Page 5 of Eat, Slay, Love

“This is why you hesitate,” my mother’s voice says in my head. “You see what you want to see.”

No. I see what he is, I do. I type his name into the search bar, even though I know it’s useless. Jonah demon. Jonah Manhattan. Jonah slayer alley. Jonah soup kitchen.

Nothing.

But soup kitchens keep records, like volunteer lists and schedules. If he’s local, if he’s feeding there, he has to be embedded. I grab my notebook and jot it down. Soup kitchen. Halloween proximity. Feeding ground. I underline it once. Then twice. Then close the laptop and exhale.

I need to find you. The thought echoes in chorus with my family’s, the most powerful demon slayer family in Manhattan. You need to find him.

Ten years without a kill is unforgivable for slayer royalty. Never mind that those ten years began with a tragedy I still can't bear to think about, that grief has haunted me ever since. It doesn’t matter that fear has become something I carry instead of the blades at my hips.

My family doesn't care about reasons. Only results. It's our duty to keep Manhattan safe.

I glance back at my notes.

Feeding ground.

“I guess my reign will have to start again with you,” I whisper.

3

The next morning, I’m up well before the sun, fueled by indignation and a very strong desire not to be embarrassed again. If I can’t be naturally competent, I can at least be aggressively prepared.

I dig the catsuit out from the pile of clothes exiled to the back of my closet and step into it. The black leather is soft with age, worn in all the right places, molded to me like it’s resigned to this life in the same way I am. Pockets, straps, fasteners—strategically placed along my hips, thighs, and arms. Functional and intimidating and only slightly theatrical.

I pack the salt-and-ash mixture into the pocket at my left thigh, my chalk at my left hip, and slide my silver dagger into its holster at my right. I lace up my boots, tucking spare blades into their hidden compartments. It’s all possibly overkill, but today I am a slayer who has learned from her mistakes.

I turn toward the mirror and adjust my stance. Fluff my hair, lift my chin, set my jaw.

Damn.

Maybe I do slay.

Meow.

The hair on the back of my neck gives its telltale prickle. Batibat is perched on the dresser, looking down at my reflection with open disdain.

“Enough out of you,” I tell her, grabbing my phone and sliding it into the chest pocket I had to sew in myself sometime in the early 2000s, when slayer fashion failed to anticipate smartphones. I toss kibble into her bowl on my way out, then backtrack. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone, so I heap several bowls full of food and water.

“I expect you to guard the apartment,” I add.

She immediately sits down and throws a leg over her head to lick her ass.

“Message received.”

I’m feeling So Prepared when I get to the soup kitchen, my parents’ you need a kill echoing through my mind.

I scout out all the entrances and exits first. There’s three of them from what I can tell from the sidewalk—front door, service door, and side alley. I walk the perimeter twice, casually scattering thin, almost invisible arcs of salt-and-ash near each threshold. Not full circles, just enough that all I’ll need to do is close a few inches once he steps inside. Containment first.

I position myself across the street with a clear line of sight, settle onto the bench, and cross one leg over the other. And then I sit and wait for my next, much-needed kill.

I feel him before I see him.

My magic hops and skips and buzzes in that strange, abnormal way. A way I’ve only felt happen once before. Ridding myself of the thought, shaking it out of my head, I watch the service door, pulse beating heavily in my throat.

And there he is.

Jonah.