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“What is the meaning of this!” a man bellowed from inside. I didn’t pause.
He was laughably easy to kill.
I was laughing.
Blood spurted. Human blood. So viscous and thin. It coated my blades, my wrists. But the effect was so satisfying. He dropped in a lump to the floor. Dead.
He was a ticket-taker of some kind. This room was lit. I pushed through the next set of tent flaps into a darkened interior.
I saw what Lyrena meant. Even with my sharp fae vision, I couldn’t pick out the shapes moving around me. And they certainly were. Humans, dressed in dark clothing so they blended in. Meant to be disorienting, to confuse the person who entered.
One of them made the mistake of touching my shoulder.
Dead.
A few more died before the others realized what was going on—before the screaming started. I didn’t even need to behead them. One well-placed slash to the gut and their innards spilled out. Not that I could see them.
But I didn’t need to see to kill and maim. Those instincts were carved into my soul.
The next room was a kaleidoscope of light. Mirrors in every direction, reflecting and refracting the oil lamps and candles. So much light. They were enchanted mirrors, I realized vaguely. More artifacts obtained from Annwyn. These humans had broken the treaty between our realms.
They would die.
But the figure that emerged wasn’t human. Not anymore. It stumbled forward with a determined but irregular gait. Black bile poured from its mouth.
A nightwalker.
How could that be?
The whole point of this Ancestors-damned festival was to escape the nightwalkers.
The movements are wrong.
I drew in a deep breath. There was no scent of death, no cloying cold.
Fucking Ancestors—only a human would be stupid enough to dress as a nightwalker.
The mirrors and bright light were meant to disorient. The pretend nightwalker could have been coming from any direction. Meant to terrify the humans stupid enough to pay good gold to enter this house of nightmares.
But I didn’t need to see to fight. So I closed my eyes.
The justification was easy, not that my conscience needed one. These humans stood between me and Percival. Percival was my only way to Avalon. Avalon was the key to understanding my power, its connection to the Void and Ethereal Prophecies and the nightwalkers, and saving Annwyn. The human realm would benefit by extension.
These deaths were nothing.
A song on my blade—a hum. So easy, they barely even made a melody.
Arran was somewhere behind me. Watching my back, finishing off my leavings.
When there was no more movement around me, I opened my eyes. This was where the house of nightmares ended. The climax where humans would be pissing themselves.
But I didn’t make for the exit, hanging open and easy to find if one could manage their fear.
I went for the flap that was tied up.
I slashed it open in one easy swipe, the blood on my blades spraying across the dirty ground. A few bright droplets landed on Percival, tied to the rear tent post. Not that I could have pointed out which ones were from my blade. The man was covered with blood and bruises. He’d been beaten.
Good. He deserved no less.
