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 at me. 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.”
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. “That madman 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?