The Slayer Chronicles: First Kill

by Brewer, Heather

  Something moist. Something red.

  Joss’s steps slowed, but he still moved forward, as if he was naturally drawn to the substance on the ground. He crouched beside it, disbelief filling him until he felt as if he couldn’t breathe. As he stretched his hand out to touch it, the voice in the back of his head, his reason, his good sense, screamed not to, but still Joss stretched his fingers forth, stopping only when they met with the moist ground. Moist with blood.

  It smelled metallic. And slightly rotten.

  As if he hadn’t been suspecting all along that the substance had been blood, Joss jerked his fingers back, shaking them. His eyes never left the blood. Was it Malek’s? Or maybe a vampire that Malek had taken out while he’d been dozing? He hoped for the latter, but couldn’t be sure until he saw a body. He also couldn’t shake the urge to follow the trail and confirm that it wasn’t merely animal blood. Standing, he traced the blood trail into the undergrowth, over a fallen tree trunk, and behind a large boulder ... where he encountered an arm. Joss froze, terrified, his heart racing, his bladder threatening to release the little liquid it contained at any second.

  The arm was pale and looked as if it had been ripped away from the torso it belonged to. It wasn’t attached to a body—not anymore—and there was no sign of a body anywhere around. At first, he didn’t see any other sign of the owner of the arm. But then, hidden in the bushes to his left, he saw something that sent a scream tearing through him. A scream that he wasn’t certain made any actual sound, but ripped through every cell of his body with fear and understanding.

  Malek’s head was lying in the bushes, its dead eyes staring wide, right at Joss.

  Strong hands shook Joss from his maybe-silent scream. “What happened? My god, man, what happened to Malek?”

  It was Ash, the Slayer with the kind smile. Only he wasn’t smiling now. Joss shook his head, his eyes locked on the gruesome scene. “I ... I fell asleep.”

  Ash’s eyes moistened with anger. He turned abruptly and hurried down the hill to the cabin below. Joss’s thoughts filled with questions. Had a vampire really snuck by him late at night and managed to silently tear Malek limb from limb? Had he actually slept through the attack? What would happen now? The police would have to be involved, that was for certain. Vampires or not, a man had been brutally murdered and the authorities would most certainly have to be told. And if the police were involved ... would Joss be in danger of going to jail? After all, he was the only person around when Malek was killed. They might think he did it. But would they really believe a young teenager could be capable of such a horrible, brutal attack? Joss nervously touched his face with a trembling hand, Malek’s blood smearing across his cheek. Yes, he thought. Police might suspect just about anybody when a man has been torn to pieces.

  Soon—Joss had no idea how soon as time became twisted into a vortex of shock—the sound of many footfalls filled the woods as the remaining members of the group hurried up the hill to where Joss now stood. Their eyes moved from this bloody horror to that, but all came to rest on Joss, who was standing there in utter shock, his entire body trembling now, uncertain what to say or do. Abraham stepped forward and barked orders to the rest. “Clean it up. Now. I’ll notify Headquarters so they can get a fitting explanation to Malek’s family. And Joss ...” Joss looked up at his uncle, Joss’s lip shaking more than he ever deemed possible. He was hoping to hear words of support, of encouragement even, but he knew that would never happen. All Abraham said was, “Come with me.”

  His uncle led him down the hill, but instead of turning toward the house, he turned away from it, leading Joss to another clearing, this one occupied by a large fallen oak tree and a small wooden shack that had once been painted blue. When they got to the new clearing, Abraham turned to face him. “I didn’t want to say this in front of the others, but it needs to be said, and you need to hear it.”

  Joss swallowed hard. His skin felt prickly, and he was having a difficult time standing still. He blamed it on nerves. Would Abraham suspect he was involved in Malek’s death in some way? Was the murderer still lurking somewhere nearby? And why were they here in this clearing? Shouldn’t they be tracking whoever, whatever, did this to Malek?

  Abraham set his jaw. He didn’t raise his voice, but when he spoke, Joss could hear the dark sincerity in his tone. “The fact is that you fell asleep on the job, Joss. And because of that, a man is dead. So I’m going to do you a favor.”

  “What’s that, Uncle?” He blinked and shuffled his feet awkwardly, afraid to ask for clarification and wondering just exactly what they were doing in this clearing with a shack and not in the house with a phone, calling the police. And what exactly had he meant when he told the others to “clean it up,” anyway? Clean up the body? The evidence? That didn’t sit right at all in Joss’s stomach. In fact, it sat like a hard lead ball of wrongness right at the center of his being.

  “Get out. Walk away. Leave your training behind. You aren’t cut out for this kind of life. So go.”

  Joss let his uncle’s words settle into his mind for a moment before shaking his head. “No. I’m not going anywhere. I screwed up. Because of me, Malek is dead. I have to stay. I have to help find his killer. I have to complete my training.”

  Abraham sighed heavily. “Your purification was a complete failure. How are you supposed to be purified now?”

  Joss didn’t know, but he did know that if he walked away from this, he might never sleep a dreamless sleep ever again. An image flashed in his mind then—the image of a large centipede crawling out of Cecile’s mouth. She would never let him rest. Not until vengeance was had.

  His uncle paused then, his eyes moving to the small shed. “Of course ... there is another way.”

  Shuddering, Joss said, “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  With a nod, Abraham opened the shack’s door and said, “Remove your shirt.”

  Joss blinked. He couldn’t possibly have heard his uncle right. Remove his shirt? Why?

  Abraham reached inside the shed and pulled out something long and coiled. He put his arm through the center and looped it over his shoulder. It resembled a very thin snake. Joss recognized the item from an old Indiana Jones movie he saw once with his dad. It was a whip.

  Abraham’s tone remained emotionless as he rolled up his sleeves. White cotton against tan skin. “Remove your shirt, Joss.”

  Inside Joss’s chest, his heart raged. Did his uncle really mean to hit him with that thing? He shook his head, his eyes locked on the weapon, his thoughts scrambling around the notion that Abraham had almost ended up in the nuthouse not so long ago, after his aunt Margaret had been committed. His reply came out in a terrified whisper. “No.”

  Abraham’s voice softened some. Just enough for Joss to know that he hadn’t gone completely insane. “You said you’d do whatever it takes. Well, this is what it takes. Either you face the whip, or you walk away from your training. This will hurt, yes. But we have to complete your purification. Believe me, nephew, I’d rather have you go without sleep and come about your purification with moderate ease than face the whip, but Malek is dead, and Headquarters won’t allow us to take you on without purification. We’re down a Slayer, Joss, and we need you. Now tell me ... can you man up and get through this so we can catch the beast, or should I send you packing like a boy?”

  Joss looked from his uncle to the whip on his shoulder and swallowed hard. He thought of Cecile and how he’d never avenge her death if he couldn’t put up with a little pain. Besides, how much pain had she experienced, all because he hadn’t been there to protect her, to save her? A little pain was the least he deserved. “How many?”

  “Ten more hours left until the day is done, marking your third day out. So, ten licks. That’s nothing. You can do this. Malek did it, and he faced down twentyseven licks without as much as a yelp. You just have to focus on something and breathe slow and deep.”

  Ten. That wasn’t so bad. If Malek, who now lay in pieces on the side of a mountain,
could do twentyseven, Joss could do ten. Couldn’t he? The whip looked so simple, just a braid of coils in a long strand. But the idea of being hit with it repeatedly sent a shock of fear through him. He’d never been hit by anything before. Not so much as a single fistfight or one event of paddling. What would it feel like to be whipped? The closest he’d come to that was being hit in the eye with a swing, and that had been a pain beyond any he’d experienced. It had been accidental, and this would very much be on purpose. Purposeful pain, he imagined, would hurt more somehow. Much more. But this was for Cecile, and for Malek now, too.

  After considering his options for a moment—face it like a man or turn tail and run—he nodded at his uncle and pulled his T-shirt over his head, his fingers trembling. Then he turned around, his heart racing in panic. He hoped his uncle would be fast, but mostly he hoped he’d say something before the first lash struck.

  Joss took in a breath, deep and slow, just the way his uncle had told him to, and just as he was about to let it out, the first lash of the whip cracked across his back. Brilliant pain ripped through Joss’s body and for a moment, his vision wavered. It was far worse than the swing. Far worse than anything he had ever felt before. And just as his back had lit up with a terrible heat, another lash came. The pain was intense, but Joss counted the strikes again his bare skin. One lash. Two. Then a third.

  His thoughts came in hot flashes of craziness. He wondered what his uncle was feeling or thinking as he brought the whip down again and again. Did he feel guilty? Was he enjoying it? How many people had Abraham whipped before? He thought about Malek and how awful it must have been to die that way. Had it hurt more than being whipped? He imagined it was far worse, but that didn’t ease any of his pain. And what had Cecile’s pain been like as that monster drank from her, stopping her heart before Joss could rescue her? He deserved this pain. He deserved every lick of it and more. But it was horrible, and at one point, he was certain that he would lose his mind entirely.

  He wanted very much to beg his uncle to stop, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t form words, and even if he could, there was no way he could leave his training unfinished. This was the only way to right the wrong he’d done to his little sister. The only way out was through.

  And suddenly, Joss began to see the light. The pain all but faded to the background of his mind as a strange euphoria filled him, as did the realization that he was destined for something greater, that he was special. That he was meant to be a vampire Slayer.

  He could hear Abraham’s voice, but it sounded so far away and garbled. It sounded like he said something that resembled, “One more, Joss.” But he couldn’t be sure. The next thing he knew, he was falling, maybe flying, and he swore he could hear the happy laughter of Cecile.

  10

  A BRIEF REPRIEVE

  Pain ripped through Joss’s back as something—it felt like flesh, but must have been a bandage—was torn from him in one quick tear. He scrambled to get to his knees, but calming hands stopped him, pressing him back on the mattress that he’d been lying facedown on. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten to the bed. His last memory was of the shadow of laughter that sounded so like Cecile.

  “Stay still, Joss. The worst is over. This ought to help ease the pain a bit.” Sirus sounded calm, but concerned. Then his fingers gently applied something cool and moist to Joss’s back and Joss nearly melted into the sheets. The cool mixture instantly quieted his pain, and for that he was so grateful. He would have hugged Sirus ... if it weren’t for the fact that even the slightest movement made him want to scream.

  “Thank you, Sirus.” He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Noon. He’d been out all day and all night. “I don’t even remember passing out.”

  Sirus finished applying the salve, then gently replaced Joss’s bandages with clean ones. Once he was finished, he said, “It’s been three days, Joss. Your uncle brought you in after your purification and told me to take care of you. Within half a day you developed a fever from infection, and for a while, we weren’t certain you’d wake up at all. It’s not easy for a grown man to experience a whipping, let alone a young boy.”

  Joss pushed himself up, his back burning once again. He clenched his jaw against the pain and reached for his T-shirt on the nightstand. “I’m not that young.”

  Sirus eyed him for a moment as if he was about to say something to negate that fact, but then he shook his head instead and picked up the jar of salve from the bedside stand. After he stood, he said, “You might want to stay shirtless for now. It’ll sting like hell to lift your arms. Are you hungry? We’ve been feeding you soup on occasion, but I bet you could use something heavier by now.”

  Joss’s stomach rumbled in agreement.

  Sirus’s brow seemed permanently creased with worry. “Abraham was wrong to whip you. I’ll report him to Headquarters later today.”

  “Don’t.” Joss’s voice sounded foreign, even to him. “It was my fault that Malek was killed. I deserved this, at the very least. Besides, it was only way to purify me so that I can continue my training.”

  “Malek was a tracking specialist. He likely saw his enemy coming before you could even turn your head. If he chose to face off without the aid of nearby Slayers, that was his choice to make. As for Abraham, he had no right to whip you without the prior consent of Headquarters, so that will be reported. Whipping is a method of purification, but it is an ancient one not used anymore without permission.” Sirus folded his arms in front of his chest. “As for what you deserve, Joss, you deserve a little respect and kindness. That’s the least of it. It’s a miracle you didn’t share Malek’s fate. Food’s waiting for you downstairs. If you don’t make it down in five minutes, I’ll bring some up for you.”

  “Sirus, . . .”

  Sirus paused when Joss said his name, and looked back to him from the door. Joss shifted ever so gently in bed and met his gaze, his heart heavy. “Will there be a funeral for Malek?”

  “We buried him two days ago, up on the hill, in that clearing you were camped in.” He nodded, his eyes misting, and walked out the door.

  Joss looked down at the shirt in his hands before laying it on the bed next to him. Malek was gone, murdered in the most inhuman way possible. And even though Joss hardly knew him, he felt like he had lost a dear friend. With a wince, he managed to stand and move slowly—very slowly—toward the door. He wasn’t about to eat in bed like some kid at home with the sniffles. He was a Slayer. He’d eat at the table with the other Slayers.

  By the time he’d shuffled down the hall, his head was swimming from the pain and he all but collapsed in a dining chair that Sirus had pulled out for him. He leaned back in exhaustion and instantly regretted it. After a moment, Sirus placed a bowl of steaming beef stew in front of him. Sirus had only just set a spoon down beside the bowl when Joss grabbed it and quickly began to eat. He couldn’t remember ever having been so hungry in his life.

  Sirus took a seat beside him and watched him eat, then refilled his bowl and watched him for a few moments longer before speaking. “You didn’t have to face the whip. That’s an ages-old policy that most of the Society frowns on.”

  Joss hesitated before bringing another spoonful of the delicious homemade stew to his mouth. He didn’t dare show Sirus the questioning glance he was holding in. After all, he didn’t want to question his uncle’s motives for such a brutal step in his process to becoming a Slayer. After all, if whipping was the punishment for doing things the right way, Joss didn’t want to know what happened to Slayers who questioned the rules.

  Sirus’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “Purifying you faster won’t make you a Slayer any quicker—you still have to go through training and that takes time. And now, being injured, it will take you even longer, so he’s done the Society no favors. We can’t go after Malek’s killer any sooner, just because your uncle hit you with a whip, Joss. And don’t you let him make you believe it.”

  Joss dropped the spoon in his bowl rather forcibly. With
Cecile’s trusting face locked in the forefront of his imagination, he turned to Sirus with a glare. “You don’t understand.”

  Sirus set his jaw. “Yes, I do. I understand that you lost your sister three years ago, and I understand that you seem to think that punishing yourself will in some way put her soul to rest. But this ... none of this will do that, Joss. You don’t have to do any of this. You don’t have to move around, not getting emotionally attached to people, never settling down, always changing schools, homes, never making friends. You can go home, live out your life in peace, walk away from all the fighting and pain and heartache that Slayers are destined to endure. Get out before it’s too late for you ... the way it’s too late for me.”

  The back door swung open and Abraham stepped inside. His eyebrows rose in momentary surprise as his gaze fell on Joss. “You’re up. And eating. That’s good. You’ll need your strength today.”

  Sirus shook his head. “No, Abraham. He needs his rest.”

  Abraham set his jaw. He didn’t even glance in Sirus’s general direction before speaking again. “Your training officially begins today, Joss. I’ll meet you outside in ten minutes.”

  Sirus slammed his fist on the table. “I said no, Abraham!”

  A silence fell over them then and Joss had to fight the urge to slide down in his chair to escape the unpleasantness. He hated the ugly energy that had settled into the room. Pushing his bowl away, Joss began to stand, but Sirus gently stopped him, his eyes on Abraham. “My job as caretaker gives me control in a situation when someone is ill or injured, does it not?”