“I would argue you should get them the best medical care.”
“Well, until we have an antidote for lycanthropy, or a way to restore souls to vampires—”
“Actually—”
“Do not interrupt me. In the absence of a medical way to intervene, the only humane choice—the only moral choice—is to prevent the spread of infection and end the suffering of the afflicted.”
“By hunting them.”
He shrugs, taking a sip of his tea. “A man must have hobbies.”
“Again, buy an island. Do you see Richard Branson running around hunting humans?”
“Actually—”
I hold up my hands. “No. I don’t want to know. Werewolves are people. They have souls. You don’t get to decide that they should be hunted out of existence.”
“I do, in fact. You understand about power. About the responsibilities that come with it. And my responsibility is to use the power and privilege that I collected over my lifetime to prevent the supernatural from becoming natural. From becoming accepted. You of all people should understand. You’re a Slayer. A killer. This is your job.”
And just like that, it hits me. How wrong he is. All these years, I thought the first Watchers were a bit dense for giving power to only one girl. One Slayer to fight everything? One Slayer to make impossible choices? But … that’s the beauty of it. Because the Slayer is young. The Slayer is a girl. The Slayer isn’t some rich dude, insulated from life and pain and struggle, sitting in his Mr. Darcy house deciding who gets to live and die.
The Slayer is on the streets, in the dark, in the night, walking right alongside the things she hunts. So when she makes life-or-death choices—they’re life-or-death choices for her, too. Not just for the things she’s hunting. She’s not a committee, a council, a group working at a remove.
She’s part of the darkness.
And when you’re already in the dark, you can see the subtle differences in the shadows. Some things are so absent of light that there’s no question. And other things, like werewolves, like the Dougs and Clems of the world, they’re delicately shaded.
I think of Artemis and Honora behind the wheel of that truck. All those shades of darkness in demons. Just like in humans.
My ancient ancestors actually got this one right. The whole one-Slayer thing wasn’t a flaw. It was a feature. The fact that there are more of us now doesn’t change that. This is my calling. My duty. My right.
I don’t have to pretend to be anyone else right now. Nina the Vampire Slayer is exactly who I am and should be. I’m going to play his game, and I’m going to win, and he’s going to regret everything.
I lean back and prop my booted feet up on the mahogany table. “So tell me the rules, Mr. Most Dangerous Game.”
All noble pretense at civility is gone, revealing a face with less humanity than Doug’s neon-yellow one. His tone goes cold. “You’re hunting a werewolf. The other Slayers will be in the trees before you. They want to protect him. Your job is to kill him, if you want to see your little demon pet again. You’ll have a ten-minute head start over the other hunters. They’ll be hunting the werewolf … and anyone in the woods before them.” He smiles, his veneers catching the light to show the ghosts of his tiny gray teeth behind them. “Kill the werewolf and make it out alive, you’ll win a prize and get your demon back. If not, well, can you really call yourself a Slayer?”
I can’t believe my mother considers this man an ally. He’s like the veneer over his teeth—wealth and privilege covering up rotting waste. He thinks he understands what Slayers are? He has no idea. None of them do. No one gets to threaten my friends. No one gets to make decisions that are mine.
Something in my expression must reveal my thoughts, because he smiles sharply. “Before you do anything rash, remember that I have your friends. If you harm me now, none of them make it out alive.”
“Can’t wait for my prize.” I smile at him with such blankly intense cheer that he finally shudders and calls for Jeeves to return me to my cell until the game.
ARTEMIS
HONORA PULLS ARTEMIS INTO AN abandoned side hall. The basement level of the shiny building is far less shiny. Their failure to snag more than a handful of demons at the convention means that they’ll have to go hunting instead of buying in bulk. Sean has some leads—he always does—but it’s dirty, dangerous, aggravating work.
And Artemis doesn’t want to be far away from the Sleeping One. She needs to be close to him, watching. Ready. Nothing can be done now, but when it happens, she’ll be there.
Honora checks up and down the hallway, drained of life by the flickering fluorescent lights above them. When she’s certain they’re alone, she turns and folds her arms. “I read the book.”
Artemis has pored over the book of the Sleeping One. Maybe Honora found something she missed. “Most of it is incomprehensible, right? But he has to go through three forms, and the third and final form will be the most powerful. Like, all shall love me and despair levels of powerful, minus being as hot as Galadriel. Also probably minus the love and plus a whole lot of despair.” Artemis is rambling, she knows she is, but she can’t focus. She paces. Seeing Nina threw her off. She keeps remembering the look on Nina’s face, the shock and betrayal and hurt. Artemis was never the person who put hurt on Nina’s face. She was the one who protected her sister from it. She shakes her head, trying to move past it.
“Right,” Honora says. “So my question is, why are we waiting? We’ve got a hellgod here. He’s not at full power, or even close if his ramblings about the cruel ravages of time are any indication. And he can’t juice up until he finds the right battery size of demon. So I say we make with the stabbing and end it before things get precarious.”
“No!” Artemis backtracks from the force of her exclamation. “No. You saw him stick a knife all the way into his brain and not even bat an eye. How do you propose we kill that?”
“I mean, hard to recover from a decapitation.”
“But not demonically unprecedented. And what happens if we don’t get him on the first strike? Once he knows we’re attacking, that’s it.”
“So what, we help him get what he needs to find his third form? It will be a lot harder to defeat him when he’s at full power.”
“We’ll never let him get there. But we need his guard all the way down. That’s the perfect moment. He’s going to be so focused on changing that he won’t see us coming. And by the time he realizes what we’re doing, it’ll be too late.”
“And what, exactly, are we doing?” Honora frowns, searching Artemis’s face.
Artemis hasn’t exactly told Honora this part yet. Honora has been operating under the assumption they were here to assassinate the hellgod. But they’re a team. Honora needs to know. “We’re stealing it. The hellgod’s power.”
Honora’s eyes go wide. “Moon. Baby. Why?”
“If there’s power up for grabs, we should be the ones who get it! Aren’t you tired of being powerless?”
Honora’s face shifts, becoming fierce. Her eyes narrow. “No one gets to make me feel powerless without my permission. Not ever again. I’m not powerless, and neither are you.”
This is so much harder than Artemis thought it was going to be. She thought Honora would understand. Honora has to understand, because Artemis doesn’t have anyone else now. Tears prick in her eyes. She holds her arms out and Honora comes in close, their arms around each other, foreheads pressed together. “I am, though,” she whispers, trying not to let her voice break. “The whole world makes me feel powerless. That’s why I have to change it.”
Honora reaches behind Artemis and undoes her ponytail, letting Artemis’s hair down. The relief of the constant tension of her ponytail is immediate and she lowers her head to Honora’s shoulder. “Change what?” Honora asks. Her voice is soft in a way it is only ever for Artemis.
“The world.”
Honora sighs. “You need this.”
Artemis nods, her face still against Ho
nora’s shoulder.
She lets go and pulls out her phone. “My girl wants a hellgod’s power, my girl’s getting a hellgod’s power.” She holds up a finger as someone answers on the other end of the line. “Yeah, it’s Honora. We’re in the market for something special of a demonic variety. Looking for rare species. What’ve you heard?” She makes some noncommittal noises, and then draws a sharp breath. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s the one. Who has him? Thanks. We’re square now.”
Artemis resists the urge to bite her nails. “Well?”
Honora’s mouth is pursed. She pauses before answering, something about what she heard troubling her. “We’re going back to London. Should have called my guy before we made it all the way home. This might get messy, though. Personal too.”
“I don’t care. It’s worth it. Thank you. Thank you. I promise, this is going to work out. Trust me.”
“I do. It’s the rest of the world I worry about. But we’re going to change it, right?” The line between Honora’s brows shouldn’t be there. Artemis presses a kiss to smooth it out. They’re going to win. They have to.
14
A DIFFERENT SERVANT FETCHES ME when the sun sets. Doug and I have talked; he’s confident he’s not in any danger and reassured me he has his own plans for while I’m busy. I still don’t like leaving him—and if anyone hurts him, they’ll pay—but I trust that he can handle this.
My shoulder is almost better, and the buzzing anticipation in me isn’t nervousness. It’s excitement. Which should worry me, on account of I am not only hunting but being hunted. But I don’t let myself look too long or hard at it. I don’t have time to question myself. I might not have been able to figure out how to face Artemis and Honora, but I can do this. I’m a Slayer. I’m made for this kind of nonsense.
Out on the far edge of the perfectly manicured lawn, Ian Von Alston is waiting. He’s in a different sharp suit, his hyperpolished dress shoes reflecting the full moon back at us. A maid holds a tray of drinks near a half circle of chairs. Three other men are with Von Alston. They’re all wearing full tactical gear and adjusting night-vision goggles. Like gentlemen, they remove the goggles when I approach, ogling without goggling.
“Ah, our other Slayer.” Von Alston gestures to me as I walk up. I’ve got my hair down. Ponytails are Artemis’s signature fight look. I don’t want to be her right now. It didn’t really work out for me before, and channeling her means I have to think about her. Besides which, I had psyched myself up to pretend not to be afraid, but now that I’m out here looking at these men, I’m not afraid. I’m disgusted. Maybe it’s dangerous not to be warier, but I can’t muster any fear of these men who hunt the vulnerable to make themselves feel powerful. They don’t have any real power. They have to know it. If they don’t, they will by the end of the night.
“A redhead?” One of the men, a white guy with more beard than face, snickers. “Did you know redheads have a lower pain tolerance?”
“You’re right.” I smile, gritting my teeth. “And you’re really hurting me to look at.”
Beard slides a compensating-for-something-size knife into a sheath, glaring at me. “She’s mine,” he growls at the other two.
“Cool, bye.” I walk to the tree line.
“Ten minutes!” Von Alston shouts after me.
I wave without turning around. As soon as I’m in the trees, I stop, ducking behind a tree and taking stock of my options. I could wait here and take out the hunters as soon as they enter the trees. But they’ll probably be spread out, so it’ll eat up some time. And I’d risk one of them finding the werewolf first and killing him.
My best bet is to find the werewolf first, get him to safety, make sure the other Slayers are safe, and then take out the hunters. Easy. All I have is several acres of forest to cover. Before three trained hunters do it. And an unknown number of Slayers to locate and manage. And a werewolf on a full moon.
“Uggggh.” I pick a direction and start running. My cell rings, and I startle, pulling it out. Von Alston never even checked for phones or weapons, the smug ass. “Cillian? Is something wrong?”
“I’m trying to think of a play on Lucille Ball. But I can’t figure out a way to make any cat puns with it. I wish you had consulted me on cat colors before. A ginger cat makes things so much more specific and complicated. I feel like you can’t overlook that detail.”
“Oh my gods, Cillian. I cannot talk to you about the cat right now.”
“Did you already name it? That’s not fair!”
“No, I can’t talk to you about the cat because I’m currently prowling through a forest hunting a werewolf who might also be hunting me in addition to three toxic masculinity poster boys who are definitely hunting me.”
“Nina. What is going on?”
I sense movement on either side. I can’t say how I do—I don’t see or hear anything. But I know there are two people closing in on me.
“Listen, I don’t like people names for animals. It makes it so awkward when you meet people with the same name. ‘Oh, Nina! We named our hedgehog Nina!’ Like, how am I supposed to respond to that? I can’t even …” I throw my phone hard to the side. Someone squeaks in pain as it connects with a face. I drop to the forest floor as a large stick swings through the air where my head would have been. I sweep my leg, tripping someone. She curses in Spanish as she goes down.
I hop to my feet and whirl to find myself face-to-face with the ice cream Slayer from my dreams.
“You!” I say.
“You!” she says. And then she punches me in the face.
“Ow! Gods, I actually prefer the ice cream.” I dodge another punch, then kick her in the stomach. She doubles over, stumbling back. “I don’t want to hurt you! Any of you! I’ve got to get to the werewolf.”
“We won’t let you hurt him!” The Slayer with the stick pushes herself up. In the darkness, she’s an indistinct mass of gorgeous curly dark hair and whirling kicks and fists. I dodge, jump up, grab a low branch, then swing a double kick into her chest. She flies backward, landing hard. The third one I hit with the phone is still on the ground, crying. It was a phone. I can’t have hurt her that bad.
The ice cream one has recovered. “He is our friend.”
“I’m not going to kill him! I’m trying to save him! And I’m trying to save you three, assuming you stop punching me.” I dodge a fist from the curly-haired Slayer. “Seriously! Stop. I’m on your side. I’m not going to kill the werewolf. I might have to knock him out so he doesn’t bite anyone, but that’s it.”
“It won’t be a …” There’s a whistling noise and we all throw ourselves down as a tranquilizer dart sings past us.
“Three hunters,” I hiss. “I promise I’m on your side. Let’s work together.”
“Taylor’s going to be useless,” the curly-haired Slayer whispers, gesturing at the crying Slayer. “And I—I don’t want to do any of this either.”
“Grab her and get her somewhere safe, then.” I look at the ice cream Slayer. “I’m Nina.”
“Chao-Ahn.” She frowns at me. Then she turns to the other Slayer. “Maricruz, get her out. Cling to the edges of the trees. We’ll find you when we’ve finished this.”
But Chao-Ahn’s hands are shaking, her full lips trembling. Come to think of it, all their attacks were clumsy, and their faces in the moonlight look terrified. Something’s happened that I don’t know about. Maybe Von Alston drugged them, or hurt them before releasing them as some sort of a handicap. My protective instinct flares, momentarily overpowering my punch-kick-kill instincts.
I shake my head. “No, you three should stay together. You’ll be stronger that way, and then I won’t have to worry about stumbling into one of you and attacking by accident again. I only have one job if you three are safe, and that’s getting the werewolf out alive. I can do it. I promise. Go to the edge of the tree line. I passed a huge dead oak on my way in. Climb it and wait.”
“For what?” Maricruz, the curly-haired one, asks. Taylor is wiping her face
and standing with Chao-Ahn’s help.
“My signal.”
Chao-Ahn hands me my phone. “What signal?”
“The bat signal. I don’t know. I’ll figure something out. You’ll know it’s me on account of I’m not a dude. Go!”
They hesitate for only a second, then take off running in the direction I came. I hope the hunter who shot at us doesn’t follow them. “Oh no,” I cry out, rolling my eyes. “I twisted my ankle. Don’t leave me behind! Wait for me!”
I jump for the lowest branch and silently pull myself up. It’s not long before the clumsy footsteps of a man trying for stealth in brand-new combat boots announces the presence of one of the hunters. I watch as the beard steps right beneath me, then two steps past. I drop to the ground and tap him on the shoulder.
“What the—” He whirls around, his face finding my fist.
“How’s that for pain tolerance?” I step over his prone, unconscious body, then relieve him of his weapons. I pick him up by one arm and a leg, swing him a few times to get momentum, and then launch him straight up into the trees. He catches on several branches about fifteen feet up, suspended like a rag doll. “Sleep tight,” I sing, then hurry deeper into the trees. As I run, I check over his gear.
“Bloody cheaters!” I curse, looking at a small device with a green dot blipping regularly. They know exactly where the werewolf is. What kind of a hunt is that? I adjust my course and pick up speed. I have to beat the other two. Beard took a detour, more determined to get me than get the werewolf, but I can’t count on that for the other hunters.
I watch, nervous, as the green dot gets closer and closer. Well, as I get closer and closer to it. It’s not moving at all, and hasn’t since I started looking. Did they drug the werewolf, too? It wouldn’t surprise me. None of these creeps would actually risk their lives for this. They want the imitation of life-and-death struggle, the pretense of it.
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