in blood on the concrete floor.
A line of ogam.
Cold sweat prickled over his skin.