Eat, Slay, Love (Well-Slayed #1)

Chapter 1

There are two things I’m particularly good at: going down online rabbit-holes and finding deals on imported cheese.

There is one thing I’m notably bad at: slaying demons.

I’ve never been more acutely aware of these facts as my tote stuffed with a suspiciously affordable Roquefort and a triple-cream brie—snags on my elbow while I dig through my coat pocket for the salt-and-ash meant to contain the demon currently feeding on a soul thirty feet in front of me.

“Fuck this,” I mutter, yanking the tote off my shoulder and hurling it into the shadows of the Manhattan side street. “Farewell, dear brie. We had a good run.”

The hulking demon still hasn’t noticed me—too busy siphoning from the poor human lying on the pavement, his broad shoulders hunched, breath ragged. My slayer magic hums and buzzes, telling me he’s feeding, and my fingers tremble as I finally find some salt-and-ash mix, loose like lint in my pocket.

I walk slowly, deliberately, scattering the dust as I go, kicking freshly fallen autumn leaves out of the way.

An arc becomes a circle. Containment first. The circle severs a demon’s tether to the wider world, isolating it from outside energy while locking its physical body inside the boundary, unable to cross the line in either direction.

It’s a shame I wasn’t more prepared for this. But I’m never prepared. I don’t want to be prepared. I haven’t had a kill in ten full years, haven’t even been hunting, not since what happened with my last one.

My parents and brothers, however, have been relentless about maintaining the family reputation. “This October is your chance, Mayari,” my mother told me just last week. “It’s been ten years too long. You need a kill.”

October is peak season for demons, but it’s not because demons get stronger. It’s because humans get looser. Halloween weakens the boundaries people usually keep tight around themselves, and demons thrive on the permission.

Which this one is clearly taking advantage of.

I close the circle. It locks with a subtle pressure change, as if we’re suddenly underwater.

That gets his attention.

We lock eyes.

“Slayer,” he mutters.

As far as demons go, this one resembles all the other ones.

Ethereally beautiful, his face all carved lines and impossible symmetry, with slicked-back dark hair and razor-sharp cheekbones serving as exclamation points to the whole arrangement.

A tall, imposing figure, wearing an impeccably tailored suit.

Immortals fancy themselves professionals, I suppose, and most have spent generations amassing serious wealth and an even more serious urge to flaunt it.

Something is different about this demon, though. My magic glitches, the same exact way it did with my last kill. It skitters across my limbs, static instead of its typical clean flow. I ignore it, my mother’s you need a kill echoing through my mind.

I swallow, preparing for my killer one-liner. It’s got to be majestic, as it’s my first one in a decade.

I clear my throat, take a deep breath, then loftily proclaim, “Hope you enjoyed your meal, because you’ve officially been—uh—served,” I cough, “your last.”

We wince.

“Was that your line?” he asks with mild incredulity.

Heat floods my face. “The last one you’ll cross,” I mutter.

“What was that?” He cups one hand behind his ear.

“The last—forget it.” I move to pull the silver-inlaid kris from my pocket, then freeze. Pat my coat. Then pat it again.

It’s in the tote.

“One moment, please,” I say, already backing away.

I sprint to where I tossed my bag. “Hey—that’s my cheese,” I tell the rats currently rifling through it.

“Get your own. It’s on sale at Murray’s.

” I kick them aside. “It was hidden under the expensive goat cheese,” I mutter, digging frantically until my fingers finally close around the hilt of my blessed dagger.

When I turn back, the demon is standing with his arms crossed, leaning against the transparent barrier of the circle and staring at me with faint amusement. “Would you believe me if I said this was a huge misunderstanding?”

“That’s what you all say,” I tell him, stepping forward. My magic jitters again.

“Funny,” he says, “Can’t say the same about all the slayers I’ve met. Process servers, sure, but—”

“Enough,” I snarl.

The demon tries a different tactic. “What’s your name?”

“Your worst nightmare.”

The corner of a shapely mouth twitches. “I’m Jonah. Could we perhaps talk about this—” He trails off as I step over the salt and into the circle. My dagger hums in my hand, eager in a way that I—that my magic—is not.

He takes a reflexive step back. “You’re making a mistake, Nightmare,” he says quietly.

“Good,” I reply, because I don’t know what else to say, and I lunge.

It’s all muscle memory at this point, because it’s been a decade since I’ve trained. The kris slices through the air with a sharp whistle, Baybayan symbols carved along the blade flaring faintly as they taste demon energy. I aim for his heart—clean and decisive.

He pivots right, impossibly fast, like I forgot how fast demons were fast, and I catch only the outside of his arm. The blade bites, and silver light sparks at the point of contact.

And then—

There’s blood. Red and bright.

“Fuck,” he hisses, hand flying to the wound. “Listen to m—”

“I’m listening,” I say, which is not true, because I’m too busy staring at the blood dripping down his arm. Why is he… bleeding? Demon flesh is supposed to smoke. Burn and blacken under Magdangal blessed steel.

I shake my head of the nonsense. It doesn’t matter. My magic is buzzing, and even if it’s acting strange, demons must be slain.

Right? I’m already raising the kris again.

My feet are in the correct position. My shoulders are square.

My heart is… elsewhere. Somewhere inconvenient, apparently, because instead of pressing the advantage, I wait, my blade wavering in the air between us like I’ve forgotten the next step in a dance I’ve practiced my whole life.

He notices. “You don’t actually want to do this,” he says, watching me carefully, perfect eyebrows furrowed, body predatorily still. “You’re aiming like someone who hopes I’ll move.”

“I’m aiming fine,” I snap, slashing at him again, too wide this time. He ducks easily, the movement economical and precise.

“I am actively trying not to hurt you,” he says, dodging another half-committed strike. “Which, for the record, is not something most demons bother with, so maybe we could take a moment and unpack that?”

“Stop narrating, Morgan Freeman!” I snap, drawing a line of salt across the ground between us with my free hand. The line flares white, snapping up briefly like an electric fence.

He stops short of it. He doesn’t cross.

I reset my stance, dagger lifted again.

Suddenly, I hear something. A low groan. I glance over, and the human on the ground stirs.

Pivoting, body still angled and dagger still raised towards the demon, I crouch to check the man’s pulse. It’s strong and steady. He’s still alive.

I rise slowly, glaring at Jonah. I must have intervened just in time. I just saved someone.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Jonah says carefully. “This—”

I attack him again, arcing low, using the height difference, channeling magic through the blade. It pulses brightly, trying to latch.

He’s fast—so fast—and suddenly his hand is around my wrist.

Warm is my immediate, disorienting thought. The hand around my wrist is warm. Demons are supposed to be cold.

He twists my wrist with practiced precision—not enough to break anything, not even enough to truly hurt, just enough to redirect the force of my strike—and the dagger nearly slips from my grip before I manage to tighten my fingers around it.

The movement is controlled, almost careful, unsettling me more than brute strength would have.

“Nightmare,” he says, and something about the gentle way he says this makes my pulse falter in a way that has nothing to do with combat. “If I wanted you dead, you would be.”

My magic reacts first, flaring hot in my veins as if insulted by the implication.

The surrounding circle brightens, the salt line flashing faintly as the boundary strains in response to my rising pulse.

I wrench my wrist free and pivot into a sweeping kick meant to take his legs out from under him, but instead of countering or retaliating, he simply retreats a step, maintaining distance rather than exploiting the opening I’ve just given him.

He keeps giving me space.

The realization that he’s telling the truth is irritating. It’s throwing off the rhythm of the fight. He should be pressing in, testing my guard, forcing me back. Instead, he continues to yield ground as though this is some sort of game.

I surge forward again, pushing doubt aside, channeling more magic through the blade.

The symbol etched into the silver flare brighter, eager to complete what I have begun.

When I strike this time, he lifts his forearm to block rather than dodge, and the blade bites deep enough to draw another line of blood.

Real blood. It spills over his skin in dark rivulets, and he winces, cradling his arm.

“Stop,” he says, sharper now, urgency threading through the word. “Please. Look at him. Please.”

Please, echoes through my mind, words from ten years ago and replayed in my nightmares. Listen to me! Please!

The memory hits like a slap, and forces me to follow the demon’s gaze.

The man who had been slumped on the pavement is sitting upright, bracing himself with one hand on the ground. His breathing is ragged but steady. His eyes are unfocused and confused, yes, but… not hollow or empty. Not gone.

Alive.

The certainty in my magic flickers, destabilized, a compass briefly spun off true north.

That hesitation is microscopic, a single faltering beat, but it is enough.

I lose spatial awareness, and as I shift my weight to reposition, my heel drags across the salt line behind me, smearing what had been a clean boundary line.

Fuck.

The circle fractures with a sharp crack, the contained pressure releasing in a rush of displaced air that whips past us both.

Jonah huffs a surprised noise of pure disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he half-laughs.

The barrier collapses entirely, dissolving into nothing more than scattered salt at our feet. I move instinctively to redraw it, but Jonah is already gone, suit coat flaring behind him as he sprints down the block.

He doesn’t look back at first.

Eventually, he does. “Lovely to make your acquaintance, Nightmare,” he calls lightly, lifting a hand in a half-wave. “For what it’s worth? I’m happy it was you. You’re not a very efficient slayer. You’re terrible at this.”

He pauses, just long enough for something sharper to edge into his voice. “My wife would have appreciated your hesitation.” Then he’s gone.

What?

I remain where I am, largely humiliated, dagger still humming faintly in my hand, my magic unsettled and wrong beneath my skin, staring at the man on the ground who is very much alive. I sheathe my dagger and kneel beside him, placing a hand on his back. “Are you okay?”

He coughs once, patting himself down. “I… yeah, I think so. What happened?”

I sigh. “Your worst nightmare.”