Slayer

by Kiersten White

  Research.

  17

  I KNOCK ON RHYS’S DOOR as soon as it’s a reasonable hour. He opens it and peers out. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, nothing! I kind of wanted to do . . . some research.”

  Rhys blinks in surprise. “Research? Really?” His eyes narrow slightly. This is a request I’ve never made. I can’t have him suspecting there’s a very real reason behind it. I hate manipulating him, but short of going to the Council, it’s my only option.

  “I just—after last night I want to feel normal. And what’s more normal than us hanging out in the library studying demons?”

  Rhys smiles, genuine fondness in his face. I feel a deep twinge of guilt over misleading him. I think he’d help—really help—but then I’d have to ask him to keep secrets for me. I understand now how wearing and awful secrets are. I don’t want to burden him with this.

  “I would like nothing more,” he says. “Did you have a specific research goal? Or go wild and play bookshelf roulette?”

  I laugh. “Focus on demons? There was a new kind last night. Zompires. It made me realize how much I still don’t know.”

  “Perfect! We’ll bulk up on demonology. And you can give me all the zompire details, plus help me narrow down my ideas for my Watcher project. All my previous efforts were scrapped when Buffy tanked magic. I need something new. Something practical but also sensational.”

  Rhys and I walk to the library together. He breathes in deeply, rubbing his hands together. “Where to start?”

  I trail my fingers along the shelves. It really is a beautiful room. The window slots provide abundant golden light that cuts the room in rays, illuminating the dust motes dancing languidly in the air. Most of the books are bound in leather, their spines faded. Illegible covers have neatly labeled cards beneath them. Artemis’s handwriting. Yet another thankless chore she’s done. Do I ever tell her how much all her work is appreciated? Does anyone?

  But Artemis’s labels don’t tell me what type of demon I have in Cillian’s shed or whether he’s dangerous. “Is there anything that categorizes demons by . . . color?”

  Rhys shakes his head. He’s already pulling vampire books as well as several books whose titles begin with “necro-,” which is a prefix I normally avoid if possible. “Is ‘zompire’ a technical name? It sounds like a nickname.”

  “I doubt you’ll find them in any books. Cosmina said they popped up after the link to hell dimensions was cut off.”

  He sets down several of the books, his face falling. “So we’d need field reports. Which would be easy if we had more than Honora in the field. And if she ever checked in. Leo hasn’t encountered them?”

  “Not that he mentioned, but feel free to ask him.” I need to redirect Rhys’s excellent brain. Zompires are something new, which isn’t good because it means no info, and we thrive on info. But the demon in the shed is more pressing than zompires in Dublin. “What about a book that organizes demons by type? A comprehensive reference. Like an encyclopedia of demons.”

  He scratches his head, looking around with a dazed expression. “No. Most of the books were written about specific demons. Areas of the world. Periods of history. But . . . wow. That’s an amazing idea. If I could condense this information into an easily searchable reference guide . . .”

  And I’ve lost him. I snap my fingers. “Okay. Let’s narrow it down, then. I’m interested in hybrid demons. But I’m feeling a little squeamish. So how about hybrid demons that eat things other than people. Maybe ones that eat . . . emotions?” There’s a sign as neon yellow as the demon flashing over my head saying NINA IS UP TO SOMETHING.

  Fortunately, Rhys is in his element and doesn’t notice my obvious guilt. “So empath types? Actual emotions, or emotional energy? Or just energy?” He starts pulling books at what looks like random. He knows these shelves so well he can grab books without looking. “This one has a section on fear demons. Nasty little blokes. Emphasis on ‘little.’ Oh, this has a good primer on incubus- and succubus-type demons, with several in-depth studies. A history of Pylea, that’s useful. Hmm, these demons are psychic, but that might overlap with what you’re studying. Do you want demons that only eat emotions? This one lives on emotions but also has a fondness for kittens.”

  “As pets?”

  “As snacks.”

  I grimace. If my shed demon eats kittens, I’ve definitely been too nice to him. “I guess focus mainly on emotions, but outliers are okay.”

  Rhys sets down the books, along with a notebook and a pen. “As you’re studying, note the demons in alphabetical order, categorize them by type, and also include a detailed bibliography so we can reference back to it.”

  “Homework?”

  Rhys grins. “If you’re doing this, do it right.”

  His excitement would be infectious if my research didn’t have such a pressingly real time crunch behind it. He grabs three more books—easily thousands of pages worth of information—and adds them to the pile, patting them fondly. “This should get us started.”

  “Started?” I whimper.

  “I’m going to make our demon reference book as my Watcher project! It’s applicable even with the death of magic, and I can update the notes to reflect the change in the world! It will also give us a good starting point for determining which demons are earthbound and which are sealed away from us. We can also add new things, like zompires.” His nose wrinkles in distaste. “I’ll come up with a suitable Latin name for them. Anyhow. The whole demonic landscape has changed, and it’s up to me to catalog it!” He hums to himself, going back to the bookshelves.

  I get to work, but it doesn’t go well. It turns out there are any number of demons that consume emotion. And emotion and energy are so closely linked, oftentimes the entries don’t make any distinction. Plus, none of the frequently gruesome drawings look anything like my Coldplay demon.

  I shake my head, snorting a laugh. “Oh my gods, he was all yellow.”

  “Hmm?” Rhys looks up from his own book.

  “Nothing.”

  We’re interrupted when old Ruth Zabuto creaks in with Jade in tow. “Hello, dear ones,” Ruth says.

  “Hey, Grandma.” Rhys barely looks up.

  “Hey, Jade,” I say. I want to mention that I’m a Slayer, because I feel guilty for not informing her and Imogen. But I don’t know any nonawkward way to bring it up.

  “Morning.” She wrinkles her nose with distaste at both the word and the concept of mornings. She looks rough, like she’s barely been sleeping. Which is odd. Jade sleeps all the time. “Shouldn’t being a Slayer get you out of research duty? If I were a Slayer, I’d never set foot in the library again.”

  Of course she knows. It’s a miracle I have the secrets I do, living in Castle Gossip. Although I’m relieved I don’t have to tell her. “My mom doesn’t want me to train. So I figured I’d be a new kind of Slayer. The smart, researchy kind. A Watcher-Slayer.”

  Jade looks disgusted. “What a waste.”

  Ruth Zabuto’s voice is wobbly and her eyes brim with liquid. She looks worn down and pale and with even darker circles under her eyes than normal. “Jade, dear, pull all the books of magic we have extra copies of. Artemis marked their spines with chalk.” Jade sighs and shuffles up and down the rows.

  “What are you doing?” I slam my book shut on a gruesomely detailed drawing of a demon eating fear by inserting its needlelike tongue into an amygdala. I’d prefer the kitten snacker to that one.

  Ruth’s heavily lined face wrinkles further. “Have you heard of a thing called . . . E. Day?”

  “eBay,” Jade corrects.

  “Yes. E. Bay.” Ruth separates it into two distinct words. “Many of these books are antiques. And that’s all they are.” She runs her fingers along the cover of a gold-embossed book with a single eye in the middle. “Did you know, this was a real eye. It used to open and give you the angriest looks for daring to explore its magic.” She jabs her finger into the eye, as though trying to get it
to wake up. “Just a book now.”

  “Grandma!” Rhys stands. I’ve never seen him this angry. “You can’t sell the books!”

  “Only the magic books, dear. And only the ones we’ve already copied. We need money more than we need history books. We have to think of the Littles, their future. We don’t have the resources we used to.” She pats his hand and then continues down the row with Jade. Rhys slumps in his chair.

  This is our history. Our heritage. This is all I have connecting me to my father. And it’s yet another thing we’re losing because of stupid Buffy. If she hadn’t broken everything, we’d still have magic and money. If she hadn’t messed up the Slayer powers so deeply, I wouldn’t have become one. My life would have stayed simple.

  Although, even as this familiar resentment runs through my mind, I have to admit to myself that I’m not entirely sure I do wish my life had stayed uncomplicated. The changes have thrown things into stark relief. The idea of going back to being the medic—ignored, discounted, letting Artemis be in charge of both the castle and my life . . . it’s not appealing. It was unfair to both of us. And I see now that as a Watcher I was never going to shift anyone’s way of thinking or working.

  Becoming a Slayer was the last way I imagined my life changing for the better, but the universe has a perverse sense of humor. I wanted to change the Watchers? I had to become something else.

  The door opens and my mother breezes in. “Ruth, don’t tell Wanda what we’re doing. She’ll insist on a meeting and then demand to be in charge of new fund allocations, and we both know where the money will go if—” She stops midstride when she sees me. “What are you doing in here?”

  “Rhys wants to make an encyclopedia of demons. And since I’m not busy,” I say, leaning into the lie to prove just how much I’m not training as a Slayer or fighting hellbeasts or doing anything else that will get me in trouble, “I figured I’d help.”

  She frowns in thought. “That’s a very good idea, Rhys. Practical.” Her eyes dart to various shelves, never quite settling on me. “Are you feeling well, Nina?”

  “I’m fine,” I snap.

  “Did you have fun at the movies?”

  “The—” I cut myself off before I can ask what she’s talking about. “Oh yes! Super fun. Didn’t we have fun at the movies?” I ask Rhys.

  “It was a little bloody for my taste,” he deadpans.

  “Good,” my mother says. “Good. Well, let me know how your project goes, Rhys. Nina, may I speak to you for a moment in the hall?”

  I’m surprised she didn’t make me schedule an appointment through Artemis. I follow her out. Maybe she’s going to talk to me about the second hellhound, the one she shot. Explain why she didn’t bother telling everyone else about it or put us on lockdown again. Because the more I think about it, the weirder that is. Wasn’t she worried there would be more? She doesn’t know what their target was, so she has no idea that as long as the Coldplay demon’s not here, we’re safe.

  “I have something for you.” She hands me a pamphlet. I’m still thinking about her and the gun and the hellhound, so it takes me several seconds to process what I’m reading. And then it’s several more before I can speak through my shock and confusion. “Boarding school?”

  “You’d be starting late, but it will set you up nicely for university and your future medical studies.”

  “I— What? What do you mean? I’m already studying. Here.”

  For a second I glimpse that same vulnerability I thought I saw in her face yesterday. Like she’s ready to talk to me for once instead of sending commands in my general direction. The look swiftly disappears behind her firm, no-nonsense expression. She’s not my mother in that expression. She’s a Council member. “The castle has never really been the right place for you.”

  The “castle,” meaning the Watchers. She’s implying that all the things I’ve done don’t matter. That what I always suspected—I have no place or purpose here, among the people I love best and the organization I want to serve—is true.

  “But I’m part of this.” My voice is tight with pain. I want to be angry, but I’m so hurt I can’t access those emotions. Being here, doing this work—it’s what I do with Artemis. And it’s my only connection to my dad. “I’m a Watcher.”

  “You’re not.” She doesn’t say it meanly. It’s a statement of fact.

  And it’s a true one. I’m not, and I never was going to be. Not fully. That was saved for Artemis. I haven’t mattered much over the years. I don’t doubt that my fellow Watchers care about me, but I also know that they’ve never needed me. Not the way they need Artemis or Rhys or Leo. A week ago my mother could have sent me away and it would have had almost no impact on the castle’s functions.

  But that was a week ago. I lift my chin defiantly. “So I’m not a Watcher. That’s fine. I’m a Slayer.” Each time I say it aloud, it feels a little more real, a little more right.

  My mother flinches as though I’ve struck her. “That’s not what you want.”

  “You’ve never asked me what I wanted!” I shove the pamphlet back at her. “Not once. And what about Artemis? She’s going to leave all this behind and go to boarding school too?”

  “Artemis needs to stay with me. It’s best for everyone.”

  “No, it’s not. I’ll bet you’ve never asked Artemis what she wants either.” For that matter, have I? Have I ever actually heard Artemis say she wants to be a Watcher? She was devastated when she failed the test, but was it about being a Watcher, or failing?

  “I wish I could make my decisions based on what you want, Nina. But I can’t. There are bigger things at play here than your feelings. One day you’ll understand. Until then, you have to trust that I’m doing what’s right for you. For both of you. I’m your mother.”

  “My mother?” I want to hurt her as much as she’s hurt me. “No. You’re a Council member. And since, according to you, I’m neither a Watcher nor a Slayer, I don’t have to follow your commands.” I stalk back into the library. Jade sees my expression and opens her mouth to ask me something, but I grab my stack of books and carry them to the far shelf. I kick the secret door aside, then storm through the hidden room, through the tunnels, and finally out into the dorm wing.

  I drop the books in my room. Then, keyed up and furious and more than a little worried my mom will show up for round two, I go for a run.

  It doesn’t clear my mind. I was never trained to know my body, to use it to its full ability. I used to be precisely aware of all my limitations. I have no idea what they are now.

  My mother’s latest attempt to get rid of me nips at my heels. I can’t run fast enough to get away from it. The Council wouldn’t let her. Bradford would probably go against her. Eve definitely would. And Leo—I’m positive Leo would fight for me to stay. It makes me feel a little better, knowing I have the Silveras. Though I’m a bit surprised by my absolute confidence that Leo is on my side. Maybe I should tell him about the demon in the shed. But it would be so humiliating to admit. And then I’d have to tell Eve, because I’m sure he doesn’t have secrets from his mom. And she’ll tell the rest of them, because she’s on the Council.

  Come to think of it, why hasn’t Leo found me today? Is it because we need to lie low and pretend so my mom doesn’t get suspicious? Or is he avoiding me after last night? Maybe he and his mother are talking about me, deciding what to do.

  Everyone here is a Watcher before everything else. I need a Slayer to talk to. Or at least someone who understands what I’m going through.

  As I leap over logs and duck under branches, a detail I had forgotten in all the chaos strikes me. I have access to people who knew Slayers better than anyone. Or at least, I have access to their writing.

  I stole two Watcher diaries from my mother’s nightstand. It’s time to find out what they knew.

  • • •

  Artemis is in our room when I get back. She doesn’t hang around in the middle of the day—her work keeps her busy. And I still don’t kn
ow where we stand after last night.

  “It’s Tuesday,” she says. It sounds like an accusation.

  Then it hits me. It’s Tuesday.

  Tuesday afternoon is Artemis’s only time off. We spend it together. Doing manis and pedis, refilling the holy water supplies, and sharpening stakes while watching movies on our ancient laptop. We eat protein bars we keep stashed so she doesn’t even have to go near the kitchen and dining hall. Normally, it’s my favorite day of the week. I spend the six days before carefully curating a selection of movies and choosing nail polish colors. But this week, I haven’t prepared at all.

  “You forgot, didn’t you?” Artemis’s face is tight.

  I did. But admitting it will hurt her even more. So again, I lie. “After what happened last night, I didn’t know if you’d want to hang out.”

  The lie didn’t work. She looks even more hurt. “Do you not want to?”

  “Of course I want to! I always want to.” I’m not in the mood for movies, though. I’m in the mood to hit something. To run more. To do something, anything, with all this energy itching through me. I need to find Leo, to see if Eve has any additional insight about what we ran into last night. And the journals taunt me from their hiding place. Whose are they, that my mother kept them? What might they tell me about how to be a Slayer?

  I sit on my bed. “I just don’t know where we are right now. I didn’t want to force you to do this.”

  She carefully lines up our bottles of polish. She always wears black, but she lets me paint her fingernails in bright rainbows. “Maybe this seems pointless now, with everything going on. But I want a normal afternoon with you. If you want.”

  She can’t mask the hurt in her voice. I was always the one who counted down to these days. But maybe she needed them even more than I did.

  Guilt washes over me. My changes have disrupted her life too. I’ve been mad at her—with good reason—but I can also be patient and understanding. The Watcher diaries aren’t going anywhere. Neither is the Coldplay demon. “I want that too,” I say quickly. “A normal afternoon. You pick the movie.”