Chapter 10 Nyssa
Nyssa
The visitor waiting for me when I get home is not entirely unexpected but is definitely not welcome.
“Fuck off,” I growl at Dastian, who is lounging next to the front door, not getting wet.
I, on the other hand, look like a drowned rat.
He grins, looking infuriatingly dry and comfortable. “You look like you’ve had a rough morning. Want to talk about it?”
“No.” I fish my keys out of my pocket with numb fingers. “I want to get inside, take a hot shower, and pretend that gods don’t exist for at least twenty minutes.”
“Twenty whole minutes? That’s ambitious.” He doesn’t move from his spot blocking my door. “Did the Tidewraith give you trouble?”
“Of course you know about that. Funny how you didn’t swoop in to help, though, isn’t it?”
That knocks the smile off his face for a fraction of a second, and I feel victorious. Until a shiver of dread goes down my spine as my near-death catches up to me.
“Thought you didn’t need my help,” he counters as I push past him and open the door.
“I don’t. I’m good without all of you.” I try to shut the door, but he catches it with his hand, holding it open with seemingly no effort at all.
“Sure you are. That’s why Dreven had to save your arse from getting erased.”
“He didn’t save me. He… intervened.” I toe off my shoes and try to shut the door again, but he is too strong.
“Semantics.” He follows me inside without invitation, which is just perfect.
He closes the door behind him.
“Get out of my house. You aren’t invited.”
“Not a vampire, and a bit late. I’m already inside.”
“Because you barged your way in here. Don’t gods have any sense of boundaries?”
“Who knows?” he says with a shrug.
I stare at him. “You don’t know if you have boundaries?”
“Gods are not mortals, Nyssa,” he says, looking around my living room. “The same rules don’t apply.”
I strip out of my sodden hoodie, not caring that he’s watching. I’m wearing a long-sleeve shirt underneath, and modesty is the least of my concerns right now. “Well, they should. Because breaking and entering is still a crime in the mortal realm, god or not.”
“Breaking implies force. I simply followed you in.”
“Through a door I was actively trying to shut in your face.”
He grins, utterly unrepentant. “Details.”
I toss the soaked hoodie over the back of a chair, although the desire to throw it at him claws at me, and head for the kitchen, needing distance and something hot to drink. My hands are still shaking from the cold and the adrenaline crash. The kettle goes on with more force than necessary.
He joins me, examining the décor like it’s a museum exhibit. My life is functional, not decorative. Everything has a purpose.
“Cosy,” he says, and I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic.
“It’s functional.”
“It’s depressing.”
“Why, thank you. How much do I owe you for your expert fucking opinion?”
“You’ve got so much bite,” he says, fixing me with an intense look that feels like he is probing my soul.
I busy myself with the tea, trying to ignore the heat creeping up my neck. “And you’ve got a death wish if you think flattery is going to work on me.”
“Who said anything about flattery? I’m stating facts.” He leans against the counter, too close for comfort, and I resist the urge to step back. That would be admitting he’s getting to me. “You’ve got fire, slayer. It’s refreshing after centuries of dealing with spineless sycophants.”
“Glad I could provide you with entertainment.” The kettle boils, and I pour the water over a tea bag. “Now that you’ve been entertained, you can leave.”
“Not until we talk about what happened at the docks.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. Monster showed up, Dreven made it piss off, I came home. End of story.”
“Except it’s not.” His tone shifts, losing that playful edge. “That Tidewraith should never have surfaced. It’s been dormant for centuries. Something woke it up, something powerful enough to disturb the natural order of this realm.”
I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into my frozen fingers. “The fissure.”
“Bingo. Gold star for the slayer.” He’s watching me with those unsettling eyes that shift between red-amber and molten gold.
“When you sealed it, you stopped more things from coming through, but you didn’t undo the damage already done.
Think of it like a dam with a crack. You’ve plugged the hole, but the pressure behind it has already caused structural damage. Things are leaking through the cracks.”
“So what? More gods? More monsters?”
“Both.” He moves closer, and I catch the scent of something spicy, like cinnamon and lightning. “And they’re all going to be drawn to the same thing.”
“Which is?”
“You, because your blood sealed a divine fissure. Because you killed Aethel. Because you’re the only slayer in this realm right now who carries the bloodline of the Firsts.
” He tilts his head, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve.
“You’re a beacon, Nyssa. A bright, shining target that every power-hungry creature within a hundred miles can feel. ”
“That’s not a first for me. Slayer of demons, remember. I’ve had this gig for a while now.”
“Not like this,” he insists. “Demons are drawn to mortal energy, to chaos and suffering. This is different. You’re not just prey anymore; you’re a prize. There’s a difference between being hunted to be killed and being hunted for power.”
I take a long sip of tea, buying myself time to think. Everything he’s saying makes a horrible kind of sense, and I hate it. “So what do you suggest?”
“I’m suggesting you accept help. From those of us who actually know what’s coming.”
“Help from gods.” I set the mug down. “The same gods that my ancestors locked away for being a threat to the mortal realm. Forgive me if I’m not jumping at the offer to trust you.”
His expression darkens, the playful mask slipping. “Your ancestors locked us away because Aethel convinced them we were all monsters, because she wanted to rule without opposition. She was always the real threat, and your precious Order only looked at that.”
I freeze, my hand still on the mug. “That’s not how the texts read.”
“History is written by the victors, slayer. Aethel lost that round. She got us all locked away, even though some of us were quite happy not to make too many waves in the mortal realm.”
“How come they didn’t kill her? Clearly, it can be done.” This has me curious.
Dastian shrugs. “Maybe they didn’t have the power? Maybe only you do.”
I take in that information with a pinch of salt. I’m no more special than the slayer before me, and so on and so forth. “You—”
I’m cut off by Dastian disappearing suddenly. I look around, but he hasn’t moved position; he has simply vanished.
“Ugh, good riddance,” I mutter and finish my tea.
He has thrown me off my mission. In fact, everything that has happened today has done that.
I was supposed to hit the Order’s library to see if I could find out anything about these gods.
But that was before I lied to the Order and Taye tried to get me killed by some ancient water beast. The gods are just an annoyance that I hope will move on soon, once they get bored with the sleepy town of Blackfen Edge.
“Gods,” I mutter, and purse my lips. I’ve only met two of them, and apparently, there are three lurking about. Maybe more. But Dastian said three, so we’ll go with that for now. I need to find the third one before he finds me, and see if he is in any way less cryptic than the two I’ve already met.
But where to start? Dastian mentioned he talks to ghosts, so the cemetery seems like a good place to start, if a little cliché.
I rinse my mug and leave it on the draining board, my mind made up.
Waiting for them to show up on my doorstep one by one is a reactive strategy, and I am not a reactive person.
I’m a hunter. It’s time I started acting like one.
If this Voren character likes to chat with the dead, the biggest collection of them in Blackfen Edge is the cemetery.
Grabbing a fresh, dry hoodie and my coat, I shove my feet back into my still-damp trainers with a grimace.
The things I do for this village. The rain hasn’t stopped, and the sky is the colour of a bruise, which seems fitting as my ribs ache.
As I walk, the familiar streets feel different, tainted by the knowledge of what’s now lurking in the shadows.
The gates of Blackfen Edge cemetery are just as imposing in the grey daylight as they are at night. I slip through the side entrance, my hand already on the hilt of my blade. I do a quick sweep, but it’s dead.
I snort at my own joke and then stop to have a good look around. My gaze sweeps over the crypt from last night, but all seems quiet. I extend the reach of my search, and I turn around, feeling a sudden chill that goes past the wind and rain.
My gaze lands on Marrow House. Sitting on top of the big hill that overlooks the stormy sea, it hasn’t been occupied in over a century.
The last owner, Edward Marrow, killed himself by throwing himself off the cliff.
He died alone and childless, and miserable by all accounts.
“Bingo,” I mutter and leave the cemetery to start the trek up the hill to the abandoned mansion.