Page 3 of Consume Me (Immortal Vices and Virtues: All Hallows’ Eve #4)

Kendall

T he next morning, I wake early and slip out before Natalia arrives.

It’s not that I’m a morning person, exactly, but holing up in my tiny apartment isn’t an option.

I’ve tried it before, but Natalia always comes looking for me, and I’ve learned from experience that I’d rather be gone when that happens.

She’ll either make me talk about the daggers—which I hate doing—or worse, put me to work to “take my mind off things.”

I used to enjoy the work.

As a dark fae gifted with visions of the future, including death sight, I’ve always struggled to find others who understood that part of me.

Natalia’s not exactly warm and fuzzy, but she gets me.

Or at least that side of me. She also pushes my capabilities and doesn’t let me feel sorry for myself.

I admire her—not that I’d ever tell her that.

Nor do I want to spend the morning listening to her wait on customers whose biggest problems are noisy neighbors they want to ward their property against or getting their gardens to produce bigger fruit to sell at the market.

With no destination in mind, I wander the city.

Once upon a time, the Crossroads was called St. Louis.

Back then, humans still ruled the Earth.

Then the portals opened, ushering in a new age that left humans firmly ranked at the bottom.

Cities were destroyed and remade. Governments toppled.

New regimes called Houses rose. And eventually, through all the chaos, the Crossroads became the neutral territory it remains today, ungoverned by any House, though our newest portal into Tartarus might as well be the doorway to our king.

Caius has no interest in claiming our territory for himself, but his sheer power is enough to keep others from trying to do the same.

I’m not sure if that endears him to the people of this city, but it has helped ease some of the unrest over the last few months.

Especially considering how many of our citizens have now mated to someone from Tartarus.

My sister is one of them. Tori is happily mated and married to Legion Razginath, the death dragon himself.

If things were different, I might have found myself wistful or even jealous of my sister finding love.

But things are what they are. I’ve seen my death.

How soon it will come for me. And if I somehow survive it, I still have the daggers to contend with.

Their hold over me doesn’t exactly leave room for another.

And even if it did, I refuse to bring someone else into my dark world.

Besides, the daggers would only see that person as a threat, or worse, a possible target. And I could never live with myself if I hurt someone I love. It’s the reason I’ve stopped speaking to any of my friends or family. They don’t deserve to share in my curse.

The daggers are my burden to bear. Until I can figure out how to rid myself of them. Though, after last night, I’m not convinced it’s possible to be free of them without dying in the process.

The thought of death activates the buzz in my temples.

“Don’t even think about it,” I say between clenched teeth.

I’m always positive the daggers huff, but a second later, the buzzing disappears.

Determined to remain clear-headed, I focus on the city teeming with life.

It’s early enough that most of the city’s less desirable players are still sleeping off their evening somewhere.

Instead, I pass fruit vendors on their way to the farmers’ market in the square.

Witches selling enchanted herbs next to fae-run espresso bars that spike your latte with glamour.

You never know what you’ll find in the Crossroads, but it’s not boring.

I used to love living here. Until the daggers cleaved themselves to me.

Now, I’m constantly worried they’ll see some face in the crowd and order me to kill my neighbor over an ancient grudge.

The daggers don’t tell me their reasons for choosing their victims; only that they crave power—and their favorite way to get it?

Killing. Or, more specifically, me killing and them bathing in the stolen power of our dead victim.

As I walk, I try not to look at any of the faces I pass, but even so, being pressed in around the morning commuters makes me feel claustrophobic.

The daggers mutter inside my head as I walk, but I manage to tune them out.

They’re sheathed against my ribs inside a leather cross-halter holster I got from a vampire at the night market a few months ago.

Traded three nightshade plants for it that Tori had planted behind the greenhouse at home.

Home.

My chest pangs at the thought.

I turn down one side street then another.

I’m at the edge of downtown before I realize where I’m going.

When I turn down my old street, the daggers are quiet for once.

And even though I’ve wished for it, their silence is unnerving.

Like they’re paying close attention to my thoughts.

To how much this neighborhood means to me.

My boots scuff over the cracked sidewalk as I pass familiar houses.

Then, there it is.

The home I grew up in is more like a cottage. Two bedrooms. Front porch sagging on one side. Paint peeling from the shutters. There’s still a wind chime hanging by the door, tangled in ivy. It sings when the breeze shifts, low and lonely.

I stop at the edge of the walk, staring at the ghost of my past.

I used to love this house as a little kid.

It’s cramped quarters that forced me to share a room with my older sister, who I thought was so cool, but who never wanted to hang out with me.

The way my mom took up the whole kitchen (and every dish in it) when she cooked.

The way my dad used to leave his poisons and weapons all over the place .

After they died, everything changed.

Tori stepped in as an attentive parent, spending every moment she could with me.

We had each other, but we also had grief.

An inescapable sadness that clung to the walls until it seeped into my skin.

Ground her down at the shoulders. Left me with an anxiety about the future that, to this day, makes me wonder if that’s how I developed the gift of death sight in the first place.

I don’t go inside anymore. Haven’t stepped through that door in a year and a half.

Too many memories.

A lot of those memories are still so crisply full of my godmother.

Juniper.

As my mother’s best friend, she knew more than anyone the loss Tori and I suffered when our parents died.

She knew because she shared that loss. But more than that, she stepped up.

Became more than a friend to us. She became like a mother.

A confidant when I couldn’t tell Tori about a boy I liked at school because she’d only lecture me about making good choices.

Juniper died trying to save us from the Crimson Roses, a gang that Tori and Legion all but wiped out in the aftermath.

And then Chase died too. The boy from school I used to talk to Juniper about.

Standing here now, I see echoes of all those losses everywhere, and I miss them all so much it aches. My eyes sting with tears, which gets the daggers’ attention.

They stir, whispering questions that feel like the worst invasion of privacy .

I ignore them and turn away. This is the last place I have left sacred to me. They cannot be allowed to taint it.

Head down, I head back to my apartment.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I check the screen.

It’s my friend Niamh again—a fae with an affinity for plants unlike anything I’ve encountered before.

But more importantly, a friend who hasn’t taken no for an answer.

Over the last year, I’ve slowly pulled away from everyone else.

But Niamh refuses to let me ghost her. If I go too long without answering, she just shows up at Spells and demands we have a girls’ night.

It’s annoying as hell but also means the world to me at the same time.

Frowning, I check my history and see three texts and one missed call.

I hit “ignore” before I can talk myself into doing something stupid, like replying.

She’ll come looking for me soon—I can feel it—but not yet.

She has no idea about the daggers. And I plan to keep it that way.

Knowing about them would put her at risk, and I refuse to let the daggers order me to kill a friend.

The daggers stir at that.

Who is Niamh?

“No one you need to worry about.”

You’re weak when you think of her.

I grit my teeth. “Shut up.”

You could be so much more if you just let us lead.

I feel a prickle of some silent power brushing against my mind.

I shove it back just like I do every time it tries to infiltrate me.

The daggers want more of me than just my hands doing their dirty work.

They want my thoughts. My free will. Maybe even my soul.

And I’m not sure how long I can hold out against it.

But I refuse to let today be the day they take it.

I spend most of the day walking the city. When I get hungry, I stop and barter for a meal of fish and chips from a water fae. The daggers want her power.

Kill her, they whisper. Let us eat her magic for dessert.

It takes everything in me to resist.

By the time I circle back toward the shop, the sun has dipped behind the tree line. Twilight bleeds across the sky in violet streaks. I walk slower, drawn out and hollow. The hum is rising again. The daggers are not happy with my refusal earlier.

You cannot resist us forever, mortal fae.

I don’t answer them.

Soon, you will give yourself over to us fully.

“Fuck you.”

We alone can prevent your death.

“You’ve also made my life a living hell.”

Your will to resist us is weakening. We can feel it.

“I hate you,” I mutter. Mostly because they’re right. I can feel it too.