Chosen (Slayer 2)

“Are you going to stake her? Because that might be a wee overreaction to bad parenting.” He scuffs his shoe against the street, hands shoved in his pockets and shoulders turned protectively inward.

I put the weapon away. “If we staked people for being bad parents, none of us would have any.”

“Is it okay if I stay in the car?” Doug leans out the window. “I don’t have the best memories of the bondage shed, and I don’t fancy explaining myself to Cillian’s mother.” He gestures at his face.

Cillian’s mom was a witch before magic went poof, but Cillian didn’t know about demons, so I assume she won’t either. “Yeah, probably easiest. Where did Tsip go?”

Doug shrugs, then settles back into his seat with the music on, kitten curled up and purring in his lap. The faint sounds of Chris Martin drift toward me like a tinny echo. One of these days, I’m getting Doug Coldplay tickets if it kills me. It’s Doug’s fondest dream in life. Most of our dreams are messy and impossible; it’d be nice to fill one.

I close my eyes with a pang of emotion. One of my dreams was Leo being not-dead. And it’s come true, for now. Which should have been more impossible than backstage passes to Coldplay, but is definitely not as simple. When he was dead, it was easy to think of only the good things. But my mom’s right. The others are totally justified in remembering everything else Leo did, and holding him accountable.

The front door opens to reveal Esther, Cillian’s mother. “That you, Killy-my-love? Come inside! I’ve been waiting for you!”

“Gee, you’ve been waiting for me,” Cillian mutters to himself. “What must that feel like.”

I follow him to the porch, where Esther stands in the pool of warm light spilling from the house behind her. Her braids encircle her head like a crown, and her skin betrays no hint of aging. It’s easy to see where Cillian got his good looks.

“Is that Nina? Goodness, you’ve grown!” She frowns, looking me up and down. “No. You haven’t. You seem taller, though. I can’t put my finger on it.” I used to be the one to go into town and pick up supplies from her shop back when it was a magic shop. I always liked her. I like her less now, though. She hurt my friend.

“We’ve got things to do, Mum.” Cillian tries to angle past her, but she holds out an arm to block him.

“Things that are more important than catching your mother up on the last few months?”

“Yeah, actually.” Cillian pushes past her arm and stomps straight through the house to the backyard, where the shed is.

“So.” I wish awkwardness were a demon I could punch, instead of an insurmountable, suffocating atmosphere. “How was, uh, Colorado?”

“Monks are boring.” She moves to the side to let me by. Her flowing ruby-red dress looks elegant and comfortable at once. “I learned what I could, though. How is he?” She nods toward the backyard. “Besides angry.”

“He’s good. Stays with us a lot now.” I’m pretty sure she knows about Cillian and Rhys, but if she doesn’t, I’m not going to tell her. Not my place.

“I thought your compound was off-limits.”

“A lot has changed. You were gone awhile.” I try to keep my voice neutral, but I can see her stiffen at the assumed accusation.

“I’m doing this for him, you know. Ever since we lost his father, I’ve been trying to prepare. I don’t know what will happen with Cillian. If I can connect with something bigger—something greater—maybe I can find direction.” She looks at me as though I’ll understand.

I don’t. I have a mother who did things in what she thought were my best interests, and it nearly broke us all. “Try connecting with him instead.”

I hurry past Esther before she can ask me any more about her son. Outside, Cillian is throwing things around in the shed, nothing gentle or careful in his movements. “Where is that fecking box?”

“Here.” I push aside a stack of traditional Irish fairy-tale collec

tions and tug the box free. But, forgetting my own strength in my haste, I tug too hard and it flies across the room. It hits the far wall and drops to the floor. The contents spill out.

“Sorry.” I kneel and begin replacing things. Cillian grabs the handcuffs and shoves them into his pocket. My hand freezes on a weird metal puzzle I vaguely remember from the last time we went through his dead father’s things. It’s a series of interlocking triangles. The same design as the necklace I took from the woman in the alley and put on the kitten. And … I hold the triangles out, getting a different angle. It’s the exact image stamped on all of demon-drug dealer Sean’s tea. And the symbol from the book Artemis stole. What is it doing here?

“Everything in this box was your father’s?” I ask.

“Yeah.” Cillian’s distracted and on edge as he stares through the night at the house. I can’t tell whether he hopes his mother will come out here after him, or whether he hopes she won’t. I doubt he knows which he prefers either. But his mother is illuminated in the kitchen, dancing slowly as she makes tea.

“Even this?” I hold it up.

He barely glances at it. “Yeah, it’s a toy or something. A puzzle. I used to play with it, but it was his.”

“Are you sure?”

He finally focuses, frowning. “Why does it matter?”