I define being a Slayer.
I’ve been so consumed with fear that embracing the Slayer inside me would mean the end of the person I was—the girl who wanted to make the world better by healing, not hurting.
I don’t have to choose one or the other. If I want to, I can be both. And maybe be stronger for it. All the fear that being me made me a bad Sla
yer evaporates.
Tears burn. But unlike the burning of the rage, this feels cleansing. I nod, mute with gratitude. Then I finally find my voice. “Thank you. And I am sure of one thing. My dad would be glad you’re still alive and fighting. I am too.”
Buffy snorts. “Well, that’s good. I’m glad I’m still alive too. I tried the whole death thing. It’s fine for a while, but I’m kind of over it in a long-term sense.” Then her face softens, and when she reaches over to hug me, I hug her back.
When we pull apart, Buffy’s face relaxes into a peaceful smile.
“This dream has been a lot better than most of my nights,” she says. “You would not believe how often Kennedy shows up. I know it’s petty, but she’s so annoying. Anything else I can help with while you’re here?”
“Oh, actually.” Everything rushes back. “There’s this demon thing? She’s a succubus? And if I’m thinking correctly—which I’m not sure I am, because that giant sea serpent on the Golden Gate Bridge is waving at me—the succubus is going to try to pull out my essence or my power or whatever, and it might kill me, and it will definitely make her stronger, so I don’t know if I should let her, but if I don’t she’ll kill my sister, and also I kissed her son and sort of have feelings for him, but if she’s a succubus and her husband is something demony too, then Leo is definitely not human, and—”
“Oh my god. Let me give you my number.” She writes something on her hand. We both squint at it. The numbers are all jumbled. It’s a dream, after all. I never could read in dreams. But in the middle of them is the triple triangle symbol I saw on Sean’s tea labels. “Weird,” she says. “What does that mean?”
“It’s—”
A ringing noise shatters the stillness of the dawn. Buffy grimaces. “Time to wake up,” she says. “Evil to fight. Coffee to pour. It was nice to meet you, Athena Jamison-Smythe. Good luck with the succubus. And remember, whatever you do, don’t—”
• • •
The dream pulls away. I can stay asleep. Or I can wake up and fight.
I define being a Slayer.
I get to choose.
Artemis chose me over her own future. And I know what she would tell me to do. Maybe this is part of the prophecy. I don’t care. I refuse to believe that I have to choose death to save people. If I can be a hunter and a healer, a Watcher and a Slayer, it proves that life isn’t binary. There’s always another way out there, and no matter what, I’m going to find it. If I’m a Slayer, my choice is to use everything I’ve been given to protect those I love and to protect those I’ll never even know.
At that thought, I relax.
Eve can take what she wants from me now. And then, powers or no powers, I will make her regret it.
• • •
I feel Eve, hands on my chest, somehow sinking past the skin and bones and muscle. Past the organs, to something that hadn’t always been there. I know the contours of the power as she touches it. It’s the first time I’ve truly understood it, bright and burning, flooding my body.
In that moment, I know what I’m losing.
I take one last deep breath, holding on to the feeling of life. Of a connection to other girls across the globe, each with her own messy life and her own tremendous potential. Of power—power so deep and dark I could dive into it and never find its limits.
Eve tugs, the light fighting to stay. It curls, clinging to me, burning me in protest. My Slayer instincts roar up, demanding I fight. But I don’t resist. I hold Artemis’s face in my mind.
And I let it all go.
32
“NINA! NINA, WAKE UP! PLEASE wake up!”
Everything hurts. I don’t want to wake up. But Artemis is scared. I peel my eyes open, then cough. I cough so long and hard I can’t draw a breath. When I’m about to pass out again, I manage to stop long enough to breathe.
I’m . . . weak. So weak. What had been my normal before stands in such stark contrast to being a Slayer that I honestly don’t know how I ever moved. How I survived feeling like this for so many years.
I gasp, finally getting enough air that lights aren’t dancing in my vision. Artemis helps me sit up. She’s on the floor next to me, her knee at an angle a knee is not supposed to be. My back is against my nightstand.