Chapter 17
Nyssa
Waking up feels less like rising from a peaceful slumber and more like being dragged backwards through a hedge. My head is pounding, but the furnace that was roasting my insides has been replaced by a deep, shivering chill.
I peel one eye open, instantly regretting the decision. The room is dim, smelling of mildew and wet dog, although that’s probably me. Standing at the foot of the bed are three looming figures, radiating enough testosterone and supernatural energy to power EirGrid.
“You had no right to move her without consulting me,” Dreven growls, his voice vibrating through the mattress springs. The shadows around him are lashing out like agitated snakes.
“She was drooling in the mud, in the cemetery, Dreven,” Voren retorts, sounding bored as he inspects his fingernails. “I figured she’d appreciate not waking up dead, or worse, a vampire.”
“You touched her soul.”
“Standard triage. You’re welcome.”
I try to sit up, but my body feels like lead. “If you’re going to argue over my unconscious body,” I croak, my throat dry as a desert, “could you at least do it quietly? My head is splitting.”
Three heads snap towards me.
“Where the fuck am I?” I manage to push myself up on one elbow, eyeing the peeling wallpaper and the heavy velvet curtains that look like they haven’t been washed since the Victorian era.
“Marrow House,” Voren says, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “My humble abode.”
“Oh, this bed is ancient and smells like it,” I groan.
“You are not one to talk about smells,” Dastian pipes up.
I glare at him, though it lacks its usual venom, given that I probably look like a scarecrow that’s been submerged in a swamp. “I smell of hard work and professional competence,” I retort, swinging my legs over the side of the mattress. “Something you three wouldn’t know much about.”
Dreven is there instantly, a wall of dark leather and disapproval blocking my path. Call me inappropriate, but all I can think about is his massive dick. “You are not well enough to stand.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, even as the room does a lazy pirouette. “I just need a shower that doesn’t involve grave dirt.”
“You were dying,” Voren points out. “Corruption in the bloodstream. Nasty business. If I hadn’t stuck my hand in your soul, you’d currently be haunting my hallway, and frankly, I’m not letting Surgeon Scissors get his ghostly hands on you.”
“Who?” I croak but then shake my head. I don’t really want to know. “Well, thanks for the spiritual enema. Now move, Dreven. I have a patrol to finish.”
“The patrol is done,” Dreven says, coldly.
“No, it’s not. There are things out there that the mortals of this village and beyond are not prepared to face.”
“Last line of defence, blah, blah,” Dastian mutters. “Don’t you slayers have another record?”
I glare at him and push past Dreven. “I’m going. Thanks, Voren, for the invasive soul cleansing, but touch me again and you will lose more than a hand. Got it?”
Without waiting for a reply, I remove myself from their overbearing presence, down the hallway and take the stairs two at a time.
I suddenly feel better than I have for a while.
Maybe there is something to be said for soul cleansing.
Perhaps the exclusive spa in Mowbray should offer it up. They’d make a fucking fortune.
Remind me not to tell Voren. He’d probably be all in, touching souls all willy nilly.
The thought grates on my nerves in something that is possessive-adjacent, which just pisses me off even more.
I shove through the heavy front door, half-expecting it to be locked or blocked by a shadow wall, but it swings open with a compliant groan.
The night air hits me like a wet slap, carrying the scent of salt and rain.
Typical Irish welcome. I take a deep breath, waiting for the familiar ache in my ribs or the heaviness in my limbs to return, but there’s nothing.
Just a hum of cold electricity under my skin where Voren touched me.
It’s unsettling. I’m used to earning my recovery through days of limping and complaining. This instant bounce-back feels like cheating. Or a trap.
“You’re forgetting something,” a voice calls from the upstairs window.
I don’t stop, marching down the overgrown path, my boots slipping slightly on the wet leaves. “If it’s my dignity, I lost that hours ago.”
“Your blade,” Dastian calls out.
A split second later, the heavy weight of my weapon whistles through the air and lands point-first in the mud mere inches from my toe. It quivers there, runes dark, looking innocent enough.
I stop, staring at the hilt. “Touch that again, and I won’t think twice about using it on you.”
“You’re full of threats for someone who nearly died by supernatural death,” he says, leaning out of the window.
“Welcome to my world,” I murmur, gripping the blade handle and yanking it out of the mud. “Just another day at the office.”
“But it doesn’t have to be,” he says and then disappears.
“Doesn’t have to be what? Another day where I risk my life to save everyone? Unfortunately, you are wrong,” I mutter and stride off down the hill, hoping the graveyard is full of creepy crawlies. I have some energy to burn off.
The walk back to the cemetery doesn’t take me long.
It’s like I’m moving at increased speed.
It’s like I’ve downed five espressos, except instead of the jitters, I’ve got the urge to punch a hole through a tombstone.
Voren’s supernatural triage might have saved my life, but it’s left me feeling like a stranger in my own skin.
I hate it. I prefer my exhaustion honest and earned, not gifted by a god with a superiority complex and a house full of ghosts.
I kick the cemetery gate open. The rusted iron screeches a protest against the silence.
“Anyone want a go? I’m feeling surprisingly sprightly.”
Silence answers me. The wind rustles the yew trees, shaking loose a fresh cascade of raindrops, but the dead are seemingly sensible enough to stay in their boxes tonight.
I do a sweep of the perimeter anyway, checking behind the crypt and even poking my nose into the tool shed where the groundskeeper keeps his lawnmower. Fuck all.
It’s typical. The one night I have the stamina of a marathon runner on steroids, the supernatural community decides to take a collective nap. Or maybe word got out that Marrow House is under new, terrifying management, and everything with half a brain cell has scarpered to the next county.
I sheathe my blade with a frustrated snap.
The hum in my veins isn’t fading; if anything, it’s getting louder, a static buzz that demands action.
Voren didn’t just clean me out; he overcharged the battery.
I turn back toward the town and come face-to-face with a beastie that needs to die.
It looks like a badger had a dirty weekend with a gargoyle, and neither of them called the other back.
Massive, hunched shoulders, too many teeth, and a smell that could strip paint.
It growls, a wet, rattling sound that vibrates in my chest.
“Finally,” I breathe, cracking my neck. “You’ll do.”
The beast lunges without waiting for a formal introduction.
Usually, I’d brace for impact, calculate the angle, and hope my ribs hold up.
Tonight, I don’t even have to think. My body moves before my brain issues the command, a blur of motion that feels exhilarating and terrifyingly foreign.
I sidestep the snapping jaws with time to spare, the world slowing down just enough for me to appreciate the sheer stupidity in its glassy eyes.
I spin, driving my blade downward. It slices through the creature’s tough hide like a hot knife through butter, turning the beast’s shriek into a choked gurgle. It collapses in a heap of dissolving shadow and ash before I’ve even batted an eye.
I stare at the fading stain on the grass, my chest heaving not from exertion, but from the surplus adrenaline still coursing through me. That should have been a struggle. That should have hurt. Instead, I feel like I could take on the entire graveyard without breaking a sweat.
I stare at my hands. They aren’t shaking. Usually, after a kill, there’s the adrenaline crash, the body remembering it’s mortal. Now? Nothing. My pulse is steady, slow even, thrumming with that cold, foreign rhythm Voren installed.
“Interfering prick,” I mutter, wiping the blade on the grass.
It feels wrong, like cheating. The fight is supposed to cost something.
You pay in sweat, blood, or bruises. Getting a free pass because the Wraith God decided to play doctor doesn’t sit right with me.
It feels like a debt, and I hate owing anyone anything, especially beings I was taught to never trust.
I sheathe the weapon and look around for more things to kill. Sadly, nothing pops out.
A flicker of light from Marrow House catches my attention, and I narrow my eyes at it before the world around me explodes with creatures bursting from the ground like it’s Thriller.