by Alix Marsh
He didn’t get to find out exactly what he’d do, luckily, because Mr. Swan returned his swich a moment later.
“Flynn, I’d like to ask you something, but first… You should know that a pledge is considered to be a sacred, personal experience, a privacy respected by all slayers and rarely spoken of.” He leant back again, tilting his head a little as he looked at Flynn. “Your circumstances are highly unusual, however—”
“Because I’m a Cold Slayer?” asked Flynn. “I mean, that’s what everyone keeps saying, that I came in out of the cold.”
“That’s certainly at the heart of it,” Mr. Swan said. “I confess, Mr. Rook and Mr. Bishop have already told me what they could.”
“That’s okay,” Flynn said, not particularly bothered. His experience had been neither personal nor sacred. It had just been downright frightening.
“I’d like to go over it with you, Flynn, if you don’t mind. I’ll respect your wishes, naturally, if you’d rather not share more than you already have.”
“It really doesn’t matter.” Flynn shook his head. “Only, I don’t remember much. I think I must have blacked out.”
“Start at the beginning.”
“Um, right… Well, I was on my way home from school,” Flynn said. “I was hurrying because it was raining and it was my birthday—”
“Of course.”
Flynn smiled weakly. He supposed Mr. Swan didn’t need to know about Nan coming down from Edinburgh and all that, either. “Well, so, I was passing The Giant—a huge willow tree on our green—and this old man was under it, taking cover from the rain, I thought, but then he—”
“This man,” interrupted Mr. Swan. “You’d never seen him before?”
“Never.” Flynn had been over and over it in his head, and he was quite sure. “So, he gave me the Darswich and I tried to give it back. I mean, it was cool and everything, but I didn’t think I should have a dagger, you know, and anyway, he was very old and I thought he’d mistaken me for someone else, like his grandchild or someone. Is that it?” Flynn had to ask, as much as he didn’t want to hear that this was all just a mistake. Not now, that he was actually looking forward to being a slayer. “Did he choose me by mistake?”
“That’s not possible, Flynn. The Touch of Zeus is passed through our bloodline. If that man hadn’t been a blood relative, nothing would have happened when you accepted the Darswich and took the pledge.”
Flynn swallowed around a lump of relief. “Okay… Well, after that, he made me repeat these verses— I mean, the pledge and then the lightning struck.”
“The lightning struck?” Mr. Swan said sharply.
“Yeah, well…” Flynn grimaced. “It must have hit the tree, obviously, but it felt like it had gone right through me…a blast of hot energy that was everywhere, fire shooting up my veins…it felt as if my skin and bones were melting, burning me alive…”
Mr. Swan looked shocked. His jaw was drooping slightly again.
“It didn’t last long, though,” Flynn said quickly. “Well, it seemed like ages, but it couldn’t have been, right? Else I’d have been fried to a crisp like the willow.”
Mr. Swan scrubbed his brow. “That wasn’t lightning, Flynn. That was Zeus’s Touch.” He pulled his hand away, leaving a deeply burrowed scowl there. He stared at Flynn with unnerving intensity. “Let’s go back to your pledge. Do you recall the words you spoke?”
Flynn shifted uncomfortably, looking down at the swich he was still holding. “I do remember some of it… There was something about blood and honour, and pledging my life to an ancient line, which I suppose is my bloodline, right?”
“Upon the ancient line of my kin’s honour do I pledge my life,” murmured Mr. Swan. “What about the last part? I am now, and for all of time, bound unto the house of…?”
They looked at each other. Flynn was waiting for him to finish…then realised that was exactly what Mr. Swan was waiting for. “I remember something about a house…” He shrugged. “Maybe it was…the house of Atreus?” To Flynn, that seemed about right.
“Very well,” said Mr. Swan, “let’s move on.”
Flynn shoved a hand through his hair. “Then the man was gone and there was this…thing. Mr. Bishop mentioned something about a demon.”
“No, definitely not a demon. There is an incredibly powerful ward that protects this area from demons. A natural ward that’s surely been here since the onset of time, more powerful than any slayer could claim responsibility for. The protection extends for an approximate radius of ten miles, and, the epicentre is Little Rislin.”
“Seriously?” Flynn grinned. “Little Rislin is totally safe? No demons?”
Mr. Swan nodded. “Could you describe this creature you saw?”
Flynn hesitated. “Maybe it was just in my head.”
“Demons are not the only abominations resulting from Zeus’s—and other gods’, I might add—forays down here on earth and our protection wards are only effective on the ancient magic responsible for Deimonys and the lower tiers of demons. These other creatures are not immortal, however, and many are as dumb as they are large. It’s entirely possible you came across one of these beasts.”
Flynn’s smiling mood dried right up. He described the elephant-like monster as best as he could recall, feeling silly as he heard what he sounded like out loud, despite knowing everything he now did.
When he was done, Mr. Swan remained silent for a long while. Then, “I don’t recognise that beast, but I don’t claim to be familiar with every documented species. Did it attack you?”
“It wanted me to stab it,” Flynn said. “I’m sorry, sir, but everything else is really blurry. I think it fell on me, maybe impaling itself on my Darswich, and then… nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“That’s when I think I blacked out and when I came to, there was just me, propped up against the tree, no one, nothing else… I wish I could tell you more.”
“You’ve been very helpful, Flynn.” Mr. Swan stood, indicating their chat was over. “If you do remember any further details, please let me know. Mr. Flurry, the secretary outside, usually knows my whereabouts.”
FLYNN HAD BEEN WANDERING around for hours. Okay, maybe not hours. He checked his watch. It was only eleven-thirty, which still meant he’d been lost for a long, long time. He’d returned to the Manor twice already and started from the beginning, counting the trail offshoots on the stupid First Year Map printed on the back of his timetable, but someone had obviously skipped or added a couple of trails.
The main path was, indeed, a bulging oval that circled an unlabelled forest area. The Manor was situated at the northern most point of the oval, Atreus House was at approximately the four o’clock mark, and the first year meeting point at six o’clock. The clump of tiny squares demarcating the area labelled “First Year Lessons” branched off the twenty-third trail from the Manor in an anti-clockwise direction. But, clearly, it didn’t, because Flynn had counted out the trails twice now and each time ended up lost down a slightly different track off the same, stupid, overgrown trail.
For some—even stupider—reason, whomever had drawn the map decided that Flynn didn’t need to have any other reference points labelled except Crowley Manor, Atreus House and First Year Lessons. Most of the map was just squiggly lines that, if his experience this morning meant anything, went nowhere.
He finally fought his way out of the twenty-second trail (this time, he’d tried the trail on either side of twenty-three as well) and stood there, undecided. He really wasn’t keen on asking Mr. Flurry for help, but he didn’t trust the map to show him the correct path to Atreus House either. Mr. Flurry it is, then. He trudged back up to the Manor, eyeing the gathering clouds above warily. They looked like the kind that would drench when they got going.
He wasn’t in any hurry, figuring he’d missed the morning’s lessons anyway, but his steps slowed even more when he saw what was waiting for him on the Manor steps. A boy wearing an unmistakable olive green blazer. He’
d had a bad run with Perses House and didn’t see any reason for his luck to change now. They seemed to come in only one mould.
When he reached the steps, the boy jumped up. “Hey, there you are! Mr. Gaskin thought you might have gotten lost and sent me to find you.”
“Yeah, I can see you put real effort into that,” grunted Flynn.
Not put off by his bad mood, the boy grinned. “Either you’d have the sense to return here, or you deserved to stay lost, right?”
Flynn wasn’t laughing.
“I’m Rowan, by the way.” He came down a couple of steps and, before Flynn could blink, snatched the map out of his grasp.
He didn’t run off with it, though, which Flynn sort of expected. He dropped to sit on the step and spread the crumpled sheet over his knee. “They do this on purpose, you know.” He glanced up at Flynn. “Do you have something to write with? I left my stuff in class.”
“Shouldn’t we be getting back?”
“Nah, the first lunch bell’s already rung.” He raised a brow at Flynn, waiting, sandy-coloured hair flopping all over his innocent face.
Flynn didn’t trust him one bit. He’d probably scribble rude drawings all over the map first chance he got.
“Pen? Pencil?” the boy asked.
Scowling, Flynn plonked himself down on the steps and dug a pencil out of his bag. If this backfired, he only had himself to blame.
Rowan’s grin returned as he took the pencil. “Everyone’s always moaning that they don’t teach us anything in first year,” he said as he started scratching. “But this, right here, is it! Everything in the forest looks the same, unless you really look. There’s a silver birch sapling at the junction of the trail leading to the first year meeting point, see? It’s about six feet high and the lowest branch is gammy, doesn’t grow quite right.”
Flynn leant in closer to read the small letters he’d written on the map. Silver birch. 6ft. Gammy branch.
“Seriously?”
Rowan rolled his eyes. “You’ll see for yourself after lunch.”
That wasn’t actually what Flynn meant. “Why are you, well, being so…” He was going to say ‘normal’, but at the last moment changed that to, “… nice?”
“We’ve all been where you are, Flynn,” he said. “Some of us (and Flynn just knew he was talking about Milo) just seem to have shorter memories.”
Flynn grinned at him. “Thanks.”
“Mac Gowrie!”
They looked up to see a huddle of Perses boys and girls marching around the bend. All first years, Flynn saw, with Milo Christos in the middle.
“You were told to find the loser,” Milo called out in what sounded very much like an order, “not fraternize with him.”
“Yeah,” called a short, red-headed girl. “You might catch something.”
“Like a COLD,” cackled a boy from the back.
Rowan shot off without a glance Flynn’s way to meet them halfway. The pack exploded into raucous laughter.
Flynn didn’t need to be a genius to imagine what Rowan was telling them.
He’s so green. Watch him looking for the silver birch later. And he was blubbering with gratitude, gullible sod.
The sniggering, the laughing, the sly looks thrown Flynn’s way, continued as they moved as a herd past Flynn and up the steps. Flynn shrugged them off. He had known better than to think Rowan would be any different. The remainder of the class, as well as some slightly older kids, tagged along at intervals.
Leva giggled at him as she skipped past and Jin smiled with a friendly, “You’re found!”
Ice and Jack were almost the last to arrive, rushing up to him.
“We had to stop by Miss Turtlebee for our English homework.” She pushed a copy of Romeo and Juliet, along with a worksheet, into his hands as they walked into the entrance hall together. “Were you really lost or did Mr. Swan keep you all this time?”
“What did he want?” Jack said.
“Totally lost,” he said to Ice, then to Jack, “He just wanted to know how I’m settling in. Probably because of the whole Cold Slayer thing.”
He didn’t think lightning and monsters were a typical pledge experience, but he didn’t feel like talking about it.
The dining hall was in the opposite direction of Mr. Swan’s tower office, a room with a wall of windows along one side, which would have been quite pleasant if not for the décor. It wasn’t just decorated in the colours of Perses House, it was a freaking shrine. Alternating olive and cream banners hanging from the walls, olive and cream checked tablecloths, a giant statue of a black bull in the corner beside the serving counter.
Flynn would have said something, but he seriously couldn’t find the words. Wasn’t it enough he had to put up with Perses during class, without having them shoved down his throat along with his lunch? There was only one explanation, of course. The Crowley family were obviously of the Perses bloodline, which explained a lot more than the decorations.
There were three lunch lines; one for cottage pie, one for a streaky pink fish, and the vegetarian option that looked suspiciously like Spinach Risotto. Ice tried to persuade them toward the Spinach, on the basis that there was no one in that line, but Jack and Flynn just looked at her as if she were mad.
Once they had their plates of cottage pie, they found an empty table by the window (where at least the olive and cream striped curtains had been drawn back.)
Jack spent most of lunch ribbing Ice about their last lesson, History, and something to do with their bet, but Flynn wasn’t really listening. He was thinking about the other half-mortal children Mr. Swan had mentioned, the non-demon beasts that could, this very minute, be roaming freely around Little Rislin. But then he remembered the size of the scaly, elephant-like monstrosity—no way could that lurk in any shadow. If things like that were roaming about, everyone would know about it. The military would be called in. Besides, it had impaled itself. Either it was as dumb as Mr. Swan had said, or it was suicidal, and really, if there were going to be monsters in the world, those were the best kind.
His mind turned to the old man who’d disappeared. He really hoped the beast hadn’t eaten him, especially if he’d been a relative. Was that even possible? Mom or Dad related to slayers? He’d sooner believe he was adopted, and he knew for a fact he wasn’t. He’d seen the photos, his mom’s belly when she was pregnant, the sonograms…and, anyway, everyone was always saying he looked just like Mom, which he didn’t, but they did have the same, stone grey eyes.
“What exactly is a Cold Slayer?” he blurted out. “I mean, how does this whole coming in out of the cold thing work?”
“For a start,” Jack said, grinning at him, “it means you know noth— Ouch!” He glared at Ice. “What was that for?”
She glared back. “Do you need another kick to make it clearer?”
“Flynn doesn’t mind,” he grouched.
“I don’t,” Flynn told her, and he didn’t. Jack was just having some fun with it, without the meanness.
Ice rolled her eyes. “Anyway, none of us know very much, except for the general history of slayers, where we come from and why, what we’re getting into. We’re not supposed to, until we take the pledge and then we’re shipped off here almost at once and that’s no help.”
“You must pick up a lot of stuff, though,” Flynn said. “Growing up in a slayer family?”
Jack wiggled his brows at Ice. “Some more than others, depending on their eavesdropping skills.”
Ice looked quite proud of herself. “But, yeah, a Cold Slayer wouldn’t have that advantage. Like, you probably took your pledge with a distant relative, someone you didn’t know really well or hang out with much?”
“Something like that,” Flynn said. “So…this relative, how distant are we talking about? A great, great uncle of a second cousin, kind of thing?”
Jack shrugged.
“As long as you’re of the same blood line,” Ice said.
“Then anyone could potentially be a slayer.”
Flynn felt a little better about his mysterious relative. “Using your Adam and Eve theory, a slayer could go around pledging hundreds of random thirteen year olds and he’s bound to strike it lucky at least once or twice.”
“Not quite,” Ice said.
“Easier to just draw a picture.” Jack pushed his plate aside, delving inside his schoolbag for a notebook. He tore off a fresh page, talking as he drew what emerged to look like a messy family tree with ‘Atreus’ at the head. “Doesn’t matter how big or wide the family tree is…” He chose a few isolated branches and thickened those paths “…there’s only a handful of slayer branches that have survived.”
“First-born pledges,” Ice said, peering over his drawing, “that is, passing the Touch of Zeus from first-born to first-born, has always created the most powerful slayer bloodlines. Almost since the very beginning, views have flip-flopped between only pledging first-borns to preserve the integrity of the bloodline and having larger numbers.” She looked up at Flynn, demonstrating with her hands… “Family branches widen, then narrow, then widen… depending on the current view of the matriarch, but in general we’ve ended up with only a few slayer branches and they arrow narrowly downward.”
Jack scratched a vertical line straight down the middle, from the top ‘Atreus’ box to the bottom of the page. “This is the First Slayer bloodline, the direct line of first-born descendants all the way to Atreus herself.”
“First Slayers are the most powerful—”
“The strongest bloodline in each house.” Jack looked past him. “Our friend there, is a Perses First Slayer.”
Flynn glanced over his shoulder. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who Jack was talking about. He brought his gaze back, grimacing. “Milo Christos.”
“Thinks his farts don’t smell, that one.” Jack went back to his sketch, circling the last box on a branch that stopped short. “This is where the term Cold Slayer comes from… a slayer family line that goes cold, either because that branch died out—”
“Or they just decide to dump their slayer roots and deliberately break away,” Ice said grumpily. “Like Jason Forgue!”