Slayer (Slayer 1)

“Definitely the second.”

“Succubus,” Rhys says, snapping.

“Seriously sucky,” Cillian agrees.

“No, I mean ‘succubus.’ Attacks during sleep. Sucks out energy. Incubus-type demons too. It fits. I’ll do some research.” He looks at Cillian, worried. Research means going back to the castle.

“I’ll do the research,” I say. Rhys smiles in relief and gratitude. I turn back to Cillian. “So we know that you’re a target. We need to figure out why.” If it wasn’t Doug, what other demon would have it out for Cillian? His only connection to the castle and Cosmina is—me. Oh gods. Did the demon go after Cillian because he’s my friend? Or because he knows I’m a Slayer? Is this my fault?

Cillian shakes his head. “Maybe I’m just irresistible to everyone, human and demon alike.”

“Regardless, we aren’t leaving you alone. I’d say take him back to the castle, but the demon has already struck there.”

Rhys sits on the armchair in the corner. He has a wickedly sharp dagger in his hands. “If this thing only attacks when people are sleeping, that makes me think it’s not so strong.” His smile is as menacing as the blade. Sometimes I forget that Rhys had to pass a lot of tests to get Watcher status—not all of them purely brain powered. “I’m not going anywhere. And the demon is welcome to try again.”

Cillian’s expression is sloppy with exhaustion but happier than I have maybe felt in my entire life. This is my fault. I’m the one who got Cillian involved, who brought him in on our secrets. And if my suspicion is correct, I’m the reason he was targeted.

“Okay.” I kiss Cillian on the forehead. “You rest. You could not be in better hands.” I walk out into the night.

Artemis is right. It’s time to make the hard decisions. It’s time to be a Slayer. But in order to do that, I need all the information. And some of that information won’t be found in the library.

It’s time to confront my mother.

28

I CHECK MY MOTHER’S ROOM first. It’s 4 a.m. I hoped that she would be here. That she’d be waiting, brimming with perfect explanations that would make everything okay.

Her room is empty.

I find Artemis in the gym. She’s hitting a replacement punching bag with all the considerable force her body can handle.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” she says back. “Did a sweep. Nothing unusual. I considered lockdown, but I can’t see how it would do any good if the demon already struck in the castle once without us knowing.”

“Okay,” I say. “Listen. I saw Mom in the woods with Doug earlier. I have to talk with her. She knows something, I’m sure of it. Maybe she even knows what demon has done this, and why. Maybe—maybe she brought it here.”

“Why would she do that?” Artemis isn’t challenging me. She’s asking, genuinely puzzled.

I know why. I think. If our Mom passed the same test Artemis failed, it meant she was willing to do whatever it took to save the world. So whatever she’s involved in, she thinks it’s in defense of the whole world. Probably because of the prophecy.

Because of me.

I know what choice Artemis will make. She’ll choose me. She’s already proved it. Maybe that’s why our mother wanted to separate us. Why she wants to send me away but not Artemis. Why she saved Artemis first, and only then came back for me.

If it’s true, and someday I’m going to destroy the world, I hope Artemis doesn’t choose me. I hope she chooses the world. I hope, most of all, that someday Artemis has a life where she can choose herself first.

“I don’t know why she’d do it,” I lie. “But she’s mixed up in it somehow. I’m not solid on the details. I’m going to get them, though.”

“Great.” Artemis hits the bag again. “How?”

“I’ll bring her back here. To Eve. I don’t think Ruth Zabuto or Wanda Wyndam-Pryce is in on anything, but Eve’s our best bet. Hopefully it’s all a big misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding that left a Watcher and a Slayer dead, and almost killed an innocent. Right.” Artemis delivers a brutal blow to the punching bag. Then another. And another. My knuckles ache in sympathy. “If Mom brought the demon here, this is on her.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” I say.

“What wasn’t my fault?”