Chapter 1: The Hunter and the Living Blade
The mist in the graveyard didn’t so much swirl as it did cling. It was a wet, woolen blanket thrown over the world, muffling sound and swallowing light. Donovan’s boots sank into the sodden earth with a soft, sucking sound that seemed obscenely loud in the silence. The scent of rot and wet stone was undercut by something sharper, a metallic tang that came from the blade at his side.
Dhylek was restless tonight.
“Left at the broken angel,” Anita whispered from his shoulder, her voice a dry rustle of leaves in his ear. “She’s close. I can taste her fear in the fog. It’s sour.”
Donovan’s hand found the leather-wrapped hilt of the sword. A low thrum vibrated up his arm, a pulse of eager, predatory awareness. The thing was alive, and it was hungry.
“Fear or anticipation?” Donovan muttered, his eyes scanning the jagged silhouettes of headstones.
“She is terrified of Dhylek.” Anita’s porcelain head tilted. “She knows what it will do to her. If demons could pee, we'd need only follow the liquid trail."
He smiled grimly. The thought of the seductress being frightened of him gave him a perverse satisfaction. It fueled the cold fire in his gut, but it also made his grip on Dhylek tighten until the leather creaked.
They reached the angel, its stone wings sheared off, its face eroded into a weeping blur. Beyond it, the ground dipped into a shallow bowl, the mist thinner here. In the center, a fresh grave lay open like a raw wound. The dirt was piled high, dark and clumping.
And she was kneeling beside it.
Morrigan. She looked small, wrapped in a tattered shawl, her head bowed. A lock of greying hair escaped her hood. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs. The scene was a perfect painting of grief.
Anita’s fingers, cool and hard as bone, dug into the base of his neck. “It’s a good one,” she breathed, almost appreciative. “The tears are a nice touch. Very wet.”
Donovan stepped forward, the sound deliberate. “Morrigan.”
The figure jolted. She turned a tear-streaked, middle-aged face toward him. Her eyes were wide, red-rimmed pools of despair. “Please,” she choked out, her voice trembling with perfect fragility. “Leave me be. My husband… he’s just gone…”
Dhylek gave a fierce, sudden jerk in its scabbard, a dog straining at the leash. Donovan didn’t draw it. Not yet.
“You don’t have a husband,” he said, his voice flat, cutting through her performance. “The man you buried here two weeks ago was a taxi driver named Martin Greeley. You used his blood to write the summons on his own kitchen floor.”
The grief on her face froze. It didn’t shatter; it simply solidified, like warm wax hitting cold water. The trembling stopped. The tears were still on her cheeks, but they meant nothing now.
“Such a serious young man,” she said, her voice changing. The rasp of age fell away, replaced by something smoother, colder. She stood, brushing the grave dirt from her skirts with a fastidious gesture. “And so rude. You could have let me finish the scene. It was just getting to the good part.”
“Your part’s over.” Donovan’s thumb found the cold metal of Dhylek’s guard.
“Is it?” She smiled, and her features began to swim. The wrinkles softened, the jawline tightened, the grey in her hair melted into deep auburn. The shawl seemed to bleed into her body, reforming into a sleek, black dress. She was younger now, breathtakingly so, with eyes the colour of a winter sky. “Perhaps you’d prefer this? I’ve been told it’s less… threatening.”
“Don’t look at her eyes,” Anita hissed. “She’s painting pictures in them. Look at her shadow.”
Donovan flicked his gaze down. Where the faint moonlight should have cast one human shape, the thing cast three—a writhing tangle of thin, multi-jointed limbs that scratched silently at the grass.
“I’ve come for the pact you made,” Donovan said, taking another step. The ground between them was now only ten feet of muddy hollow. “You’re taking souls that aren’t yours to barter.”
“Everything is for barter, darkhunter.” She laughed, a sound like crystal breaking. “Life. Death. A moment of pleasure for a year of pain. Martin Greeley traded his future for a glimpse of his dead wife. A fair price, I thought. He was so very lonely.”
“You showed him a reflection in a puddle of his own blood.”
“Details.” She waved a dismissive hand. “You, though. You’re not lonely. You’re just empty. What could I possibly offer you?” Her winter eyes gleamed. “I could show you the night the feathers fell. I could let you hear your mother’s voice again.”
A stone settled in Donovan’s throat. The cold fire in his gut flared, white-hot. On his shoulder, Anita went perfectly still.
“See?” Morrigan whispered, taking a graceful step toward him. “Not so empty. There are things in there, all locked away. I can open the box, Donovan. Just a crack.”
“Do it,” Anita whispered, her voice suddenly different. Hungry. “Let her try. Let her reach in.”
He knew what Anita wanted. A darkstalker’s power, when focused and turned against itself, could create a backlash. A snare. It was a vicious, dangerous gambit.
Morrigan took his silence for consideration. She moved closer, five feet away now. He could smell her perfume, old roses and fresh earth. “I don’t want to fight you. That ugly little thing on your shoulder wants a fight. The hungry sword wants a fight. But you? You want an answer. I have all the answers.”
She was right. That was the poison in it. He did want to know. The not-knowing was a wall he beat his fists against every night.
Her hand, pale and elegant, rose toward his face. “Let me show you.”
“Now,” Anita shrieked.
Donovan didn’t draw Dhylek. He threw himself backward instead, hitting the wet grass as Morrigan’s outstretched fingers flashed past where his head had been. The air where he’d stood rippled with stolen heat, turning the mist to ice crystals that tinkled as they fell.
She hissed, the beautiful face contorting. “Clever toy!”
“I’m a figurine, you hag!” Anita snapped.
Donovan was rolling, coming up into a crouch. He finally drew Dhylek. The blade didn’t ring. It sighed—a long, exhalation of ancient air. A faint, sickly green light pulsed along its fuller, illuminating the twisted runes etched into the metal.
Morrigan’s form was unraveling. The lovely dress split as a second pair of arms, spider-like and chitinous, erupted from her ribs. Her jaw unhinged, revealing a nest of needle teeth. “The hard way, then!” The voice was a chorus of screeches.
She lunged, a blur of darkness and grasping limbs. Donovan swung Dhylek in a low, sweeping arc. It bit deep into something that wasn’t quite flesh, meeting resistance like cured leather and bone. Black ichor sprayed, sizzling where it hit Dhylek’s glow. Morrigan screamed, a sound that had nothing of the woman left in it.
She scrambled back, clutching the sizzling wound. “You’ll need more than a sharp stick, boy.”
“It’s not a stick,” Donovan said, advancing. “It’s a key. And it’s going to lock you away.”
From the open grave, a low moan rose. The piled dirt began to shift. A hand, grey and putrid, clawed its way into the air. Then another. Martin Greeley, or what was left of him, was trying to climb out.
“Keep him busy, darling,” Morrigan giggled, skittering backward toward the thicker mist.
The corpse hauled itself from the earth, its cloudy eyes fixed on Donovan. Anita let out a exasperated sigh. “Ugh. Necromancy. It’s so derivative.”
Donovan faced the shambling thing, Dhylek humming in his hand, the true prey disappearing into the fog. The chapter of the night was closing, but the sentence was left hanging. The fight was here, now, in the mud and the stink, but the war was waiting in the mist. He had to finish this page before he could turn to the next.