Chosen (Slayer 2)

“Next time,” she says, passing me a plate to take, “don’t hold back. You should never hold back. Promise me.”

I wave the cookies. Imogen is a bit of a mystery as always, but it’s nice to have her on my side. Almost like having my sister back. “Promise.”

5

I LINE UP THE BODIES.

One: Eve Silvera. Her lipstick is still perfect, her pantsuit unwrinkled. She should be broken beyond repair, but she looks like she’s sleeping. It’s nice.

Two: Next to her, Leo. I try not to look at him, but I can’t help it. His dark hair brushes his shoulders, his strong jaw not softened in death or sleep. His eyelids look so delicate, like they could flutter open anytime. But they won’t.

Three: Cosmina. I arrange the dead Slayer’s blue hair around her head like a halo. Pretty.

Four: Myself. No. Not myself. Artemis. Does she look more like me now, or do I look more like her? I cradle her a little longer, then sigh. It has to be done. I line her up next to the others. If she’s here, then she’s dead, and if she’s dead, then it’s my fault.

I want to cry, but here, in my childhood bedroom, surrounded by the static purple-black flames that once tried to claim me, I’m not allowed to. I have to take care of the bodies. I look up toward the door. So many more bodies waiting for me, arranged in neat triangles. I can see a few I recognize—Bradford Smythe. Cillian. Rhys. My mother. Everyone from the castle. But more behind them, waiting for me to bring them in and lay them nicely in a row.

So many bodies. How did I get so many bodies?

“Hello.”

I turn to see a pretty Chinese girl, late teens or early twenties, her long black hair in a single braid. “You’re not dead,” I say.

“No.” Her eyes keep flicking to my bodies. She holds out a hand. “Ice cream.”

“What?”

“You need ice cream.”

Puzzled, I take her hand. She tugs me, hard, and we leave my room. With a sudden rush of awareness, the truth slams into me:

I’m dreaming. This is a Slayer dream. And I’ve had it before. So many times. At least the bedroom-and-bodies part. Not this new development.

“Ice cream.” She points emphatically to a table with a huge bowl of ice cream and a spoon. I sit obediently, looking at our surroundings. The room is enormous, entirely white. Along the walls, childlike illustrations chase one another. One is a girl with a stake, stabbing a cartoon vampire. Another is the same girl, a monster behind her, vivid spurts of red crayon pulsing from her neck.

Oh gods, ice cream girl needs my help.

I smile encouragingly at her. But she’s just standing there, staring intently at me. She hasn’t sat down, doesn’t have ice cream of her own. “Are you going to have any?”

She wrinkles her nose in disgust. “No.”

There’s a buzzing, a low pulse of noise I can feel in my bones. I hadn’t noticed it before, but it’s been with us the entire time. I look behind me. The room extends forever, the illustrations continuing their macabre stories. But in the distance, a roiling nothingness creeps closer.

“Are you a Slayer?” I ask.

Her nose wrinkles in the same disgust she gave the ice cream, but she nods.

“Are you in trouble?” The last time I had a dream about a Slayer like this, it was Cosmina. She needed help, and I failed her. I won’t fail again.

“Eat your ice cream.” She folds her arms and glares.

“I c

an help you.”

She raises an eyebrow, her full lips pursed.

“The storm.” I point back at it. “Something’s coming. I can help. I’m a Slayer too.”