Slayer(54)

I shouldn’t care, but I like that he thinks I’m kind. It heals some of my fears after what I did in the pit. I can make the right choices while fighting and while choosing not to fight. “Who is your contact?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I’m not involving you, kid.” Then he grimaces. “Can you at least try to feel happy? I’m starving, and you reek. Seriously, how do you smell so bad?”

“I do not smell bad!” I showered as soon as we got back to the castle, spending as long as possible scrubbing hellhound blood and zompire dust and guilt and adrenaline from my body.

“No, really. It’s like . . .” He cocks his head. “There’s this scent clinging to you like smoke. It’s anger and despair and violent rage. So much more than one girl would ever have access to.” He leans forward, suddenly interested. “Who are you?”

“Nobody,” I squeak. Could he smell the Slayer in me? Maybe I should tell him. Maybe it would scare him into giving me more information. But I don’t want to use it like a cudgel or a threat. And I don’t want to go giving my identity to demons left and right, even if he does seem like he isn’t much of a threat.

I can’t let him see he’s rattled me. I fold my arms and continue my best Artemis impression. Firm. Capable. In charge. “Until you tell me who your contact is and what’s going on, you’re not going anywhere.”

The demon stretches his legs out as far as the chains allow. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you if Sean comes looking.”

“I think I can handle him.”

“Right. You’ll slipper-kick him to death.” He closes his eyes. “Bring me someone happy soon, though, or I’ll starve. Or you can do us both a favor and lick my skin. Best day of your life, I promise.”

“Yuck.” I recoil from him, wanting to rinse my mouth with Listerine at the very thought of it.

“Yeah, you can totally handle Sean. He’s not going to slit your throat.” The demon yawns. His teeth aren’t teeth at all. They look more like sponges.

“Maybe I’ll call him right now.”

At this, genuine terror flashes across his face. “Please,” he says, his voice soft. “Please don’t. Keep me in here. Forever, if you have to. But please don’t give me back to him.”

My heart responds to his fear. I can’t make promises to a demon, though. So I don’t say anything. But his expression haunts me as I go to turn the light back off. I hesitate. “Do you want the light on or off?”

“On, please? I don’t like the dark.”

I nod. Me neither. I leave the shed with more questions than answers. And if I want to see if he’s telling me anything that’s true, I have only one course of action available to me:

Research.





17


I KNOCK ON RHYS’S DOOR as soon as it’s a reasonable hour. He opens it and peers out. “Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing! I kind of wanted to do . . . some research.”

Rhys blinks in surprise. “Research? Really?” His eyes narrow slightly. This is a request I’ve never made. I can’t have him suspecting there’s a very real reason behind it. I hate manipulating him, but short of going to the Council, it’s my only option.

“I just—after last night I want to feel normal. And what’s more normal than us hanging out in the library studying demons?”

Rhys smiles, genuine fondness in his face. I feel a deep twinge of guilt over misleading him. I think he’d help—really help—but then I’d have to ask him to keep secrets for me. I understand now how wearing and awful secrets are. I don’t want to burden him with this.

“I would like nothing more,” he says. “Did you have a specific research goal? Or go wild and play bookshelf roulette?”

I laugh. “Focus on demons? There was a new kind last night. Zompires. It made me realize how much I still don’t know.”

“Perfect! We’ll bulk up on demonology. And you can give me all the zompire details, plus help me narrow down my ideas for my Watcher project. All my previous efforts were scrapped when Buffy tanked magic. I need something new. Something practical but also sensational.”

Rhys and I walk to the library together. He breathes in deeply, rubbing his hands together. “Where to start?”

I trail my fingers along the shelves. It really is a beautiful room. The window slots provide abundant golden light that cuts the room in rays, illuminating the dust motes dancing languidly in the air. Most of the books are bound in leather, their spines faded. Illegible covers have neatly labeled cards beneath them. Artemis’s handwriting. Yet another thankless chore she’s done. Do I ever tell her how much all her work is appreciated? Does anyone?

But Artemis’s labels don’t tell me what type of demon I have in Cillian’s shed or whether he’s dangerous. “Is there anything that categorizes demons by . . . color?”

Rhys shakes his head. He’s already pulling vampire books as well as several books whose titles begin with “necro-,” which is a prefix I normally avoid if possible. “Is ‘zompire’ a technical name? It sounds like a nickname.”

“I doubt you’ll find them in any books. Cosmina said they popped up after the link to hell dimensions was cut off.”