CHAPTER NINETEEN: KISS ME
1084 Words
Lila POV
Ever so slowly, Caleb reaches out to touch my face, and maybe I’ve gone crazy, but I close my eyes and wait for him to kiss me.
But he doesn’t.
He just ruffles my hair like he did when I was a girl.
Confused, I open my eyes and stare up at him. He’s grinning at me.
What an assho—
“Let’s get going,” he says with a grin.
And then he saunters off, whistling, as if he wasn’t just about to kiss me.
What. The f**k.
I glare at his retreating figure for a minute before following.
Why is it that Caleb Hardling can reduce me to that little girl again with just a mere look? I need to watch myself around him from now on.
Falling for half-demons is the last thing I need in my life.
Glaring at Caleb waiting for me outside the alleyway, I shadow him down one of the many winding cobbled streets.
Back to the task at hand.
We need to capture this demon and take it back to Hell if we want to complete the mission—and get a point. The more points we get, the greater our chances of being in the top ten.
I glance at the tracker and go over the details again.
Caleb literally told me, in a two-minute rush, about these demons and expected me to just be cool with it.
The demon we’re hunting is a nyxie, a small water-horse that likes to drain humans of all the water in their bodies, leaving them dead.
Nyxies are also notorious for getting drunk.
This will be fun…
I keep scrolling through my tracker all the way to the bottom. My heart skips a beat when I read the notes.
“There’s a note on the file saying two of the victims were reported dead.” I peer over the back of Caleb’s shoulder as another cold breeze hits us. “Is the pub closed off to the public?”
“Nope.” He doesn’t look back. “The folk here like haunted s**t. You should see all the tours they already do. Witches. Ghosts. Scotland’s built on folklore and mythology.”
That could explain why humans aren’t as freaked out about nyxies as they should be. Maybe they just think it’s superstition. Who knows.
I fall into step beside Caleb.
“Have you visited here before?”
He nods, hands stuffed into his pockets.
“Got some friends in the Rivermare pack. Crazy, loyal fuckers that they are.”
I’ve heard that about them too.
The Rivermare wolves are slightly more feral than the rest of us. They prefer to avoid human contact and generally keep to their rivers and lochs. The ones in Scotland are said to be the link between this world and the fake one, though no one I know has ever seen them in real life.
Even the academy textbooks are dubious about their existence. According to ancient folklore, anyone who gazes into the eyes of a fae turns to stone.
Although they are unearthly beautiful, fae are also incredibly terrifying.
More so than demons.
Or haunted cities.
At the bottom of the winding pathway, we cross a cobbled road and emerge into a square surrounded by pubs and restaurants. The area is bustling with people, especially for a Friday night.
“This is where they used to hang witches back in the day,” Caleb says without looking up, his focus on the device in his hand. “And shifters.”
A shudder runs through my body, and I rub the chill from my arms.
The weight of all those executed souls presses down on me. There’s a tightness in my chest, like something unseen is sitting on top of me.
So many of our people were killed by humans, all because they were—and still are—afraid of us.
I hate that even hundreds of years later, we’re still not fully accepted.
I doubt we ever will be.
“There’s The White Lyon,” I say, pointing to an old-looking pub on the corner of the square. “Seems like you were wrong about the tourists. The place is completely empty. Well, apart from one person.”
A bearded man in a striped chef’s apron leans against the front of the building, smoking a cigarette. The chairs around him are eerily vacant. The rest of the establishments are packed with patrons, some more intoxicated than others.
It’s clear everyone is giving The White Lyon a wide berth.
And honestly, I don’t blame them. I’d rather get drunk in a non-haunted pub, thank you very much.
The chef stomps out his cigarette and watches us approach.
“You the hunters?” he asks in a thick Scottish accent.
“Aye, we are, laddy,” Caleb says, flashing me a grin.
His Scottish accent isn’t awful, but it does things to me. Bad things.
If he ever wears a kilt, I don’t think I’ll be able to resist climbing him like a tree.
“Not really the Ghostbusters I was expectin’,” the human says, turning on his heel. “All right, follow me. The name’s Feargus.”
If Feargus was expecting us, then he must be the owner.
He enters the building and holds the door open. We follow—me first, then Caleb.
As expected, the inside is mostly empty. A young bartender smiles and waves cheerily as we pass, then returns to wiping the bar.
The pub interior is old and rustic, more like a historical tavern than anything, with wooden booths in the corners and stools lined along the bar. The tartan furnishings make it feel homely.
It’s warm too, with an open fireplace blazing across the room.
“I’ve been waitin’ on the hunt to be sendin’ one of you lot out for weeks now,” Feargus grumbles as he leads us down a narrow, creaky flight of stairs. “Wasn’t so bad until the little fuckers got into the barrels. Whisky and spirits? They can drink my regulars under the table with those. But the beer? Turns ’em into real nasty wee fuckers.”
He pauses outside a door marked Staff Only.
“I loaded them up with some whisky before you got here, so they should still be asleep. Good luck. Don’t make a mess. And try not to die, eh? I’m still recovering my rep from the last ‘freak accident.’”
- Writer
