Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1 - THE NEXT GREAT ADVENTURE
Chapter 2 - CECILE
Chapter 3 - THE DEATH OF A FAMILY
Chapter 4 - INTRODUCTION
Chapter 5 - ECHOES OF THE NIGHT
Chapter 6 - A SENSE OF DUTY
Chapter 7 - THE PURIFICATION BEGINS
Chapter 8 - PICKING FLOWERS
Chapter 9 - A SIMPLE MISTAKE
Chapter 10 - A BRIEF REPRIEVE
Chapter 11 - HEARTS OR SPADES
Chapter 12 - TRAINING BEGINS
Chapter 13 - DEFENSE
Chapter 14 - THE LIES WE TELL
Chapter 15 - EARLY-MORNING ADVENTURES
Chapter 16 - CONFRONTING THE BEAST
Chapter 17 - SECRETS TO SHARE
Chapter 18 - FACING THE ENEMY
Chapter 19 - RUNNING ON EMPTY
Chapter 20 - J’ACCUSE
Chapter 21 - DETERMINATION
Chapter 22 - A DYING FLAME
Chapter 23 - FOR YOU, CECILE
Chapter 24 - ABSENT FRIENDS
Chapter 25 - THE DARKNESS
Chapter 26 - SECRETS REVEALED
Chapter 27 - THE HUNT
Chapter 28 - NO APOLOGIES
Chapter 29 - AN IMPORTANT HANDSHAKE
Chapter 30 - A SLAYER’S GIFT
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DIAL BOOKS
An imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
PUBLISHED BY THE PENGUIN GROUP
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, U.S.A. ● Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) ● Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England ● Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) ● Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) ● Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) ● Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa ● Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England
Copyright © 2011 by Heather Brewer
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Brewer, Heather.
Summary: The summer before ninth grade, when Joss sets off to meet his uncle and hunt down the beast that murdered his younger sister three years earlier, he learns he is destined to join the Slayer Society.
ISBN : 978-1-101-54781-6
PZ7.B75695Chrv 2011
[Fic]—dc22 2011006061
All rights reserved
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
http://us.penguingroup.com
To my Minion Horde:
Without you, I am nothing.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, an incredible amount of gratitude is due to my editor, Liz Waniewski, for her brilliance and saintlike patience. You make me a better writer, Liz, and the world needs more people like you in it.
Much love, respect, and props go to my fabulous agent, Michael Bourret, who keeps me (somewhat) sane and on the road to success, no matter what.
Well-deserved thanks and high-fives to Team Vlad at Penguin Young Readers. You know who you are, and I owe you big-time for your support, your friendship, and your unfailing belief in me and my characters. Without your blood, sweat, and tears, who knows where Vlad (and now Joss) would be?
Hugs and kisses to my incredibly supportive sister, Dawn Vanniman, for being there for me, and for being awesome. And all sorts of love to my Minions, who understand me like I understand them. You get me like nobody else does, Minions, and this book is for you.
Paul, Jacob, and Alexandria—you never fail to amaze me, Brewer Clan. When I am down, you lift me up. When I am sad, you make me laugh. And when I am telling you all about what the voices in my head told me to do, you nod and smile in the way that I need you to. Thank you for being my everything. I couldn’t do any of this without you.
PROLOGUE
Abraham’s heels clicked along the marble floor as he moved the length of the room. His breaths were even, as usual, but there was a tension in his muscles—an imminent dread that was impossible to ignore. The room was dim, the only light pouring in from the arched windows all along its longer side. It was growing dark. The sun was setting behind the building, casting a warm orange glow across the sky. Outside the window, the shadowed London Eye stood watch.
Seated in a tall, ornately carved chair at the end of the room was a man in his eighties, his hair frosty white. His eyes spoke with wisdom beyond anything that Abraham had yet to experience. To the old man’s left and right were several smaller, but just as ornate, chairs holding several other people, each of varying age and experience. Abraham knew each of them—some better than others—but no words or expressions of greeting were offered. This was not a social visit. He had been summoned for a distinct and important purpose.
As Abraham approached, he knelt, following the usual pomp and circumstance of a Slayer Society Headquarters meeting. With a nod, the old man gestured for him to stand and respond to his summons. Abraham stood, cleared his throat, and began. “Masters, you have called me here with a question—the question of who will be next in my bloodline worthy of serving our noble cause. I submit to you that I have seen evidence of the Slayer gene in my nephew Greg McMillan, and call upon you for permission to approach the boy with enlightenment.”
A murmur passed through the gathered group, one filled with a doubt that troubled Abraham, though he would never admit to it. Once the murmurs had quieted, the elderly man spoke. “You have been called upon to answer that question, yes, Abraham. But what of the child we have asked about? He seems far more likely to wield a stake someday than your nephew Greg. As you know from tracing the bloodline, it has been determined that the next Slayer in your family will likely be a niece or nephew. But it is highly more likely that the child will be fostered by your brother Harold than your brother Michael. The genetic tests that we’ve run on hair and blood samples collected from both your brothers show that the Slayer gene is in its dormant state within Harold’s genes, which means that his offspring are the likely receivers. The odds of this gene skipping generations and miraculously appearing within one of Michael’s children is preposterous.”
Abraham counted two heartbeats before he spoke again. “Harold has a son and daughter. But neither Joss nor Cecile seems the right fit for the Society’s needs. Both are far too emotional, and—”
“They are children, and children are emotional creatures, Abraham.” The old man waved his hand dismissively through the air. “Tell us more about your nephew Joss.”
Abraham paused. He was never one to openly disagree with the Society’s whims, but for a brief moment, he hesitated before answering. “Joss is currently ten years of age. Smart enough, with quick reflexes and adequate speed. But he lacks the drive to further his physical attributes, to better himself in that regard, of his own accord.”
“He is not yet training age. Eight more years may awaken that drive within him.”
Abraham’s chest tightened. “He is also incredibly empathetic.”
“He has a scientific mind.”
“He is not the next Slayer.” Despite his mastery of self-control, Abraham’s
voice rose, echoing off the walls of the Slayer Society Headquarters. Once he realized it, he dropped his eyes in shame.
The old man leaned forward, his demeanor calm, his expression full of compassion. “We believe that he is, Abraham. The sooner you come to accept that, the sooner you can begin preparations for his training.”
Abraham shook his head, his eyes still on the marble floor below. When he spoke, his voice had softened to a near whisper, as if to make up for his previous tone. “Joss is weak. Not just emotionally. Physically. I’m not sure he could survive the training.”
The man sighed heavily and sat back in his chair. “Then he will die, Abraham, and your bloodline in the Society will end. But if he is the next Slayer in your family, you will train him. Of that, you have no choice.”
“And if he refuses to train?” Even as the question left his tongue, Abraham reached out for it with all his wanting, but it was too late. He’d asked a query to which he already knew the answer.
The old man met and held his gaze, a look of sadness about him as he replied, “Kill him quickly. Family deserves mercy.”
1
THE NEXT GREAT ADVENTURE
Hey, brat.”
“I’m not a brat. You’re a brat.” Cecile wrinkled up her little nose, impossibly making herself even more adorable than she already was. Joss smiled. She was right; she wasn’t a brat. But he loved teasing her, loved making her cross her arms defiantly in front of herself the way she was doing now. Besides, it wasn’t like she really thought he was being mean. He was just playing, as always.
He reached out and gave one of her pigtails a light tug. “You’re a way bigger brat than me. Come on. Mom says breakfast is ready. We’re having French toast.”
“Jossie, will you help me with this first?” She held up the nude torso of a Barbie doll in one hand and the matted-haired, disembodied head of the doll in the other.
Joss sighed. “Only if you stop calling me Jossie.”
It was a lie. He would have fixed it for her no matter what. He’d do anything for Cecile. But it was worth a try. Once he’d popped the poor doll’s head back into place, he said, “Want a piggyback ride?”
“Yes!” She’d no sooner said the word than she had leaped up onto Joss’s back. They bounded down the stairs to the kitchen. As Joss ran, jiggling her up and down on purpose, Cecile squealed with laughter.
The kitchen, decorated in clean, bright white and sunshine yellow, greeted the siblings with a warm, happy air. It had been home to them for five years, since three days before Cecile had celebrated her first birthday and eight days before Joss had celebrated his fifth. Joss loved this kitchen. He couldn’t ever imagine gathering with his family anywhere else to discuss the coming events of the day, or grabbing a snack with his sister in the afternoon once each had returned from school. The kitchen was more than just a room where they cooked their meals and ate their breakfast. It was the soul of their house. It was, more than any other room, home.
Joss turned around and leaned back, dropping his little sister into her chair by the counter. As she landed with a thump, she erupted in laughter once again. Then Joss took his seat beside her. Their mom was busy dipping slices of bread into a bowl filled with cinnamon-speckled eggs, then delivering them into a sizzling hot pan on the stove. As she flipped each piece, she hummed a happy tune. No one, Joss thought, was as happy as his mom. She always wore a sunny expression and a smile on her face. She was warm and outgoing and more friendly and kind than anyone he had ever met.
Cecile shifted impatiently in her seat. If there was anything more impossible for a young kid to wait for without at least a few complaints, it was French toast. Grabbing a pad of paper from the counter, Joss busied his sister with a quick game of Tic-tac-toe. She won the first one, but set her bottom lip in a pout. “You cheated, Jossie.”
Joss shook his head. “I didn’t cheat. How could I cheat? You won. Nobody cheats to lose, Cecile.”
Folding her arms in front of her, Cecile slanted her eyes at her big brother. “You let me win. Don’t let me win. I wanna do it myself.”
A smile settled on Joss’s lips. She was smarter than he’d given her credit for. The truth was, he had let her win. He hadn’t wanted her to feel the upset of losing, so he’d drawn an X next to where it would have been a winning move, and silently congratulated himself on being such a good big brother. But Cecile was right. It would be better to have her learn on her own. After all, it wasn’t winning that really counted, but the journey to that win. He nodded. “Okay, let’s play again. You X’s or O’s?”
“O’s! I love O’s!”
“Last game, you two. The French toast is almost done.” Mom went immediately back to humming her happy tune.
The second game lasted merely seconds and ended with Cecile pouting. “I hate losing.”
Joss tickled her ribs, instigating another fit of laughter. “But did you have fun?”
“Yes!” Cecile shrieked.
As Mom slid his plate in front of him, topped with a stack of French toast, covered in sweet, sticky syrup, Joss smiled at his sister and picked up his fork, ready to dive in. “Then that’s all that matters.”
Once Joss had finished cleaning his plate and was scooping up every drop of gooey syrup that he could manage with his fork, he glanced at his mother, who was leaning against the counter, sipping her coffee and flipping through the morning paper. “Did Henry call yet? He’s supposed to tell me what time they’re coming tomorrow night.”
She shook her head, looking up from the article she’d been immersed in. “Not yet, but I’m sure he’ll call this afternoon. Are you sure you want to spend the whole summer with your cousins, Joss? That’s a long time to be away from home. You might get homesick.”
“I’m sure. It’s Henry! We’re gonna go camping and build a fort and Greg’s even gonna teach us how to play baseball. It’s gonna be so much fun. I can’t wait to go.” As if in an afterthought, he muttered, “I wish school was already over.”
From behind him, his dad ruffled his hair. “You only have one more day there, sport. I’m sure you’ll survive.”
Joss wasn’t exactly convinced of that, but he smiled back at his dad before sliding off his stool and carrying his plate and fork to the sink, where he rinsed them clean before placing them in the dishwasher. As he retrieved his lunch sack from beside the microwave on the counter, his mom caught him in a hug, her worried mom eyes meeting his gaze. She smelled like tangerines. And French toast. “You behave for Aunt Matilda and Uncle Mike. And you call if you need anything, even if you just feel homesick, okay?”
Joss gave her a squeeze, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at how she was acting. He could take care of himself, and he was always nice to his aunt and uncle. But his mom was taking a weekend trip to see his ill grandmother this afternoon, so she’d be gone before Joss got home from school today, and couldn’t wait until then to say whatever she felt she needed to say. And she wouldn’t get back until Sunday afternoon. Tomorrow evening, Joss would be barreling down the road in his uncle’s car, playing the alphabet game with his favorite cousin. But right now, it was his job to make sure that his mom felt okay about letting him leave for almost three months.
He gave her another squeeze. “I’ll call you, Mom. I promise. Lots.”
Slipping from her arms, he picked up his backpack and flung it over his shoulder, planted a peck on Cecile’s head, and waved to his dad on his way out the door. The bus was already waiting for him at the stop, so Joss ran.
As he climbed aboard Bus Thirteen, a familiar tension settled into his stomach. Most of the seats were completely occupied, and the ones that weren’t were occupied by one person. As he made his way down the aisle, jostling slightly at the rough movement of the bus as it took off down his street, several lone-seat occupants slid their legs into the empty space beside them. One set his backpack in the space, indicating that it, too, was taken. The message was clear: You’re not welcome.
“Sit down back
there.” The bus driver’s voice was rough and raw, as if he’d been screaming at kids all morning.
The last thing Joss wanted was to be the subject of more screams, so he turned to a pale, freckled boy who was currently sitting in the middle of a green bench seat and said, “Hey, man, let me sit here, okay?”
The kid glanced around, as if seeking the approval of his peers. Then he sighed heavily and slid in toward the window. Joss thanked him and took his seat. The remainder of the bus ride was quiet and awkward. In other words, it was a typical day so far for Joss McMillan.
When the bus came to a stop in front of Summers Elementary, the boy he’d sat by pushed past him, as if eager to be free of Joss. Joss hung back. He was in no hurry to begin his school day, and had no one waiting for him to step off the bus. Joss was, for the most part, alone. And what’s more, he’d convinced himself over the last two years that he actually preferred being alone.
It was a lie that he told himself every day to cover up the pain of being completely friendless. If only his cousin Henry went to the same school he did. Henry was funny, inventive, and never once questioned the things that Joss did. If Joss ran faster than him, Henry gave chase. If Joss caught a ball, Henry slapped him on the back in approval. Henry was the best friend a guy could have.
But he didn’t go to Joss’s school.
By the time the bus had all but emptied, Joss had summoned up the courage to exit the bus and enter the school. No one really looked at him as he moved up the sidewalk or down the hall. In fact, if Joss hadn’t been able to feel the warmth of the sun on his shoulders or the cool of the air-conditioned hallway, he might have thought that he was dreaming. Or a ghost. Either, he mused, would have been better than being the invisible boy.
The Slayer Chronicles: First Kill Page 1
