The hellhound charges toward me again. I dig my feet in, ready for the impact—
Three loud pops. The hellhound drops to the ground, motionless.
My ears are ringing. I turn to find my mother holding a gun. Her expression is as hard and cold as the metal death machine in her hand. The shock and violence of it leaves me stunned.
My father might have died because of a vampire, but it was a gun that killed him. How could she use one? How could she stand to even hold it?
Then an even worse thought seizes me: What if it’s my father’s gun?
My mother calmly unloads the rest of the clip into the hellhound’s head. I look away, sick to my stomach at how the demon’s body twitches with the force of the bullets.
She holsters the gun in a leather brace I’ve never noticed. No wonder she always wears those bulky blazers. How long has she been hiding a gun there? Each word she speaks is as shaped and piercing as her bullets. “The world doesn’t need Slayers anymore. Whatever you think you are, it isn’t your calling. You’re not the Chosen One.”
Then she walks away from me. Just like that night. As if I didn’t already know—hadn’t known for years—that in her eyes, I’m not the one she would choose.
10
THE FIRE WAS PURPLE.
But not normal purple. Black-light purple, purple that felt wrong, that made my eyes want to slide away from it because they couldn’t quite make sense of it. Was it purple, or was it black, or was it nothing?
Whatever it was, it was hot, blistering and cracking my skin even at a distance. The smoke attacked my lungs, ripping me out of sleep and throwing me, coughing, onto the floor of the bedroom I shared with Artemis.
“Athena?” Artemis cried out. I slid across the floor to her, pulling her out of bed and down to me. The fire was, inexplicably, over the window. A solid sheet of flames blocked our exit. There was no way outside. I grabbed a book and threw it at the window. It disintegrated in the flames before ever reaching the glass.
I crawled to the door. The doorknob burned my hand and left a shiny pink scar that I would never lose.
“Stay down.” I ripped a sheet off my bed and gave it to Artemis, gesturing for her to breathe through it. I didn’t know if it would filter out the smoke, but maybe it would help. I was only eight, but I knew enough of the world to know this wasn’t a normal fire. It was magic. The bad kind. The kind my mother knew how to fight.
She would come. She would save us.
Why wasn’t she here yet?
We huddled together, the flames eating past the window and onto the wall. But the window didn’t break. It stayed perfectly intact, still a solid flame that I couldn’t see how to get past. Maybe everything outside was on fire too. Maybe the whole world was on fire.
Finally the door burst open. The flames ringed it, impassable, but in the center stood our mother. She glowed clean white, some sort of magical aura allowing her to stand in the flames without being burned. I tried to run to her, but it was too hot. She looked at us, her face far worse than the horrible flames. Nothing is more terrifying than seeing your mother afraid.
She glanced over her shoulder. The whole house was consumed. She was the only safe harbor. After one more moment of hesitation, she rushed into our room and scooped up Artemis.
I stared at her, uncomprehending. In that instant, my mother’s fear slid away, and her eyes went hard in the same way they did when she reprimanded us for not looking both ways before crossing the street.
“I can only take one at a time,” she said. “Be strong.”
Then she ran through the fire, her shield extending to the daughter she had chosen to take with her first.
I was left behind.
The flames spread. The smoke got worse. I waited, the room so hot that my tears felt cool on my face. And then everything went black.
The paramedics resuscitated me. She had come back for me, but by then it was almost too late. She could have carried us both. I know she could have. She picked Artemis first, and I almost died. She was willing to lose me over Artemis. And none of us have ever forgotten it.
• • •
I hastily wipe away new tears. Am I crying or just remembering the smoke? At least the tears blur the body of the hellhound. I wonder if my mother will put the castle back on lockdown. I could have explained to her where it came from, what it was actually hunting, if she had given me a second to speak. But she never does.
I drag the hellhound into the trees and tuck it against some roots. That way at least none of the Littles will stumble across it if they go outside to play. And if my mom asks where it is, I’ll tell her.
She won’t ask.