Chapter 7 Nyssa
Nyssa
The morning brings a pounding headache and the unshakeable feeling that I’m being watched.
I drag myself out of bed, every muscle screaming in protest. The bruise on my ribs has bloomed into a spectacular shade of purple, and my wrist throbs under the bandage I wrapped last night.
The blade is on my bedside table, where I left it, wrapped in its oiled cloth.
I flick it aside and glare accusingly at it.
The blue glow has faded, but I can still feel the hum of power vibrating from it. Like it’s waiting.
Tea, I need a strong cup of tea before I can even begin to process what the fuck happened.
There is no way I can go to the Order about the shitshow of last night, rambling about my light-up blade, gods, and madmen. I’ll sound like a madwoman if I do that. I need clarity and cold, hard facts to retell.
I shuffle into the kitchen as sunlight attempts to break through the late autumn clouds. I grab the kettle and fill it, my gaze darting to the back garden to see if what’s-his-face is lurking again. I shake my head. See? I can’t say that to the Order. They work in detail and clear-headed thoughts.
“What was your name again?” I murmur, trying to sort through the flotsam in my foggy brain.
While the water boils, I unwrap the bandage on my wrist to check the damage.
The wound is already healing, which is odd.
Usually, it takes me a few days to bounce back from something like this.
The edges of the cut are knitting together, leaving only a thin red line.
A slayer has accelerated healing powers, courtesy of our not-so-human-but-not-quite-supernatural heritage, but this is weird, even for me.
My mobile buzzes on the counter, making me jump. Three missed calls from Rynna. Shit. I was supposed to check in last night. What is happening to my structure? My borderline obsessive need to have my ducks in a row?
I hit redial, and she picks up on the first ring.
“Finally! I was about to come looking for your corpse,” Rynna says, her voice sharp with worry and irritation. “Three calls, Nyssa. Three.”
“I know, I know. Sorry. It was a long night.”
“How long?”
I pause, staring at the thin red line on my wrist. How do I even begin? “Longer than usual. Got a few demons, the standard fare. It rained. I got muddy and soaked. The usual shit.”
“And?”
Damn it. She can always tell when I’m holding back. It’s the curse of having a younger sister who’s been training to take my place since she was old enough to hold a blade. She knows all my tells.
“And nothing. Just tired. Bruised a rib, but I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not—”
“You always do that thing with your voice when you lie. It goes up at the end, like you’re asking a question instead of making a statement.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. The kettle clicks off behind me, steam curling up like accusing fingers. “Rynna, I’m fine. Really. Just need some rest.”
Silence on the other end. Then, “I’m coming over.”
“Suit yourself, but I have to report to the Order, and then I’m going to training. I won’t even be here.”
She lets out a huff. “Fine, but pull that stick out of your arse once in a while, sis. Live a little. All work and no play makes Nyssa a dull girl.”
“You play enough for both of us,” I say, grabbing a mug from the cupboard.
“Someone has to. You’re going to turn into a dried-up old crone at twenty-eight if you keep this up.”
“Twenty-eight is hardly ancient.”
“It is when you act like you’re sixty. When was the last time you had a shag?”
I pour the boiling water over the teabag, watching it steep into a dark amber. “I don’t have time for shagging.”
“You don’t make time. There’s a difference.”
Maybe she’s right. It’s been a while. Too long, really, since I had sex, but I’ve got more important stuff to focus on. Like saving everyone’s arses on a daily basis.
“I’ll bear that in mind,” I drawl. “Bye, Rynna.”
She hangs up without another word, already moving on to whatever has caught her attention.
I dump the teabag in the bin and take a long sip, letting the heat scald down my throat, and carry it to the small kitchen table to sink into the chair, wincing as my ribs protest. I need to see if there’s any mention in the Order’s texts about the blade, where it suddenly decides to glow blue and demand blood sacrifices to seal a divine fissure.
The Order of the Veil has been around for centuries, passed down through specific bloodlines like mine.
We’re the ones who keep the nasty things at bay, the ones who patrol the edges where the supernatural bleeds into the mundane.
But gods? That was supposed to be ancient history.
Locked away. Problem solved by women far braver and more powerful than me.
Except now it’s not solved. One of them was summoned and got stabbed in the face for her efforts, and another slipped through the cracks in her wake.
A god that I didn’t stab in the face. His handsome, brooding face.
“Dreven.” His name comes to me with painful clarity. It’s a start. There should be something in the texts about him.
Time to get showered and hit the Order’s HQ to inform the Guardians of last night’s patrol and then spend the rest of the day in the library, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.
I drain the rest of my black tea and push myself up from the table, every movement a reminder of last night’s violence.
The shower is scalding, the way I like it, and I let the water beat against my bruised ribs until the bathroom fills with steam.
My mind keeps circling back to Dreven’s warning about what’s coming.
Something this world isn’t prepared for. Something even a god fears.
That’s not ominous at all.
Finishing up and drying off, I dress in clean black leggings and a fitted long-sleeve shirt, practical for both training and potential demon encounters. The dormant blade goes into its sheath at the small of my back, hidden under a dark green hoodie.
I scowl at my muddy trainers that I forgot to clean off last night—again, an anomaly for me—but I don’t have time now.
Besides, it’s started pouring down again, so they’re just going to get muddy anyway.
I shove my feet into them with a moue of distaste at my lack of civility and yank open the door while grabbing my coat to protect me from the worst of the rain as I make my way on foot to the Order.
“Well, hello, there.”
I jump a fucking mile at the unexpected greeting.
My gaze goes to the arsehole scaring the bejesus out of me, and my scowl deepens. He is hot. Achingly so. More so, perhaps, than Dreven. Well, no, that isn’t quite right. Same level of hotness, but a different type.
“Who the fuck are you?” I growl.
He beams and runs a hand through his damp, tousled brown hair with copper undertones. His eyes are like molten gold when he’s amused or enraged. He looks a little dishevelled, but almost like it’s on purpose. “The question you should be asking is what am I?”
I grimace at him. “Don’t tell me? Another god who came through with that glowy bitch? You do know announcing yourself to a slayer is pretty fucking dumb. Now I have to kill you.”
He chuckles. It’s not the dark, amused sound that comes from Dreven, but a lighter, more genuine sound. “You know more than I expected. Dre been around already?”
“What’s it to you?”
“He’s a pompous arse, all brooding and strict. Figured he’d come around with his dire warnings and doom.”
Sighing, I drag my blade out and point the tip under his chin. “Name. So I know what to write in my report. God who thinks he’s funny and charming, won’t cut it with my bosses.”
“Thinks?” he says with mock-offence. “Rude.” He reaches up to push gently on the tip of the blade. I tighten my grip, but it makes no difference. He still moves it away even though he appears to be using no strength at all. “Take that back, I might reconsider giving it to you.”
I blink. “Take it back? What are you? Twelve?”
“Centuries? Yes.”
I freeze. Fucking what?
His eyes flash, and I see the danger in them before he covers it quickly. “So, shall we try this again?”
“Yeah, arsehole, we shall. Give me your fucking name and I won’t stab you in the fucking face!”
“Ooh, ouch. That did look like it hurt Aethel.”
“It killed her.”
“Hmm, so it did. Fine, you win. Dastian’s the name. God of Chaos.”
I stare at him, my blade still hovering in the space between us. “God of Chaos. Brilliant. Just what I needed this morning. If I thought the brooding one was a pain in my arse, the fun one is about to outdo him.”
His grin widens, and I can see the copper catching in his sodden hair as the rain continues to pelt down on him. “Oh, Dre’s been that charming already? He does have a way of making everything sound like the end of the world.”
“Maybe because it is,” I snap, lowering my blade slightly but keeping it ready. The runes aren’t glowing, which is either a good sign or a very bad one. “What do you want, Dastian?”
“Want?” He spreads his arms wide, as if embracing the rain.
Water streams down his face, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care.
“I want to see what all the fuss is about. The mortal who killed Aethel. The slayer who closed a divine fissure with her own blood. You’re quite the celebrity in certain circles. ”
“I’m not interested in being a celebrity.”
“No, you’re interested in killing things.” His eyes flash that molten gold again, and I feel a pulse of energy, heat, and power ripple through the air between us. “Which is why we’re going to get along famously.”
“We’re not going to get along at all. You’re going to get out of my way and stay out of it, or you will find out how painful it is to die with a blade in your face.”
He laughs, a bright sound that cuts through the rain. “You really are delightful. Dre is right to be obsessed.”