Slayer(36)

11


A GIRL PACES THE CRACKED linoleum floor of a tiny apartment. Her blue hair shimmers like it’s underwater, and I can’t hear what she’s saying, but I feel it—bright red pulses of anger, with an undercurrent of darkest black seething fear. There’s a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge stuck to the wall with a long, sharp knife.

“Buffy,” we whisper at the same time.

Then the girl’s in a warehouse, everything black except a light hanging over her head. She’s bound to a chair, her face bleeding. A woman licks the blood, smiling as her true face is revealed. Vampire.

“Dublin is ours, Cosmina,” she says, petting the girl’s head. “You know that.” She hits the light and it waves wildly, revealing a faded sign for O’Hannigan Ironworks, then swinging back to illuminate the girl’s blue hair.

The flash of blue turns into a blinding blue light that revolves into red, then blue again. A girl who looks impossibly strong and powerful—every muscle full, her core like a barrel of gunpowder—is handcuffed and put into the back of a police car. The police hold out a bag, puzzled by the stakes inside.

Red and blue and red, red, red; the Slayer’s anger flashes with the lights.

“Buffy,” we say together.

A flash of red makes me close my eyes, and when I open them, I see a figure sitting on the edge of a building rooftop. She’s small, like me, blond hair done in two buns on top of her head. Cute. Sweet. Maybe to combat all the things she’s done.

I can’t see her face, but I can see in her body—she’s sad. Exhausted.

And all around her, pulsing with my own heartbeat, I feel the fury of a thousand Slayers just like me. It licks the air, caressing me, swirling me closer and stoking the flame inside me higher and higher until I can’t understand how she can breathe, much less sit there without feeling it.

“Buffy,” we breathe in unison.

She looks up.

Before I can break away from the collective rage to tell her how I feel—how I hate her, how she ruined my life, how she’s selfish and doesn’t deserve anything she has, anything that was sacrificed for her—I’m pulled away. Walrus-faced Smythe lies snoring in bed. The darkness around him swirls, then takes form and settles, a blacker black, on top of his chest. He smiles, and his face is filled with longing so intense I feel icky just witnessing it. His breathing becomes labored. His eyes behind the lids roll wildly, but he doesn’t open them, doesn’t move.

“You’re so stale,” a voice like shadows croons. And then it pauses, slowly turning toward me. I open my mouth to scream, and—

? ? ?

“I don’t know!” Artemis shouts. “Nina’s the one who knows everything about concussions.”

“Uneven pupils,” I groan. I try to sit up but can’t. Why am I on the floor? “Unconsciousness. Dizziness. Confusion. Are you okay? How did you get a concussion?”

Rhys shoves his face right in front of mine. “Well, that makes three out of four. Let me see your pupils.”

“No!” I jerk my head away, which makes it swim. “They’re mine! Did anyone check on Cosmina?”

“Athena,” Leo says, and I freeze. Oh no. No no no. The nunchucks.

“I’m fine! I remember what happened.” Unfortunately. I allow Rhys to stare at my eyeballs until he’s satisfied they’re the same dilation. “You aren’t supposed to be here,” I say.

“Leo ran out for help. I was the first person he saw. So I guess I know you’re training now.” Rhys grins at me. I’m relieved he knows. We can trust him, and I don’t want any extra secrets right now. The ones I have are plenty. Artemis presses an ice pack to my forehead. I’m annoyed, because that means she rifled through my things in the clinic. That is my place. I’m also annoyed that Eve has joined us. She’s watching everything with a concerned eye, but at least she’s not fussing. I’d be even more embarrassed if she were.

“So maybe we’ll start with something more basic and practical than nunchucks.” Leo holds out a hand to help me up, but I use Artemis’s instead.

“Who is Cosmina?” Eve asks.

“Blue hair. Kidnapped by vampires.” I pause, frowning. “We don’t know anyone named Cosmina, do we?”

Concerned, Artemis leans in to examine my pupils too. “No, we don’t.”

I gently push her away. “Just weird dreams. They seemed so real. Have you seen Bradford Smythe around?”

“I saw him at breakfast,” Artemis says.

“And he looked . . . fine?”

“Well, as fine as the crusty old man ever looks. Why?”

“No reason.” So that rules out prophetic dreams. Though I’m not sure if he was actually threatened or not. He seemed to be enjoying—whatever was happening. I shudder.

Artemis frowns thoughtfully. “Although, now that you mention it, he was a bit paler than usual. I think all this stress with you turning out to be a Slayer and the hellhound may be starting to get to him—”

“Bradford has weathered worse,” Eve interjects. “It’s his job to handle this stress and far more. Let’s stay on target. Time may be of the essence here.” She purses her dark-stained lips. “This Cosmina—you say she’s been kidnapped? Do you think it may have been a Slayer dream?”