The Slayer Chronicles: First Kill
Read The Slayer Chronicles: First Kill Online
Authors: Heather Brewer
Table of Contents
DIAL BOOKS
An imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
PUBLISHED BY THE PENGUIN GROUP
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, U.S.A. ● Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) ● Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England ● Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) ● Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) ● Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) ● Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa ● Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Brewer, Heather.
Brewer, Heather.
Summary: The summer before ninth grade, when Joss sets off to meet his uncle and hunt down the beast that murdered his younger sister three years earlier, he learns he is destined to join the Slayer Society.
ISBN : 978-1-101-54781-6
PZ7.B75695Chrv 2011
[Fic]—dc22 2011006061
All rights reserved
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
To my Minion Horde:
Without you, I am nothing.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, an incredible amount of gratitude is due to my editor, Liz Waniewski, for her brilliance and saintlike patience. You make me a better writer, Liz, and the world needs more people like you in it.
Much love, respect, and props go to my fabulous agent, Michael Bourret, who keeps me (somewhat) sane and on the road to success, no matter what.
Well-deserved thanks and high-fives to Team Vlad at Penguin Young Readers. You know who you are, and I owe you big-time for your support, your friendship, and your unfailing belief in me and my characters. Without your blood, sweat, and tears, who knows where Vlad (and now Joss) would be?
Hugs and kisses to my incredibly supportive sister, Dawn Vanniman, for being there for me, and for being awesome. And all sorts of love to my Minions, who understand me like I understand them. You get me like nobody else does, Minions, and this book is for you.
Paul, Jacob, and Alexandria—you never fail to amaze me, Brewer Clan. When I am down, you lift me up. When I am sad, you make me laugh. And when I am telling you all about what the voices in my head told me to do, you nod and smile in the way that I need you to. Thank you for being my everything. I couldn’t do any of this without you.
PROLOGUE
Abraham’s heels clicked along the marble floor as he moved the length of the room. His breaths were even, as usual, but there was a tension in his muscles—an imminent dread that was impossible to ignore. The room was dim, the only light pouring in from the arched windows all along its longer side. It was growing dark. The sun was setting behind the building, casting a warm orange glow across the sky. Outside the window, the shadowed London Eye stood watch.
Seated in a tall, ornately carved chair at the end of the room was a man in his eighties, his hair frosty white. His eyes spoke with wisdom beyond anything that Abraham had yet to experience. To the old man’s left and right were several smaller, but just as ornate, chairs holding several other people, each of varying age and experience. Abraham knew each of them—some better than others—but no words or expressions of greeting were offered. This was not a social visit. He had been summoned for a distinct and important purpose.
As Abraham approached, he knelt, following the usual pomp and circumstance of a Slayer Society Headquarters meeting. With a nod, the old man gestured for him to stand and respond to his summons. Abraham stood, cleared his throat, and began. “Masters, you have called me here with a question—the question of who will be next in my bloodline worthy of serving our noble cause. I submit to you that I have seen evidence of the Slayer gene in my nephew Greg McMillan, and call upon you for permission to approach the boy with enlightenment.”
A murmur passed through the gathered group, one filled with a doubt that troubled Abraham, though he would never admit to it. Once the murmurs had quieted, the elderly man spoke. “You have been called upon to answer that question, yes, Abraham. But what of the child we have asked about? He seems far more likely to wield a stake someday than your nephew Greg. As you know from tracing the bloodline, it has been determined that the next Slayer in your family will likely be a niece or nephew. But it is highly more likely that the child will be fostered by your brother Harold than your brother Michael. The genetic tests that we’ve run on hair and blood samples collected from both your brothers show that the Slayer gene is in its dormant state within Harold’s genes, which means that his offspring are the likely receivers. The odds of this gene skipping generations and miraculously appearing within one of Michael’s children is preposterous.”
Abraham counted two heartbeats before he spoke again. “Harold has a son and daughter. But neither Joss nor Cecile seems the right fit for the Society’s needs. Both are far too emotional, and—”
“They are children, and children are emotional creatures, Abraham.” The old man waved his hand dismissively through the air. “Tell us more about your nephew Joss.”
Abraham paused. He was never one to openly disagree with the Society’s whims, but for a brief moment, he hesitated before answering. “Joss is currently ten years of age. Smart enough, with quick reflexes and adequate speed. But he lacks the drive to further his physical attributes, to better himself in that regard, of his own accord.”
“He is not yet training age. Eight more years may awaken that drive within him.”
Abraham’s chest tightened. “He is also incredibly empathetic.”
“He has a scientific mind.”
“He is not the next Slayer.” Despite his mastery of self-control, Abraham’s voice rose, echoing off the walls of the Slayer Society Headquarters. Once he realized it, he dropped his eyes in shame.
The old man leaned forward, his demeanor calm, his expression full of compassion. “We believe that he is, Abraham. The sooner you come to accept that, the sooner you can begin preparations for his training.”
Abraham shook his head, his eyes still on the marble floor below. When he spoke, his voice had softened to a near whisper, as if to make up for his previous tone. “Joss is weak. Not just emotionally. Physically. I’m not sure he could survive the training.”
The man sighed heavily and sat back in his chair. “Then he will die, Abraham, and your bloodline in the Society will end. But if he
is
the next Slayer in your family, you
will
train him. Of that, you have no choice.”
is
the next Slayer in your family, you
will
train him. Of that, you have no choice.”
“And if he refuses to train?” Even as the question left his tongue, Abraham reached out for it with all his wanting, but it was too late. He’d asked a query to which he already knew the answer.
The old man met and held his gaze, a look of sadness about him as he replied, “Kill him quickly. Family deserves mercy.”
1
THE NEXT GREAT ADVENTURE
Hey, brat.”
“I’m not a brat. You’re a brat.” Cecile wrinkled up her little nose, impossibly making herself even more adorable than she already was. Joss smiled. She was right; she wasn’t a brat. But he loved teasing her, loved making her cross her arms defiantly in front of herself the way she was doing now. Besides, it wasn’t like she really thought he was being mean. He was just playing, as always.
He reached out and gave one of her pigtails a light tug. “You’re a way bigger brat than me. Come on. Mom says breakfast is ready. We’re having French toast.”
“Jossie, will you help me with this first?” She held up the nude torso of a Barbie doll in one hand and the matted-haired, disembodied head of the doll in the other.
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