The Slayer Chronicles: First Kill: First Kill

by Heather Brewer

  “As our Californian brothers in arms have proven time and time again, wildfires do nothing to flush out vampires. They only damage the forests and homes that surround our fellow humans.”

  “Then what would you suggest, nursemaid?” As they argued, the two of them grew closer and closer. It was clear that neither thought much at all of the other. Like Sirus as he did, Joss was on Paty’s side. The only way to deal with the vampires was drastic action.

  At last, Abraham held up a hand, silencing them both. All eyes fell on him with respect and awe—except for Paty and Sirus, of course, who were still glaring at one another with seething disgust. “Perhaps we should count our blessings, Slayers, and regroup elsewhere. There’s nothing saying that we can’t use this to our advantage. After all, they’ll likely send a scout to check the house in a month to ensure we’ve gone. So let’s give them what they want. Leave. But watch the house from a distance and trail their scout back to the hive, where we’ll dispatch them all.”

  At this, Paty nodded and Sirus relaxed his shoulders some. From the back of the room, Cratian spoke up. “Abraham, do you think this hive has anything at all to do with the Pravus myth we’ve been hearing so much about lately?”

  Abraham’s calm face turned instantly red with anger. He whipped his head around, but before his eyes could even fall on the Slayer who’d spoken, two others had already dragged him out of the room. Abraham looked at Joss and said, “Forget you heard that.”

  Joss nodded, but despite his silent promise, a word, strange and somehow meaningful, rang in his ears, and he couldn’t help but wonder what it meant. It was a word his mind would replay again and again as he laid down to rest that night, watching the moonbeams dance on his pillow.

  Pravus.

  What on earth could it mean? And why did it make his uncle so furious?

  18

  FACING THE ENEMY

  The next morning, Joss opened his eyes to Paty, who was standing at the foot of his bed. She tossed a pair of jeans at him and barked, “Get dressed. Your uncle wants you in the clearing in fifteen minutes.”

  She stormed out, as if Joss had said something to really irritate her, and Joss sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes. The clock on his nightstand said that it was just quarter after six, but instantly, he understood what had Paty all annoyed. Most of the Slayers were out the door by four in the morning. He wasn’t sure why Abraham indulged him in extra sleep. He only knew that if Abraham wanted him in the clearing in fifteen minutes, he’d better be there in ten.

  He slipped out of bed, throwing on clean clothes as he made his way to the kitchen. Sirus was standing at the stove. “I’d offer you some toast, but it looks like you’ve been summoned.”

  Joss nodded, casting a longing glance at the warm pan of apple cinnamon muffins that were cooling on the counter.

  Sirus smiled and ruffled Joss’s hair. “Don’t look so forlorn. I’ll make you a good lunch—whatever you want. Now get out there before Abraham starts screaming.”

  Joss darted out the back door without a word and into the woods toward the clearing, cursing himself aloud for having forgotten his shoes. By the time he reached it, his uncle was already looking irritated and well on the verge of anger. “Joss. It’s about time.”

  “Sorry,” he said breathlessly. “I was . . .”

  Joss searched his still-waking mind, but couldn’t seem to grasp anything of importance that he’d been doing before he ran out the door on his uncle’s whim. So he grabbed what he could and ran with it “... putting pants on.”

  Cratian and Chazz, who were standing on either side of Abraham, exchanged looks, and then smirked at Joss’s admission, but Abraham spoke as if he hadn’t heard Joss’s excuse. “There will be times when you will face multiple foes at once. Today’s lesson, my nephew, is intended to prepare you for those times.”

  Joss blinked, uncertain of Abraham’s meaning. Then Chazz and Cratian split apart, moving equal distance around the clearing, and he knew full well what today’s lesson would entail. Joss was going to have to fight his way out of this clearing. He was still half asleep, hungry, and wearing no shoes. But he was going to have to fight for his life against well-trained, well-rested, well-fed, and odds were, well-armed opponents. His uncle had wisely dropped him into a likely situation for any Slayer to face. It was the perfect test. Even though Joss was terrified to take it.

  He glanced around the clearing for possible resources, but found nothing at all that would prove useful to him. Every rock and stray stick had been cleared away. The only potential weapons available were in the hands of his opponents. For the first time, it really hit Joss hard that he could die here. He could lose his life in a moment, all for a need for vengeance. His heart pounded inside his chest and, though he’d never dare admit it out loud, for a moment, Joss wondered if this was the right path for him, or if he was foolhardily chasing after vengeance that he might never obtain. Or worse, if he might die here in the clearing, leaving his parents completely childless. But any choice that he might have had before he got to the clearing was gone now. He was faced with two options, and only two. Live or die.

  This wasn’t about Cecile. Not now. It was about survival. And perhaps that was a lesson worth learning as well. After all, when he was out in the field, there would be no one there to help him, no one to save him. He’d be on his own, and if he died, no one would know why. Just like when he’d confronted Zy behind the funeral home—an act of pure stupidity. And what had he learned?

  He eyed his opponents—that’s all they were at the moment; not his uncle; not his comrades; just the Enemy and nothing more—and readied himself, knowing that his bare feet would be a weakness on the weedinfested, uneven terrain. Chazz moved forward with more speed and agility than Joss was ready for, and whipped the stake from the holster on his hip, swiping it at Joss. Joss heard a sound like air being sucked through a tube, and realized that he’d gasped aloud. Instinctively, he jerked back, away from the weapon, away from the Slayer. The eeriest feeling came over him then. Almost like he knew what vampires must feel like when they are hunted by the Society. It was a feeling of pity—one that sank into Joss’s stomach and nauseated him to no end. How could he feel pity for monsters that killed little girls in the dead of the night? How could he feel pity for creatures whose sole purpose was to destroy human life. Instantly, he hated himself, and swore that he would never again show an ounce of pity to a vampire. Disgusted with his momentary weakness, Joss was too distracted to see the second swipe of Chazz’s stake. It caught him in the bicep and he screamed. Blood poured from his arm and he whipped around in a moment of pure fury, grabbing the stake and throwing Chazz down hard on the ground. It took him a moment to realize that he was holding Chazz’s stake in his hand. When he did, he thought about what Uncle Abraham had said about Slayer’s having a natural agility, and knew that he was right, even though it had never occurred to Joss that he might be special in any way.

  Not that he was special. Only Cecile had made him that. He had been her protector, her brother, her mentor. And her failure. Just a coward who couldn’t even stop someone from hurting her. From killing her. If he hadn’t hesitated when he heard her cries, he could have stopped the beast from taking her life. But he had.

  Joss turned back to Chazz, but was blindsided by Cratian, who tackled him. Joss flew backward, time slowing to a crawl as his body became airborne. When his back hit the ground, the air in his lungs came out in a gush, a groan its only company. Cratian sat atop Joss, his eyes alight with certainty, his stake in his confident hands. There was no emotion on his face. He was as removed from this situation as he could be. Joss imagined that that was another lesson of sorts—that a Slayer couldn’t let emotions dictate his actions. He had to commit to the task of killing vampires and not allow himself to feel.

  He imagined it would be the most difficult of all lessons for him to learn.

  Quickly, he ran down his list of resources, but it didn’t take long—mostly because he had so few
. Namely, one. Chazz’s stake was still in Joss’s grip, but he wasn’t exactly certain what to do with it. Ash hadn’t yet taught him anything practical about weaponry, like how to wield a stake. Was this another thing that would come naturally to him? What he’d read in the Slayer Society manual was that a Slayer’s stake was a weapon that had to be earned, that one didn’t just grab a stake and go off chasing vampires. It was a gentleman’s weapon, and something to be held in the highest regard. In short, you had to build to that.

  As Joss struggled against Cratian, he waited for the miraculous knowledge of how to beat his fellow Slayers without a weapon to come.

  It didn’t.

  The most he could hope for was that Cratian would grow tired and give up, but something about the way his face didn’t show any sign of strained effort told Joss that was unlikely. So Joss weighed his choices and did all that he could do.

  As he bit down hard on Cratian’s hand, Joss wasn’t proud. Nor did he think it was a particularly brilliant fighting move. Really, it was kind of chicken, and more akin to a catfight than Slayer-to-Slayer combat, but it was the only thing that Joss could think of to do with his limited resources. Fortunately, judging by the surprised cry and hesitation, Cratian hadn’t seen it coming either.

  Cratian yelped and sat back, relaxing his grip on Joss’s wrists just enough for Joss to shove him back. He fell over, a look of surprise locked on his formerly emotionless face. As he fell back on the ground, Joss whipped the stake in his hand forward, stabbing the ground next to Cratian. Then he beamed. “You’re dead, Cratian.”

  “As are you, nephew.” Something cold and sharp pressed against Joss’s throat. Abraham was standing behind him, holding a blade against his tender skin. And he wasn’t exactly being gentle about it. Joss swallowed hard, his heart racing, and felt blood trickle down his neck.

  He took a slow, shallow breath, followed immediately by another. Then, without thinking, he reached back and grabbed Abraham by his left shoulder, flipping him over so that Abraham flew through the air, landing on his back in front of Joss.

  The moment Abraham’s back hit the ground, shock filled Joss. He was stronger than he’d thought.

  Joss straightened his shoulders, pride filling him. He’d been challenged by three well-trained, highly skilled Slayers and had won.

  It took several seconds for Abraham to stand, and when he did, he didn’t look at Joss at all. He merely walked out of the clearing without a word. As Joss watched him leave, his heart sank with every step. Breathlessly, he called out, “Uncle Abraham? What is this? What is this supposed to teach me about hand-to-hand combat?”

  But Abraham was gone.

  Chazz had stood and was still brushing the dirt from his pants when he said, “Run ten laps on the long trail. And don’t come back to the cabin until you do, little man.”

  Joss rubbed the back of his neck absently. He was still wondering what exactly he’d done to upset Abraham, and he had no idea where to find the so-called long trail. “Where is it?”

  Cratian was breathing heavily as he walked by, knocking his shoulder into Joss’s with a playful flare. “When you find it, start running.”

  19

  RUNNING ON EMPTY

  Joss stumbled toward the back door to the cabin in the morning light on wobbly knees. His lungs were burning so badly that it was difficult to breathe, so much, in fact, that his chest ached. His legs were throbbing with intense pain. The hurt of his day and night spent running couldn’t even be masked by the rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins. It had taken him a long time to locate the long trail that Chazz had instructed him to find, and a couple of hours to run it once, let alone ten times. He was reasonably sure he’d been alone on his run, but knowing the Slayers, they were watching him, so stopping and lying about his run wasn’t exactly an option. Besides, it was the principle of the thing. He’d know that he’d lied, that he hadn’t lived up to their expectations, and that he just couldn’t live with.

  He’d thrown up on his third pass around the trail, and almost gave up on his sixth, but he realized something while he was standing in the woods, breathless and hurting and so homesick that he almost cried—he, Joss, who never cried, not even on the day of Cecile’s funeral, though he’d desperately wanted to, desperately needed to. He wouldn’t let himself cry, wouldn’t allow himself that release of pain. He deserved to hurt, deserved to suffer.

  He realized on the trail, when his lungs were aching so bad that he thought he might actually keel over and die, that this too was a test, but more than that, it didn’t matter how many tests he passed or how much he impressed his uncle. He would never have Abraham’s approval, and Abraham was simply waiting for him to fail. Maybe hoping that he would. Maybe knowing that he would. And Joss wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction.

  This was about more than a desire for vengeance for Cecile now. It was about him and Abraham and this strange tension between them. It was about Joss proving himself to no one but himself, and showing Abraham who was the better man in the end.

  His thigh muscles screamed as he stepped up onto the back porch, and his shoulder screamed again when he reached out to grasp the doorknob. He stepped inside, his eyes first falling on the clock in the kitchen. It was just after six in the morning. Which meant that he’d been running, hurting, and puking his guts out for almost twenty-four hours straight.

  Sirus was standing at the sink, rinsing out some pans—probably some that he’d used just a few hours ago to make the other Slayers breakfast. When he turned to Joss, his face went white. “Joss, you look awful. Are you okay?”

  Joss’s legs wobbled a bit more, and he found his way to a chair in the dining room. If he didn’t sit down soon, he was going to fall down. And if he did that, he might never get back up again. And then Abraham would win, wouldn’t he?

  When he replied to Sirus, his voice sounded gravelly, as if he’d been eating sand. It also sounded strangely distant, as if they weren’t really his words at all. “As okay as I can be after ten laps on the long trail, I suppose.”

  Sirus shook his head, a look of disgust settling into his eyes—disgust, Joss would have bet, for Abraham and his idea of training. “I had no idea you didn’t come in last night. I thought you came back after I’d gone to bed. I thought you were still upstairs asleep. If I had known—”

  “You’d what?” Joss snapped, then sighed, feeling immediately awful about taking out his frustrations on his best ally here at Casa de Slayer. “There’s nothing you can do, Sirus. No one can do this for me, and no one can swoop in and rescue me every time I’m challenged. I have to do this on my own.”

  Sirus watched him in silence for a few moments, then moved back into the kitchen. Joss heard cupboards opening and closing along with the refrigerator door, and assumed that Sirus was making him a sandwich. A few minutes later, Sirus returned, and Joss realized that he was only half right. On a small plate in Sirus’s left hand was the most delectable looking turkey sandwich that Joss had ever seen. In his right hand was Joss’s Slayer manual.

  On the plate beside the sandwich were three pills—Joss raised an exhausted eyebrow and Sirus slid a glass of water closer to him. “They’re vitamins. After a night like that, you need to replenish your nutrients. Take your vitamins and sip your water. Small sips, but drink a lot—I’m sure you must be dehydrated. Then eat your sandwich, slowly. I want you to spend the day resting.”

  “I don’t need to rest,” he snapped, despite his gratitude toward Sirus.

  “Then you’ll study.” Sirus dropped the journal in front of him loudly, his patience clearly at an end.

  Joss reached for the pills, and as he closed his hand over them, he met Sirus’s eyes. It touched him that Sirus seemed to care about him—so much more than his own parents ever had in the last three years. It meant more to Joss than Sirus would ever know. He wanted to speak again, to thank Sirus for every shred of kindness he had afforded him, but the words refused to come. So instead, he nodded to Sirus
and popped the vitamins into his mouth, swallowing them dry.

  He was just taking his second bite of the sandwich and marveling that something as simple as turkey, bread, and assorted veggies could taste so delectable, when Sirus spoke again. “Survival isn’t an easy thing, especially not in the wilderness. You have to know what to eat, what to drink, and how to shelter yourself. Meat is always your best bet—high in protein and, as long as it’s a fresh kill, you don’t have to worry about contaminants. Stay away from mushrooms. Many are poison, and though they’ll fill you up, they won’t do you as many favors as some other plants will in the wild. If you have to drink water, boil it first, unless it’s fresh rainwater or from a running stream. You’ll find many tips in the survival section of your manual, but don’t be afraid to add things as you learn them.”

  Joss chewed the mouthful of sandwich and swallowed slowly. “What about berries?”

  Sirus shook his head and tapped a finger on the cover of Joss’s journal. “Only if you know what you’re looking for. I’ve scribbled a few descriptions and images in the back of your journal to help you along, but you really ought to study up on the different species of edible plants.”

  Joss nodded, but paused to raise a questioning eyebrow. “How am I supposed to boil water in the middle of the woods?”

  “Didn’t your father ever take you camping?”

  He shook his head, biting into his sandwich again. Embarrassment engulfed him. Was that what dads did with sons, when sons weren’t invisible? Took them camping? Showed them how to start a campfire?

  Sirus furrowed his brow in concern. “No Boys Scouts? Nothing like that?”

  Joss swallowed again and shook his head, wishing it were possible for him to disappear completely.

  From within his pocket, Sirus withdrew a small metal instrument. It looked a bit like a nail file. He held it up for Joss to see before laying it on the table. “This is a Swedish FireSteel. It contains a magnesium alloy that sparks to make a fire. Takes some practice, but once you’ve got the technique down, it’s foolproof. Keep it. It’s yours.”