Slayer(42)

At least I’m doing this on purpose. I’m helping, not being hunted. We might not know what, exactly, we’re heading into, but my dream showed only one vampire, and there are five of us. We can handle a vampire. Hell, we can probably scare her off.

I remember the snap of the hellhound’s neck and flinch. Just one vampire, I think to myself. Just one. They’re already dead. Killing them shouldn’t bother me.

I know it still will.

We enter a district where the charm of Dublin has been consumed by the cement monotony of industry. Leo stops the car in front of a block of buildings. The outsides are dingy, in the utterly soulless way of everything built in the eighties. What happened during that decade that caused architects to hate themselves and the rest of the world so very, very much?

“My sleuthing says we’re in the right place.” But Cillian looks as dubious as I feel. We all sit, unmoving, staring out at the twilight. There’s not a soul in sight. “Kind of . . . dead around here, innit? You could almost say it was undead.”

“No,” Rhys says. “You could not. We are done punning tonight.”

“Fine. But aren’t you a wee bit bothered?” Cillian gestures around. There are no lights. No people. Only a couple of cars parked, but they look like they haven’t been moved in months.

“It’s an industrial district,” Leo says. “Everyone is probably home for the night.”

“So how come we haven’t gotten out of the car yet?”

My finger is pressed against the lock button so hard it’s gone bloodless and white. I slowly release it. “Just assessing the situation.” I unlock the car, and the click sounds far louder and more ominous than it should have. That’s when I realize I have no weapons. What kind of Slayer goes into potential battle without weapons?

Oh, right. The dead kind. Or the dud kind. Probably both, in my case.

Artemis slings her bag over her shoulder, and it clinks. She remembered weapons. Of course she did. I open my mouth to ask for one, but her comment about me being a loaded weapon in a child’s hand comes roaring back. I’m proving her right already.

Leo pops the trunk and removes a duffel bag filled with supplies. He holds out a stake to me, catches my relieved expression, and grins. A pang I thought I had long since smothered catches me by surprise. Suddenly he’s the guy who passed me an extra cookie just because he knew it would make me happy. And back are those dimples I had hoped to never see again. The one on the left is deeper than the one on the right. I hate that I still notice that.

“I’m a Watcher,” he says. “It’s my job to prepare you. It’s your job to slay.”

Ah, right. He’s not thinking of me me. He’s thinking of Slayer me. And we’re all about to be disappointed, because I know I’m not prepared for this. Artemis has straight up told me as much, and soon Leo and Rhys will know it too. They probably already do. After all, the most damage Leo has seen me do is to my own head. I wish he had seen me kill the first hellhound.

Ugh. That’s a terrible way to think. I wish he had seen me kill something because then he might think I’m not a screwup! As if it takes murder to prove your worth.

Although in our world, it kind of does. It’s why no one has ever taken me seriously before. And why I’m afraid killing things is the only way to get them to believe in me now.

“Wait in the car,” Leo says to Cillian as he climbs out.

“Right, because I want to be the scene in the horror movie where you run back to the car, flooded with relief that I’m at the wheel, until you put your hand on my shoulder and I fall over, and you scream, but I can’t scream because I’m dead, and the monster is already behind you and I can’t warn you because, again, I’m already dead.”

“No one is going to die,” Rhys says, “and no one is going to scream, because—”

A high-pitched scream tears through the night.

Instinct takes over, and I run toward it. I can hear Leo and Artemis behind me. I turn into an alley two down from where we parked and spot a girl slumped on the ground. At the far end of the alley, a shadow disappears. I crouch beside the victim. She’s breathing. But her neck is bleeding and she’s glassy-eyed with shock.

“Which way?” Artemis demands.

I point. Artemis sprints away, followed by Leo.

“She bit me,” the girl says. She’s maybe eighteen, twenty tops. Curls that put anyone’s to shame framing a sweet face. A face that’s going alarmingly pale. I gently remove her hand from her neck. I know what I’m doing. I’ve studied for this exact scenario. I can do this. I can.

“Someone get me a clean cloth,” I say, peering at the wound. It’s bleeding, but the flow is steady, not pulsing or spurting. “There are no air bubbles. That’s good. That means your esophagus wasn’t punctured. Your breathing won’t be affected. You’re still getting plenty of air, so let’s focus on steady breaths. Deep, steady breaths. Do you do yoga?”

“A little bit,” she says.

“Good! Good for you. Think about your breathing. Focus on that. We’re going to put pressure on this wound.” I hold out my hand for the requested cloth. Rhys hands me his outer flannel shirt. I fold it and press it against the girl’s neck. “You’re doing great. Breathe in, two three four, out, two three four.”