“Well, then at least promise me that you’ll stay away from the coroner’s office. Next time I catch you, it’ll be handcuffs and paperwork.”
Outside the window was a blur of green as they passed trees and grass and greenery. Joss bet that if they slowed down a bit, it would be really beautiful scenery. Life was like that, he imagined. If he could just slow down, maybe he could see the beauty in things.
“Okay.” He met the cop’s reflection again. “I promise.”
“Where do you live, exactly?”
Joss was tempted not to tell him. Prison might be a better option than facing his dad’s wrath. But eventually, he told the officer where he lived, and after what felt like a long car ride, they pulled into the driveway, where Joss’s dad looked up from the woodpile with surprise, fear, and then fury. Joss sank down in his seat, watching as the officer got out and spoke with his dad, kicking himself for not thinking to lie and give the policeman Paty’s address instead.
Then he came back to the car, opened Joss’s door. “No more trouble, son. You hear me? Next time, this will be serious.”
Only it was already serious.
Joss was in very real trouble with his dad, and he wasn’t exactly sure how to face it. As the cop pulled away, he turned back to his dad and tried. “Dad, I’m sorry. I was ju—”
“Don’t talk to me. I don’t want to hear it.” He shook his head, his eyes burning with anger.
Joss understood that. He did. Who wouldn’t be angry at their kid for coming home in the back of a cop car? It was a perfectly sensible reaction. But he hadn’t even given Joss a chance to explain.
Not that Joss had really taken the time to come up with a believable explanation. The truth wasn’t an option here. “But Dad, I—”
He tossed another log on the woodpile, but did it with such force that he might have been tossing it more at the pile than on it. “First you attack Henry and now you get brought home by the police? What’s wrong with you, Joss?”
More than he would ever know. Joss was a liar. He was a secret keeper. He was a killer. But all for the right reasons . . . or so he thought. What if the reasons that he’d deemed to be right were actually wrong? Then he was just a liar, a secret keeper, and a killer, without good cause. Then he was just a terrible person.
Joss shrugged, shoving his thumbs in his front jeans pockets. “A lot, I guess.”
“You guess.” His dad snorted then and tossed another hunk of wood onto the pile before turning back to Joss and pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re damn right, a lot. Why can’t you be more like Greg or Henry? They’d never be so reckless.”
Joss stood there, stunned. What was he supposed to say to that? How was he supposed to respond to the admission that his dad wished that he were someone else, rather than his reckless, imperfect self?
Fighting tears, Joss turned toward the house and hurried away. He could only leave his dad with the words that he feared most. “You’re right.”
Echoing after him were his father’s angry words. “Don’t you walk away from me when I’m talking to you!”
As Joss stepped inside the side door, he passed by Henry, whose wrist was in a brace. With his uninjured hand, Henry squeezed Joss’s shoulder sympathetically, but Joss shook him off and hurried upstairs. He wasn’t sure where this unexpected bout of empathy had come from, but it was a case of too little, too late. He didn’t want Henry’s sympathy. He didn’t want his father’s approval. All he really wanted at the moment was to be left alone.
12
WORKING IT OUT
Joss ran as hard and fast as he could, straight at the pole that held the ratty-looking tetherball. As he jumped, he focused hard on the way that his muscles felt, on the speed that he knew he was capable of. He focused, true enough, on anything that wasn’t his dad or Henry or his home life or anything at all like that. He focused only on what he could control, and that was this. The way his body moved. The shape his physical form was in. Because focusing on his emotional form was the last thing that Joss wanted. Physical stuff was easy. Emotional . . . not so much.
He’d snuck out of the house to come here, to gain some perspective on things and to run through some maneuvers. But if his dad found out, he was as good as dead. He was amazed that his dad had let him walk into the house without strangling him, but the grounding that had come after his dad had entered was no surprise at all. Not that it mattered. How can you ground a Slayer?
He jumped high, planting his left foot on the pole and pushed off, launching himself toward the swing set. As he flew through the air, he focused on the landing that he wanted to achieve, repeating three words in his brain: Visualize and realize.
His right hand closed around the metal of the slanted pole of the swing set. Kicking his legs at just the right angle, it provided him with just enough momentum to make a full circle around the pole. When he was again under the A-frame support, he grabbed the other pole in his left hand. Joss alternated hands climbing closer to the top of the frame. Right, left. Right, left.
Once there, he reached out for the large crossbeam at the top of the swings. This pole was much bigger than the side supports. His palms wet with sweat, Joss found it much more difficult to maintain his grip, but he held fast, pushing his efforts onward. He pulled himself up, bending over the beam at the waist. Then he swung one leg over the bar and stood nimbly on the top of it.
Running forward, one foot directly in front of the other, he worked his way ever closer to the end of the swing set. At the last second, Joss jumped off the beam, grabbed a tree branch, and swung forward, landing with his feet directly on the top of a long, metal slide. With the kind of finesse possessed by only Slayers, he glided effortlessly to the bottom, coming to rest still standing in the sand below.
He quickly squashed his urge to pat himself on the back for doing a good job at his various training exercises. After all, he didn’t deserve congratulations or admiration for running through basic maneuvers. He didn’t deserve such an arrogant show of self-flattery. He’d done nothing. Nothing but fail.
For only the briefest of moments, Joss paused to catch his breath. His muscles were burning. His forehead dripping with sweat. A strange pain was gnawing at his right side, just beneath the ribs. But all that Joss could think about was Sirus, and how he’d failed both the Society and Sirus by not killing the vampire the moment that he encountered him here in Santa Carla. Not to mention that he had also failed himself.
If he had killed Sirus at that moment, it would have pleased the Society to know that he fully understood his job as a Slayer. It would have proven his loyalty to them. It would have made them believe in him once again.
Killing Sirus would have been an act of kindness, really. What person, what Slayer, would really want to live the life of a vampire? What if Sirus was suffering in this form? What if he was trapped? Joss might have set him free with one swipe of a stake.
It would have been the right thing to do. So why did the idea of doing it make Joss feel queasy?
Maybe he was losing his edge. Maybe the Slayer Society was right to be concerned. He could run as many maneuvers and training exercises as he wanted around this old, abandoned playground. None of it mattered. What mattered was that he had failed to kill Sirus that summer, and he had failed again this summer. He was a failure. He was weak.
And he wasn’t at all sure that he cared.
So what if he was weak? So what if he was feeling more than a little conflicted over vampires and their place in this world? Was he really the only one, the first of his kind, the sole Slayer, to wonder whether or not all vampires were truly evil? And if he was, was being the first to wonder really such a horrible thing?
Sirus had been like a father figure to him. And Vlad . . . Vlad had been his friend. The truth was, when no one else was around and Joss was left alone with his thoughts, he treasured the time that he’d spent with eac
h of them. And he immediately felt guilty for doing so. Were these thoughts, these emotions, wrong simply because the Slayer Society said that they were? Or was it even the smallest bit possible that it was okay to feel positive emotions about a sworn enemy?
He wondered if the Society was right about vampires being able to trick your emotional reaction to situations. Had Sirus and Vlad hit switches in his brain, causing him to feel this way? Or was it how he really felt?
Joss shook his head and started running laps around the playground, trying to clear his tormented thoughts away. He didn’t want to think about Sirus and Vlad anymore. He just wanted all that he had been through to fall away and crumble into the dust of his memories.
But as his feet slowed, and Joss wiped salty sweat and tears from his eyes, he saw the truth of it. There was no going back. He’d been set on a path of discovery, and he had to face it head on if he had any hope at all of understanding what was right and what was wrong. He’d taken an oath—a promise—to the Slayer Society that he would do all that he could for the good of mankind. And if that meant losing a friend, if it meant losing a father figure, then that was the way that it had to be.
A father figure.
Joss blinked with sudden, sad, angry realization. By the time he’d met Sirus, Sirus had already been turned into a vampire. Therefore, Sirus already had vampire motivations. What if Sirus had honed in on Joss’s desperate need for a father figure in his life from the moment that they’d met, and had just been using that need to get Joss to give him what he wanted? What if Sirus’s apparent affection for him had been nothing but a mirage? A tool to manipulate a young, inexperienced Slayer into doing his bidding? What if that’s what Sirus was doing now, and that’s why Joss had stayed his hand and failed to kill Sirus when he saw him in the woods? What if Sirus had been controlling Joss’s emotions with his mind?
Joss balled his fists tightly at his sides. If that were true, then it would mean that Sirus was the killer after all. If that were true, it would mean that Joss had been nothing but a pawn in a bloodsucking monster’s twisted game.
The sun dipped down below the trees then, turning the sky above a fiery shade of orange. Joss retrieved his T-shirt from where it lay on the rusted merry-go-round and as he slipped it over his head, he hoped that Sirus’s telepathy was honing in on him. As hard as he could, he thought about his former friend and mentor and hoped that Sirus would hear his thoughts and listen. His message, as he stepped from the playground and into the surrounding woods, was short, but clear. “Sirus . . . we need to talk.”
As he lifted his left foot from the grass of the playground area, Joss moved into the woods. His hand found the comfort of his stake in its holster. It was time for honesty. It was time for truth. It was time for him and Sirus to have a little chat about motives.
And only one of them would get out of the woods alive.
13
A CONVERSATION WITH SIRUS
It amazed Joss how stepping from an open, grassy area and into the edge of a forest could affect the light so drastically. It was almost like moving between worlds. In one, there was the soft glow of a between time, where everything was bathed in the warm tones of sunset. But on the other side of that wall of trees there was darkness. Little light filtered in. Shadows of the towering tree trunks blended in with the undergrowth. Wind moved branches, creating strange woodland demons in Joss’s imagination. It was difficult to tell the difference between myth and reality. In the forest, it was night. Night. The realm of vampires.
Joss wasn’t certain that what he was doing—wandering into the woods, hoping that Sirus had somehow honed in on his thoughts at that precise moment and heeded his call—wasn’t the dumbest thing that he had ever done. But what did it hurt to try to reach Sirus with his thoughts? So what if he came out on the other side looking stupid? He’d only look stupid to himself, and to Joss, it was worth that risk. Especially if he made contact with Sirus and they could settle this all at last.
The blue tint that pervaded the forest gave way to gray, then black, as night fell hard and fast. It was difficult to see in the darkness of the woods, but Joss relaxed his eyes, and allowed them to adjust to the change in light as he surveyed his surroundings for any sign of Sirus. In the distance, he could hear the faint song of frogs, calling to future mates. Not ten yards to his left, there was the sound of some creature crawling through the undergrowth. Standing with his back to a thick-trunked tree, his stake firmly grasped in his right hand, the Slayer Joss McMillan laid in wait.
“About what, Joss? What do we need to talk about?” The voice came from behind him, but there had been no sounds preceding it, as if Sirus hadn’t moved at all to get here. He wasn’t there, and then he was. Joss couldn’t help but marvel at a vampire’s unnatural speed.
Joss spun around and found Sirus standing on the other side of the tree, in the exact position that Joss had been standing just a moment before. His face looked drawn, troubled. His posture suggested that he was weary. But it might have been an act. Vampires were tricky that way. Especially this vampire.
“Shall we discuss your nightmares? The murders that have been happening around Santa Carla? The weather?” Sirus met his eyes then, and Joss could tell that Sirus knew exactly why Joss had called him here tonight. As if on cue, Sirus’s eyes moved to the stake in Joss’s hand. “What else is there for a vampire and a Slayer to discuss?”
Joss didn’t move, but he did tighten his grip on his stake a bit, on the chance that Sirus might make an unexpected move toward him. “First, we can discuss the murders, if you like.”
Sirus raised an eyebrow then, but not in any way that suggested that Joss didn’t know what he was talking about. Just, perhaps, that Joss had only barely scratched the surface of his theories when it came to the murders and who . . . or what . . . might have committed them. “It’ll be a short conversation, Joss. I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer on the subject. And what I do know about them you wouldn’t believe. Not even if I swore on Kat’s life.”
Hearing him say that gave Joss brief pause. Sirus would never swear on Kat’s life. She was his daughter. She was his everything. But he didn’t give voice to his doubts, simply tilted his head at his former mentor and friend and tightened his jaw a bit. “Try me.”
Sirus nodded to the stake in Joss’s hand. “You don’t need that.”
But he did need his stake. Just in case Sirus lunged at him. He needed it to protect himself, to defend himself from the murderous rampage of a bloodthirsty monster.
Didn’t he?
“I’ll be the judge of that.” Suddenly the stake felt very heavy in his hand. But he gripped it anyway. “Were you and another vampire working in tandem to take innocent lives around Santa Carla?”
Sirus shook his head, meeting Joss’s eyes. But Joss could tell that the vampire’s focus was still on his stake. “No. But I know the gentleman to whom you are referring. I simply brought him along to assist me in my search for the killer. But you made fast work of him, didn’t you? Did it occur to you that his actions toward you might only have been in self-defense and out of fear?”
No. Sirus was wrong. That vampire had been trying to kill him.
“You’re right on one thing, though.” Sirus continued. “It is a vampire that’s responsible for these deaths. But not a normal vampire. Something else. Something . . . monstrous.”
Joss met Sirus’s eyes, an angry heat rising up his neck and enveloping his face. “You’re monstrous.”
Sirus held his hands out in front of him in a pleading gesture. When he spoke, his tone was soft, gentle, as if he wanted to do his best to protect Joss from whatever it was that Joss was thinking about doing. “No, Joss. Fangs or not, I am your friend.”
The last word that Sirus spoke echoed through Joss’s skull like the lie that it was. Who was Sirus kidding? He wasn’t Joss’s friend. He was the enemy, a monster, someone who’d used Joss’s
weakness to get what he’d wanted. A friend didn’t lie to you. A friend didn’t manipulate you. Besides, he’d danced this dance of betrayal before. With a boy named Vladimir Tod.
With fury building up in his chest, Joss made his move. He shot straight for Sirus, raising his stake high, his words spilling out like fire from his tongue. “Like hell you are!”
Sirus grabbed him by the wrist and held Joss’s weapon still. His eyes had lit up with something mimicking anger, but his words came out sounding more like regret. “I am, Joss! I know you don’t believe it, but I am your friend.”
They each struggled for control of the stake, but just as Joss was certain he had the upper hand, Sirus slipped the wooden weapon from his grip and tossed it several feet behind him. After he did, Joss shoved uselessly, angrily at his chest. “You betrayed me, you son of a—”
“Joss!” Sirus shook his head, his eyes rimmed in red and shimmering. “I had no choice. I promise you that. If there had been another way . . . if there had been any other way, Joss . . .”
“You made me think you cared about me. But you were using me. All along. Every moment. Every exchange. Why?” He wasn’t shouting anymore, and he was no longer certain that he’d really intended to kill Sirus here in the woods. He’d just wanted answers. He’d just wanted to understand.
Sirus ran a frustrated hand through his hair, raking it back from his face. The sight of his upset put a hard rock at the center of Joss’s core. “I didn’t want to use you, Joss. I truly care about you. You’re . . . you’re like a son to me.”
Sirus’s words tugged at Joss’s being, threatening to rip apart any resolve that remained. All Joss had ever wanted was for his dad to love him, and to be the way that he’d been before a vampire had stolen Cecile away from them forever, smashing their family apart as it exited their home. All he’d wanted was to know that he still had a dad, somehow. But Sirus couldn’t be his dad. Because flawed or not, he had a dad already. Joss shook his head at Sirus, his words bitter. “Well you’re not like a father to me. I already have a father. Remember?”
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