Second Chance (8 page)

J
oss opened his eyes—not after sleep, but after what felt like an extended blink—and realized that he was standing in an alley, in some city. Maybe it was New York. Maybe Chicago, or Detroit. He couldn’t be sure. He only knew that the smell of fresh tar mixed with exhaust and decay filled his nostrils, and the scene around him was hard, gray, and cold. His feet stood on cracked cement, and the walls that lined the alley were composed of bricks and mortar that had seen better days. It was a forgotten place, this alley, and Joss had no idea what compelled him to move deeper into it and turn the corner at the end. But he followed his instinct, despite the tightening of his chest and the tiny hairs sticking up on the back of his neck.

The alley, which ended in a dead end after the turn, was empty. Joss narrowed his gaze, peeking back over his shoulder. It wasn’t supposed to be empty. Was it?

A humming reaching his ears, a little girl’s wordless song. It was coming from the dead end. Joss turned back, facing it. There, at the end of the alley, was Cecile. She was on her knees, tiny hand clutching an oversized piece of pink sidewalk chalk. As she drew the chalk across the cement, it crumbled slightly, leaving behind a crooked pink line—one that reminded Joss of another line . . . one that he swore had run from the corner of someone’s mouth down to the sheets. But as soon as the thought, the memory, had entered his mind, it was gone again. He remained where he was, watching his younger sister drawing lines in the alley for several minutes before speaking. Maybe he didn’t want to disturb her serenity. Or maybe, another fleeting thought whispered into his mind, he was afraid of her.

Cecile stopped humming for a moment and straightened her shoulders. She didn’t turn to face him, but Joss knew that she was aware of his presence. As if in response to that knowledge, his heart picked up its pace. Without looking at him, Cecile stretched out her hand and pointed to the small bucket of chalk a few feet to her left. He watched her hand carefully, a worry filling him that her nails would somehow become claws. But this was his sister. He loved her. He had nothing to fear. Besides, she was just a child, and he was a fierce killing machine. Certainly, he could defend himself if Cecile . . .

Joss shook his head, chasing those delusions away. This was his baby sister. He had nothing to be afraid of, nothing to defend himself against. She was a child. A sweet, innocent child. “Do you want a different color, Cecile?”

She tapped her finger wordlessly at the bucket again. With a deep breath, Joss stepped forward and crouched beside his sister. “What about blue? Blue’s nice, right?”

When she didn’t respond, he plucked a piece of blue chalk from the bucket and placed it in her hand. She gripped it and immediately went back to drawing. Joss watched her profile for a while as she colored. Her hair hung in her face, and he had to fight the urge to sweep some of her curls back over her ear so that he could see her eyes. After a while, he said, “What are you drawing, Cecile?”

But Cecile didn’t reply. She merely stopped the chalk from moving and abruptly set it on the cement, as if indicating that her creation was finished.

Joss turned his head slowly and looked at what his sister had created. In bright, happy colors, a crude, childlike design showed a vampire lying dead on the ground, a screwdriver sticking out of his back. Beside the vampire lay a small girl, fang marks in her neck, her eyes wide open and lifeless. Above both of the corpses stood a boy. The drawing was crude, but the boy was obviously Joss. When Joss found his voice, it was in whispers. “Why would you draw this, Cecile?”

Cecile retrieved some chalk and began drawing on another section of pavement, but Joss’s eyes were locked on her first creation. Though drawn in that messy way that only a child can make look charming, the faces were incredibly expressive. The vampire and the girl looked as if they’d died horrifically, and the scribbled Joss character stood there without remorse. Joss’s chest felt suddenly hollow. Is that how she felt? That he had no remorse in his slaying of Boris? That he had no guilt at all for not stopping her demise?

How could she want him to have remorse for killing that monster, that beast, when it was a vampire who’d taken her young life? No. He wouldn’t feel guilty, despite whatever images his twisted subconscious dredged up.

Cecile finished her furious scribblings and tossed the chalk on the ground, shattering it. Joss turned his head at her abrupt movement and looked at what she’d drawn.

A crudely drawn boy lay across a small, blond girl’s lap. Their features were hurried and not unlike stick figures, as if she’d had to draw them as fast as possible. As if the message she wished to convey to him could no longer wait, could no longer be contained. The boy’s eyes were wide and terrified, his mouth contorted in a scream. In the girl’s chalk hand was a bouquet of poorly drawn flowers, mostly tulips and daisies. Her eyes were swirls of black, layers and layers of chalk that made the cement they were drawn on disappear completely beneath. Her mouth was large and open wide. Inside were two fangs, dripping with blood.

Only the blood hadn’t been drawn in chalk.

The deep crimson dripped from chalk Cecile’s mouth onto chalk Joss, quickly pooling on the cement, washing away the drawing. The blood oozed closer and closer to where Joss was kneeling, and he scrambled to get to his feet.

But then a hand—clawed and filthy—wrapped around his wrist. Cecile turned her head very slowly toward him. As she moved, the pool of blood soaked into his jeans. His heart hammered inside his chest and that voice that had whispered his fears as he entered the alley screamed out its told-you-so inside his brain. By the time Cecile’s black, soulless, tunnel eyes met with Joss’s terrified gaze, he was in full on panic mode, shaking his arm, trying to break free. But Cecile’s grip tightened, and he couldn’t escape, no matter how much he fought.

Her lips parted in a grin, her fangs shining red, and as he watched in horror, her grin continued to spread, until she was all grin and eyes. Joss opened his mouth to scream, but coughed instead. A searing pain ripped through his throat, and he realized that the blood that had pooled on the ground was coming from him. His free hand, now trembling, found his throat, which had been ripped open. As darkness overtook him, he thought the words that he could not speak. “Why, Cecile?”

He fell to the ground, and his sister’s whispered words tickled his ear. “Because, Jossie. Because you killed me first.”

J
oss awoke in a cold sweat. He was bathing in guilt.

But he couldn’t determine if the dreams were really Cecile, reaching out from the grave to torment him with things he could not change, or his own immense, overpowering guilt at having taken a life and failing to preserve another.

Slipping out of bed, Joss rubbed his sore shoulder, but didn’t dare touch his neck or his side. He was aching in the worst way, but also strangely relieved. Pain meant that he was still alive. And even more so, pain meant that last night had really happened, and Joss had really taken out the serial killer, like the Slayer Society had charged him with doing. He was done now. He could go home. But first, he might try asking his uncle if there was any way they could spend a few extra weeks in New York. Like a vacation. A real vacation. Joss had never really been on one before.

He threw on some jeans and a T-shirt before moving painfully down the hall and down the stairs. When he entered the kitchen, all of the Slayers were waiting for him. He blinked at them, not certain what to make of the gathering, and moved his eyes from one Slayer to the next. Slowly, they began their applause. Then Abraham stepped forward and patted Joss roughly on the back. Joss winced at the pain this caused, but he wouldn’t have traded it for the world. Abraham smiled. “Nephew, you were assigned a task and completed it in record time. I’m so proud of you. We’re all proud of you. I’ve alerted the Society and they are thrilled. As a reward, you’re finished working for the summer, and are free to enjoy a little vacation here in the city before returning home. Unless, of course, you’d prefer to go home now.”

Joss could have floated, he was so happy. “I’d rather stay here for a bit longer, thanks. With you all.”

His uncle patted his back once more, and though Joss winced at the pain again, he beamed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, nephew, I have some things to attend to in my study. But this afternoon, after all loose ends are neatly tied, perhaps you’ll join me for some dinner? Just you and I?”

Joss grinned. “That would be awesome. Thank you.”

He couldn’t imagine spending time with his uncle where his every move wasn’t being criticized. But it seemed that, with a single kill, an honorable takedown of a serial killing vampire, Joss had earned precisely that. He was almost dizzy with glee.

As Abraham excused himself upstairs, Paty beamed and set a large plate of breakfast on the table in front of Joss. The smells of bacon, eggs, and something sweet and bready filled his nostrils, and Joss nearly melted into a puddle right then and there. Smiling at Paty as he took a seat, he said, “So what exactly did he mean by ‘loose ends’?”

Paty and Cratian exchanged knowing glances,

Joss took a seat, and Cratian offered him a semiconcerned glance as he shoved a huge forkful of eggs into his mouth. “Don’t go crazy, stuffing yourself. We do have to visit the morgue after breakfast, and I’m betting you don’t want to have too much in your stomach in case you lose any of it.”

The fork stopped midshovel, and Joss’s eyes shot straight to Cratian in shock. Morgue? They were going to the morgue? Why on earth would they go back there? There was no doubt at all about what had killed Boris. Joss’s stake had been the screwdriver, and Joss himself had caused the death. So why a trip to examine the body?

Paty waved Cratian’s thoughts away as she filled a glass of orange juice and set it in front of Joss. “Oh, hush. Joss is tough. He can handle looking at a corpse and not barfing. I’m sure last time was just a fluke.”

But Joss wasn’t so sure. Seeing a corpse that had been sitting in a cooler for a few hours hadn’t exactly helped his appetite. He returned his fork to the table. “I’m . . . not so hungry anymore, Paty. Sorry.”

Paty frowned in disappointment. Cratian gave her a knowing smile. As quietly as he could, Joss excused himself and headed back upstairs. Suddenly, he had the urge to stand under a hot shower for a million years.

As Joss made his way down the hall, he settled on what he knew would be his only viable course of action before knocking softly on Abraham’s bedroom door.

“Come in.”

Joss turned the knob slowly, and stepped inside the room, sure to keep his footfalls light. Everyone else in the house was downstairs at breakfast, and he wanted to keep it that way. Just in case Uncle Abraham saw through his ruse and called him out on it. “Uncle Abraham, can I talk to you?”

Abraham was sitting in a chair in the corner of the room. Clutched in his hand was the book that Joss had seen him reading before. Judging by where Abraham’s thumb was wedged between the pages, he’d all but finished reading whatever it was. His uncle was looking at him expectantly. Almost impatiently. Joss cleared his throat. “It’s just that I can’t shake this feeling . . .”

“Gut feeling?” Abraham set the book on the small table next to him.

“More like a nervous feeling.” Joss resisted the urge to fidget. His uncle despised fidgeting, so he’d been working at holding his anxiousness inside. “Why are we going to the morgue to examine Boris’s body?”

Abraham seemed to size him up for a moment before speaking again. In that moment, Joss felt like his entire face was on fire with guilt. Not that he had any reason to feel guilty. He had, in fact, according to his own uncle, done what no one had expected, and rid the city of a serial killing vampire. After a moment, Abraham leaned closer and said, “Whenever there is doubt in how a person or vampire died—”

“But—”

“—or doubt in a Slayer’s loyalty, a body must be examined thoroughly.”

Joss’s stomach felt heavy, like a stone had been dropped into his center. Straightening his shoulders, he said, “Oh. I see.”

Abraham nodded. “It’s not just you, Joss. Any Slayer who’s under investigation has to be watched closely.”

“I understand, Uncle.” And Joss did understand. He just didn’t like it very much at all.

His uncle reached for his book again, the mildest of concerns leaking into his tone. Joss knew that he cared. He might be a tough, mean gruff of a man, but in his own way, Abraham cared deeply about those who were important to him. Even, Joss knew, about him. “You’ll be watched by Elysia now as well. You’ve taken down one of their own, and they won’t forgive you for it. Are you sure you can handle it?”

“I’m sure.” The lie escaped his lips so fast, he hadn’t been completely certain that he’d spoken it aloud.

Abraham opened his book once again and waved Joss casually away. “All right then.”

Joss still didn’t feel very hungry.

I
n comparison, Paty was much better at making light of the fact that they were going to examine a dead body than Morgan had been. Once they’d entered the cooler room and slipped on their gloves, Paty started humming a semi-happy tune. Then she rubbed some kind of balm on her upper lip, to which Joss raised a questioning eyebrow.

She held out the small container. “Want some? It helps combat the stench. I honestly couldn’t handle being in here without it. That, and the humming. Humming relaxes me.”

After a brief pause, Joss dabbed his fingers in the container and smeared the contents on his upper lip. It smelled like mint with a hint of rosemary.

Unlike Morgan, Paty didn’t even ask Joss to help in the examination. Not to touch anyway. But she did roll the body’s left wrist over, so that Joss could see a strange tattoo. When he questioned its meaning, Paty said, “Vampires mark themselves with their name in the vampire language. We’re not really sure why.”

“And you can read it?”

Paty nodded. “Much of it, yes. About fifty years ago the Society learned quite a bit from a vampire who’d seemingly defected to our side. He taught us quite a bit of the language, how vampires hunt, what to look for in identifying them.”

Joss mulled this over for a second. He wasn’t certain why he was at all surprised that the beasts had no sense of loyalty. “Why didn’t he teach you the entire language?”

“Because vampires killed him before he could.” Paty clucked her tongue and shook her head. “A shame, really. He was quite useful to our cause. His efforts advanced the Society by leaps and bounds. Funny, isn’t it? It took a vampire to teach us how to really kill vampires.”

On the right biceps, Joss spied another grouping of symbols, which looked similar to those on his wrist. Together, the symbols formed a square. “What’s that, then? If this is his name . . . what is that?”

Paty bent down, turning her head this way and that. “It says something about brothers in arms. Something about four sides joined. I can’t really read the rest.”

Paty’s cell phone rang and she put it to her ear. After a series of yeahs and mmhmms, she hung up and looked at Joss. “There’s been another death. They think it’s the same killer. This can’t be our guy, Joss.”

Joss cursed under his breath. He’d been so close. So close to being free of this task, and moving on to finding Cecile’s murderer. He couldn’t be wrong about Boris. He just couldn’t. “Who found the body? Are they sure it’s a vampire-caused death?”

As she returned her phone to her pocket, she said, “Morgan found it. And being that the head has been ripped clean off, and very little blood remained on the scene . . . yeah. It’s a vampire. But you can judge for yourself in a few minutes.”

Joss raised an eyebrow at her. “I can?”

“They’re bringing the body here.”

He gulped, and his heart picked up its pace. “Now?”

Paty offered a sympathetic smile. “What’s the matter, kid? Nervous? You’re already in a morgue with dead bodies. What difference will one more make?”

She was right, of course. It didn’t make a difference at all, not really. But the idea of seeing yet another corpse—especially a headless one—was tilting his world on its side. Paty grabbed him by the shoulders, steadying him, and held his gaze, wordlessly asking if he was okay. Joss nodded and steadied himself on the cold metal gurney that held Boris’s body.

The quiet keeper of the morgue opened the door to the cooler and barked, “Put it on the far gurney, the one that’s missing a wheel.”

He held the door open and Morgan backed into the room, carrying the broad end of a body bag. A moment later, Cratian entered, hefting the other end. They hoisted it onto the empty gurney with a sigh. Joss wondered exactly how much a dead body must weigh. He imagined it felt much heavier than a live one, but hoped he never had to find out.

But he wagered he would.

Cratian exited the room and returned with a small garbage bag. He dropped it on the gurney and met Joss’s questioning eyes with a stern nod. “That’s the head. Or rather, what was left of it. If you want anymore, go pick it off the sidewalk.”

As Cratian stormed off, Paty looked at Morgan, “What’s his problem? And why didn’t the cleanup crew bring the body in?”

Morgan leaned with both hands on the broken gurney. He sighed, letting his head hang for a while before answering. “This
is
the cleanup crew, Paty. Or rather, what’s left of it. The others . . . we couldn’t find enough pieces to even make out what was what or who was who. The Society said our cleanup crew failed to report after being called out to claim a suspected vampire victim in the Meatpacking District. They sent us out to investigate. This is what we found. It’s a message. Loud and clear. The serial killer knows we’re onto it, and it’s not at all happy about it.”

Joss swallowed hard. Their cleanup crew was dead. Not just dead. Obliterated. And whoever—whatever—had done it was coming for them next. How could he have been wrong about Boris? He’d been so sure. Unless . . .

He looked at the markings on Boris’s biceps again. “You guys. What if Boris wasn’t working alone? Everything he said, everything the vampire bartender told me about him said that he was our man, he was the killer. But what if he wasn’t the
only
killer?”

The room grew silent as Paty tried to grasp what he was saying. Her breath came out in small clouds. Joss pointed at the tattoo. “What if he had brothers? I mean, what if the tattoo was a literal meaning, not a figurative one? Brothers in arms. It could mean that he and his brothers stick together, no matter what. And ‘four sides joined’? Sounds like four brothers to me.”

Realization lit up Paty’s eyes, but overshadowing it was a dark cloud of concern. “If you’re right . . . do you know what that means, Joss?”

Joss opened his mouth to tell her that yes, he did know. But before he could speak the words aloud, her voice echoed his thoughts into the cold room. “It means that our job—your job—just got four times more difficult.”

He smiled a small smile—one that instantly drew a questioning glance from Paty. “No, it doesn’t. It’s only three times as hard. I’ve already killed one of them.”

Paty chuckled and ruffled his hair. “Always the optimist, kid. You might just make it in the Society yet.”

His chest felt warm and light, and only a little bit like his heart was glowing. “So what now?”

“Now . . .” Paty sighed. “You find Em. If she really is the oldest vampire in existence, she’ll have something to say about a team of vampires running rampant. Just be careful.”

Joss fought a yawn. It had already been a long day. The last thing he wanted was to seek out the world’s oldest vampire when he was exhausted from killing her kind. But he had no choice.

Duty called.