Page 2 of Bride of Death (Netherworld Fae #1)

Sera

Several Weeks Later

My fist clenches at my side, my desire to hit the dead guy in front of me igniting my nerve endings.

I’m not a particularly violent person. Actually, I’ve been called meek more than once in my life. Quiet. Shy , even.

But this guy is asking for an introduction to the new me.

Sera, as I’ve introduced myself to everyone here.

The old me, Serapina , died in the Monsters Night universe.

“Look, all I’m sayin’ is, you could use a mate like me,” Dead Guy drawls, his glass of ink sloshing dangerously close to the rim as he moves his hand in a dramatic gesture toward himself. “I’d be very good to you, little human.”

There’s that term again. Little human . He keeps tossing it around like it’s some sort of endearment.

But being the sole mortal in Death’s Den isn’t an endearing trait. It’s basically akin to wearing a shirt that says “Weakling” across the chest.

I’m not, of course. Wearing that shirt, I mean.

I’m wearing a tank top.

And jeans .

I shudder. Whoever invented this fabric deserves a date with the Blood River.

I never thought I would miss my clothes from back home—or anything, for that matter—yet here I am, yearning for my long skirts and laced-up tops.

Regency fashion, as my sister’s mates call it. That’s what Alina and I grew up wearing. But since relocating to the Netherworld Kingdom, she’s been slowly inflicting this world’s attire upon me.

Including the infamous skinny jeans hugging my legs now.

Ugh .

“I can save you from the games,” Dead Guy goes on. “?’Cause ya know they’re gonna draft y’all, right? Serve you right up on a platter for us to pick from.”

I stare at him. “What games?” I ask, finally responding to his babbling nonsense.

“The mating games,” he tells me, his white eyebrows waggling over his reddish-brown gaze. “Ya haven’t heard about King Onyx’s plans for all the unmated brides?”

Unmated brides .

I’m not sure if he’s talking about women left over from the canceled Hell Fae Bride Trials or the innocents that were kidnapped during Monsters Night last year.

A lot of the patrons in Death’s Den assume that’s where I came from—the Monsters Night event.

Since they’re partially right, I don’t correct them. They don’t need to know that I’m a charity case brought here by my sister and her overly generous mates.

Nor do they need to know that I’ll be exempt from whatever “event” King Onyx might be planning. Alina’s men would never allow me to play. Stars, they barely let me move into my own place last month. I can’t even imagine what they would say if I told them I wanted to participate in mating games .

Though, it shouldn’t be up to them what I do or don’t do.

But that’s a consideration for later.

“They’re not games,” a deep voice interjects from down the bar. I squint at the newcomer, hardly able to discern his masculine form in the shadows. But he’s there, his golden eyes seeming to flicker like the flames dancing throughout the room.

Death’s Den certainly maintains its reputation and ambience with its crypt-like decor.

Obsidian stones laden with bones decorate the bar counter. Solid black slabs of marble rest over ivory colored poles—which may also be bones—for the tables. And black wood frames the booths as well as the bar stools and high-top chairs.

The walls also resemble a cave. The light is predominantly provided by candlelit chandeliers. And the floors are stark gray slate.

When I first entered this place a few weeks ago, I shivered.

But I needed the job behind the counter.

The manager of Death’s Den—a Corpse Fae named Gnarls with pretty green eyes and bright red hair—took one look at me and hired me on the spot.

I thought I got lucky.

That illusion disappeared my first night after dozens of male fae showed up to enjoy the new “eye candy” at the bar.

Turns out I was hired for having boobs.

Yay me.

“Not really, anyway,” the voice continues, his sensual baritone easily carrying to my ears. “They’re more like trials to see if any of the women who have settled here are ideal mates. There’s a difference.”

I frown at the shadowy figure. “And these trials are mandatory?” Because this is the first I’m hearing about trials or mating games . And I’ve worked this bar every night for nearly a month now.

“That’s the rumor,” Dead Guy murmurs. “Heard it m’self earlier today.”

Myself , I think, longing to correct this fae’s grammar. I think he’s a Corpse Fae, hence my nickname for him. But the squid shot he requested earlier seems to be a favorite of the Death Fae patrons. So maybe he’s a mix.

“King Onyx told Lars, who told Munch, who told me that we’ve got ourselves a fun little time comin’ up,” Dead Guy drones on. “But as I said, I can save ya from all the trouble, if you’re lookin’ for a good mate.”

The shadow at the bar grunts. “This courtship is almost too romantic for my ears.” He leans forward, his gold eyes catching and holding mine as a candle illuminates the sharp lines of his jaw.

“Would you mind pouring me a spider ale, sweet mystery? I’m going to need one to make it through this awful proposal. ”

Sweet mystery .

As far as nicknames go, I’m… I’m okay with that one. It’s a lot better than sugar tits , babe , and little human . All of which I’ve been called tonight.

“Oh, feck you, Ghost,” Dead Guy mutters. “No one asked you.”

“And thank the fae for that,” the shadowy one drawls, leaning back into the darkness. It seems to wrap around him like a blanket, hiding him once more from view.

But I won’t be forgetting that handsome jawline of his anytime soon.

All the males around here are gorgeous, even the dead guy seated at my bar. I’m pretty sure it’s a requirement, honestly. However, Ghost certainly possesses some of the sharpest features I’ve ever seen.

Outside of my dreams, anyway, I think.

With a mental shake, I clear my head—because no, I will not be thinking about that right now, thank you very much—and focus on pouring Ghost a spider ale, just like he requested.

The smoky liquid flows from a tap and somehow pools inside the glass I’m holding. I’m not quite sure how it works. Though, I’ve long stopped questioning the magic in this realm.

It’s vastly different from that of the world I’m from but not necessarily alarming. I grew up knowing supernaturals and monsters existed. I just never expected to live freely among them.

I have my sister and her mates to thank for that.

Unless I’m drafted for this mating game…

Frowning, I walk over to set the spider ale in front of the one called Ghost . “What have you heard about this rumor?” I ask him directly. “Will all the women be forced to participate?”

“Not all of them,” he murmurs, accepting the drink from me.

“Only unmated ones,” Dead Guy inserts from down the bar.

But I’m not focused on him. I’m staring into a pair of glittering gold irises instead. “Only unmated ones?” I repeat the words as a question, curious to hear his take since he seems to know something about these supposed mating games .

“All unclaimed females will be considered eligible,” he tells me. “Assuming King Onyx and King Skull can agree to terms before the nuptials take place.”

I stare at him. “Nuptials?”

“Indeed,” he murmurs.

“Our lord’s wedding,” Dead Guy helpfully explains. “Apparently, he’s found a bride. Have I mentioned that I’m invited to the main event?” When I finally look at him, his eyebrows waggle again. “I can bring you as my plus-one, if ya like.”

Ghost snorts before taking a long swig of the venomous drink I poured for him.

Gnarls warned me when I started not to imbibe anything at the bar. “All of it will kill you,” he told me with a grimace. “So just be careful, yeah?”

That was the extent of his managerial training.

Everything else I learned from Claws—a Death Fae who very much lives up to his name.

“Don’t think she’s available, Jacky boy,” Ghost drawls, his golden eyes still on me. “And definitely not interested.”

I frown at him. I mean, he’s not wrong. But I can voice my own opinions, thank you very much. And I’m about to tell him that when Dead Guy growls. “Why don’t you mind your own business, dog .”

Ghost slowly sets his glass down and turns within the shadows, his vibrant eyes suddenly on Dead Guy. “Are we going to have a problem, Jack?”

My brow furrows. Jacky boy. I didn’t think much of the nickname before, but now that he’s called him Jack , I’m realizing that’s Dead Guy’s name. Seriously? Jack?

“There wasn’t a problem until you showed up,” Jack— I’m never getting over that name — mutters. “I was having a nice conversation with the little human until you arrived.”

And my hand is now a fist again.

“She was about to accept me proposal, too,” he goes on, causing one of my eyebrows to lift upward. Not only does he not seem to understand the proper use of pronouns, but he’s also implying that I’m actually interested in him.

Which I’m not.

At all .

I don’t want a mate. I just desire freedom. Independence. Some time alone .

Because my entire life has been dictated by someone else’s actions. From the moment I was born in Nightingale Village to the fated Monsters Night to being rescued and brought here, I’ve never been given a choice.

And now this asshole wants to steal my voice from me, too.

“No,” I say, interrupting whatever nonsense he was just spouting at Ghost. “I’m not interested in your proposal. I’m not interested in mating games. And while we’re on the topic of things I’m not interested in, I do not enjoy being called little human .”

He blinks his long, dark lashes at me. “If the mating games move forward, you won’t have a choice as an unclaimed female.”

“Who says she’s unclaimed?” Ghost asks conversationally, his drink now near his mouth. Or I assume it is, anyway. He’s almost entirely covered in shadows again, but the glint of the glass winks at me from where I imagine his lips should be.

Full lips , I think, recalling his features from a few moments ago. Set in a too-handsome face.

Just like all the fae here.

No one ages beyond their thirties, at least as far as appearances go. And everyone is attractive. At least on the outside.

But I learned long ago that looks can be deceiving.

In a universe full of supernatural beings, nothing is ever what it seems.

“The Netherworld Fae Registry,” Jack says, his comment sending a tremor down my spine.

It’s… it’s an irrational reaction. I already went through the process of providing my information and classifications to the Netherworld Fae Registry last month; it was a requirement for me to seek housing in the Netherworld Village.

But it’s impossible not to compare the list to the one I grew up fearing—the list of eligible candidates for the Day of the Choosing.

And that dreaded Chalice…

I wince with the thought, my mind conjuring up an all-too-familiar stage. The Viscount. My name being chosen for Monsters Night.

The confusion that followed…

“Says she’s not got no attachments,” Jack goes on, yanking me back to the present with his gibberish-like statement. “Which means she’s unclaimed.”

“Perhaps the one who has a claim on her hasn’t made that declaration clear,” Ghost murmurs, leaning forward and leaving the shadows behind. “Maybe she has no memory of him—or is it them?—at all.”

I frown, his words feeling a little too intentional. A little too personal . Like he knows something about me. Something about my past…

“Or it’s entirely possible that all of this is a game,” he goes on with a shrug. “Regardless, the Netherworld Fae Registry isn’t all-knowing. And more importantly, Jack, I don’t think she’s interested in what you’re offering. So it’s time for you to move on and fuck off.”

Jack bristles at the bar. “This has nothing to do with you, Ghost.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not entirely true,” he drawls, a flash of metal appearing in his hand as he twirls a blade. “Don’t make me ask again, Jack. I may enjoy the experience, but you certainly won’t.”

Dead Guy visibly pales, which is a feat considering his too-white complexion.

I swallow and take a step back. There’s something very deadly pouring off of Ghost. It’s not tangible. Not even an aura. It’s just… him . He exudes violence. And there’s a hint of madness in his gaze, one I didn’t notice before but clearly see now.

Or maybe it’s not madness so much as malice. Danger. An eagerness to kill .

Those golden orbs swing my way, his lips curling into a soft grin that belies the cruelty radiating from his eyes. “Don’t worry, little mystery. Jack was just leaving.”

“You’re an asshole, Ghost.”

“I am,” he concedes. “But in this case, I’m trying to save your life.”

“By threatening it?” Jack scoffs as he slides off his stool. “If ya wanted the female, ya could have just said so. No need for all the theatrics.”

Ghost finishes his drink and slowly turns toward Jack. “I adore violence, Jack, but not even I would be suicidal enough to flirt with the Bride of Death.”