Chapter 32
Nyssa
My legs feel like jelly that hasn’t quite set yet. I stumble down the overgrown track leading away from Marrow House, forcing my boots to find purchase in the mud. The rain plasters my hair to my face, cold and miserable, but it barely registers against the furnace roaring beneath my skin.
Guardians.
The word rattles around my skull, smashing into twenty-eight years of Order indoctrination.
We weren’t just demon hunters; we were the divine leash.
The safety catch on a gun the gods held.
And the Order—my ancestors, my legacy—severed the connection because they wanted to be the ones pulling the trigger.
“Arrogant pricks,” I mutter to the wet hedgerow.
I skirt the edge of the village, sticking to the shadows. If Rynna or Cormac see me now, looking like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards and thoroughly ravished, questions will be asked. Questions I can’t answer without committing treason or sounding insane.
My cottage sits dark and silent at the end of the lane. It looks painfully normal. I fumble for my keys, my hands shaking from the residual buzz of chaotic energy zipping through my nerves. I get the door open and lock it tight behind me, sliding the bolt home.
I stare into the gloom of my hallway. I should be packing. I should be running. Instead, I’m standing here, humming with lethal power, wondering why the silence of my own home suddenly feels so deafeningly loud without the bickering of three ancient deities.
It used to be comforting. Now, it just smells like ignorance.
I strip off my clothes in the bathroom, leaving them in a heap on the tiles. The anchor. The leash. Whatever they want to call it, it’s active, and it’s buzzing under my skin like a caffeine overdose.
I turn on the shower, cranking the heat up as high as it goes, though I doubt it can rival Dastian’s magic lake. As the room fills with steam, I feel a prickle on the back of my neck. A cold, heavy sensation that slides over my skin like velvet.
I glance at the frosted window. The shadows in the garden are too deep, too solid for a simple rainy night.
“I know you’re there,” I whisper, stepping under the spray.
The shadows don’t answer, but the temperature in the bathroom drops just enough to make the mirror fog over completely. He’s watching. For the first time in my life, having a monster in the dark doesn’t make me reach for my blade. It makes me feel safe.
“Damn you.”
I scrub until my skin is raw, trying to wash away the scent of the lake and the lingering static of three gods, but it’s pointless.
They’re in my blood now, quite literally.
The hot water sluices down the drain, taking the grime of the day with it, but the hum of the Firsts remains, a constant, vibrating reminder that I never was who I thought I was.
Turning off the shower, I snatch a towel and wrap it tight around me before stepping onto the cold tiles.
The mirror is completely obscured by steam.
I wipe a circle clear with my hand and stare at my reflection.
My amber eyes look brighter, almost glowing in the dim light, and I look less like a woman on the edge of a breakdown and more like someone who has just unwittingly started a war.
I dress in an oversized t-shirt, knickers, thick socks, and march to the kitchen. My stomach roars, demanding tribute. Dastian’s magic bread was nice, but right now, I need something substantial and entirely mortal to ground me before I lose my mind completely.
I raid the fridge and land on a packet of bacon.
Perfect. I toss four rashers into a frying pan, the hiss and spit of hot grease sounding like music compared to the apocalyptic pronouncements of the last few hours.
While the meat crisps, I butter two thick slices of white bread and grab the brown sauce.
Through the kitchen window, the darkness shifts. It’s not just the wind in the apple tree. The shadows lengthen, pressing against the glass like a curious cat. They’re distinct, cool, and unmistakably Dreven. He’s out there in the rain, guarding me like a possessive gargoyle.
I slap the bacon onto the bread, add a dollop of brown sauce, and take a bite.
It tastes of salt and normality. I chew slowly, staring at the black square of the window.
The Order lied. My ancestors were power-hungry traitors, and I’m standing here pretending like the world hasn’t just tilted on its axis.
Generations of slayers, convinced we were the shield, when really, we were just the jealous ex-partners who stole the car keys and locked the house.
It’s pathetic. It’s infuriating. And worse, it makes sense.
The gap inside me, that gnawing emptiness I’ve tried to fill with training and tea, is gone.
Filled by three deities who drove me to the brink of madness and then had the audacity to fix me.
I swallow the last bite and sigh. I’m supposed to be processing this alone, doing things I normally do, being a mortal for maybe the last time before this Crown of Wraiths turns me into one. But the fact is, I’m scared. For the first time, I’m really, truly scared.
“Come in,” I whisper, pushing the last bit of the sandwich away.
The shadows seep through the gap beneath the back door, pooling like spilt ink before shooting upwards. The temperature plummets, turning my breath into a ghost against the sudden chill.
Dreven solidifies in the space between the fridge and the table. He fills the small room, making my cottage feel like a dollhouse. He isn’t wet, despite the downpour outside; the rain seems to slide off his darkness like oil.
“You invited me in,” he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the soles of my socks.
“I did.”
“Why did you?”
“Because the silence is too loud. And apparently, I have separation anxiety now. Which is pathetic.”
“It is the bond,” he states, unbothered by my self-deprecation.
He stands rigid, hands at his sides, intense silver eyes tracking my every twitch. He looks like a weapon someone left in a domestic setting—dangerous and entirely out of place next to my toaster.
“We are the storm, Nyssa. You keep us from destroying everything.” He steps forward, closing the distance, but he doesn’t touch me. I don’t ask him to.
“I’m going to bed. I need to sleep for a week.”
“We don’t have a week.”
“It’s a saying. You can stay, or you can go. Up to you.” I shrug to show my indifference.
I leave him standing amidst the smell of bacon grease and existential dread as I make my way to my bedroom. The cottage feels different now—smaller, fragile. Like a stiff breeze could knock it over, or a shadow could swallow it whole.
I don’t bother closing the bedroom door.
I crawl under the duvet, shivering as the cold sheets hit my skin.
It’s pathetic, really. A few hours ago, I was naked in a magical lake getting railed by deities, and now I’m curled up in a t-shirt that says ‘I Hate Mondays’, desperate for a hot water bottle.
The room darkens. Not the gradual dimming of twilight, but a sudden, absolute snuffing of the light.
The mattress dips.
I don’t flinch. I just shift over, making space. Dreven lies down on top of the covers, fully clothed, a solid bar of darkness against my back. He radiates a chill that should be unpleasant, but instead, it settles the frantic buzzing in my veins.
I close my eyes, and for the first time since I woke up to a ghost drooling on me, the world stops spinning.
“Sleep, Nyssa,” he commands softly. “I’m here.”
And for once, I obey.