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, and the chairs dotted around him are eerily vacant. The rest of the establishments are chock-a-block with patrons, some of them more intoxicated than others. It’s clear everyone’s 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 on his cigarette and watches us approach him.
“You the hunters?” he asks in a thick, Scottish accent.
“Aye, we are, laddy,” Caspian says, flashing me a grin.
His Scottish accent isn’t awful, but it does do things to me.
Bad, 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 this Feargus was expecting us, then he must be the owner.
He enters the building and holds the door open for us. We hurry after him, me first, then Caspian, and as expected, the inside is mostly empty. A young barman smiles and waves cheerily at us as we pass by, then he goes back to wiping the bar with a cloth. The pub’s interior is old and rustic, more like a historical tavern than anything, with wooden booths in the corner and stools positioned around the bar. The tartan furnishings help to make the place look homely. It’s warm, too, with an open fireplace blazing across the room.
“I’ve been waitin’ on the hunt to be sending one of you out for weeks now,” Feargus grumbles. He leads the way 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 for 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’.”
And with that, Feargus punches a set of numbers into the security lock. The door clicks open, and he steps back. With a nod from Caspian, I follow him inside, my breath streaming out before me. Nyxies I can totally deal with. Ghosts, on the other hand, are another kettle of fish I’d much rather avoid.
At least with demons I can physically see them and drag their asses back to Hell, but dead people left to rot in an underground city?
Yeah, that’s a hard pass from me.
No thank you, siree.
Inside the huge stockroom, bottles of alcohol and barrels of beer litter the floor. The single, dim lightbulb hanging from the ceiling gleams against the shelves stacked with even more bottles, but that’s not what draws my attention. It’s the nest of tiny water horses snoring on top of the barrels in the centre of the room, their tails swishing from side to side. Their blue hooves look no bigger than my pinkie finger. How can such tiny little creatures be so deadly? But I know that one bite from a nyxie and your entire body shrivels up.
A shudder rakes through me, and it’s not just from the prospect of being drained. The temperature in here is more like a giant fridge than a stockroom.
“Why is it so cold?” I murmur to Caspian.
“Because we’re in Scotland,” he whispers, pulling out a slingshot from his back pocket. “And nyxies freeze their prey so they can eat them later. Watch out for any body parts they’ve probably stashed around here.”
I cast a quick glance around the room in search of frozen limbs, my eyes strangely burning. So not only do nyxies drain their prey but they also freeze the remains to snack on later. Great. How comforting to know my body won’t go to waste.
I tiptoe after Caspian, my footsteps light, and I get out my own slingshot. It’s actually a little exciting, using magic like this. Apparently, all I need to do is take aim and shoot. And going by how loudly the nyxies are snoring, catching them should be a piece of cake. I could probably play the bagpipes in here and I doubt it’d wake them. Not that I can play the bagpipes, mind you.
I stretch the sling and aim for the nyxie nearest to me. However, the strong scent of flowers invades my nostrils, and I wiggle my nose. Stacked on one of the shelves are several bouquets of flowers. Oh, no, no, no. This is not good. So not freaking good.
Caspian glares over his shoulder at me. “What are you doing?”
My eyes water as I try to contain myself. “I’m—I’m allergic to—to flow—achoo!”
The sneeze escapes me and echoes around the room like a thunder.
Oh, my sweet holy fuck.
Piercing yellow eyes open and latch on to me.
“Looks like the nyxies are awake, Caspian.”
And my bagpipe theory was wrong.
“Yeah, no fucking shit!” Caspian bellows, releasing his sling.
A magical net made of water shoots out and ensnares one of the nyxies. The demon lets out a loud shriek while the rest of its herd jumps off the barrels. Hooves hit the ground, expelling ice everywhere, and I dodge to the side, narrowly missing a jagged shard.
“I hope you’re good at ice skating,” I shout, freeing the sling.
The net hits me in the face, briefly taking my breath away. Water veils my vision, and my hair floats around me as if I’m under water. A pop echoes in my ears, and the net vanishes, allowing me
