Artemis shifts beside me. We both know what it sounds like when our mother gives a nonanswer in order to avoid a lie. Why would she tell us that she was checking hellmouths if she was actually searching for Slayers?
Ruth Zabuto’s voice trembles. “Do you have any magic, Eve?”
Eve shakes her head, gentle and apologetic. “Since Buffy destroyed the Seed of Wonder, we have not seen any evidence of magic. And all the portals are gone. We’ve been traveling too, checking them to make certain nothing remained that we were unaware of.”
“I’m surprised we didn’t find each other sooner.” Once again my mother’s tone is so careful I suspect there’s more meaning to her statement.
Wanda Wyndam-Pryce clears her throat. “Best to be thorough with our checks. Well done.” She acts like she assigned the Silveras to do it. She has a way of saying things that makes it sound like everyone works for her, all the time. “I expect you’ll have a written report for us soon.”
I’m still annoyed this is taking precedence over today’s hellhound attack, but there are hundreds of semipermanent portal sites across the globe. My mom has covered only the UK and North, Central, and South America. So there’s still work to be done. A goal. A goal that will take the Silveras away from here before I ever have to look in Leo’s eyes again.
After all, his eyes are like two pools of blackness, so dark and deep, when I look at him, I cannot breathe. Oh, I hate him. Or I hate poor thirteen-year-old me.
“Between Helen’s information and ours, we can officially declare all hellmouths and demonic portals inactive. Now that we’re reunited, it’s time to move forward. To become Watchers again. It’s time,” Eve says, my hopes for their swift exit sinking, “to get a Slayer.”
“We already have one,” Ruth Zabuto says with a dismissive wave of her hand.
Bradford Smythe reflexively coughs.
My mother speaks first, her tone no longer passive. “No, we do not.”
Wanda Wyndam-Pryce pounces. She’s always hated my mother. The Wyndam-Pryces were once considered the most prestigious Watcher family, but then their golden boy, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce—they have a thing for alliteration and for feeling superior—was so staggeringly inept that he was fired from the Council. Wanda has never gotten over her disappointment that my father’s tenure as a Watcher is held in esteem while the Wyndam-Pryces’ only actively assigned Watcher ended up as a private investigator in Los Angeles—working for a vampire.
So Wanda is gleeful as she senses my mother’s anger. “Oh yes! We have reason to suspect that our very own Nina is a Slayer.”
Leo startles. His eyes widen at his mother, but she ignores him. He’s definitely upset by this news, but I can barely register it because Rhys gasps and turns toward me. I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. I keep my eyes on the room.
“Imagine,” Wanda continues, “being her mother and never realizing she might be a Potential Slayer. And the change had to have happened at least two full months ago. How odd that you didn’t notice something so dramatic, Helen.”
My mother refuses to be baited. But her stillness is as much a tell as someone else wringing their hands. She is freaking out. A small, mean part of me feels smug. She didn’t want to talk with us about it, but she can’t avoid talking to the Council. “Nonsense. Nina would have been identified by our seers. Besides, she only killed a hellhound. Every member of our community should be able to do the same. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Hearing her say it so dismissively triggers that rebellious feeling again. Because she knows I was never trained. She didn’t let me. And she knows how I feel about violence. The way I killed the hellhound can’t be ignored. It was like something had awakened inside me that had been sleeping there for a long time, just waiting for an opportunity. Something awful and powerful and terrifying. Something I had no control over.
Bradford Smythe shifts, turning his head so I can see his profile. His lips are pursed so tightly beneath his mustache that they disappear. He sighs. “I’m sorry, Helen.”
“Don’t,” she says. I flinch from her tone, but Bradford doesn’t react.
“It’s too late now.” He pauses. My heart is beating so loudly, I wonder how they can’t hear it through the wall. Then he tugs on his mustache and speaks. “We were always aware that Nina was a Potential Slayer.”
Rhys gasps even louder this time. Artemis swears. The walls are thick and the Council is making their own variations of shocked noises, covering ours. I stagger back, losing my view of the room. It can’t be true.
It can’t.
They would have told me. It doesn’t make sense why they wouldn’t. I’m a Watcher! Wouldn’t they have been all over the opportunity to raise a Potential Slayer in their midst?
And my mother went so far out of her way to keep me from being trained. She insisted I wasn’t suited to it. Prevented me from getting even the basic Watcher fighting instruction and pushed me into healing. Artemis received the physical training.
Bradford Smythe starts talking again, and I struggle to focus on his words over the pounding of my heart and my own racing thoughts. “It’s part of why the kids were here when our headquarters were attacked. We heard rumblings of the threats to Potentials, so Helen took all the younger students with her to avoid anyone narrowing in on Nina.”
So it wasn’t mere luck that we were away during the attack. They were protecting me. But why go so far to protect me if they weren’t ever going to train me or tell me the truth?
“After magic was destroyed and the Slayer line ended,” Bradford continues, “we assumed that her potential wasn’t triggered in time and that she would never become a Slayer. It appears we were wrong.”
Artemis and Rhys haven’t moved. I feel them in the darkness, staring at me instead of the room. Suspecting I was a Slayer is nothing compared to knowing. And finding out that this information was always here, deliberately withheld from me—and most of the Council as well? It’s not just a shock. It’s a betrayal.
“You failed to inform the Council that your own daughter was a Potential?” Wanda Wyndam-Pryce doesn’t sound angry so much as smug. “This calls for a full censure and a review of your position here on the Council. Yours too, Bradford, for being part of the conspiracy.”
“What Council?” Ruth Zabuto snorts. “What, are we going to banish Helen? Demote Bradford? For doing what? It’s foolish enough that you haven’t let dear Artemis be a full Watcher. The test shouldn’t count against her now that there are so few of us. You and your rules can go sit on a pin, Wanda.” She pulls out her knitting and gets to work, shaking her head.
Wanda Wyndam-Pryce huffs. “Well, I for one will not let this egregious betrayal of our standards go without repercussions. We are nothing without our rules. They still mean something.”
“The girl is alive because of the secrecy.” Bradford Smythe’s voice is soft but clear. “I think that alone justifies Helen’s decisions. I support her now as I did then.”
“And it means we have a Slayer.” Eve’s eyes are alight with emotion. She puts her hands to her mouth, and I swear she’s on the verge of tears. “Right here. One of ours.”
My mother stands, slamming her chair backward. “She is not ours. She is mine. There are a thousand other girls out there. If you want a Slayer, go find a real one.” With that, she stalks from the room.
I feel a gentle hand on my shoulder. I want to shake it off. Want to pretend like my mom’s words—and these revelations—don’t mean anything.
But if I suspected there were tears in Eve’s eyes, I know there are tears in mine.
“Nina,” Artemis says.
“You must—” Rhys starts, but I cut him off.
“I can’t talk about this right now.” Literally. I don’t even know how to feel, much less how to form everything into words. I’m scared and I’m confused and I’m furious. My entire life has been a lie. “I need to be alone.”
I stumble back through the dark. I’m half certai
n I’m lost and will die in these walls, but eventually I bump into a dead end and see a hint of light from the crawl space.
Back in my room, I throw myself onto my bed and stare up through my tears at the metal ceiling fan. It was the biggest expense my mother ever approved. Artemis and I sharpened its blades to razor’s edges. It wasn’t the only modification we made to our room. Several snow globes decorate various surfaces, all filled with holy water, acid, and flame accelerant. The desk legs are easily removable and sharpened to stake points. Artemis and I have systematically stocked every room we ever lived in with weapons. We did it so I could feel safe. So that we would have weapons even I could use without training.
But what if I’m the weapon now?
Not only has my whole life changed, but my whole history, too. Everything is different now. My mother knew—always knew. And she still chose Artemis. She still pushed Artemis to train, to be the better of the two of us. Did she think—hope—that the seer misidentified, and Artemis would be the Slayer, not me? Or did she know it was me and hate me because of it?
My phone buzzes on my nightstand. I wipe my eyes and pick it up to see a series of frantic messages from Cillian. Usually he only texts me to pass notes along to Rhys or if there’s a shipment of supplies he’s going to deliver.
But this one is for me.
Nina emergency please come to my house
Right now
God nina please
Come alone
Can’t explain just please begging you come right now
My adrenaline kicks back into gear. I grab my shoes and run.
6
IT’S JUST PAST MIDNIGHT. THE only light is from the almost full moon. Everything is pale illumination and blackest shadows. Beneath my cable-knit sweater, I’m itching from the inside out—buzzing as I sprint through the trees, spooking at every crack of a twig or rustle of dying leaves. Cillian’s panicked texts have me feeling like I’m going to jump out of my own skin.
There is, in fact, a demon that can jump out of its own skin, which is where the saying comes from. When surprised or in danger, the demon literally jumps out of its skin and leaves it behind, much like some lizards can detach their tails. I saw an illustration of it once, and firmly hope to never see it in real life.
I started out tentatively—my mom always insists I never exert myself, so all my trips to town are accomplished at a leisurely walking pace—but now I’m running faster, and faster, and faster. Running away from who she told me I was. The girl who shouldn’t be exposed to stress or panic. The girl who shouldn’t push herself.
I stumble as the truth slides into place like a knife into a sheath. She was trying to keep my Slayer potential from being activated. I had believed that she didn’t want me exposed to stressful situations because she was trying to make up for the fire. But Potentials become Slayers when they hit physical maturity and encounter a moment that requires something of them. She tried to make certain I never had that moment. It took an interdimensional demon to get past the coddled, safe box she placed me in. Otherwise I never would have become a Slayer at all.
And I don’t know which option is worse—never knowing what she hid from me or having to be a Slayer.
I run so fast the forest blurs dizzily around me. For the first time in my life, I have no idea what my own physical limits are. I don’t want to push, because pushing, running as fast as I can, or enjoying any of this makes the fact that I’m a Slayer—I’m a Slayer—real. And I don’t want it to be.
Cillian’s waiting for me as I skid to a stop outside his house. He looks as shaken up as I feel.
“What’s wrong?” I search him for wounds, but he seems fine, physically.
“I, uh, have a problem. I need to show you what’s in my yard.”
Cillian’s house is a cottage built on the edge of Shancoom, abutting the forest. His backyard is a small space with a sturdy shed against the fence. In the two years since we dropped a castle inside the trees, no one in the village has accidentally found it. We used to have magical wards to deter them, but it turns out people are just super uncurious about the woods.
I’ve been to Cillian’s only a few times, but I like it. It’s an actual home. And as much as I rationally know that living inside a castle is cool, whenever I walk into Cillian’s house I’m hit with a sense of familiarity and comfort. A cozy, curated space, shared with people you love. A building that functions only to take care of you.
Of course, Cillian’s house has been emptier of late. His mom hasn’t been back in six weeks. I try not to ask for details—it’s none of my business, and I can see in the soft way Rhys approaches the subject that it’s a tender one.
Which reminds me.
“Why didn’t you want Rhys to come?”
Cillian bounces nervously on the balls of his feet as he looks through the open front door of the dimly lit house and toward the dark, fenced-in backyard. “Um. You need to see it. Then you’ll understand.”
I follow Cillian through his house to the back door, my curiosity warring with trepidation. He flips on the backyard floodlights. Something must really be troubling him if—
I throw an arm out in front of Cillian, every muscle on high alert, every nerve in my body screaming fight or fight, having left flight entirely out of the equation.
There’s a demon.
Collapsed unconscious on the grass is a lanky thing in a Coldplay T-shirt and skinny jeans. It has acid-yellow skin, black horns, and black lips to match. The demon’s face is bruised and swollen, one scaly cheek sliced down to the bone. Peeking out from its clothes are a lot more wounds. One arm is at an angle I’m pretty sure no arm should ever be at, even when attached to a demon.
That makes two demons within twenty-four hours. Threatening my family. My home. My friends. A pulse of blinding rage fills me, and I take a step toward the demon.
“It’s a demon, right?” Cillian’s voice snaps me out of my enraged stupor. I blink, trying to shake off some of the kill-kill-kill roaring through me. It feels foreign, like my brain playing a song I don’t know. Once, when we still lived in London, Artemis and Jade snuck me into a concert. The bass was so powerful I could feel it inside, competing with and overtaking my heart. This is similar. Like my heart isn’t mine anymore. The beat is a foreign entity.
Slayer, something whispers deep inside. I shove it further down.
Cillian is wigging out. His eyes are open so wide they practically glow in the darkness of the house. He hasn’t crossed the threshold into the yard. “I know you guys told me about demons, but I didn’t really believe it. That thing earlier could have been some crazy, sick dog or wolf or hyena. In Ireland. But this? I believe you now.”
“Did you do something?” I turn to him. “Summon them? How?” Summoning shouldn’t work anymore. All the portals are gone, any magic used to lure the demons broken.
“No! God, no. Why would I want this? I didn’t realize that thing was out here until an hour ago. I couldn’t sleep and went to get the rubbish bins for collection before I forgot.”
Though I can’t discount the connection that both demons have been found around Cillian, I still believe him. Cillian has never been anything but helpful. If he wanted to hurt us, if he had some sinister ulterior motive, he could have done something ages ago. And I know he loves Rhys. The way they look at each other is so sweet it practically gives me a sugar rush.
“Right. So. There’s a demon in your backyard.” I tug nervously on my hair. “Why did you ask me to come? Did you ask because I killed—because of what I did to that other one?”
Is that already my role? Stabby-stabby-kill girl?
Or breaky-breaky-neck girl, really, since I don’t have any weapons. I’ll need weapons if demons are going to start popping up everywhere. I usually have a stake on me—like a comfort blanket that can kill things—but stakes aren’t a one-size-fits-all demon-slaying tool.
Cillian shakes his head. “No, that’s not why. I mean, maybe a little. I don’t want any
one to get hurt. But we don’t know anything about it.”
“We know it’s a demon.”
“Right, but it’s wearing a fecking Coldplay shirt. How evil can something wearing a Coldplay shirt be?”
He has a point. “So why did you ask me?”
“Because you fix people. You’re always watching those horrible first aid tutorials. And all the medical supplies you have me order? You know how to help people. I thought—” Cillian shrugs, suddenly sheepish as we both look at the radioactively yellow demon. “I thought it might need help.”
Relief and gratitude wash over me. Cillian didn’t ask me here to kill something. He asked me here to help something. I want to hug him for being my friend, for thinking of me the way I think of myself: as a healer. I’m the girl who patches things up. Not the one who breaks them.
My initial instinct to attack nags at me, filling me with guilt. I want to at least give Coldplay there a chance. Being a Slayer doesn’t mean I have to kill everything that moves.
Actually, I have no idea what being a Slayer means. And I don’t care. I’m a Watcher, so I’ll deal with the demon our way. Study first, reach an informed conclusion, and then decide on a course of action. True Watcher procedure at its best, like I’ve tried telling Artemis for years. Our role was never supposed to be the violent one.
I nod toward the shed. “Got anything in there we can use to restrain it?”
Cillian squinches up his face, then snaps his fingers. “Yeah, actually. Could you help me get it in?” While he unlocks the shed door, I cross the yard and grab the demon’s arms.
“Eew!” I shriek, pulling back my hands as though burned. Cillian whips around, terrified. “It’s sticky. Oh, gross, it’s sticky.” Shuddering, I try to touch only the clothed parts of its body. I start to lift the demon, and I nearly toss it up into the air. It’s so much easier than I expected it to be. But I don’t feel elated over this surging new strength. It’s another reminder of how my body is something other than what I’ve always known.
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