Slayer (Slayer 1)

“It spelled ‘loves,’?” she said. “And here’s the grand finale: ‘Love is / Everything I feel when I think of you . . . / Orgasmically.’?”

“That’s not what it says!” I squeaked. Everyone looked up at me, my face pressed against the balcony railing bars, tears streaming down my face. What I had written was “Love is / Everything I feel / Over the fear.” She had not only taken the most embarrassing thing possible—she had made it worse. So much worse.

A door banged open. “Okay, today we have— Nina? Nina, are you okay?” Artemis set down her trays and ran up the stairs to me. Honora slammed the book shut, her face bright red from laughing.

Leo raised his sword at Rhys. “Second and fourth forms,” he said, as though nothing had happened. As though Honora hadn’t just read my entire heart out loud in front of him. As if I weren’t suffocating from shame and panic. He didn’t even care.

After that I pretended I was sick and didn’t get out of bed for a week. One of the mornings, someone left an oatmeal-chocolate-chip cookie outside my door.

I ground it into crumbs.

Leo had gone right back to practice, shrugging off the worst moment of my life. He wouldn’t fix it by offering me a cookie.

I finally worked up the courage to leave my room when I heard that Leo and his mother had been shipped off to an assignment in South America. Not long after, Honora graduated to full Watcher status and was assigned fieldwork monitoring demon activity in Ireland.

Rhys never pushed the subject. When Artemis asked why I was so upset that day, I asked her why she failed the test. Neither of us answered, and we never spoke of it again. I prayed Leo was gone forever and tore up every scrap of paper I had ever desecrated with my stupid crush.

• • •

Our history trails from me like smoke as I stomp back to my room. So Leo’s back. Whatever. I refuse to care. That’s another problem Buffy had. She always made her relationships with her Watchers so personal. I can treat Leo as a coworker. Calm. Cool. Collected.

Except I’m none of the three. And I can’t afford to be calm, not with everything going on, not the least of which is the demon I left in my friend’s shed. Once I start training it will be harder to sneak away. Forget changing—I need to check on the demon.

My room is fortunately empty. Artemis must still be out with our mother. I try not to be bitter about this. I know it’s weird to be jealous of having to patrol with our mother, but I’ve always envied how needed Artemis is. My days are filled with empty spaces between studying and doing my chores around the castle.

But I guess that will change now too. At least in secret.

There is one way Artemis could have helped out today. I could have begged her to go back to the training room in my place. Leo would think she was me, be so impressed that he’d decide I don’t need training, and then he’d leave. Walk away. Walk off a cliff, preferably.

I sneak out of the castle. The light is lovely and soft in the dawn glow. There’s a storage shed where we keep the weapons and tools that aren’t in regular rotation. It waits for me under the sh

adow of forest trees yearning to reclaim our land. I consider the heavy padlock securing it.

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.