The Slayer Chronicles: First Kill

by Brewer, Heather

  The stairs creaked below his feet, and by the time he reached the bottom, he noticed that something was different this morning. No breakfast-y smells greeted him. No sounds of pots and pans and cupboards and movement filled his ears. The kitchen, he realized when he entered it, was completely empty. No sign of Sirus remained, but for a note taped to the cabinet which read, “Joss, I had to run to town for last-minute supplies. Sorry about breakfast—I left some cold cereal and milk for you. Abraham left instructions for you to run ten laps today, but I believe you need a day off. I leave that decision up to you. Why don’t you go say hi to Kat? I’m sure she misses your company—Sirus.”

  Joss read the note over again before filling a bowl with chocolate and peanut butter cereal. He read it a third time while pouring cold, crisp milk over the contents of his bowl, and a fourth as he devoured his breakfast. Then he moved upstairs, took care of his many blisters, showered, dressed, and headed outside. But not before putting on a pair of running shoes.

  A wise man might say that he was not just running into trouble, but away from his problems, away from Kat. And that man might be right. But wisdom wasn’t always the driving force in Joss’s actions. In fact, most often his actions were driven by pure gut instinct. And instinct told him that it would be better if he stayed as far away as possible from Sirus’s daughter until they parted ways at the end of the summer. Better for her. Better for him. Better for everyone.

  Besides, he had a feeling that Abraham would be watching him carefully today, wondering if he would choose to run or take the easy way out. So running was the only option.

  Joss had carried with him six large bottles of water and stashed them by a tree where the overgrown trail met the long trail. He stretched his muscles then, carefully, taking his time, and within fifteen minutes, he was ready for his run, ready to give it his all, ready to prove to himself that the first run hadn’t just been a fluke. That he was tough enough to do it again, and this time, to not feel like dying after he was finished.

  Not that he was a total wimp. After fighting against three skilled Slayers and hours spent locating the right trail, followed by running his first ten laps barefoot, hadn’t he slipped some shoes on his aching feet and gone on to cut and stack an entire cord of wood? And with barely any sleep at all, wasn’t he readying himself for another run of his own free will? Nothing about that said Joss was a wimp, despite what some of his fellow Slayers might say. It didn’t make him weak, didn’t show the slightest hint of lack of loyalty to their cause. Still ... he wondered why they’d accuse him of taking Malek’s life, and why Abraham would so readily agree with the possibility that he might be working with the enemy.

  Shaking his head to clear the troubling thoughts away, Joss began to run at a steady, sure pace. He kept his mind free and open, focusing only on the sound of his feet as they hit the earth.

  At the end of his second lap, Joss grabbed one of the bottles and drank until he’d emptied it. Staying hydrated was making it easier this time, and Joss was surprised to be enjoying the run somewhat. Even though he strongly believed that one should only run when one is being chased. And only then if it’s by something bigger and faster and meaner than you are. He started up again and by the end of the fifth lap, his side was hurting like crazy, like his left lung had broken free and slipped down, squashing all the organs below it. Pressing his hand into his side, he finished the lap, but just barely. By the seventh lap, he thought he might die, but something in him, something dark and primal, moved his feet along the trail, pushing him with all its might. He had to finish, had to prove to himself that he could do it.

  He stopped to drain the remaining two bottles of water—having guzzled the other three at various points along his gut-wrenching trek—and a feeling settled into the pit of his stomach, causing the tiny hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. Joss was being watched.

  As he finished the last bottle and dropped it to the ground, Joss’s eyes swept the surrounding woods, but he could see nothing. No Slayers, no vampires, no Kat. Nothing. So he began his final lap, tired, aching, sore, but proud of himself for having almost completed the task at hand. And while that strange feeling that he was being watched refused to leave him, Joss shook it off with every running step he took along the trail. His tenth lap. He was almost done.

  A sound to his left caused Joss to turn his head, but he had no time to recognize what had made the noise. An arm clotheslined him, sending him back, then down onto the unforgiving ground. He hit so hard that, for a moment, the air rushed from his lungs and his throat tightened, refusing him as much as a single, relieving breath. He tried to inhale, but the small amount of air that managed to fight its way into his lungs burned painfully. The second breath came easier, but only just. The arm that had stolen his ability to breathe came down again, grabbing him by the collar of his T-shirt and dragging him to his feet. Just as his eyes fell on the familiar face, Ash swung his fist forward, clocking Joss in the left eye. Joss’s head snapped back, the muscles of his neck tensing. The pain was immediate and intense, but faded quickly, first causing Joss’s eye socket to feel like it was engulfed in flames. The heat was immediately followed by an unsettling tingle that made it feel as if his skull was vibrating.

  Joss didn’t analyze the situation. He didn’t look at advantages and disadvantages, didn’t think about why Ash had attacked him or the possible repercussions of fighting back. He simply acted.

  Balling up his fist, Joss swung forward as hard as he could in a right cross that caught Ash in the jaw. Ash stumbled backward, but just long enough for Joss to start thinking he was pretty tough. Then Ash leaped toward him, knocking him to the ground, pinning him there, battering his face with repeated blows. At first the pain was almost too much to bear. Each hit crushed his will to fight back, and he shrank inside himself, wishing it away, wishing it all away. But then something—something deep inside of him—caught fire, and as that fire moved up and out, it grew by enormous measures until it was a raging inferno of leave-me-the-hell-alone. Joss brought his knee up as hard as he could. When he connected, Ash’s face went white. A look of surprise crossed his eyes before they rolled back into his head. A strange squeak escaped his throat and he fell to the side with an oof.

  Joss slid out from under him and stood, brushing the dirt from his clothes. He kept a wary eye on Ash, who was moaning and holding the place where Joss had kicked him, wondering all the while exactly what had provoked the attack. Ash had accused him at the fire—was that because of some deep-seated hatred of him or something? He couldn’t remember having done anything that might tick Ash off in recent days, or ever, if he was truthful. That might be the fault of his memory, or maybe he just hadn’t been paying close enough attention to the things he’d said and done since he’d been here and how it might affect the other Slayers. Whatever it was, he now really wished he had been paying attention and that he hadn’t made Ash so angry.

  Joss rubbed the back of his neck absently and looked at the trail ahead of him. He wasn’t altogether certain he should get going. In fact, he was reasonably sure that the smartest thing to do would be to help Ash up off the ground, find out what had provoked him, apologize, and then head back to the house. He turned back to Ash, whose color had pretty much returned to normal, and parted his lips with an apology on the tip of his tongue. Before he could say anything, Ash said, “You’ll never finish. Just because you took me out doesn’t mean you’ll finish this lap. You’ll fail, and then you’ll be sent home. You’re not a Slayer. You’re just a boy.”

  Joss felt his temper warm his ears. He bent down and said, “A boy that put you on the ground. And a boy that kicked you in a not-so-happy place. Twice.”

  Ash’s eyebrows came together in confusion. Joss pulled his foot back, aiming a second assault, and kicked him hard.

  As he started running again, abandoning the idea of apologizing completely, he thought about what Ash had said. Would Abraham really send him home if he didn’t finish this run? If that
were true, why not send him home before this? What was so important about this run in particular? And that still didn’t explain why Ash had attacked him so viciously.

  After a few minutes, his eye was throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Joss started counting them in an effort to block out his thoughts. He’d only just reached fifty-eight when someone grabbed him by the wrist and spun him around, flinging him hard into the trunk of a paper birch tree. Joss’s right shoulder took the brunt of the hit. It felt like something was burning its way out from the inside, so he imagined that he’d probably ripped a muscle or tore a ligament. But at least he still had his breath this time. He turned around to face Cratian, and then Joss blinked in surprise. He’d thought that Ash had likely caught up with him with a want for vengeance. He never dreamed that a second Slayer would attack him on the trail.

  Cratian grinned like he was really enjoying this already, before whatever he’d planned had even begun. “You owe me five bucks, kid. I didn’t think you’d make it past Ash. So now I’m out five bucks in the pool because of you.”

  Joss shook his head slowly, completely lost. “I . . . I’m sorry ... ?”

  Cratian’s grin spread wider across his face until it seemed he was all teeth. “Maybe not yet. But you will be.”

  Before Joss could blink, Cratian came at him with a high roundhouse kick, catching Joss in the left ear. A high-pitched ringing sang through Joss’s skull as he fell to the ground. It was almost beautiful. It might have been truly lovely, if it hadn’t been for the lightning bolt of pain that shot through Joss’s head. He hit the ground, but the lightning kept coming, crackling through the bones of his skull, singeing every nerve within his head. He heard a moan, and it took him a second to realize that he had made the sound. Just as he acknowledged his moan of pain, Cratian’s foot came down hard on his forearm and he cried out. He scrambled away from Cratian, stopping only when his back met with another birch tree. To his horror, Cratian was advancing on him again, that same stupid grin on his face. Joss dug his heels into the ground, scrambling to stand. When he was finally upright and on his feet again, he kicked desperately at Cratian, to no avail, missing him by three feet. He wanted Cratian to just stop, to go away, but he had no idea how to make him change his mind about beating Joss to a bloody pulp.

  Then, like a cartoon lightbulb had flickered on over his head, Joss understood exactly what was going on here. It was a test. Another stupid test. And he had no choice but to finish it. He had to complete the last lap of this trail, no matter whom or what was standing in his way. Because if he didn’t, he’d never be a Slayer. He’d never have what it takes to get revenge for his sister. He’d never be a man.

  He understood why his uncle had set up this lesson—and the others preceding it—without explaining what the lessons were. Because part of being a Slayer, part of being a man, was figuring things out on your own and dealing with them without counting on help from anyone else. Sirus had said that being a Slayer was a lonely job. And Joss imagined that he was right. But you were lonely for a reason. Because in the end, you had to take care of yourself—and the cause—and no one and nothing came before those things. You were alone because you had to be. Because being alone means being strong, and Joss was most definitely that.

  Or he wanted to be, anyway.

  Again, he kicked at Cratian, but this time, he connected with Cratian’s right knee—the same knee he’d seen Chazz take out not long ago. Cratian swore loudly, bending down, cupping his knee, and Joss saw his window of opportunity.

  He grabbed Cratian by the ears and brought his knee up as he was bringing Cratian’s head down. There was a distinct crack as the bones connected and the hit made Joss’s leg light up with pain, but it did the trick. Cratian howled, one hand on his knee, the other clutching his head. He cursed Joss’s name repeatedly, but Joss didn’t stick around to find out what Cratian planned to do about it. He took off like a rocket, racing ever closer to the end of the trail. How many Slayers would he be forced to fight with? All of them? Would Sirus be among them?

  No. Sirus would never do anything to hurt him.

  Joss rounded the corner, honestly amazed that no one jumped out and grabbed him. He was merely yards from the end of his run. From where he was, he could see the empty water bottles sitting at the base of the tree. He picked up the pace, sprinting toward the tree.

  Abraham stepped out from behind it, a bemused smirk on his face. Joss’s steps slowed. His heart all but stopped. He was going to have to fight his uncle. And he couldn’t. Abraham was too skilled, too eager to win, too serious about everything. He’d hurt Joss badly. He might even kill him.

  Joss swallowed hard, but didn’t speak.

  Abraham looked past him, furrowing his brow. “Chazz, you missed your mark! Don’t tell me you fell asleep waiting for the boy. Or didn’t you think he’d make it this far?”

  Joss waited, not speaking, not wanting to provoke any kind of reaction at all from Abraham, keeping his eyes on his uncle the entire time. Mostly on the silvertipped stake in the leather holster on his hip.

  Abraham shot him a look—one that confounded Joss completely—and darted off down the trail. After about twenty yards, he dove into the trees on the left side. Joss blinked, and followed, his steps hesitant. When he reached his uncle, his stomach felt like it was made of lead. Abraham was standing over Chazz’s body. Chazz was dead, his eyes staring lifelessly into the surrounding forest. Abraham pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, as if trying to snuff out even the smallest show of emotion.

  Joss had a feeling it was all an act. Abraham had killed Chazz, because Abraham was really the rogue Slayer. After all, it was the perfect ruse, wasn’t it? Point all blame to his nephew with the knowledge of a past new recruit’s betrayal—something that would only fuel the fire. Joss was an easy target. And Abraham had had easy access to both Malek and Chazz. He glared at his uncle, sizing him up, wondering if he had the power to take him down for the good of the Society.

  Behind him, Joss heard the rustle of branches and undergrowth. He turned to find Cratian and Ash entering the woods. Both looked shocked when their eyes fell on Chazz’s corpse. Joss opened his mouth to outwardly accuse his uncle, but before he could, Abraham looked at the Slayers and nodded toward his nephew. They slanted their eyes and Joss knew that he was in trouble.

  Abraham had just pinned a second murder on him.

  22

  A DYING FLAME

  Cratian and Ash grabbed Joss by each arm, yanking him wordlessly from where he stood. He could feel their anger, and sense their questions, but neither uttered a word. As they dragged him through the woods and along the trail, Joss didn’t speak either. He merely clenched his jaw tight, not certain what to say or what to do. It wasn’t like he could outwardly accuse his uncle now of these horrible acts, of betraying the Slayer Society in the worst way possible. For one, he didn’t have any evidence to support his theory, just an intensely strong gut feeling—and everybody knew that intuition wasn’t exactly counted as a valid argument in a court of law. For two, this was Abraham McMillan—one of the most highly regarded Slayers of his time. The Society counted on him, and barely recognized that Joss even existed. Why would they take his word over his uncle’s when he had no proof, just a sickening feeling? They wouldn’t, and that was the truth of it. Joss was trapped, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it but see it through until he’d gathered some hard evidence.

  They were taking him to the house. Joss felt a small flicker of hope ignite inside his chest. Sirus was at the house. Sirus would make them listen to reason. After all, Sirus was sure and strong and honest. He liked Joss, and he’d listen like no one else would and convince the other Slayers of the hypocrisy that was taking place right inside their own group. As Cratian kicked open the door, Joss clung to that flicker, and allowed it, just for a moment, to grow into a small, hesitant flame.

  Cratian tugged Joss through the door and Ash moved behind him, pinning his arms,
as if he were a prisoner who had been daring an escape. In truth, Joss hadn’t fought against them at all. He knew better. These men were skilled trackers, skilled hunters, skilled killers. And what’s more, Joss was innocent. The innocent never run, so he made a point to cooperate fully. But still they yanked on him, practically carrying him through the kitchen as if he’d fought against their efforts with mad force.

  Sirus was standing at the stove. He’d looked up when the door had been kicked in, and when his eyes fell on Joss, they filled with a questioning look. Joss tried to communicate silently with him, hoping the expression on his face would explain enough to his friend that he’d realize that Joss needed him, needed his help, like never before. Sirus didn’t nod, didn’t make any facial expressions that showed that he understood or that he’d do whatever he could to help Joss out of the mess that he’d gotten himself into. His face was blank as he looked at Ash. “What’s happened?”

  “We found Malek’s killer.” Ash needlessly tightened his grip on Joss’s forearm. Ever since the day that Malek had been found murdered, Ash had never liked Joss. He shouldn’t have been surprised that it had been Ash at the campfire that night to accuse him of murdering Malek. But he was. Maybe because they had become more than co-Slayers in the past weeks. They had become family. And now his family believed him to be a murderer. A betrayer in the worst of all possible ways.

  Sirus’s eyes went wide. He flicked his gaze from Ash to Cratian, but kept his eyes off of Joss. The small flame of hope within Joss’s chest began to waver, suffocated by fear. “Really? Joss?”