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He tries to shake his head again, but my hand must have tightened. He can’t quite manage it.
“No,” he whispers. “Everyone knows my name. I’ve never made a secret of what I do.”
I have to admit he’s right. It wasn’t hard to find his name. I got it twice—from the mercenaries, and from a demon. Much as I want it to be Von Alston, Doug searched the mansion and found only one demon. Half demon. And he was here by choice, which I still can’t reconcile. Plus, Von Alston doesn’t strike me as the type to inspire zealots, much less tolerate them. He’s far too British.
I don’t loosen my grip, though. “If I ever hear your name again in connection with anything or anyone under my protection—and that means werewolves and demons and Slayers, all of them—it won’t end well for you. Are we clear?”
He nods. I mean to let him go. I really do. But my fingers stay where they are, and I lean closer, staring at his neck. Such a fragile thing, a spine, separating life and death. Every part of humans is so breakable.
A strained wheeze escapes him. I let go, backing away. Disgusted with him. Disgusted with myself. And more than a little scared of how I keep thinking of him as a human. As something separate from me.
“You know I’m not in the wrong,” he says. “They don’t belong here.” He adjusts his tie, smooths his waistcoat, then raises one eyebrow over his aquiline nose. I’d like to break that nose into aquilines. See how regal he looks then. “I do a tremendous service to my country. You have no place to judge me if I sometimes seek sport while rendering those services. I don’t expect you to pity me, but you’d be astonished at how dull being this wealthy can be. I want for nothing, I need nothing, I—”
His need for my fist in his face is answered with a resounding thud. He goes down, clutching his bleeding, broken nose. I try to feel sorry, but I can’t find it in me.
If anything, I want to punch more things. I half hope the other hunters will wake up and come after us. But I’m afraid of what I might do. I know I’m overreacting. I’m not even being a Slayer right now. I’m being … me. But not me. And that’s what’s scary. I don’t recognize this Nina, and I don’t know how to feel any of the things I’m feeling without being taken over by them.
I close my eyes and let myself imagine my tiny medical center back in the castle. The neatly organized cupboards. The drawer full of tongue depressors. Artemis laughed at me for that. How many tongue depressors can one castle need? The truth was, I just liked having them. I liked all of it. I liked being the one who fixed things, who healed things.
But I don’t know how to fix Artemis. Or Leo. Or myself. And thinking about my medical center doesn’t calm me. It makes me feel even more lost.
I walk out to check on Leo, but something else catches my eye. A serial killer’s dream van is parked on the grass. It’s
covered with dings and scratches and a long-faded decal for something, but I can only make out the letters for GO AT BABY. There are tire marks all over the formerly perfect lawn, far more than would have been required just to get the van here. The side door slides open, and Oz sits there, legs out, bathed in the light of the moon.
I stay on the porch, not touching Leo. Not looking at him. I can’t. Chao-Ahn stands in front of me, considering me with what I assume is disapproval. We might be here for a while, and I need to talk about something that doesn’t matter. I need to do anything other than think about what I’m going to say to Leo when he wakes up.
“So. Uh. What brings you all to London?” I ask her.
Chao-Ahn has the most beautifully judgmental glare I’ve ever seen. “Sineya.”
“I’m sorry?”
Her glare deepens. “Sineya. The First Slayer. You know.” She gestures to her hair, then hunches a bit and scowls.
“Oh, right! She tried to stab me. She did stab me.” I used to have such good control of my Slayer dreams. But I’ve lost that, along with control everywhere else in my life. Buffy told me about the First Slayer. She said Sineya was judgy. She never mentioned stabby. It feels like a pretty big oversight.
“Why are you here?” Maricruz asks. She’s sitting on a decorative stone wall, braiding Taylor’s hair.
“Thought there was a threat. Bigger than Von Alston, I mean.”
“So you’re hunting it?”
Am I? Wasn’t I the one who said if we started going after potential threats, we would stop being Sanctuary? And if it’s something that’s only threatening demons, do I get involved? Because not all demons—or even most of them—are benign like Doug. I want to help the ones who are, but the ones who aren’t definitely don’t belong here. My head doesn’t ache, exactly, but it feels like it should. “Um, not really. We’re looking for people—werewolves—well, anyone of a bump-in-the-night persuasion. It’s a long story.”
“Why are you looking for them?” Maricruz’s wariness is understandable, considering most people looking for beasties are hunting them, as evidenced by Von Alston.
“I run a sanctuary. A safe haven. For werewolves, or demons, or anyone who needs it and won’t harm anyone already there.”
Chao-Ahn’s eyes widen. “You offer sanctuary?”
“Yes. Yeah. We’re the sanctuariest.” I’m a bundle of nerves. I almost want to run into the trees and find the hunters, give them a few more punches for good measure. Something to do with my hands while I wait for Leo to wake up and decide whether I’m going to hug him or strangle him.
“What are the odds?” Oz asks.
“Odds of what? Wait, is this the math you were going to help with? I don’t actually want math advice.”
“No, dingbat,” Maricruz says, but she softens with a smile. “What are the odds we’d find a Slayer with a safe haven when that’s exactly what we came to London for?”
