Page 15 of Gods and Graves

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THEA

K rys is, surprisingly, a good singer. His smooth, rich baritone floods the car as we swerve down street after street.

“So where, exactly, are we going?” I ask for the one billionth time.

And of course, he doesn’t answer. Instead, he throws his head back and sings at the top of his lungs—some eighties rock song that is making a reemergence due to the internet and social media apps.

“It’s rude not to give your kidnapping victim more information,” I point out.

He chuckles and finally goes quiet, though I can’t decide if that’s good or bad. I actually really like his singing.

“Are you going to keep pestering me until I tell you the truth?” He slides his gaze towards me before refocusing on the road once again.

“Yes.” I nod seriously. “I can be very annoying with proper motivation.”

“Wow. I never would’ve imagined,” he deadpans.

I hit his shoulder.

“But fine. I’ll tell you.” Krys steers the car into the parking lot of a small, isolated building that has seen better days.

Graffiti covers the brick walls, and the shutters have been drawn tight over the windows, allowing no light in or out. Hundreds of motorcycles line the entrance—though a dozen or more of them topple over when Krys purposely parks his car on top of them.

“Um. You just hit a motorcycle…or two.” Or twelve.

Krys chuckles darkly and throws open the door, scratching a thirteenth motorcycle beside our car.

“Oh, did I?” He blinks his eyes at me innocently.

Hurrying to follow after him, I open my own passenger door and cringe when it dings the side of a bike parked beside us. At first, I think I got away with doing minimum damage, but to my horror, the bike sways precariously before toppling on its side…and hitting the motorcycle beside it.

What happens next can only be described as the domino effect. Bike after bike falls with a deafening crash as I stand there, gawking, my face flushed and chest heaving.

Krys materializes beside me and slings an arm over my shoulder. “That’s my girl.”

“That was totally an accident,” I blurt, cringing.

Krys throws his head back in laughter. “Sure it was, shortstack.”

He begins to guide me towards the entrance, but I dig my heels in, not wanting to meet the owners of the bikes I just destroyed.

“Krys, I think we need to go.”

“Nonsense.” He waves away my worries with a literal flick of his wrist. “This is where we’re supposed to be.”

“But…” I bite down on my lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

Before I can conjure up another argument, Krys kicks the door to the bar open—literally kicks it. The wood cracks and shatters, swinging on rusty hinges.

Almost immediately, one hundred faces whip in our direction, teeth bared.

Oh…

Oh fuck.

They’re all some type of supernatural.

Gorgons and fae and elves and shifters and vampires and demons and werewolves and witches.

“Krys.” I tug on his shirt sleeve, suddenly desperate to get out of here.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up, and goose bumps pebble on my skin.

Every alarm bell in my head screams “DANGER” over and over again.

“Don’t worry, shortstack.” Krys gives my arm a commiserating pat before stepping away. Then, his voice louder, he calls out, “Which one of you ass-sucking bitches owes me money?”

Yup.

We’re dead.

Wait.

Can I even die?

I’m certain I’m about to find out.

“You shouldn’t have come here, Krys.” The man who speaks is large and broad and hairy. His eyes glimmer malevolently as he takes a step closer. “I warned you what would happen if you showed up unannounced.”

Krys laughs, though this one is dry and acerbic. “And I warned you what would happen if you crossed me.”

Krys reaches for his back—the way Krystian did during the battle with the hellhounds—and a bow materializes out of seemingly thin air. He notches a pitch-black arrow and aims it at the man’s chest.

Krystian’s arrows are white, I realize belatedly.

Of course, it’s hard to focus on anything but the shock rooting my feet to the ground.

“Krys,” I whisper, fear sluicing in my stomach.

“Stay behind me,” Krys warns, his tone grave.

Then he lets loose the arrow.

It hits the man square in the chest, causing him to fall back with a cry. Almost immediately, black squiggly lines erupt from the puncture wound and extend in all directions. Screams escape the man’s mouth as his flesh sizzles, turning the color of pitch.

“What the…?” I gawk in disbelief.

“Poisoned arrows,” Krys explains, flashing me a wink over his shoulder. “Not as cool as Krystian’s flesh-eating ones but just as effective.”

A few things happen very, very quickly.

First, the man collapses, his torso and arms completely black, his gaze distant and unseeing, though his chest continues to rise and fall steadily.

Second, someone screams.

Third, one hundred pissed off supernaturals charge at us.

Krys shoots off arrow after arrow, each one hitting its target with expert efficiency.

“Holy fuck.” I back away until I’m flush against the wall, my stomach in knots.

Krys simply laughs, spins out of the way of an approaching vampire, and shoots off another arrow. He seems to have an infinite supply.

With Krys preoccupied with the supernaturals attacking him from the front, he misses the shifter sneaking up behind him, glee lighting up his grotesque, scarred face. The shifter lifts his hand, and the knife he holds catches in the artificial lighting, already stained with blood.

“No!” I scream, lunging forward before my brain can catch up with my body.

The shifter moves at the last second, and instead of hitting his heart like I intended, my dagger lands in his shoulder. He whirls around instantly, his fangs bared and dripping with saliva. I wince, tugging my dagger free.

“Um…oops?” I flash him a sweet smile.

The bastard backhands me across the face, sending me flying.

Pain ricochets through me, and tears burn my eyes.

It occurs to me then that I never felt pain before. Not really. The stones and twigs that scraped my feet in the forest are nothing compared to this. Even Everett’s sword against my throat didn’t hurt this badly.

The shifter advances on me, danger and violence emanating from his golden eyes, and a sliver of fear embeds itself in my heart.

All of the people I’ve stabbed over the years have been incorporeal souls with no way of fighting back. I’m skilled with my dagger, but can I fight off a two-hundred-pound shifter?

I’ll certainly try.

Tightening my grip on my blade, I stagger to my feet, trying to ignore the pain reverberating from my bruised cheek.

Before I can even take a step forward, someone moves in front of me, his body vibrating with barely contained fury.

Krys.

“You dare to hurt her?” His words are sharp—the fatal swipe of a blade.

All of the amusement and levity he displayed only moments before has dissipated, replaced by stone-cold anger.

Fear seeps into the shifter’s eyes, though he attempts to regain his bravado, going so far as to puff out his chest. “The bitch attacked me first.”

The sound Krys releases then could best be described as a growl.

“I was going to kill you for hurting her. But because you called her a bitch?” He advances on the shifter. “It’s going to be slow and agonizing.”

It’s only then I realize that every other supernatural in the bar—all one hundred-plus men and women—are lying on the ground, writhing in agony, black veins erupting from the various arrows protruding from their bodies. Only the shifter remains.

Krys moves like liquid itself, each movement fluid and deadly. He’s replaced his bow with a katana that he uses to cut off both of the shifter’s arms.

The shifter screams and drops to his knees.

The next five minutes are…brutal.

Horrifying.

Disgusting.

And oddly sexy, in a very, very demented way.

I need therapy.

Krys dismembers the shifter one limb at a time, but he doesn’t allow him to die. I don’t know if magic is involved or the shifter’s naturally advanced healing keeps his heart pumping, but the man is conscious during every minute of his torture.

“You never should’ve laid your hands on her,” Krys says darkly, his sword raised and prepared to cut off the final body part—his head.

“No!” I scream, charging forward instinctively.

Krys pauses and turns towards me, his brows furrowed. “If this is too much for you, you can wait outside.”

Despite his softened voice, his eyes are still deadened. Cold. Cutting. They glow with a malevolent darkness I don’t think I’ve ever seen in Krystian before, though I suppose I don’t know him well enough to tell for sure.

“It’s not that.” My stomach twists painfully. “It’s just… I don’t want him to die.”

He stares at me in disbelief. “What?”

“I mean, I don’t want to be around him when he dies,” I say quickly. “I don’t know what will happen to me if I’m around a soul.”

For all I know, that will be the catalyst capable of pulling me back to the other plane of existence.

I’m not sure how much Krys knows about my origins—he claims he isn’t aware of anything that happens during the day, yet he didn’t bat an eye at my appearance nor ask for my name—but I’m hoping he’ll hear the pleading in my voice.

I can’t go back to that existence.

I won’t.

I’d rather die.

Understanding lights in Krys’s eyes, and he slowly drops the sword back to his side.

The shifter sobs in relief.

“You’re living tonight only because my goddess is merciful,” Krys says seriously. Then a wicked smile tugs at his lips. “But tomorrow night? I’ll hunt you down and kill you. If, of course, you don’t die from your injuries before then.”

“No! Please! No!” The shifter trembles and attempts to back away—though it’s hard without any of his limbs.

He resembles a fucked-up snake.

“You talk too much.” Krys lunges towards the shifter, grabs his tongue, and slices it off with his katana.

I arch my eyebrows, even as my heart flutters.

I’ve never had anyone defend my honor before. I know I should be disturbed by the display of violence, but I’m not. Maybe it’s because I’ve been around death my entire life, but I’ve grown desensitized to it. It barely fazes me.

Krys casually wipes the blood off his sword with the shifter’s shirt, then he straightens. He places the sword in an invisible holster on his back, and that weapon, like the bow and arrow set, disappears.

“Come on, shortstack. Let’s get out of here. The poison should be killing off these idiots in just a few minutes.”

He places his hand on the small of my back and guides me towards the exit.

A thought occurs to me.

“Wait.” I dig my feet in, forcing him to slow down. “What about your money?”

“Huh?” He stares at me in confusion.

“You said they owed you money.” That’s why he went on a killing spree in the first place.

“Oh.” He chuckles. “Funnily enough, they actually didn’t owe me money. My mistake. Now, let’s get you back to the motel before the others realize you’re gone.”