Slayer(22)

I examine what’s visible of the rest of the demon’s body—unwilling to undress it, because my sympathy definitely does not extend that far. There are some other cuts, some more bruising, and the dislocated arm.

Before I have time to rethink anything, Cillian’s back with supplies.

“Okay.” I shake out my hands to steady them. “If it wakes up, I need you to be ready to hit it on the head with something heavy.”

“So you’re going to try to fix the damage, and if it works, we’re going to hurt it again?”

“I don’t know!” I pour rubbing alcohol on my hands. “I guess only if it tries to attack. This is all new to me too.”

“Fine.” Cillian picks up a large metal clamp. “Before you assume anything disgusting, this is from my mum’s quilting phase.”

I pour some of the alcohol onto a strip of gauze, then, figuring I might as well get it over with, pour it directly into the wound. The demon flinches—Cillian raises the clamp—but it doesn’t wake up. I carefully pull the wound shut and tape the skin in place.

The demon’s left arm is definitely not the same as the right arm, in a bad way. “Does this look dislocated to you?”

“I don’t know!”

“Crap on a stake,” I moan. I’ll have to take a million showers to get the sensation of its skin off mine. Putting a hand against the demon’s shoulder, I hold on to its arm and pull. I feel the pop as it slides back into place. The demon shudders. Its eyes flutter open for a second, and I swear it whispers, “Thank you,” before going limp and unconscious again.

I can’t be sure, though. I’m too distracted by the way its shoulder popped. It reminds me of the hellhound’s neck. One pop to fix something broken, one pop to break something forever.

“I’m going to lose my supper,” Cillian says.

I feel the same.

Cillian sets down the clamp out of reach of the demon. “Does that mean the demon will be in fighting shape when it wakes up?”

“It’s secured. We’ll be fine.” I hope. I rub at an itch on my ear with my shoulder. I don’t want to touch any part of myself with my demon-goo hands. What if it’s contagious? Sometimes demons can infect people with abilities or curses or other demony things. That’s why I was so paranoid about feeling different after the demon apocalypse day. And why I missed the huge, obvious truth that I, of all people, should have guessed. Though I don’t like “Slayer” any better than “demon infection.” It’s not even that different.

“Sooo,” Cillian says, drawing out the word. “When are you going to admit you’re a Slayer?” I flinch, and he grins. “Knew it. I mean, like, for the last ten minutes I knew it. Been thinking about it all day, and your strength tonight confirmed it. That’s brilliant, though, right? Slayers are the whole reason you lot do your job. Multitasking now.”

I hesitate, then blurt, “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Besides the massive number of secrets you’ve dumped on me in the last twenty-four hours? By all means.”

I don’t know what anyone expects of me now. What it will actually mean to be a Slayer among the Watchers. If they’ll expect a lot from me. Or if, being me, they’ll continue to expect nothing. Artemis seems upset, my mom is livid, and Rhys and most of the Watchers are confused. But I know how I feel. “I hate Slayers. I don’t want them to exist, much less be one.”

Cillian surprises me by folding me into a hug. In all the Slayer talk, no one had asked me how I felt about it. Artemis wanted to fix it. Rhys couldn’t believe it. Eve and the Council thought it was great. My mom denied it. But in this moment I know exactly what I want, what I’ve needed all day:

Someone to just be there for me.

Cillian’s expression is gravely sincere. “You’ve lost a lot, and that always leaves a mark. It’s okay to feel that way. You have my permission to freak the hell out.”

I snort, and he pats my back.

“I’m glad we’re both sharing things, though. You’re sharing your new scary Slayer status. And I’m sharing the demon in my shed. Do you think it’ll wake up?”

Its skin is textured like a drought-stricken riverbed, all cracked and flaking, with the black sections between cracks shining with ooze. I don’t know if that means it’s unhealthy or if that’s standard. The horns are black, as are the fingernails and, I suspect, the teeth. Its ears are pierced with delicate gold hoops, and its Coldplay shirt has a cheerful rainbow on it.

“I don’t know. We have lots of books on demons, but they all revolve around, like, how to summon, control, and destroy. None of them talk about how to administer first aid.”

“You did your best. Hopefully the demon takes that into account when it wakes up and eats us.”

“Most demons don’t eat humans. Or at least, not the whole human. Certain organs, for sure. Hearts. Sometimes brains. Or just your blood. There’s an entire subspecies of demon that survives on eating human teeth, which is actually where the tooth fairy mythology came from! But they don’t take them from underneath your pillow. They take them from—”

My story is cut short by my phone chirping in my pocket. I pull it out to see the castle’s main line. Busted. Someone knows I’m gone. I don’t answer, because I don’t want to lie.