Possessed (Hades Castle Trilogy Book 3)

by C. N. Crawford

  As the patrons turned back to their pint glasses, pretending to ignore us, I frowned at the hipster-vampire. Dazed, he still lay on the beer-stained floor, but he’d managed to push himself up onto his elbows. The undead bastards didn’t stay down for long. His pale eyes were trained on me, possibly recognizing my own magic.

  Ciara, my oldest friend, crept over to us, her brown eyes wide. Her hand was clamped over her grin. I could tell she was stopping just short of clapping her hands. “Oh my goodness, Arianna. You punched him. Do you see his fangs?” She had a sweet but unfortunate tendency to idolize supernaturals, like we were some kind of celebrities. After all, there weren’t many of us around these days. “A real, live vampire,” she whispered, pointing at him.

  “I can hear you,” the vamp slurred, now rising to his feet. He staggered closer. “Little girl.”

  “I need to get him out of here,” I muttered. And I had to do it without using any of my magic. You never knew who was watching, ready to turn you in.

  Now, my new Viking friend’s gaze was locked on Ciara. Red flashed in his eyes. He was after blood tonight, and she was clearly an easier target than me. It didn’t help that she was wearing a T-shirt featuring a male model with fangs poking from pouty lips. She gods-damned loved vampires.

  “I know your game, little girl.” The vampire licked his fangs, swaying on his feet. “You read your little books about teenagers falling in love with thousand-year-old vamps. Our skin is supposed to sparkle like a unicorn’s arse, right? And you all get a happy ending. Wrong. Those books are crap. Come with me, and I’ll teach you about reading real literature. Hemingway, Kerouac, Bukowski—”

  His monologue was cut off by the sight of the thin stake I’d pulled out of my hair. I twirled it between my fingers, and the vampire seemed hypnotized by the movement.

  I smiled at him. “Now that you’re quiet, let’s get one thing straight. I will not have you slandering romance books in my bar.” Technically, it wasn’t my bar, but that was beside the point. This arsehole thought he was going to feed on Ciara. And moreover, I would not tolerate anyone banging on about Bukowski. “I’d like to just get back to the shots of Johnny Walker I was drinking before you came in, and I don’t want to have to keep punching you. I’d prefer not to get your blood on my new miniskirt. So run along. I’m pretty sure an ironic meth-trailer-themed bar just opened up a few blocks away.” I leaned closer, arching an eyebrow. “It seems more your scene.”

  Despite the arse-kicking I’d just given him and the stake in my hand, he seemed unfazed.

  He stumbled toward Ciara. “I think I’d be more comfortable if your friend came with me.”

  I gave him a hard shove, and he staggered back.

  The door swung open, and a second vamp came in—this one in a visor, a handlebar mustache, and a pink bow tie. Had someone told them we had a sale on ukuleles or something?

  I had to get them out of here. The last thing I wanted was for the Spread Eagle to attract the spell-slayers’ attention for harboring supernaturals.

  I flashed the two vamps a dark smile. “No supernaturals allowed in here. No supernaturals allowed anywhere. Those are the rules. You’ve got ten seconds to leave this bar,” I said sweetly, while calculating all the ways I could kill them. “Or I might start getting angry. And you don’t want that to happen.”

  Viking Vamp snorted, then his irises flared with red. The air seemed to thin around us. “And what the fuck are you, pretty thing? You’re not human.”

  My blood chilled. I couldn’t let anyone overhear him saying that.

  He snatched a whisky bottle—my whisky bottle—from the bar, his movements lightning fast. Then, he jabbed a finger in my face. “You’re not supposed to be here, either. I think I just might tell the spell-slayers on you. Tick tock. Your time is running out, pretty lady. But give me a look at those gorgeous tits of yours and I might keep your secret.”

  Rage surged. And then, as I registered the word “spell-slayers,” dread slithered up my spine.

  Okay. I was done being nice. Now he had to die.

  There was only one thing in London scarier than me, and that was the spell-slayers. The fae assassins haunted London’s streets in dark cloaks, blending into the night sky like smoke. They terrorized humans and magical creatures alike, ruling the city with the points of their blades, silently slaughtering in the shadows. No one was supposed to look them in the eye, or speak to them, or breathe in their direction. But we all owed them a tithe from our paychecks. Protection money, they called it. They were no better than a magical mafia. In short, they were the worst. I hated them and feared them in equal measure.

  I narrowed my eyes at the vamps. “You want me to believe you’re brave enough to attract the attention of the spell-slayers? And risk your own necks? Bollocks. You’re supposed to be locked up in a magical realm with all the other supernaturals, not roaming London’s streets. I’m now four seconds away from dragging you outside and staking you.”

  Truth was, I’d stake them whether or not they left willingly. I couldn’t risk them turning me in.

  I didn’t really have time for too many mental calculations, because the next thing I knew, Viking Vamp was lunging for Ciara again, fangs bared.

  Fast—maybe faster than I should have—I pivoted around him, pointing my stake at his neck. I wasn’t supposed to move too quickly; humans were slow and sluggish. But the sight of him attacking Ciara sent my blood racing, and instinct kicked in.

  I pressed the stake against his jugular. Then, I stood on my tiptoes, whispering into his ear. “I know a stake to the neck won’t kill you. But I will make it hurt when I jam it into your throat and wiggle it round. Then I’ll kill you.”

  Something sharp jabbed into my back, stopping me in my tracks. A quick glance over my shoulder told me that his friend, Visor Vamp, was holding a knife to my back.

  “Drop the stake, darling!” said Visor Vamp.

  Baleros’s third law of power: Always let your enemy underestimate you.

  I dropped the stake. I held up my hands as if I were surrendering, adding in a bit of trembling for good measure.

  Then, when I felt the point of the knife retreat a little, I pivoted, slamming my elbow into his nose. I brought up my knee into his crotch—three brutal cracks to the groin. Vamps might not be alive, but they were still sensitive in the usual places. As he bent forward, I twisted his arm, forcing him to the ground. I snatched the knife from his hand at the same time. Then, I pointed it at his neck.

  My lips curled in a mocking smile. “You still want to play?”

  Now, at last, the vamps had the good sense to look scared. Apart from a warbling pop song, the room had gone silent again.

  Viking Vamp held up his hands. “We’ll leave.”

  I pulled the blade away from the other’s neck. As he straightened, he leaned in close, breathing in my ear. “The spell-slayers will be coming for you.”

  At that, an icy tendril of dread coiled through my chest.

  I watched as the two vamps skulked out of the bar.

  I jammed my hand into the pocket of my miniskirt, and I pulled out a lollipop. Cherry, with gum in the center. Nothing like crystalized sugar to calm the nerves. I popped it in my mouth, staring at the door.

  Ciara grinned. “Well geez Louise, this has been a heck of an evening.” She’d lived in the UK for at least ten years now and still hadn’t lost her thick American accent. “I haven’t been this excited since my Aunt Starlene drew a clown on my bedroom wall to ease my loneliness.”

  “It’s not over.” There’d been something too cocky about those vamps, and their parting shot had told me everything I needed to know. I’d heard of some supernaturals acting as informants to the spell-slayers. Supernatural narcs. Maybe that was how these two idiots had managed to stay alive, biting humans like Ciara with impunity. “Can you cover the bar while I’m out?”

  “No problem.”

  I had a pair of vampires to kill.

  I snatched my stake
off the floor, then my backpack. I never went anywhere without it. My bug-out bag had everything I might need in an emergency: a headlamp, a lighter with aerosolized deodorant for smelling nice or lighting things on fire, medical supplies, a water bottle, cherry lip gloss, fresh knickers, a shortwave radio, ropes, assorted lollipops, duct tape, and a shitload of knives. Never say I wasn’t prepared.

  The door creaked as I pushed through it into the night air. A sooty bridge arched over the Spread Eagle, where pigeons made their home in the shadows. They cooed above me.

  I tossed my lollipop in a rubbish bin. I didn’t like to kill things with sweets in my mouth.

  Shivering a little in the misty air, I scanned the dark streets under the bridge until I saw movement. The two vamps were moving toward the Tower—the seat of spell-slayer power. I wouldn’t let them get any closer to its walls.

  I trailed behind them over the damp, cobbled road, moving silently. A light rain misted over my skin, curling my lavender hair.

  Quickening my pace, I drew the hawthorn stakes from my hair, holding one in each hand like a pair of daggers. My pulse raced, heart quickening with the thrill of the hunt. I had them in my sights, and I wasn’t letting them get anywhere.

  When I’d come up behind them, I crooned, “Hey, vamps.”

  They whirled, and I slammed my stakes into their hearts. And just like that, the fight was over.

  Baleros’s sixth law of power: Crush your enemies mercilessly.

  Their eyes went wide, but within seconds, they had crumbled to piles of ash on the pavement. Rain dampened their blackened remains.

  I pulled my stakes from the ash and wiped them off with a tissue from my bag. As I did, I lifted my eyes to the medieval fortress before me. Once, it had simply been known as the Tower of London. Now, people called it the Institute. It was the one place the spell-slayers hadn’t outlawed magic. Even from here, I could see its walls and towers brimming with sorcery. Pale blue light streamed from the stony spires into the skies, and a moat of golden light surrounded the entire structure.

  The spell-slayers claimed they’d outlawed magic to keep the peace. They said that the apocalyptic wars twenty years ago—the ones between angels, fae, and demons—were forever at risk of erupting again. They said all supernaturals should remain segregated and locked in magical realms. Apparently, only the fae nobility were capable and worthy of remaining neutral among the human world. Everyone else was an animal, you see.

  But I knew how the spell-slayers really thought. Magic was power, and they wanted it all for themselves. I hated them with an intensity that rivaled the brilliance of their gleaming spires.

  I turned, walking back to the Spread Eagle. As I did, I tucked the hawthorn stakes back into my hair. I’d rid myself of that threat quickly enough. So why did I still feel that eerie sense of dread hanging over me?

  When I slipped back into the bar, I found that another grim hush had overtaken the place, and my heart started to race.

  I scanned the room until I figured out why.

  When my gaze landed on a fae male in the corner, my blood began roaring in my ears.

  I glimpsed a sweep of black hair under his cowl. The neon lights of the bar flashed over olive skin and vibrant green eyes. His broad shoulders took up half the booth, and an opening in his cloak revealed leather armor underneath. I had no doubt that every inch of his body was muscled and strapped with weapons. He held himself with a preternatural stillness, gazing at me like a snake about to strike. My stomach dropped.

  Fae nobility, and a spell-slayer. Like so many of his kind, he was shockingly beautiful and terrifying at the same time. Under his stare, I felt uncharacteristically self-conscious in my bargain-basement miniskirt that was just a little too short. Of course, spell-slayers like him wanted everyone else to feel like crap. They lived to dominate and terrify. They’d mastered messing with people’s heads.

  And right now, I was certain he’d come for me, even if I’d tried to be careful.

  If I turned and ran now, it would confirm my guilt, and he’d be after me instantly.

  My gaze slid to the bar, where Ciara was trying to act natural, although her hands were shaking as she pulled a pint.

  Rufus, our boss, now stood by her side. The presence of the spell-slayers had unnerved him, too, and I could see sweat droplets beading at the edges of his graying hair. Ciara and Rufus weren’t even supernaturals, and the slayer still scared the crap out of them.

  Rufus met my gaze, his eyes flicking wide open. The strained look on his face said, Get the hell over here. Now.

  Swallowing hard, I crossed to him. I watched as he pulled our most expensive bottle of wine—which, let’s be honest, was something he’d picked up from Tesco, simply labeled French Red Wine. Staring across the bar at the spell-slayer, he poured a glass.

  I cast a quick glance at myself in the mirror behind Rufus. Straight eyebrows, high cheekbones, amber eyes. The only thing that might have marked me as a supernatural was the pale lavender shade of my hair, but plenty of humans dyed their hair bright colors these days. My fae canines and pointed ears only emerged when I thought my life was in danger, which didn’t happen often. In other words, I could pass for human. Maybe he’d come for the vampires, instead?

  “Take these over to him,” whispered Rufus. “Tell him it’s our best wine. Tell him it’s on the house. Tell him we’ll give him money. Tell him—” His eyes suddenly narrowed. “You didn’t happen to see anything unusual tonight, did you?” He was still pouring the wine, and it spilled over the rim, pooling on the bar like blood.

  I loosed a long sigh. I often found Rufus staring at the blank walls in his office, listlessly licking his yogurt spoon over and over. I honestly had no idea how someone like him had survived the apocalypse at all.

  “Nothing unusual.” I gently took the bottle from his hand. Might as well not give the guy a complete heart attack.

  “Don’t look him in the eyes,” Rufus hissed, his eyes wide.

  My gaze flicked back to the spell-slayer, and my stomach leapt as I realized his eyes were still on me. My throat went dry. There was no way in hell I was bringing him wine.

  I was quickly realizing there was no way out of this situation without fighting a spell-slayer. And I knew only too well how vicious they could be.

  “Actually, Rufus … I’m not feeling so well.”

  “You what?” He sounded incredulous.

  “Lady stuff.”

  “Oh.” He fell silent. Apparently, that topic was more terrifying than the spell slayer.

  “Gotta run. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I cast a quick glance at Ciara as I headed for the door. She was the only one around who knew I was a demi-fae. Baleros—my former gladiator master—had once assigned her to tend to my wounds between matches in the arena. Ciara and I had slept in the same cage for years. She knew my dreams and my nightmares. She knew why the scent of roses made me sick. She knew almost everything about me.

  Almost.

  As soon as I’d slipped outside into the damp air, I shoved my hand into my bug-out bag, rummaging around until I found my iron knife, sheathed in leather. I hated having to use iron. It was poisonous to fae like me, but it was the only way to hurt a spell-slayer.

  Then, I pulled out my mobile and called Ciara.

  “Arianna,” she answered immediately, whispering into the phone. “He’s still here. And now there’s another one, with violet eyes. I’ve heard of him. He’s the one they call the Wraith. He moves like wind in the night and slaughters silently in the shadows. I think he’s the Devil himself.”

  “Very reassuring, thanks.” She was always saying weird shit about the Devil. Pretty sure it was an American thing. Whatever the case, this was not wonderful news. “Just tell me when they’re leaving.”

  “The Devil wears many faces,” she hissed.

  “I know. Just simmer down, friend. Look, I might have to fight them both. Just text me when they leave.”

  “Wait. Wait. If you make it home alive,
put cat pee in front of your door, mixed with old cabbage.”

  “Is that supposed to ward off fae nobility?”

  “Dunno, but Aunt Starlene put it outside our trailer to keep the police away after she threw an alligator at someone in a McDonald’s parking lot. And she set bear traps.” She scratched her cheek. “Also, she might have shot them, so … that could have actually been the part that kept them out of our trailer.”

  “Thanks, Ciara. Gotta go.” I shoved my mobile back in my pocket.

  Dread bloomed in my chest.

  Baleros’s ninth law of power: Don’t attack unless you’re certain you can win.

  I’d been trained by a spell-slayer. I knew how they fought.

  As a gladiator, I’d often fought multiple opponents at once, taking them out within minutes. I had been the only female gladiator, and my stage name had been the Amazon Terror. The amount of blood I’d spilled had been more than enough to appease the crowds, and Baleros, because he was a complete prick, had fashioned special armor that emphasized my boobs. I’d been quite the attraction.

  But spell-slayers were different than anyone I’d fought in the arena. They were ancient, disciplined, with centuries of exquisite training far beyond my own. My chances of winning in a fight against two of them were a little lower than my chances of sprouting wings and flying off to freedom. Before I flung my knife at them, I’d wait to see if they attacked first.

  My phone buzzed, and I pulled it out to read the text.

  They’re leaving.

  Adrenaline raced through my blood, and I dodged into an alleyway. It’s not like I could really hide, though. Fae trackers like them would be able to smell me.

  I quickened my pace, but I’d only gone a few steps before the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I could feel them watching me, and my pulse started racing out of control. A cold sweat dampened my brow.

  How had they gotten here so fast?

  I gripped the hilt of the knife hard, and I whirled.

  A pit opened in my stomach at the sight of two cloaked spell-slayers standing just behind me. Frigid panic rippled up my spine.