Page 37 of The Last Slayer
“I was joking,” I said quickly. I didn’t need to be on Ramiel’s shit list. “But look. I’m not claiming Eastvale, okay? I’m very happy with my condo, seeing as how it befits my status as a mortal.”
“Have you ever wanted to know who your mother is?” Frustration turned Ramiel’s voice sharp.
His question sobered me. It was something I had always wondered but never let myself spend much energy thinking about. And I wasn’t about to spill my secret desires and long-resigned hopes to some dragonlord, no matter what he looked like. “No,” I lied. “It was her loss, not mine, throwing me away.”
“Your mother left you carefully swaddled on the steps of a church, not cast naked atop some mountain. I know because I assisted her in hiding you from Nathanael. He has been trying to destroy you since even before you were conceived. Fortunately, your mother managed to collect twenty-seven drops of blood from him and used them to cast an impenetrable web of protection over you—one year for every drop gathered.”
Color me impressed. She must’ve been an exceptionally powerful mage. Protection spells using an enemy’s blood are extremely complex. Blood magic has too many variables: the quantity of the blood as well as quality. Most mages never reach the level of mastery necessary to cast them. I didn’t personally know anyone who could do it.
Another thought hit me: Jack had told me my magic was very strong when he’d taken me in. He might not have otherwise—there were prettier orphans to choose. But it isn’t every day a child wrestles an incubus and wins.
A demon had been sucking Sex from an older foster sister. I’d seen it, caught it and stabbed its eyes out with a pair of scissors. Federation enforcers had descended and taken the body, but the event had piqued Jack’s interest when he’d heard about it. To this day, I have no idea how I survived the e
pisode without any training. Not that I could recall much about my childhood. My understanding of anything that happened before I was thrown into foster care was fuzzy. Jack could probably have looked it up. He’d never offered to, but I knew he would if I could catch him in the right mood. I’d never bothered, though. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to find out.
But I could ask Jack to discern what the sudden interest from the dragonlords meant. I might have to mortgage my condo to pay for it—he never Saw for free, not even for family—but at least I wouldn’t be put on the waiting list.
Did I get my magic from my mother? Although some people can acquire it through study, anything of significant magnitude is hereditary, or so the current understanding goes. And what about my father? Ramiel hadn’t mentioned him at all, but he couldn’t have been a normal man. Finally there was the issue with my appearance. All demigods are disgustingly good-looking, and there was no way that maybe-a-five-at-the-most me could be one of them unless my father was Quasimodo’s uglier twin. Seemed like the more Ramiel talked, the more unanswered questions piled up.
Ramiel continued. “Now that you have lived twenty-seven years, your mother’s protection has expired. The Triumvirate will not rest until you’re dead.”
Was that why today—my twenty-seventh birthday—was such a mess? Because a few powerful supernaturals wanted to kill me over some mumbo jumbo from three ladies who claimed to see the future? Jeez. Give me something potent to smoke and I’ll let you in on the future too.
“Your first heartstone is the one of love. Leh, currently bound to the Mystic Forest, will give it to you.” Ramiel’s eyes turned unreadable. “She’s been waiting nearly three decades for you. For her daughter.”
I shook my head. No mortal can set foot in the Mystic Forest. Not even supernaturals can stay there for long. The trees of the Mystic Forest use life force the way our trees use nitrogen, leeching it from any who enter. If I could go there, it could only mean one thing.
How could I be a supernatural? I’d spent my entire life fighting them, protecting innocent mortals. And suddenly, Ramiel of Besade wanted me to accept that I was one of those I’d trained to hunt?
“Ashera—” Ramiel began.
“No. You’re not going to tell me what I am. I’m a hunter!”
“You can’t run from this.”
“Oh yeah?” I rose and took a step forward. “You swore you would only talk to me. Well, we’ve talked. I want to leave now.”
“That would be suicide.”
“It’s my life!”
I knew I sounded stupid and shrill, like a three-year-old throwing a fit. But I didn’t care. God knew there were thousands of supernaturals that wanted to hurt me. They could’ve petitioned the dragonlords to mess with my psyche, my sense of self. I wasn’t going to let them win.
“You’ll take me back to Arlington. Now.” I stuck a hand out. “And the book, please. Nathanael wants it.”
Ramiel rose to his full—and impressive—six-foot five-inch height. “Leave if you wish, but you can’t have the book. I don’t want them to know I found you as well.”
“They’ll know when they see the second wyrm carcass. There’s no way I could’ve gutted it.”
“I turned it into a leather ball after we left. They’ll think you did it. Again.”
The air suddenly sizzled and popped with strong currents of magic.
“Should you need an excuse about the book, your condo just exploded. Apparently, there was a gas leak.”
I could feel the blood drain from my face. “You bastard.” Another realization hit me. “Oh my god, my neighbors!”
“What of them?”
