Page 26 of Slayer

I watch until the flames finally die, leaving blackened bone and ash in their wake. I gather a small handful of ash into a bottle I found along the shoreline, needing some piece of him to take with me. I cut a small piece from my cloak and stuff it into the top.

My eyes catch something glinting in the distance, the moonlight striking it just right, as if it had been waiting for me. It rests where the sand gives way to Magda’s forest. I move toward it.

Maddoc’s sword.

It leans against a tree whose bark is soaked in blood. His blood. Rage crashes through me, hot and relentless, until there's nothing left but fury. My fingers wrap around the hilt, and the weight of it settles into my palm.

I walk straight to the Academy fueled by nothing but a cold, unremitting anger, and nothing stops me. One thing fills my head: death. Everyone who helped torture him will die. Anyone who stands between me and Silas will die.

I pull my hood up and move like a shadow through Magda, dodging in and out of alleyways and shielding myself from the wandering eyes of drunkards stumbling through the streets. Maddoc’s sword is heavy in my hand, far heavier than the slender blades I usually favor, but this one carries a purpose. Vengeance.

The Academy looms before me, eerily silent, its silhouette faint against the cloudy night. Suddenly, thunder cracks overhead, violent enough to rattle the island to its bones, and the sky finally splits open. Rain pours down in heavy sheets, drenching the streets, slicking the stone beneath my boots. Each step feels heavier than the last, waterlogged leather clinging to my calves.

Rain strikes dirt and stone, the sharp, metallic scent of wet earth and old rot rising with every drop. Midnight presses in around me, broken only by streaks of silver lightning that tear through the sky. My pulse thrums in my ears.

The Academy’s stone façade is cold and unforgiving, the same lifeless gray as the castle where the vile king rots on his throne. I’ve never realized the resemblance before. No lanterns burn, but I’m under no delusions that the place is empty.

If I’m going to arrive, I’ll do it properly.

I reach for the massive wooden doors and shove them open. The hinges groan, the sound cutting through the rain. Warmth and the coppery tang of blood spill out to meet me. Inside, slayers lounge against the walls, laughing, drinking, sharpening blades. The familiar place, which feels like a very dark, twisted home, lay out in front of me. Some are smeared with fresh blood; others are still wiping it from their hands. Not too long ago, I was one of them.

The room goes dead silent. Every head snaps toward me. And in that stillness, with rain dripping from the hood of my cloak, the thunder roaring and lightning crackling behind my back, I know they feel it too.

“Neressa.” A young slayer peels himself off the wall, voice smooth and lazy, like he’s unperturbed by my presence. “What did we do to earn a visit from you?”

He moves with an unearned confidence I have no patience for. One shoulder rolls as he straightens, boots planted wide, his hand settling casually on the hilt of the sword at his hip. Not drawing it, but reminding me it’s there.

I walk past him as if he doesn’t exist, water dripping from my clothes onto the stone floor, boots echoing as I head straight for the long, twisted staircase that coils upward toward Silas’s lair. Each step closer feels like a challenge I’m daring him to interrupt.

“Neressa,” he calls again, louder now. Sharper. “I believe I asked you a question.” Annoying.

I stop mid-step. Slowly, I turn, just enough for the lantern light to graze my face, catching the sharp edge of my expression, the rain still clinging to my lashes. I meet his gaze at last.

His eyes are the color of ice. Eyes I’ve seen before. Something ugly stirs in my chest. Recognition and rage. Revenge is a bitch. Memory snaps tight like a blade drawn too fast.

The room holds its breath. “I wouldn’t…” I say quietly, my voice low and steady, carrying far more weight than his drawling tone ever could. My gaze flicks, briefly, deliberately, to the hand resting on his sword, then back to his eyes. “… Test me.” The word lands like a threat already fulfilled. For the first time, his confidence falters, just a fraction. Just enough. Good.

“We’ve been instructed to kill you if you ever step foot in this place again,” he says, chin lifting slightly, like he’s daring me to react.

Interesting. So Silas wants me to slaughter every last one of his precious slayers, starting with this one. His most prized one.

A slow grin curves my mouth. “Well,” I say lightly, “you can certainly try.” A few of them shift. Just barely. “But we all know how that will end.”

I sweep a hand toward the room, casual, almost bored. I counted them the moment I walked in, fifteen slayers in total. Both young amateurs and well-seasoned slayers that I had the pleasure of training beside. Some of them don’t test me, knowing to step back. Watching and waiting. It would be a pity if I slaughtered all of them before I had the chance to lead them all.

But guided by the anger fueling me, I can take every single one of them. I lean back against the entrance to the stairwell, blocking the only clean escape upward. The rainwater dripping from my clothes patters softly against stone.

“Who helped?” I ask.

Silence.

I watch their faces carefully. Some are better trained than others, eyes schooled, expressions blank. A few can’t help themselves. A twitch of the jaw. A breath held too long. Fear always betrays the unworthy.

“Well?” I tilt my head, unimpressed. “Cat got your tongues?” My gaze settles on the one with the nerve to speak to me in the first place. The one still pretending he’s in control.

I push off the wall and close the distance slowly, deliberately, until he can feel the heat of my fury bleeding into the air between us. His hand tightens on his sword without him realizing it.

“What about you, love?” I murmur, my voice soft now, dangerous. “Did you assist in the murder of Maddoc Brine?” His breath catches. Now who's in charge?