Second Chance

by Heather Brewer

  Joss took a breath and blew it out slowly, straightening his shoulders in mock-confidence. “I’ve got a lead.”

  Abraham’s eyebrows raised in surprised disbelief. “Oh? Anything tangible?”

  To this, Joss held up the crumbled slip of paper in his hand. “The bartender at V Bar is good friends with a vampire who’s been killing humans out in the open. According to him, this vampire is about to be hunted and tortured for his crimes . . . unless we get to him first and dispatch him quickly. He hangs out at a place called The Bourgeois Pig every night at ten thirty.”

  Abraham took this all in, then opened his book and flipped to the page he’d been reading. Without looking back at his nephew, he said, “Well, then. You’d better hurry. It’s getting late.”

  Joss paused in confusion. “Should I . . . assemble a team or go it alone?”

  Abraham glanced up at him. “Do you need a team? As Cratian said before, it’s your shootin’ match, yes?”

  It was a test. His uncle wanted to know whether or not he was capable of deciding what action needed to be taken, and of handling such a task on his own. But as much as Joss wanted to pass that test and strut out the door to engage a monster and impress the Slayer Society—not to mention his uncle—his knees betrayed him by trembling slightly. He was scared, and there was no easy, tough, manly way to admit that he was scared.

  What would Abraham do or say if Joss admitted to feeling frightened? Would he embrace his nephew, tell him everything would be okay, send out Morgan or Ash to handle the big, bad vampire for him? No. Abraham would punish him, and rightly so. Because this wasn’t about being a frightened child. This was about being a Slayer, and doing everything that he could to ensure the protection of his fellow men.

  With a tightened jaw, Joss turned from his uncle and headed for the door. “Don’t wait up.”

  He imagined Abraham cracking a small, proud smile. But he didn’t dare turn back to look.

  With determined steps, he made his way to 111 East 7th Street, and tilted his head with interest at the hot spot known only as The Bourgeois Pig. The man standing outside checking IDs gave Joss a brief once-over before waving him through the door, much to Joss’s surprise. He had hit a rather extreme growth spurt recently, his height growing dramatically and his shoulders broadening. But he hadn’t expected to not even get carded. Without complaint or questioning, he stepped inside and was instantly transported back in time to an old bordello, a thought that might have made him blush if it weren’t for the red lights filling the posh space. The walls were covered in brocade, the room filled with gilded mirrors and plush antique armchairs. It was a private place, an intimate place, but one that struck Joss with such extravagance that he immediately felt underdressed in his black skinny jeans and Buffy the Vampire Slayer T-shirt that read I’M THE SLAYER. ASK ME HOW! Abraham hated the shirt, so Joss had made certain to wear a short-sleeved button-up over it, just in case he needed to appease his uncle by covering it up. Joss had thought it was funny and ironic. So had Morgan. And Paty. So at least he wasn’t alone.

  The room smelled like lavender, and Joss couldn’t be certain, but he thought that the scent might be coming from several of the glasses in the room. Glasses that were held, Joss couldn’t help but notice, by mostly women. Impeccably dressed, attractive women. In their twenties. Henry would have been in heaven. Joss moved to an empty chair and glanced at the menu, but stopped reading after something called “smelly potatoes.” He looked at his phone for the time and noted that it was precisely 10:28 P.M. No sign of Boris so far. Unless he was in drag and very pretty, sipping something that smelled a lot like Joss’s mom’s bath salts.

  How long was Joss going to sit here? He wasn’t even sure what Boris looked like. Strike that. He hadn’t the slightest clue what Boris looked like at all. How was he supposed to recognize the monster? How long was he going to wait, and how long was he going to go on believing that the vampire bartender hadn’t simply sent him on a wild goose chase? Or, worse, set him up to be taken down by other vampires? He looked around at the women in the room, none of whom seemed to notice his presence at all. Could they be vampires? Maybe. They were attractive. Many were pale and fashionable. But how much of that was vampire and how much of it was simply fashion? He couldn’t be sure. All he knew is that he’d come here because a vampire had told him to, and he’d believed that vampire. Joss. Duped again by the undead. Hadn’t Sirus been enough? Hadn’t Vlad? What was wrong with him? What was he thinking?

  He stood up, glancing at his phone one last time. Ten thirty P.M. on the nose.

  The door opened and a rather elegant gentleman walked inside, a smile on his face. His skin was golden brown, his eyes so dark they appeared black. He wore an ascot around his neck, but did not look at all dorky like Fred from Scooby-Doo. His was different. His spoke of another era. Another time. One from which pages this man, this creature, had stepped directly out of. Joss slipped the phone back into his pocket but remained standing. He couldn’t explain it, but he had an overwhelming sensation that this man, this creature, was not only a vampire, but the vampire that he’d been waiting for. With his eyes locked on his mark, Joss thought his target’s name—hoping that the creature was listening with its telepathy and would pick up on the single word that burned in his mind.

  Boris.

  Immediately, Boris turned his head toward Joss, and with a slight twitch in his smile, nodded. Joss waited a moment, then sat down again to wait. Boris approached the bar, saying his hellos as he moved. Clearly, this was a regular stop for him. The women lavished him with attention, and the bartender already knew what drink to have waiting once he got there. After several minutes of social pleasantries, Boris made his way back through the room and took the plush Queen Anne–style chair across from Joss, as if they were old friends. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

  Joss shook his head, keeping his expression pleasant. He’d promised Stephen that he would try to reason with his friend, and Joss intended on keeping that promise. “No, thanks. The smell of lavender isn’t very appealing to me. Reminds me of bath salts.”

  Boris chuckled and held his glass up to Joss in a toasting gesture before taking a sip. The contents were red, and Joss wondered if it were an effect of the lights, or the contents themselves. After Boris had swallowed, he swished the liquid slightly, watching his drink move about in the glass before speaking again. Joss did everything he could to keep his thoughts far away from the stake in his back belt loop. It was surprisingly easy. “Not many know my true name outside of Elysia. Would you mind telling me how you came about this privilege?”

  Joss kept an eye on the other people in the room with his peripheral vision. He still didn’t trust that this wasn’t a vampire hangout. “I met a friend of yours at V Bar earlier today. Stephen? He told me.”

  “V Bar.” Boris raised an eyebrow. “Why would a human who clearly has knowledge of Elysia choose to socialize in such a well-known vampire location? Unless you were somehow involved in the trial?”

  Joss shook his head earnestly. “I wasn’t there for that.”

  “So why were you there? Unless . . .” He widened his eyes for just a moment and then chuckled, taking another sip of the red concoction. Joss swallowed, straining to keep his thoughts away from his fear that Boris would discover that he was a Slayer before Joss was ready for him to. Then Boris set his half-empty glass on the table between them and spoke again. This time, Joss had the feeling that the words weren’t intended for Joss, but for Boris himself, perhaps to ease his mind. “But you’re too young to be a killer, now aren’t you, boy?”

  Feeling slightly more at ease, Joss relaxed a bit, but stayed on high alert. Just in case Boris wasn’t above attacking and killing him in such a public space. After all, wasn’t that what the serial killer had been doing that had so upset both the Slayer Society and the vampires themselves? Joss pushed that thought away and met Boris’s gaze. “Stephen sent me to talk to you about something. He’s very concerned that his
father and the other”—Joss swallowed the word vampires in case any other humans were listening—“the others will hurt you.”

  Boris’s smile lost some of its honesty then. He shook his head, reaching again for his glass. Joss wondered if the glass acted like a kind of security blanket for him, or if Boris really needed a drink. “Oh, he needn’t be concerned with that.”

  “He seems to think so.” But looking into Boris’s eyes, Joss could see something there—something that spoke of an unshared detail. He tilted his head slightly, curiously as he spoke—the idea that he was purposefully engaging in meaningful conversation with a fanged killer never far from his thoughts, but carefully tucked away inside his head. “Why not?”

  Boris gauged him for a moment. Then he drained his glass and returned it to the table once more, this time empty. Not so much as a drop of liquid clung to the depths of the glass. “Because they won’t hurt me. They’ll kill me.”

  He could sense the moment approaching, like a magician getting ready for the big reveal. It was coming. He just had to control when and how. “He seems most concerned that they’ll hurt you first. Badly, if I’m judging his tone right.”

  “And you’ll . . . what? Just kill me?” Boris threw his head back in laughter.

  Joss paused, then thought about his wooden stake. What it looked like. How it felt in his hand. The heft and sincerity of the weapon itself.

  Boris stopped laughing. “A Slayer. Ahh . . . I should have known.”

  Joss nodded, but said nothing. Thought nothing.

  “Where’s your stake, Slayer?” Boris’s words sounded calm, but the edges were furled with an almost unnoticeable concern.

  In reply, Joss thought about Scooby-Doo and the way that Fred’s ascot looked in comparison to Boris’s. He wouldn’t give away any details. Not until he was ready for Boris to know them. He might not be able to keep the vampire from reading his thoughts, but he could certainly control what thoughts he had when the vampire was around.

  A waitress passed and Boris barked, “Another.”

  As the two waited for Boris’s second drink to arrive, Joss watched the vampire, who seemed utterly perplexed that Joss was doing so well at keeping his thoughts away from his stake. Frankly, Joss was surprised, too. But he had other things to think about. Like a certain name that had been scribbled on a certain piece of paper.

  Once Boris had a new drink and had taken a healthy sip, Joss reached into his pocket and retrieved Stephen’s note. He unfolded it and set it on the table. “Tell me, Boris. Tell me all about how you know Cecile.”

  Surprise filled Boris’s eyes at the mention of her name, followed by guilt. Joss bristled, hoping that Boris was still listening to his thoughts. If this creature, this monster, was the one that had taken Cecile’s life that night, it would wish that vampires were taking it down. Joss would make Boris hurt more than any being had ever experienced pain. And he wouldn’t feel an ounce of guilt for any of it.

  Boris set his glass down, fingers trembling some. When he spoke, his voice had changed. He seemed shaken. Sad. Guilty.

  Joss stiffened, his thoughts turning at once to the stake in his back belt loop, despite the fact that he was desperately trying not to think about precisely that.

  Boris’s eyes widened briefly, and Joss knew that he’d just revealed the location of his weapon. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was Cecile.

  “We were close—very close—for just thirteen years. Until I learned she had ties to the Slayer Society. How do you know of her?”

  Joss furrowed his brow. What was Boris talking about? His sister was just a tiny young thing when she’d died. Cecile was barely in elementary when her life was stolen from her, when she was stolen away from Joss.

  Boris’s eyebrows came together then and he shook his head. “We’re speaking of two different Cecile’s, Slayer. Your Cecile was a child, an innocent who was murdered in her sleep. My Cecile was a beautiful woman, who fell in love with two men and had to choose between them. She chose, to my heartbreak, the other man.”

  Cecile. Of course! Joss felt only slightly stupid when he’d realized that the Cecile who Boris was talking about had been Ernst’s first love, the woman after whom his sister, Cecile, had been named. Joss’s head swam. How could this be? He’d been so close to information about who had killed Cecile. He was so certain! And now . . .

  Boris shook his head, returning to his crimson drink. “Curse you, Blomberg.”

  A jolt went through Joss, and he sat bolt upright in his seat, eyes on his conversational companion. “Blomberg? Ernst Blomberg?”

  Boris nearly dropped his glass before returning it to the table once again. “How did you know?”

  Joss set his jaw. His heart had picked up its pace, and his entire body felt as if it were on high alert as the adrenaline rushed through him. The reveal, he’d thought, would have been the location of his stake, but Joss was mistaken. The big reveal in this magician’s act was about to occur. He locked eyes with Boris, took a steady, calm breath, and said, “I haven’t properly introduced myself, Boris. My name is Joss McMillan. I’m the great-great-great-grandson of Professor Ernst Blomberg.”

  A fiery, hate-filled glare flashed through Boris’s eyes then, and he growled low enough that no one else in the room would hear. “Well, then, Joss McMillan. It will be my immense pleasure to watch you die.”

  10

  ANY PORT IN A STORM

  Joss didn’t have time to think—not that thinking would have been wise at that moment. What he needed was to rely purely on his Slayer instincts—they were the only thing, after all, that might help him get out of this alive.

  Boris lunged at him, sending his glass flying, its liquid contents spilling out in slow motion droplets that momentarily decorated the air to Joss’s right. Joss dove to the left, landing on the floor just as Boris connected with his newly emptied chair, toppling it over and landing in a heap. Joss scrambled to his feet, ignoring the screams and gasps from his fellow patrons, and reached for his stake, gripping the wood tightly in his hand. Boris roared and, before Joss could even blink, the vampire rushed him, slamming Joss against the door. His fangs were long and sharp. His breath smelled sickly like blood. It reminded him of the vampire who’d killed Cecile.

  Joss whipped his arm up and over, catching Boris’s shoulder with the tip of his stake. Boris cried out. “You will die, Slayer!”

  He slammed Joss against the door again. Pain ripped quickly through Joss’s spine, and for a moment, he saw stars. Only the stars didn’t disappear. In a blink, Joss realized that Boris had ripped the door from its hinges. He was lying outside, with a seriously ticked off vampire pinning him to the ground.

  Joss blocked out all thought and did what his instincts told him to do. He kneed Boris in the groin.

  Joss rolled free and moved to the nearest shadows, hoping to conceal himself briefly. Just until he’d formulated a plan to take Boris down. He stood in the alley nearest The Bourgeois Pig, stake in his fist, and waited for Boris to move after him and claim his vengeance with both fangs.

  Boris bared his teeth, his fangs elongating once again—slowly, this time—and stood. Joss could have sworn that he heard a low growl emanating from his adversary, even at this distance. “Cecile was my soul mate, Slayer. Your family broke that bond, and for that, you must die.”

  Joss very much wanted to point out that, in theory, a bond between souls couldn’t be broken. A bond was forever. So perhaps Boris had been wrong about the connection he and Joss’s great-great-great-grandmother had shared. Maybe it had been more of a crush-type situation than undying love. After all, their love had died. Hadn’t it? At least Cecile’s half.

  But he said nothing. There was a task at hand, and chitchat wasn’t going to get it done any faster. Joss just hoped that he was up to it. Boris was muscular, and even the weakest vampires were incredibly strong. But Joss didn’t have much choice in the matter. This fight was going to happen with or without his consent.

 
And yet, he found himself standing there, not acting, not moving forward to engage Boris. Why? Because he sympathized with a fellow living creature?

  No.

  Because Boris was putting something in Joss’s brain, in his thoughts. Boris was making him doubt his own motives and hesitate to make the first move. And if a vampire was capable of controlling thought and motivation, what else might it be capable of?

  Slowly, with a knowing smirk on his face, Boris removed his jacket and ascot, and folded them neatly. He piled them on the ground near the wall, stood, and cracked his neck—first to the left side, then to the right. Joss watched him, wondering what he was thinking, what anyone might think before they attempted to kill a boy his age. Was he anxious to begin?

  “More anxious than you could ever know,” Boris spat at him before disappearing in a blur. Joss squeezed the stake nervously in his fist, but he couldn’t see Boris anywhere, and felt only the mildest of breezes on his right side. His hair ruffled, but only slightly. If Joss didn’t know better, he’d have said that Boris was gone.

  But Joss did know better. He knew that vampires were ultrafast and sneaky, and absolutely could not be trusted. He narrowed his eyes, turning slowly, trying to distinguish Boris from the shadows around him. All he found was darkness.

  From his left came a hushed echo of laughter. Joss turned, but no one was there.

  He didn’t like this. He didn’t like games. And he didn’t like being toyed with. “Come on, Boris,” he whispered into the night air—air that suddenly felt chilly. “Come out and fight like a man.”

  A sudden breeze brushed his left side and then Boris was there, hand on Joss’s throat, squeezing. His fangs gleamed, even in the low light, as he growled into Joss’s face. “And what would you know of fighting like a man, Joss McMillan? You’re just a boy. You know nothing.”