Slayer (Slayer #1)

Then I twist it until the metal snaps.

“Cool,” I whisper to myself. I still don’t want to like anything about being a Slayer, but I have to admit it does have perks. Inside the shed, boxes and shelves are neatly labeled in Artemis’s handwriting. She organized chains by size and material, as well as by whether or not they’re magically charmed. The last option doesn’t matter anymore, but I appreciate her thoroughness. I pick a medium-weight chain set that has ankle shackles.

The demon’s wrists are in my mind like gunk on the bottom of my shoe, sticking and tugging with every step. The old bruising around its wrists tells a story of captivity long before Cillian’s shed. I don’t know what it means, but I don’t want to layer injury on top of injury. Not until we know whether the demon has to be killed.

I accept that it might need to be. Watchers never flinch from what needs to be done. But I don’t have to be cruel in the meantime, and I certainly don’t have to rush to assume this will end in more death. Anticipating violence always seems to create it.

I sling the chains over my shoulder and sprint for Cillian’s. I don’t think even the ATVs we keep in the garage are faster. When I get there, I jump the fence right into the yard and snag the padlock key from under the rock where Cillian hid it. Cringing at each metallic click, I unlock the door and open it, fully expecting the demon to be standing, waiting to devour me.

It’s still slumped on the floor. I hide the key under a bowl of crystals on a table out of reach and tiptoe forward, anticipating attack. Then another fear strikes me. I crouch, peering closely—the demon is still breathing. Not sure whether I should be relieved or disappointed, I secure the chains to the beam and shackle the demon’s ankles, noting the handcuffs still in place on its wrists. Since it hasn’t moved, I do a quick check. Its facial wound is closing nicely. I did good work there. I want to move its arm to make certain it has full range of motion, but even I know that’s going too far.

I linger for a few minutes, but the demon is out. Maybe forever. I know I shouldn’t, but I feel a twinge of sadness at the thought. My years of studying medicine taught me to value all life, and apparently that extends to even demons. Reading about demons in gruesomely illustrated books isn’t the same as seeing them in real life. This one is less terrifying and more pathetic. I know they’re not all that way—the hellhound certainly wasn’t, and neither was the giant interdimensional monstrosity—but it does make me feel better about not alerting the Council.

I lock the shed again, then hop the fence and jog through town to the shop to update Cillian. I want to check on him too. Make sure he’s okay. Plus, I wouldn’t mind some sugary comfort. With magic a bust, Cillian has shifted the shop away from spell supplies and toward soda of all types. Though I’d prefer hot chocolate this morning. I wrap my arms around myself, shivering, and jog faster.

I love the tiny village. Gray rocks, thatched roofs, and cobbled streets wind through the village straight to an ocean seemingly designed to complement the weather. There’s something natural about Shancoom—as though it were simply a feature of the landscape. Even the way it’s laid out feels organic, with its homes clustered around a meandering central street. So many cities in America exist in defiance of the land they were built on. But Shancoom belongs.

The early morning fog lingers, drifting through the streets like the ghost of a long-dead river. I imagine it flowing over the cobblestones, straight to the cliffs, and spilling in a slow-motion waterfall to the ocean.

The fog plays tricks on my eyes. I see movement where there is none. I jog faster, feeling hunted.

Then a low growl makes me realize: I am being hunted.

I stop dead outside the soda shop. I can see Cillian inside, asleep on the floor beneath the counter. The door is locked up tight. He’s safe.

For now.

I crouch, using the fog to obscure myself too as I slip past the soda shop and loop back around to try to get behind whatever is following me. The fog parts enough to reveal frenzied eyes and sick-looking patches of skin with tufts of fur growing like fungus.

Another hellhound. Where are they coming from? How did it find me? It sniffs the air and then cuts straight through the fog toward me.

My first instinct is an overwhelming compulsion:

Attack.

My muscles strain, heartbeat soars, blood pounds in my head.

I take a deep breath. Send cooling thoughts into my veins, use that same Slayer strength to restrain my own limbs. Force myself to think like a Watcher, to look at the bigger picture. To think, think, think, not move.

It’s not about me. What is the common link between the two hellhound sightings? The first one was following Cillian. And now this one is here in town, not at the castle. So the first one might not have been looking for us at all. It might have been looking for something else. Something linked to Shancoom, and to Cillian.

And then I realize: the Coldplay demon.

I didn’t wash my hands after securing its chains just now. The hellhound might not be hunting me at all. And the first hellhound was right behind Cillian, who had come from his house, where the injured demon was probably already hiding. Whether friends or foes of the Coldplay demon, the hellhounds are looking for it. And I’m not going to let them succeed. Because whatever side the hellhounds are on, I’m on the opposite one.

Shancoom will wake up soon, though. Hellhounds fixate on their prey with unshakable intensity, but that doesn’t mean they won’t rip apart anything they encounter along the way. Done hiding, I stand and whistle. “Hey, doggy! Here, doggy, doggy!”

The hellhound freezes, cocking its head in confusion. Then it growls and leaps into motion. I turn and sprint, pushing myself as fast as I can run. Hellhounds are fast, but I’m faster. I let out one involuntary whoop of sheer adrenaline-fueled joy.

I am faster than a demon.

Only just, though. I race through the woods, branches clawing at me. I leap logs and duck obstacles. I hear the hellhound in pursuit. When the castle comes into sight, I put on a burst of speed, praying no one is outside yet. My luck holds. I yank open the door to the storage building, then jump up and catch the door frame, pulling my legs under me right as the hellhound leaps for them. It overshoots, smashing into the shelves.

I drop and slam the door shut, trapping the hellhound inside. Chest heaving, I consider my options. I’ve trapped a hellhound right outside my own home. In the building with all the weapons and chains I could have used to subdue it.

Stake me. Why couldn’t my brain run as fast as my legs?

I can get weapons in the training room. I don’t want to think about what I’ll have to do when I let the hellhound out. I’ll figure it out when I get to that point. I have my very own Watcher now, but he’s the last person I want help from. I could ask Artemis, but—