Slayer (Slayer #1)

I lean against the dashboard. “That it’s not Doug.”

“Which narrows it down to one of the other thousands of demons roaming the earth.”

Leo’s eyes are cold and dark. “All we know is that the attacks have happened while they were sleeping.”

Artemis undoes her severe ponytail, shaking out her hair. “Assuming Bradford didn’t die of a heart attack. He was old.”

“If Slayer dreams warned me about people dying of old age, I’d have to break into every retirement community in the area trying to save them. It was demonic.”

Artemis lets out a long breath, but she nods. She’s mad at me, but she’s not unreasonable.

Leo opens his door. “We can’t be sure of anything. Which means the castle isn’t safe. Neither of you should sleep alone tonight.” Then he’s out of the car and striding toward the castle. I want it to be lit up like a beacon against the darkness, but the few lights in the windows only serve to emphasize how empty it is.

Was it only a few years ago that it was bursting with life? Bustling with Council members and aspiring Watchers and all the people behind the scenes who made our work possible?

But—it wouldn’t have been. Not really. Because even before the Council was blown up, there weren’t that many of us in my generation. We’ve been slowly bleeding out. Buffy’s rejection sent the organization spiraling, scrambling for a new place in the world.

I’d have thought that a sudden influx of Slayers would have made Watchers relevant again, but I can’t help feeling like all it did was make us even more archaic. Even more useless. Maybe Artemis was right.

Ugh. But that would mean Honora was right too.

I shudder, trying to get the bad taste of even thinking that Honora’s right off my brain and tongue. The Watchers hid in order to survive. I have to trust that the Council has a plan.

The Council, though . . . Ruth Zabuto, who can’t get over the loss of magic. Wanda Wyndam-Pryce, who is even worse than I had always thought. My mother, who hates Slayers and is definitely hiding more than we ever realized. And Eve Silvera. One for four I trust, then.

“I’m sleeping in Jade’s room,” Artemis says.

“Why?” I ask, hurt.

“It’s not—I need some time to think. That’s all. You should spend the night in Rhys’s or with Imogen.” She walks away. She’s taking Leo’s warning seriously. And leaving me on my own. All these years of being together, of taking care of each other. Well. Of her taking care of me. I clearly haven’t done a very good job of taking care of her. How much has she shouldered all this time? I couldn’t train with her, but I could have helped more. Taken more of the duties. But she never told me, never talked to me about how she was feeling.

Angry and hurt and confused, not to mention buzzing with excess I-want-to-beat-up-Honora energy, I turn and run into the forest. It’s asleep, all the insect hum and normal forest sounds muted and hushed so I feel like an intruder.

I push myself, trying to find my limits. I want to know the borders of my body, the edges of my powers. I need to. Because if I can define them, then I can understand them, and I can figure out who I’m supposed to be now.

I dodge branches, jump over logs, twist and turn through the depths of the trees. The castle is in a section of forest miles wide, untouched for centuries because the ground isn’t good for planting. It’s wild in a way that makes me feel small. For two years we’d been perfectly hidden here. I can’t escape the idea that the thing that is different—that drew hellhounds and demons and chaos and death to our seclusion—is me. Because nothing else has changed in the two years we’ve been here.

As a Slayer, death is my gift. Is it also my curse? By being built for it, do I attract it?

I veer toward an old, abandoned cemetery. No one has been buried there for almost a century. I found it not long after we arrived here. It’s been my little secret ever since. There’s something peaceful about it, the names and dates faded with time and the elements. I guess, in a way, it’s like Artemis’s secret passages. Made for something else, but serving as a refuge for me.

I’m lost in my thoughts until I’m close enough to see there’s a light. There should not be a light. I skid to a halt, then tiptoe closer. There’s a cheery fire in a pit. Sitting by the fire is Doug the demon. He’s bobbing his head in time to music playing from headphones, and there’s a book in his hands. I peer at it.

Nicholas Sparks. Doug really might be evil, then.

A twig snapping nearby warns me that someone else is approaching. I duck behind a tree, watching. Not knowing who I expect to show up. Honora? Sean? Another demon? Don’t they know this is my cemetery?

Nothing prepares me for the shock of who puts a hand on Doug’s shoulder before sitting across from him.

My mother.

It’s confirmed, then. Smythe, not as in Bradford Smythe. As in Jamison-Smythe. She is Doug’s contact. She’s the reason he ran here, the reason hellhounds attacked, the reason Honora came back into our lives to screw everything up.

Doug takes off his headphones. “Hey, Helen. Thanks for the stuff.” He gestures to a sleeping bag set up among the gravestones, his book, and an empty tote sack. The tote she had been carrying earlier in the hall.

“How’s your face?” my mother asks.

“Better. A lot better. Nina’s not half bad at fixing things.”