Second Chance

by Heather Brewer

  Joss swallowed against Boris’s grip, his heart betraying his cool exterior by beginning to race. Acutely aware of the wooden stake in his hand, he hissed. “I know one thing. I know how to kill your kind.”

  Boris chuckled. “Oh, really? Why don’t you tell that fairy tale to the vampire who killed your darling sister?”

  Joss yanked his arm back in fury, but Boris caught it effortlessly with his free hand and held it still. “You think about her enough—it comes off you like a heat, that want of vengeance—but what have you done ever since developing your Slayer skills to hunt down her killer? You’re a waste of time and space, like any Slayer, like any human.”

  Joss spat at him, “Like Ernst’s Cecile?”

  Boris’s hand clenched Joss’s throat. The air was choked off, and suddenly, unexpectedly, Joss saw stars. Boris’s words grew faint and the world began to turn in on itself. “Never speak ill of my Cecile.”

  Boris released his grip and Joss coughed, the world turning right again. The stars remained for a moment, but quickly turned into spots that faded with every breath. Boris was toying with Joss, trying to draw out the kill, like any sadistic serial killer would. Slowly, Boris pressed the tip of his thumb into Joss’s wrist. After a moment, his fingers tingled with numbness. Joss struggled uselessly. He kicked, but couldn’t seem to connect. Maybe he’d been weakened by the brief lack of oxygen, he couldn’t be certain. But there was no escaping Boris for the moment, no matter how he tried. After another moment, his hand opened, dropping the stake to the concrete below. The sound that the wooden weapon made as it hit the ground reverberated through Joss’s entire being. He was unarmed. And at the complete mercy of an angry, vengeful vampire.

  Boris grinned, but there was no joy in it—only an undying fury that burned like embers in his skull. He gripped Joss’s throat tighter and then, to Joss’s utter shock, they were flying upward. His feet left the ground, floating high above where his abandoned stake now lay. The bricks of the building across the alley flew by in a blur as they rose through the air. And when they stopped, Boris slammed Joss’s back against the bricks of the building behind him. The stars returned for a second, and then the back of Joss’s head felt moist. Dazed, he tried to focus his vision on anything but Boris.

  Across the alley, a window was open, its peeling frame propped open by a rusty screwdriver. The lights were off, and Joss knew that no one was at home. No one could help him now. No one would save him. He was going to die in an alley, and no one—not even his fellow Slayers—would know that it was a vampire that had killed him.

  Boris sniffed the air, smelling Joss’s blood. “I have decided, Joss McMillan, that I will bring you to the brink of death, and finish the task by draining you dry. That way you’ll understand exactly how your darling sister felt in her final moments, as the life ebbed from her body, aided by your cowardice.”

  Joss opened his mouth to curse his attacker, but his words were struck from his mind the moment that Boris released his grip. Joss dropped like a stone, falling through the night air so quickly that he barely had time to comprehend what was transpiring. Then, as the ground neared, time slowed some, and Joss’s thoughts were consumed with mental photographs of those he cared about and how very much he was going to miss them. His grief was choked off by Boris’s familiar grip on his throat once more.

  They flew upward again, but the brief sense of relief that had filled Joss quickly dissipated. He was nothing more than a plaything now, a delicious rag doll, ripe for the biting. Boris slammed him against the opposite building this time, and Joss managed a groan of pain. His head ached. The blood on the back on his head had just begun to become sticky, but as Boris slammed him against the bricks again, the wound broke open, pouring blood down the back of Joss’s neck. The muscles in his back were screaming.

  Boris grinned—a meaningful, happy grin at last—and spoke to Joss in a voice that dripped with patronizing syllables. “Children should stay at home, mind their manners, and leave the real world to the adults. And you, Joss McMillan, are a child. Stupid, selfish, and out of your league.”

  Joss’s mind felt full of fog, but something danced on the edges of his thoughts, something he was struggling to grasp with each word that Boris spoke.

  Boris’s mouth opened wide, and he lunged forward. Joss couldn’t see what he was doing, but felt it instantly. Boris’s fangs sank deep into his neck, filling him with an immediate pain. Joss struggled but couldn’t break free. Boris held him close, drinking deep, and just as Joss’s eyelids threatened to flutter close and surrender to the dizzying moments before his death, the memory that he’d been struggling to recall became clear, almost crisp in his foggy brain.

  Joss turned his head slightly to the right and found what it was that he’d been thinking of. He stretched his trembling hand out and gripped the rusty screwdriver. Joss yanked the tool free, the window slamming closed without it. His mind echoed three simple words—words that he could not speak aloud. “For you, Cecile.”

  With all his might, Joss stabbed the pointy end of the screwdriver into Boris’s back. Boris howled and thrashed, releasing his jaw from Joss’s throat.

  And then they were falling.

  Joss didn’t have time to think about what would happen when they hit the ground. He merely held onto Boris, clutching the vampire to him in absolute terror.

  Boris hit the ground first. The screwdriver plunged through his back, bursting through his chest with a spatter of blood. The blood bloomed out all around him on the concrete. Joss sat on top of his corpse, eyes wide, heart racing, neck still bleeding. Quickly, as soon as he could grasp his reason, he stood and plucked Boris’s ascot from the ground, pressing it tightly to his neck with shaking fingers. Then he picked up his stake and slipped it through his back belt loop.

  From his pocket, he withdrew his cell phone and pressed number two on speed dial. When the mysterious voice on the other end answered, he said, “This is Joss. I need a cleanup in an alley near One Eleven East Seventh Street, Manhattan. No pickup.”

  His throat burned as he spoke, his words coming out in strangled whispers, no matter how much he forced them to sound normal. When the voice replied, “That’s a go, Joss. Cleanup crew is on its way,” he hung up and returned the phone to his pocket.

  He didn’t look back as he exited the alley. And he wasn’t at all certain how he managed to find his way back to base. But the moment he staggered in the front door, he was relieved to be home.

  He collapsed in the foyer, and Paty was on him in seconds, helping him to stand, ordering Ash to grab the medical kit, telling Morgan to get his bed ready. Cratian lifted him up, and as they turned to go to Joss’s bedroom, Joss saw his uncle Abraham. “Did you kill it, nephew? Did you kill the vampire? Did you take down the serial killer?”

  Joss’s words were barely a whisper. It was all that he could manage. “I did.”

  Abraham breathed out a slow sigh of relief, one that Joss was so grateful to hear.

  Then the colors of the room swirled together. Darkness swallowed him whole.

  11

  COLORING WITH CECILE

  Joss opened his eyes—not after sleep, but after what felt like an extended blink—and realized that he was standing in an alley, in some city. Maybe it was New York. Maybe Chicago, or Detroit. He couldn’t be sure. He only knew that the smell of fresh tar mixed with exhaust and decay filled his nostrils, and the scene around him was hard, gray, and cold. His feet stood on cracked cement, and the walls that lined the alley were composed of bricks and mortar that had seen better days. It was a forgotten place, this alley, and Joss had no idea what compelled him to move deeper into it and turn the corner at the end. But he followed his instinct, despite the tightening of his chest and the tiny hairs sticking up on the back of his neck.

  The alley, which ended in a dead end after the turn, was empty. Joss narrowed his gaze, peeking back over his shoulder. It wasn’t supposed to be empty. Was it?

  A humming reaching his ears,
a little girl’s wordless song. It was coming from the dead end. Joss turned back, facing it. There, at the end of the alley, was Cecile. She was on her knees, tiny hand clutching an oversized piece of pink sidewalk chalk. As she drew the chalk across the cement, it crumbled slightly, leaving behind a crooked pink line—one that reminded Joss of another line . . . one that he swore had run from the corner of someone’s mouth down to the sheets. But as soon as the thought, the memory, had entered his mind, it was gone again. He remained where he was, watching his younger sister drawing lines in the alley for several minutes before speaking. Maybe he didn’t want to disturb her serenity. Or maybe, another fleeting thought whispered into his mind, he was afraid of her.

  Cecile stopped humming for a moment and straightened her shoulders. She didn’t turn to face him, but Joss knew that she was aware of his presence. As if in response to that knowledge, his heart picked up its pace. Without looking at him, Cecile stretched out her hand and pointed to the small bucket of chalk a few feet to her left. He watched her hand carefully, a worry filling him that her nails would somehow become claws. But this was his sister. He loved her. He had nothing to fear. Besides, she was just a child, and he was a fierce killing machine. Certainly, he could defend himself if Cecile . . .

  Joss shook his head, chasing those delusions away. This was his baby sister. He had nothing to be afraid of, nothing to defend himself against. She was a child. A sweet, innocent child. “Do you want a different color, Cecile?”

  She tapped her finger wordlessly at the bucket again. With a deep breath, Joss stepped forward and crouched beside his sister. “What about blue? Blue’s nice, right?”

  When she didn’t respond, he plucked a piece of blue chalk from the bucket and placed it in her hand. She gripped it and immediately went back to drawing. Joss watched her profile for a while as she colored. Her hair hung in her face, and he had to fight the urge to sweep some of her curls back over her ear so that he could see her eyes. After a while, he said, “What are you drawing, Cecile?”

  But Cecile didn’t reply. She merely stopped the chalk from moving and abruptly set it on the cement, as if indicating that her creation was finished.

  Joss turned his head slowly and looked at what his sister had created. In bright, happy colors, a crude, childlike design showed a vampire lying dead on the ground, a screwdriver sticking out of his back. Beside the vampire lay a small girl, fang marks in her neck, her eyes wide open and lifeless. Above both of the corpses stood a boy. The drawing was crude, but the boy was obviously Joss. When Joss found his voice, it was in whispers. “Why would you draw this, Cecile?”

  Cecile retrieved some chalk and began drawing on another section of pavement, but Joss’s eyes were locked on her first creation. Though drawn in that messy way that only a child can make look charming, the faces were incredibly expressive. The vampire and the girl looked as if they’d died horrifically, and the scribbled Joss character stood there without remorse. Joss’s chest felt suddenly hollow. Is that how she felt? That he had no remorse in his slaying of Boris? That he had no guilt at all for not stopping her demise?

  How could she want him to have remorse for killing that monster, that beast, when it was a vampire who’d taken her young life? No. He wouldn’t feel guilty, despite whatever images his twisted subconscious dredged up.

  Cecile finished her furious scribblings and tossed the chalk on the ground, shattering it. Joss turned his head at her abrupt movement and looked at what she’d drawn.

  A crudely drawn boy lay across a small, blond girl’s lap. Their features were hurried and not unlike stick figures, as if she’d had to draw them as fast as possible. As if the message she wished to convey to him could no longer wait, could no longer be contained. The boy’s eyes were wide and terrified, his mouth contorted in a scream. In the girl’s chalk hand was a bouquet of poorly drawn flowers, mostly tulips and daisies. Her eyes were swirls of black, layers and layers of chalk that made the cement they were drawn on disappear completely beneath. Her mouth was large and open wide. Inside were two fangs, dripping with blood.

  Only the blood hadn’t been drawn in chalk.

  The deep crimson dripped from chalk Cecile’s mouth onto chalk Joss, quickly pooling on the cement, washing away the drawing. The blood oozed closer and closer to where Joss was kneeling, and he scrambled to get to his feet.

  But then a hand—clawed and filthy—wrapped around his wrist. Cecile turned her head very slowly toward him. As she moved, the pool of blood soaked into his jeans. His heart hammered inside his chest and that voice that had whispered his fears as he entered the alley screamed out its told-you-so inside his brain. By the time Cecile’s black, soulless, tunnel eyes met with Joss’s terrified gaze, he was in full on panic mode, shaking his arm, trying to break free. But Cecile’s grip tightened, and he couldn’t escape, no matter how much he fought.

  Her lips parted in a grin, her fangs shining red, and as he watched in horror, her grin continued to spread, until she was all grin and eyes. Joss opened his mouth to scream, but coughed instead. A searing pain ripped through his throat, and he realized that the blood that had pooled on the ground was coming from him. His free hand, now trembling, found his throat, which had been ripped open. As darkness overtook him, he thought the words that he could not speak. “Why, Cecile?”

  He fell to the ground, and his sister’s whispered words tickled his ear. “Because, Jossie. Because you killed me first.”

  12

  A QUESTION OF LOYALTY

  Joss awoke in a cold sweat. He was bathing in guilt.

  But he couldn’t determine if the dreams were really Cecile, reaching out from the grave to torment him with things he could not change, or his own immense, overpowering guilt at having taken a life and failing to preserve another.

  Slipping out of bed, Joss rubbed his sore shoulder, but didn’t dare touch his neck or his side. He was aching in the worst way, but also strangely relieved. Pain meant that he was still alive. And even more so, pain meant that last night had really happened, and Joss had really taken out the serial killer, like the Slayer Society had charged him with doing. He was done now. He could go home. But first, he might try asking his uncle if there was any way they could spend a few extra weeks in New York. Like a vacation. A real vacation. Joss had never really been on one before.

  He threw on some jeans and a T-shirt before moving painfully down the hall and down the stairs. When he entered the kitchen, all of the Slayers were waiting for him. He blinked at them, not certain what to make of the gathering, and moved his eyes from one Slayer to the next. Slowly, they began their applause. Then Abraham stepped forward and patted Joss roughly on the back. Joss winced at the pain this caused, but he wouldn’t have traded it for the world. Abraham smiled. “Nephew, you were assigned a task and completed it in record time. I’m so proud of you. We’re all proud of you. I’ve alerted the Society and they are thrilled. As a reward, you’re finished working for the summer, and are free to enjoy a little vacation here in the city before returning home. Unless, of course, you’d prefer to go home now.”

  Joss could have floated, he was so happy. “I’d rather stay here for a bit longer, thanks. With you all.”

  His uncle patted his back once more, and though Joss winced at the pain again, he beamed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, nephew, I have some things to attend to in my study. But this afternoon, after all loose ends are neatly tied, perhaps you’ll join me for some dinner? Just you and I?”

  Joss grinned. “That would be awesome. Thank you.”

  He couldn’t imagine spending time with his uncle where his every move wasn’t being criticized. But it seemed that, with a single kill, an honorable takedown of a serial killing vampire, Joss had earned precisely that. He was almost dizzy with glee.

  As Abraham excused himself upstairs, Paty beamed and set a large plate of breakfast on the table in front of Joss. The smells of bacon, eggs, and something sweet and bready filled his nostrils, and Joss nearly melted into a pudd
le right then and there. Smiling at Paty as he took a seat, he said, “So what exactly did he mean by ‘loose ends’?”

  Paty and Cratian exchanged knowing glances,

  Joss took a seat, and Cratian offered him a semiconcerned glance as he shoved a huge forkful of eggs into his mouth. “Don’t go crazy, stuffing yourself. We do have to visit the morgue after breakfast, and I’m betting you don’t want to have too much in your stomach in case you lose any of it.”

  The fork stopped midshovel, and Joss’s eyes shot straight to Cratian in shock. Morgue? They were going to the morgue? Why on earth would they go back there? There was no doubt at all about what had killed Boris. Joss’s stake had been the screwdriver, and Joss himself had caused the death. So why a trip to examine the body?

  Paty waved Cratian’s thoughts away as she filled a glass of orange juice and set it in front of Joss. “Oh, hush. Joss is tough. He can handle looking at a corpse and not barfing. I’m sure last time was just a fluke.”

  But Joss wasn’t so sure. Seeing a corpse that had been sitting in a cooler for a few hours hadn’t exactly helped his appetite. He returned his fork to the table. “I’m . . . not so hungry anymore, Paty. Sorry.”

  Paty frowned in disappointment. Cratian gave her a knowing smile. As quietly as he could, Joss excused himself and headed back upstairs. Suddenly, he had the urge to stand under a hot shower for a million years.

  As Joss made his way down the hall, he settled on what he knew would be his only viable course of action before knocking softly on Abraham’s bedroom door.

  “Come in.”

  Joss turned the knob slowly, and stepped inside the room, sure to keep his footfalls light. Everyone else in the house was downstairs at breakfast, and he wanted to keep it that way. Just in case Uncle Abraham saw through his ruse and called him out on it. “Uncle Abraham, can I talk to you?”