Slayer

by Kiersten White

  I just need to figure out how I can be a Slayer without losing what makes me Nina in the process.

  16

  I SIT STRAIGHT UP IN bed, my heart racing.

  What is wrong with my sleeping brain? Of all the things I could dream about, my subconscious settles on Bradford Smythe again? I would have taken being back in the pit fighting monsters, or even a dream about the fire.

  I need therapy.

  “You okay?” Artemis mumbles sleepily from across the room.

  “Do you ever have weird dreams about the Council?”

  “Every damn night. Ruth Zabuto uses my fingers for knitting needles, and Wanda . . .” She trails off, muttering something about spiders and switches, and then she goes quiet, her breathing even.

  At least Cosmina didn’t come hang out in my dreams. I’m more than happy never to see her again. And I don’t trust my Slayer dreams. Not only did my dream about her fail to give me very pertinent information, it also sent me to her against her will.

  I flop back on my bed. It’s 4 a.m. and I’ve been asleep for only an hour.

  My phone buzzes. I scramble to get it before Artemis stirs. The screen shows a text from Cillian.

  It’s awake

  “Stake me with a million splinters,” I whisper. I glance over at Artemis. I was going to tell her about the demon yesterday morning. Then everything spiraled so quickly. And she’s been so mad. I don’t know what she’d do with the demon.

  My demon. I can handle this.

  Do not engage, I text. I’m on my way.

  Weapons, weapons, I need weapons. Only as a precaution. I pull on my slippers, throw a fuzzy robe over my pajamas, and sneak into the hall. I’m halfway through the dorm wing when the smell of cigarette smoke pulls me up short.

  Imogen leans against a recess in the wall. Her eyes are heavy and tired. “Hey, Nina. Where are you off to?”

  “Oh. Um. Getting some water.”

  “Here.” She passes me the cigarette, then disappears into the Littles’ suite. I hold the cigarette gingerly, like it might come alive and force its way into my lungs. Imogen always wears long sleeves, down almost to her fingers. Isn’t she worried her sleeves will catch on fire?

  She laughs quietly at my obvious horror when she comes back out. “Sorry. I didn’t think. That was rude of me.” She takes the cigarette, handing me a bottle of water and a juice box. “We have a lot of middle-of-the-night drink requests. I’m always fully stocked.”

  “Thanks.” But now Imogen is between the weapons-stocked gym and me. And I can’t let anyone know what I’m doing.

  She taps out the cigarette in a little dish on the floor. “Sorry about this. I never do it where the Littles can see. But some days.” She shakes her head, her silky, thin blond hair curtaining her face. I’ve always liked her, but she doesn’t really hang out with the rest of us. For one thing, she’s older. Early twenties. But mostly Imogen exists to take care of the Littles. They’re her priority, always.

  I nod. “Some days.”

  “So, you’re a Slayer, yeah?”

  Oh gods. We forgot to tell her! Did we tell Jade? It’s only a secret that I’m training, not that I’m a Slayer. I have so many secrets lately, I can’t remember what is actually a secret or only sort of a secret. I shuffle my slippered feet. “Yeah. Surprised?”

  Imogen shrugs. “Not really. Makes sense.”

  “It does?” I figured it was an unspoken sentiment that if anyone should be a Slayer, it should be Artemis. Maybe my mom even trained her hoping the Slayer abilities would settle on the right twin. Maybe . . . maybe Artemis wishes that too.

  “Of course it does. You spent all these years learning the best ways to help and protect others. I think you’ll be great.” Her hazel eyes are dark brown in the dim hall lighting. They’re tight with exhaustion, and it makes her look sad. “I can’t wait to see what you’ll do.”

  “Thanks.” It feels inadequate to say, but I’m grateful she feels that way. And then I remember that Imogen doesn’t know I’m training, because I’m not supposed to be training. Gods, the castle has gotten complicated. “I mean, I’m probably not going to do anything. Slayerish, that is. My mom doesn’t want me to.”

  “Mums.” Imogen’s twisted smile is bleak.

  I cringe. “Sorry. I’m going back to bed. Thanks for the drinks. And the vote of confidence.”

  With Imogen showing no signs of going back into her room, I head toward my room. Then I pass it, going deep into the dorm wing. I navigate the discarded furniture, everything menacing shapes in the near darkness, until I find Artemis’s secret passageway closet. The Council room isn’t far from the gym, and there’s bound to be another exit somewhere.

  I turn on my cell phone as a flashlight. Sweeping it from side to side, I see branching passages. I bet I could get to nearly every room here without ever being seen. I turn toward the gym. I hope. The passage here is narrow, the cold, damp walls brushing my shoulders. I angle myself so I’m walking sideways. My dim screen illuminates only a few feet in front of me. I pass several yawning exits.

  The blackness moves in one of them.

  I freeze. I slowly back up, my light bouncing as my hands shake. Then I sweep the light through the passageway where I had sensed the movement.

  It’s empty.

  I had expected a zompire looming. More hellhounds. Something dark and bloodthirsty to take me into the darkness with it, where I belong.

  Unable to shake the sensation of being watched, I scramble until I find a door. I don’t care where it spits me out.

  I slide it open, squeezing into a tiny space even more cramped than the passageways. There’s a heavy wooden panel in front of me. I push. It gives, but only a little. I push harder. It scrapes open.

  Books. So many books. I’ve found the secret library room! I walk to the only door. It, too, is hard to push. I can’t imagine what people with non-Slayer strength must have to do to get it open. Maybe it’s designed to be a two-person door, so no one can get in here alone with the dangerous books. I overshot the gym, though. The library is next to the Council residence wing.

  I employ every ounce of Slayer stealth as I sneak past where my mother, Eve Silvera, Leo, and all the other Watchers are sleeping. Including Bradford Smythe. I shudder, remembering that stupid dream.

  The gym is unlocked. I take a short black stick that delivers electric shocks—used by Watchers, not Slayers, but I’ll make an exception for myself. I do not take the nunchucks.

  Stupid nunchucks.

  I’m still in my robe and slippers. I didn’t think this through in my rush to get to Cillian. But if I get caught coming back, no one will suspect I was out with a demon. Who talks with demons while wearing rainbow-print pajamas?

  • • •

  “Who talks with demons while wearing rainbow-print pajamas?” Cillian hisses at me in the dark. He’s in front of his house, arms crossed, stamping his feet impatiently. It’s freezing, and I already took off my robe so it wouldn’t hamper me if I needed to fight.

  “I didn’t have time to change! Is the demon loose?”

  “No. I heard some movement in there and peeked in a window. It’s awake. But still chained up.”

  I try to psych myself up. “That’s good. This will be fine. It’ll all be fine. I’m going to go in. If I’m not back in ten minutes, call Rhys and Artemis. Or the army.”

  “That’s reassuring, innit?”

  I walk straight through his house and into the yard. The shed lurks, waiting in the darkness to swallow me whole.

  I grip the shock stick and run through worst-case scenarios. The demon is free and inside, waiting to kill me. The demon is free and not inside anymore, already killing people and it’s my fault. The demon isn’t free and is still inside and I’ll have to figure out what to do with it, including potentially . . . killing it.

  The last option bothers me the most. It’s one thing to kill creatures while fighting for your life. It’s another to have to actively choose to do so
. Watchers have to make calls like this all the time. And Slayers don’t even make the call. They just act.

  Taking a deep breath, I unlock the door and stomp inside with my aggression slightly dampened by fuzzy slippers. I pull the chain for the light.

  “Ack, give a guy a little warning.” The demon squints up at me, its—his, I think—handcuffed-together hands lifted to shade his eyes. They’re a shockingly normal brown. Next to his radioactively bright skin, it looks like a kid with a crayon box and no sense of color families designed him.

  “Oh.” His voice is cringe-inducingly discordant, filtered through materials not quite the same as human vocal cords and mouths. “Hey. Hi. Listen, you and I both know that I’m more valuable alive. But did you know my secretions are steadier and higher quality when I’m happy? So keep that in mind as you decide how to punish me.” He lowers his hands, eyeing me with a puzzled expression. “You don’t look like a bounty hunter.”

  “Thank you?” I don’t move, and neither does he.

  “Look, I’m sorry I ran away. But conditions were less than ideal for me. If you get Sean on the phone, I’ll apologize and we can figure out a compromise. Ideally one that involves less torture. I don’t want to die, and you don’t want me to die either. And he’s going to kill me if things continue as they were.”

  I lean against a table, very aware of the length of the chains and how far he can reach should he surprise me by lunging. “I have no idea what you’re talking about or who Sean is. We found you unconscious. There was also a hellhound.”

  He startles, panicked, as though perhaps a hellhound is hiding in the tiny shed. “Where is it?”

  “I killed it.”

  He snorts skeptically. “You killed it.”

  I fold my arms, feeling defensive. “Yes.”

  “With what? Did you smother it with a teddy bear? Have a slumber party and braid its hair to death?”

  I channel Artemis. “Do you really want to insult someone who killed a hellhound with her bare hands?”

  He shifts with a jingle of chains. “Okay, okay, sure. I’m believing you. You killed the hellhound. Thanks for that.”

  “There were two, actually.” I don’t mention what happened to the second one. I want him to be impressed with me or scared of me. “Why were they here? Were they chasing you, or do you own them?”

  “Bloody demon mutts. I wouldn’t own one. They’re as likely to kill you as they are their prey. And it’s no picnic being their prey, either, let me tell you.”

  I feel a wash of relief. At least I didn’t save the demon responsible for the hellhounds.

  He shifts his weight with a clinking of chains. “Can I make a suggestion, love?” He smiles, revealing double rows of blunt black teeth. “Let me go. Forget we ever met. Forget you ever saw me. I promise it’ll be better for you that way.”

  “I can’t let a demon go!”

  “Fantastic.” He leans his head back against the wall. “What are you, some sort of vigilante? I’m not a bad bloke. Really, I’m not.”

  “Why does this Sean want you, then?”

  The demon holds out his hands. “You might have noticed I have a bit of a skin condition.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Yeah, your skin condition got all over my shirt and my hair when I carried you in here.”

  He snorts a laugh, then quickly tries to cover it as a cough. “Wow. Sorry. My particular breed of demon, as you call me, secretes a substance that has a psychotropic effect on humans. ‘Psychotropic’ means—”

  “I know what ‘psychotropic’ means.” Every good medic studies drugs. “You secrete tranquilizers?”

  “Depends. People react differently when they ingest it. For some it has a powerful antidepressant effect. Sometimes triggers euphoria. Sometimes puts people to sleep. And sometimes makes people hallucinate. But always in a happy way.”

  I must look horrified, because he shrugs. “Literally can’t help it. I’m worth quite a bit on the black market, if you know the right people.” He looks me up and down, lingering on my rainbow pajamas and slippers. “I don’t think you know the right people. And Sean would find you the second you started making inquiries to sell me. So again, your best bet is to let me go.”

  “Why do you secrete that stuff? Let me guess: Your victims are so blissed out that they don’t mind when you eat them.”

  He wrinkles his nose this time, the cracked skin bunching up. Then he grimaces and lifts his fingers to the cut I taped shut. “I happen to be vegetarian. Sort of.”

  “Sort of?”

  “I eat emotions. That’s what we do. We make you happy and then we breathe in all that bliss. And then we move on, because why keep eating the same happiness when you can experience something new every meal?”

  “And your victims?”

  “What victims? At most they have a mild headache when they come down. No lasting damage. They’ll even have happy memories. I don’t hurt anyone.” He shakes one manacled ankle at me. “Unlike humans. You never saw a creature you didn’t prey on.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Innit, though?”

  I open my mouth to argue, but . . . well, he has a point. We’re a deeply predatory race. Look what being imbued with demonic power does to us, after all. We become Slayers—humans made solely to hunt and kill.

  I shake my head, refocusing. “I have volumes and volumes on demons. I can look you up and find out whether you’re telling the truth.”

  “Good. Go do that. And hope that Sean doesn’t find you while you’re reading. Because I won’t hurt you, but Sean definitely will.”

  The demon’s intensity makes me feel like he’s telling the truth. And then I think of something. I’ve run into hellhounds twice in connection to this demon, and once somewhere else. “This Sean. Does he work in Dublin? Nice suit? Ponytail?”

  All the open disdain in the demon’s face shifts to wariness. “I thought you didn’t know him.”

  “I don’t. But I crashed one of his parties last night.”

  He pushes back like he’d burrow into the wall of the shed if he could. “You should let me go. And you should run too. You seem like a nice kid.”

  I tap the shock stick on the table. “I can handle myself.” It’s too many coincidences, though. The demon showing up here. My dream leading me to Cosmina, who was connected to the man the demon is connected to. “Why did you run here?”

  “I made for the forest first. Hellhound was on my heels, so I kept going. Something about the shed seemed safe. It called to me, I suppose. I was trying to make it inside. Didn’t get past collapsing over the fence, though.”

  “No, I mean Shancoom. This area specifically.”

  The demon looks away, shrugging. He rubs his shoulder, which must be sore, but it’s working. I did a good job there too. “I like the seaside. Lovely little town.”

  “Were you looking for someone?” It can’t be a coincidence that he ended up by our castle.

  “You don’t want to get mixed up with this. You might think you already are, but it goes so much deeper. Release me. I’ll meet my contact and disappear and you’ll never hear from me again. You fixed me up when you didn’t have to. That was kind. I don’t want to see you dead. Stay away from Dublin.”

  I shouldn’t care, but I like that he thinks I’m kind. It heals some of my fears after what I did in the pit. I can make the right choices while fighting and while choosing not to fight. “Who is your contact?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “I’m not involving you, kid.” Then he grimaces. “Can you at least try to feel happy? I’m starving, and you reek. Seriously, how do you smell so bad?”

  “I do not smell bad!” I showered as soon as we got back to the castle, spending as long as possible scrubbing hellhound blood and zompire dust and guilt and adrenaline from my body.

  “No, really. It’s like . . .” He cocks his head. “There’s this scent clinging to you like smoke. It’s anger and despair and violent rage. So much more than one girl would
ever have access to.” He leans forward, suddenly interested. “Who are you?”

  “Nobody,” I squeak. Could he smell the Slayer in me? Maybe I should tell him. Maybe it would scare him into giving me more information. But I don’t want to use it like a cudgel or a threat. And I don’t want to go giving my identity to demons left and right, even if he does seem like he isn’t much of a threat.

  I can’t let him see he’s rattled me. I fold my arms and continue my best Artemis impression. Firm. Capable. In charge. “Until you tell me who your contact is and what’s going on, you’re not going anywhere.”

  The demon stretches his legs out as far as the chains allow. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you if Sean comes looking.”

  “I think I can handle him.”

  “Right. You’ll slipper-kick him to death.” He closes his eyes. “Bring me someone happy soon, though, or I’ll starve. Or you can do us both a favor and lick my skin. Best day of your life, I promise.”

  “Yuck.” I recoil from him, wanting to rinse my mouth with Listerine at the very thought of it.

  “Yeah, you can totally handle Sean. He’s not going to slit your throat.” The demon yawns. His teeth aren’t teeth at all. They look more like sponges.

  “Maybe I’ll call him right now.”

  At this, genuine terror flashes across his face. “Please,” he says, his voice soft. “Please don’t. Keep me in here. Forever, if you have to. But please don’t give me back to him.”

  My heart responds to his fear. I can’t make promises to a demon, though. So I don’t say anything. But his expression haunts me as I go to turn the light back off. I hesitate. “Do you want the light on or off?”

  “On, please? I don’t like the dark.”

  I nod. Me neither. I leave the shed with more questions than answers. And if I want to see if he’s telling me anything that’s true, I have only one course of action available to me: