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I hate the violence coursing through my veins. But I still remember the way it felt that horrible poetry day, seeing Leo return to practice as though nothing had happened. I can’t reject his help, though. No matter how much I want to. So I steel myself and pretend like I’m not the kid crying on the balcony anymore. Because I’m not.
I’m a Slayer.
Leo finally clues in to my body language and stops smiling. “Your natural instincts and strength are already there. We can’t teach you those—and we don’t have to. But what we can teach you is technique. Drill into you the best ways to react, the best ways to hit, so that, combined with your inherent Slayer abilities, you’ll be as efficient and capable a fighter as possible. We’ll also focus on weapon training.”
Weapon training. Ugh, of course. I avoid them all except stakes. I guess that has to change now. As long as I’m going against my nature, I might as well choose the last thing I’d ever decide to pick up. I grab a wickedly heavy-looking set of nunchucks. “Sounds good.” I spin them experimentally, then faster. They blur in the air. I’m going to show Leo I’m not the innocent, weak little girl he remembers.
The last thing I see is one of the wooden clubs coming right for my face before everything goes black.
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.
