Slayer(19)

“I can’t talk about this right now.” Literally. I don’t even know how to feel, much less how to form everything into words. I’m scared and I’m confused and I’m furious. My entire life has been a lie. “I need to be alone.”

I stumble back through the dark. I’m half certain I’m lost and will die in these walls, but eventually I bump into a dead end and see a hint of light from the crawl space.

Back in my room, I throw myself onto my bed and stare up through my tears at the metal ceiling fan. It was the biggest expense my mother ever approved. Artemis and I sharpened its blades to razor’s edges. It wasn’t the only modification we made to our room. Several snow globes decorate various surfaces, all filled with holy water, acid, and flame accelerant. The desk legs are easily removable and sharpened to stake points. Artemis and I have systematically stocked every room we ever lived in with weapons. We did it so I could feel safe. So that we would have weapons even I could use without training.

But what if I’m the weapon now?

Not only has my whole life changed, but my whole history, too. Everything is different now. My mother knew—always knew. And she still chose Artemis. She still pushed Artemis to train, to be the better of the two of us. Did she think—hope—that the seer misidentified, and Artemis would be the Slayer, not me? Or did she know it was me and hate me because of it?

My phone buzzes on my nightstand. I wipe my eyes and pick it up to see a series of frantic messages from Cillian. Usually he only texts me to pass notes along to Rhys or if there’s a shipment of supplies he’s going to deliver.

But this one is for me.

Nina emergency please come to my house

Right now

God nina please

Come alone

Can’t explain just please begging you come right now

My adrenaline kicks back into gear. I grab my shoes and run.





6


IT’S JUST PAST MIDNIGHT. THE only light is from the almost full moon. Everything is pale illumination and blackest shadows. Beneath my cable-knit sweater, I’m itching from the inside out—buzzing as I sprint through the trees, spooking at every crack of a twig or rustle of dying leaves. Cillian’s panicked texts have me feeling like I’m going to jump out of my own skin.

There is, in fact, a demon that can jump out of its own skin, which is where the saying comes from. When surprised or in danger, the demon literally jumps out of its skin and leaves it behind, much like some lizards can detach their tails. I saw an illustration of it once, and firmly hope to never see it in real life.

I started out tentatively—my mom always insists I never exert myself, so all my trips to town are accomplished at a leisurely walking pace—but now I’m running faster, and faster, and faster. Running away from who she told me I was. The girl who shouldn’t be exposed to stress or panic. The girl who shouldn’t push herself.

I stumble as the truth slides into place like a knife into a sheath. She was trying to keep my Slayer potential from being activated. I had believed that she didn’t want me exposed to stressful situations because she was trying to make up for the fire. But Potentials become Slayers when they hit physical maturity and encounter a moment that requires something of them. She tried to make certain I never had that moment. It took an interdimensional demon to get past the coddled, safe box she placed me in. Otherwise I never would have become a Slayer at all.

And I don’t know which option is worse—never knowing what she hid from me or having to be a Slayer.

I run so fast the forest blurs dizzily around me. For the first time in my life, I have no idea what my own physical limits are. I don’t want to push, because pushing, running as fast as I can, or enjoying any of this makes the fact that I’m a Slayer—I’m a Slayer—real. And I don’t want it to be.

Cillian’s waiting for me as I skid to a stop outside his house. He looks as shaken up as I feel.

“What’s wrong?” I search him for wounds, but he seems fine, physically.

“I, uh, have a problem. I need to show you what’s in my yard.”

Cillian’s house is a cottage built on the edge of Shancoom, abutting the forest. His backyard is a small space with a sturdy shed against the fence. In the two years since we dropped a castle inside the trees, no one in the village has accidentally found it. We used to have magical wards to deter them, but it turns out people are just super uncurious about the woods.

I’ve been to Cillian’s only a few times, but I like it. It’s an actual home. And as much as I rationally know that living inside a castle is cool, whenever I walk into Cillian’s house I’m hit with a sense of familiarity and comfort. A cozy, curated space, shared with people you love. A building that functions only to take care of you.

Of course, Cillian’s house has been emptier of late. His mom hasn’t been back in six weeks. I try not to ask for details—it’s none of my business, and I can see in the soft way Rhys approaches the subject that it’s a tender one.

Which reminds me.

“Why didn’t you want Rhys to come?”

Cillian bounces nervously on the balls of his feet as he looks through the open front door of the dimly lit house and toward the dark, fenced-in backyard. “Um. You need to see it. Then you’ll understand.”

I follow Cillian through his house to the back door, my curiosity warring with trepidation. He flips on the backyard floodlights. Something must really be troubling him if—