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“Ah, but they’re infectious. You draw a distinction that I don’t think exists between vampires and werewolves; both are victims of a, shall we say, condition that robs them of their humanity and turns them into monsters. That’s bad enough, but they can also infect others. If I had someone with Ebola, would you argue they should be set free to do what they would?”
“I would argue you should get them the best medical care.”
“Well, until we have an antidote for lycanthropy, or a way to restore souls to vampires—”
“Actually—”
“Do not interrupt me. In the absence of a medical way to intervene, the only humane choice—the only moral choice—is to prevent the spread of infection and end the suffering of the afflicted.”
“By hunting them.”
He shrugs, taking a sip of his tea. “A man must have hobbies.”
“Again, buy an island. Do you see Richard Branson running around hunting humans?”
“Actually—”
I hold up my hands. “No. I don’t want to know. Werewolves are people. They have souls. You don’t get to decide that they should be hunted out of existence.”
“I do, in fact. You understand about power. About the responsibilities that come with it. And my responsibility is to use the power and privilege that I collected over my lifetime to prevent the supernatural from becoming natural. From becoming accepted. You of all people should understand. You’re a Slayer. A killer. This is your job.”
And just like that, it hits me. How wrong he is. All these years, I thought the first Watchers were a bit dense for giving power to only one girl. One Slayer to fight everything? One Slayer to make impossible choices? But … that’s the beauty of it. Because the Slayer is young. The Slayer is a girl. The Slayer isn’t some rich dude, insulated from life and pain and struggle, sitting in his Mr. Darcy house deciding who gets to live and die.
The Slayer is on the streets, in the dark, in the night, walking right alongside the things she hunts. So when she makes life-or-death choices—they’re life-or-death choices for her, too. Not just for the things she’s hunting. She’s not a committee, a council, a group working at a remove.
She’s part of the darkness.
And when you’re already in the dark, you can see the subtle differences in the shadows. Some things are so absent of light that there’s no question. And other things, like werewolves, like the Dougs and Clems of the world, they’re delicately shaded.
I think of Artemis and Honora behind the wheel of that truck. All those shades of darkness in demons. Just like in humans.
My ancient ancestors actually got this one right. The whole one-Slayer thing wasn’t a flaw. It was a feature. The fact that there are more of us now doesn’t change that. This is my calling. My duty. My right.
I don’t have to pretend to be anyone else right now. Nina the Vampire Slayer is exactly who I am and should be. I’m going to play his game, and I’m going to win, and he’s going to regret everything.
I lean back and prop my booted feet up on the mahogany table. “So tell me the rules, Mr. Most Dangerous Game.”
All noble pretense at civility is gone, revealing a face with less humanity than Doug’s neon-yellow one. His tone goes cold. “You’re hunting a werewolf. The other Slayers will be in the trees before you. They want to protect him. Your job is to kill him, if you want to see your little demon pet again. You’ll have a ten-minute head start over the other hunters. They’ll be hunting the werewolf … and anyone in the woods before them.” He smiles, his veneers catching the light to show the ghosts of his tiny gray teeth behind them. “Kill the werewolf and make it out alive, you’ll win a prize and get your demon back. If not, well, can you really call yourself a Slayer?”
I can’t believe my mother considers this man an ally. He’s like the veneer over his teeth—wealth and privilege covering up rotting waste. He thinks he understands what Slayers are? He has no idea. None of them do. No one gets to threaten my friends. No one gets to make decisions that are mine.
Something in my expression must reveal my thoughts, because he smiles sharply. “Before you do anything rash, remember that I have your friends. If you harm me now, none of them make it out alive.”
“Can’t wait for my prize.” I smile at him with such blankly intense cheer that he finally shudders and calls for Jeeves to return me to my cell until the game.
ARTEMIS
HONORA PULLS ARTEMIS INTO AN abandoned side hall. The basement level of the shiny building is far less shiny. Their failure to snag more than a handful of demons at the convention means that they’ll have to go hunting instead of buying in bulk. Sean has some leads—he always does—but it’s dirty, dangerous, aggravating work.
And Artemis doesn’t want to be far away from the Sleeping One. She needs to be close to him, watching. Ready. Nothing can be done now, but when it happens, she’ll be there.
Honora checks up and down the hallway, drained of life by the flickering fluorescent lights above them. When she’s certain they’re alone, she turns and folds her arms. “I read the book.”
Artemis has pored over the book of the Sleeping One. Maybe Honora found something she missed. “Most of it is incomprehensible, right? But he has to go through three forms, and the third and final form will be the most powerful. Like, all shall love me and despair levels of powerful, minus being as hot as Galadriel. Also probably minus the love and plus a whole lot of despair.” Artemis is rambling, she knows she is, but she can’t focus. She paces. Seeing Nina threw her off. She keeps remembering the look on Nina’s face, the shock and betrayal and hurt. Artemis was never the person who put hurt on Nina’s face. She was the one who protected her sister from it. She shakes her head, trying to move past it.
“Right,” Honora says. “So my question is, why are we waiting? We’ve got a hellgod here. He’s not at full power, or even close if his ramblings about the cruel ravages of time are any indication. And he can’t juice up until he finds the right battery size of demon. So I say we make with the stabbing and end it before things get precarious.”
“No!” Artemis backtracks from the force of her exclamation. “No. You saw him stick a knife all the way into his brain and not even bat an eye. How do you propose we kill that?”
