Slayer

by Kiersten White

At first it felt disappointing, but then portentous. I could do something. I could have a role. That was when I gave up my previous hobby and started learning all the ways human bodies could be broken—and all the ways I could fix them. It was just as important as, if not more important than, knowing how to hurt things.

  Unfortunately, my previous hobby had been poetry. And it had all been focused on the crush I had nurtured since the year before, when Leo had shown up, saved me, and made my body realize that not only were boys super cute, he was the super cutest of all boys. Every part of me felt electrocuted around him. I filled notebook after notebook with doodles of his name and poetry dedicated to him. I didn’t interact with Leo much, but whenever I did, he was so nice, it left me floating for days. Sometimes we’d eat lunch in the dorm cafeteria on the same day. Once, six months before, he had been given two oatmeal-chocolate-chip cookies. Any day with chocolate instead of raisins was a treat. When he walked by, he slipped the extra one onto my tray. I saved that cookie until it crumbled.

  There weren’t too many of us, even back then. Rhys, Artemis, Jade, and me. Imogen. Leo and Honora. A few trainees a year or two older than them. And then a gap until the Littles. But whenever Leo noticed me, I felt special. That was real magic.

  One day I was quietly studying alone on the balcony when Artemis dumped a stack of spell books on the training room’s floor. I glanced over, uninterested. They didn’t know I was up there. I wasn’t supposed to be in the room when they did magic practice. But I’d often stay, quiet, trying to sneak peeks into the aspects of our world that were hidden from me.

  “I found every book I could that wasn’t in the library,” Artemis said. “We had some boxed up in our rooms. Maybe my dad’s old books.”

  “Ooh.” Honora sat down next to Artemis. “This could be good! They’re so restrictive in what they’ll even let us look at.”

  I hated Honora Wyndam-Pryce. Artemis idolized her. Honora was wickedly clever, her tongue as sharp as the knives she specialized in. She was smart and deadly, and when Artemis wasn’t around, she called me Wheezy on account of my asthma. She acted like it was a pet name. But I already had a pet name. I didn’t need one that felt mean.

  Plus, she was a Wyndam-Pryce. The whole family was insufferable.

  I chose to ignore Honora, focusing instead on Leo. He was sword training with Rhys. His movements were fluid and graceful. He made me feel like I was having an asthma attack in my heart.

  “I’ll go grab our lunches,” Artemis said. She walked back out, and I returned to my paramedic manuals. My dad had died from a bullet to the brain. I couldn’t have fixed that. But there were a lot of things I could fix, if I knew how. And I’d learn them all. Except the magical ways, of course, because my mom still kept those off-limits.

  That’s why I didn’t see when Honora picked up a book that should not have been there.

  Honora started laughing. “Oh gods. These are the greatest spells I’ve ever heard. Would you like to hear them?”

  I was only half listening until I recognized the words. And then I froze.

  “ ‘Your lips are a promise / I’d love to keep / They haunt me when waking / And tease when asleep.’ ”

  No. No no no.

  A few months before, I had run out of notebooks and found a dusty old magic book that was mostly empty. So I filled it with the best of my poetry, enamored that my love was written like spells in a leather-bound book. Whenever I wrote one in there, I pretended like it was an actual love spell that would make Leo see we were meant to be.

  Rhys paused in his training. “What is this?”

  I crawled to the balcony and watched, numbing with horror, as Honora read poem after poem, each more embarrassing than the last. But maybe she wouldn’t say who they were about. His name was written only in a few of them.

  Honora was in performance mode, standing on a bench in front of Leo and Rhys and reciting each poem with the relish of a Shakespearean performer. She wouldn’t say his name. She wouldn’t. But then she looked up—right at me—and winked.

  She knew I was up there. She had the whole time.

  “This one,” she said, “is the best. It’s an acrostic. Please imagine the letters going down the side, starting each sentence.” She cleared her throat. “ ‘And when / The days are too / Hard / Endless in knowing I will / Never be / Anyone important—’ ”

  She paused. “That’s ATHENA, for those of you too dumb to spell on the go.” She lifted an eyebrow at Rhys. I wanted to run or scream at her to stop. My body wouldn’t do either.

  “ ‘Looking at you gives me / Optimism / Very real and true / Everything will be okay / Someday.’ ” Honora smiled, baring her perfect white teeth. “Rhys, what did that one spell?”

  Rhys looked at the floor. “You shouldn’t be reading those.”

  “Give it here.” Leo held out his hand, but she lifted it out of his reach.

  “It spelled ‘loves,’ ” she said. “And here’s the grand finale: ‘Love is / Everything I feel when I think of you . . . / Orgasmically.’ ”

  “That’s not what it says!” I squeaked. Everyone looked up at me, my face pressed against the balcony railing bars, tears streaming down my face. What I had written was “Love is / Everything I feel / Over the fear.” She had not only taken the most embarrassing thing possible—she had made it worse. So much worse.

  A door banged open. “Okay, today we have— Nina? Nina, are you okay?” Artemis set down her trays and ran up the stairs to me. Honora slammed the book shut, her face bright red from laughing.

  Leo raised his sword at Rhys. “Second and fourth forms,” he said, as though nothing had happened. As though Honora hadn’t just read my entire heart out loud in front of him. As if I weren’t suffocating from shame and panic. He didn’t even care.

  After that I pretended I was sick and didn’t get out of bed for a week. One of the mornings, someone left an oatmeal-chocolate-chip cookie outside my door.

  I ground it into crumbs.

  Leo had gone right back to practice, shrugging off the worst moment of my life. He wouldn’t fix it by offering me a cookie.

  I finally worked up the courage to leave my room when I heard that Leo and his mother had been shipped off to an assignment in South America. Not long after, Honora graduated to full Watcher status and was assigned fieldwork monitoring demon activity in Ireland.

  Rhys never pushed the subject. When Artemis asked why I was so upset that day, I asked her why she failed the test. Neither of us answered, and we never spoke of it again. I prayed Leo was gone forever and tore up every scrap of paper I had ever desecrated with my stupid crush.

  • • •

  Our history trails from me like smoke as I stomp back to my room. So Leo’s back. Whatever. I refuse to care. That’s another problem Buffy had. She always made her relationships with her Watchers so personal. I can treat Leo as a coworker. Calm. Cool. Collected.

  Except I’m none of the three. And I can’t afford to be calm, not with everything going on, not the least of which is the demon I left in my friend’s shed. Once I start training it will be harder to sneak away. Forget changing—I need to check on the demon.

  My room is fortunately empty. Artemis must still be out with our mother. I try not to be bitter about this. I know it’s weird to be jealous of having to patrol with our mother, but I’ve always envied how needed Artemis is. My days are filled with empty spaces between studying and doing my chores around the castle.

  But I guess that will change now too. At least in secret.

  There is one way Artemis could have helped out today. I could have begged her to go back to the training room in my place. Leo would think she was me, be so impressed that he’d decide I don’t need training, and then he’d leave. Walk away. Walk off a cliff, preferably.

  I sneak out of the castle. The light is lovely and soft in the dawn glow. There’s a storage shed where we keep the weapons and tools that aren’t in regular rotation. It waits for me under the sh
adow of forest trees yearning to reclaim our land. I consider the heavy padlock securing it.

  Then I twist it until the metal snaps.

  “Cool,” I whisper to myself. I still don’t want to like anything about being a Slayer, but I have to admit it does have perks. Inside the shed, boxes and shelves are neatly labeled in Artemis’s handwriting. She organized chains by size and material, as well as by whether or not they’re magically charmed. The last option doesn’t matter anymore, but I appreciate her thoroughness. I pick a medium-weight chain set that has ankle shackles.

  The demon’s wrists are in my mind like gunk on the bottom of my shoe, sticking and tugging with every step. The old bruising around its wrists tells a story of captivity long before Cillian’s shed. I don’t know what it means, but I don’t want to layer injury on top of injury. Not until we know whether the demon has to be killed.

  I accept that it might need to be. Watchers never flinch from what needs to be done. But I don’t have to be cruel in the meantime, and I certainly don’t have to rush to assume this will end in more death. Anticipating violence always seems to create it.

  I sling the chains over my shoulder and sprint for Cillian’s. I don’t think even the ATVs we keep in the garage are faster. When I get there, I jump the fence right into the yard and snag the padlock key from under the rock where Cillian hid it. Cringing at each metallic click, I unlock the door and open it, fully expecting the demon to be standing, waiting to devour me.

  It’s still slumped on the floor. I hide the key under a bowl of crystals on a table out of reach and tiptoe forward, anticipating attack. Then another fear strikes me. I crouch, peering closely—the demon is still breathing. Not sure whether I should be relieved or disappointed, I secure the chains to the beam and shackle the demon’s ankles, noting the handcuffs still in place on its wrists. Since it hasn’t moved, I do a quick check. Its facial wound is closing nicely. I did good work there. I want to move its arm to make certain it has full range of motion, but even I know that’s going too far.

  I linger for a few minutes, but the demon is out. Maybe forever. I know I shouldn’t, but I feel a twinge of sadness at the thought. My years of studying medicine taught me to value all life, and apparently that extends to even demons. Reading about demons in gruesomely illustrated books isn’t the same as seeing them in real life. This one is less terrifying and more pathetic. I know they’re not all that way—the hellhound certainly wasn’t, and neither was the giant interdimensional monstrosity—but it does make me feel better about not alerting the Council.

  I lock the shed again, then hop the fence and jog through town to the shop to update Cillian. I want to check on him too. Make sure he’s okay. Plus, I wouldn’t mind some sugary comfort. With magic a bust, Cillian has shifted the shop away from spell supplies and toward soda of all types. Though I’d prefer hot chocolate this morning. I wrap my arms around myself, shivering, and jog faster.

  I love the tiny village. Gray rocks, thatched roofs, and cobbled streets wind through the village straight to an ocean seemingly designed to complement the weather. There’s something natural about Shancoom—as though it were simply a feature of the landscape. Even the way it’s laid out feels organic, with its homes clustered around a meandering central street. So many cities in America exist in defiance of the land they were built on. But Shancoom belongs.

  The early morning fog lingers, drifting through the streets like the ghost of a long-dead river. I imagine it flowing over the cobblestones, straight to the cliffs, and spilling in a slow-motion waterfall to the ocean.

  The fog plays tricks on my eyes. I see movement where there is none. I jog faster, feeling hunted.

  Then a low growl makes me realize: I am being hunted.

  I stop dead outside the soda shop. I can see Cillian inside, asleep on the floor beneath the counter. The door is locked up tight. He’s safe.

  For now.

  I crouch, using the fog to obscure myself too as I slip past the soda shop and loop back around to try to get behind whatever is following me. The fog parts enough to reveal frenzied eyes and sick-looking patches of skin with tufts of fur growing like fungus.

  Another hellhound. Where are they coming from? How did it find me? It sniffs the air and then cuts straight through the fog toward me.

  My first instinct is an overwhelming compulsion:

  Attack.

  My muscles strain, heartbeat soars, blood pounds in my head.

  I take a deep breath. Send cooling thoughts into my veins, use that same Slayer strength to restrain my own limbs. Force myself to think like a Watcher, to look at the bigger picture. To think, think, think, not move.

  It’s not about me. What is the common link between the two hellhound sightings? The first one was following Cillian. And now this one is here in town, not at the castle. So the first one might not have been looking for us at all. It might have been looking for something else. Something linked to Shancoom, and to Cillian.

  And then I realize: the Coldplay demon.

  I didn’t wash my hands after securing its chains just now. The hellhound might not be hunting me at all. And the first hellhound was right behind Cillian, who had come from his house, where the injured demon was probably already hiding. Whether friends or foes of the Coldplay demon, the hellhounds are looking for it. And I’m not going to let them succeed. Because whatever side the hellhounds are on, I’m on the opposite one.

  Shancoom will wake up soon, though. Hellhounds fixate on their prey with unshakable intensity, but that doesn’t mean they won’t rip apart anything they encounter along the way. Done hiding, I stand and whistle. “Hey, doggy! Here, doggy, doggy!”

  The hellhound freezes, cocking its head in confusion. Then it growls and leaps into motion. I turn and sprint, pushing myself as fast as I can run. Hellhounds are fast, but I’m faster. I let out one involuntary whoop of sheer adrenaline-fueled joy.

  I am faster than a demon.

  Only just, though. I race through the woods, branches clawing at me. I leap logs and duck obstacles. I hear the hellhound in pursuit. When the castle comes into sight, I put on a burst of speed, praying no one is outside yet. My luck holds. I yank open the door to the storage building, then jump up and catch the door frame, pulling my legs under me right as the hellhound leaps for them. It overshoots, smashing into the shelves.

  I drop and slam the door shut, trapping the hellhound inside. Chest heaving, I consider my options. I’ve trapped a hellhound right outside my own home. In the building with all the weapons and chains I could have used to subdue it.

  Stake me. Why couldn’t my brain run as fast as my legs?

  I can get weapons in the training room. I don’t want to think about what I’ll have to do when I let the hellhound out. I’ll figure it out when I get to that point. I have my very own Watcher now, but he’s the last person I want help from. I could ask Artemis, but—

  I turn around and scream. My mother is standing right behind me. Interesting that she could make me scream in terror, while the hellhound, not so much. But only one of them is a mortal threat to me right now.

  “Nina,” she says, “we need to talk about yesterday.”

  Now she wants to talk? There’s a crash from the shed. It sounds like a shelf being torn down. My mother frowns, looking over my shoulder.

  I grab her arm, turning her away. “I was reorganizing. Knocked one of the shelves loose. Sorry! I’ll fix it. Let’s go talk in the castle.”

  The hellhound slams itself against the door. The entire building shudders from the impact.

  “What do you have in there?” My mother steps toward the shed.

  I hold out my arms. “Nothing! Just, let’s go inside. Okay? Please?”

  “Open the door, Nina.”

  Normally, the voice she uses would have me shrinking into myself like a tortoise. She’s been more Council member than mother since we rejoined the Watchers. And I always obeyed the Council. Maybe it’s part of my new Slayer powers. I’m compelled t
o kill demons and I’m compelled to defy the Watchers. But I can’t do what she tells me to. Not this time. “Don’t open it. Please trust me. I’ll take care of it.”

  The door shudders again. There’s a cracking noise. I’m worried it’ll break before I can decide what to do. And then it does just that.

  The hellhound bursts free, claws and fangs ready. I push my mom out of the way and drop to my back, using my momentum and legs to propel the hellhound over my body. It slams into a tree. I jump to my feet and spin to face it again, fists raised. I’m hyperfocused on the hellhound. But part of me still manages to feel exultant that my mother is here. She’ll see what I can do. She’ll see that even if she didn’t bother saving me all those years ago, I can save her.

  Maybe my mom could ignore me when I was the Watcher medic, but there’s no way she can ignore me as a Slayer.

  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.