The Slayer Chronicles: First Kill (3 page)

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Authors: Heather Brewer

BOOK: The Slayer Chronicles: First Kill
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With happiness moving his feet, Joss ran up the stairs to his bedroom. His suitcase had already been packed by his mother the night before, but Joss wanted to double-check that she hadn’t forgotten things like his magnifying glass, or his well-worn paperback copy of
Identifying Insects
. Neither were sitting on his desk where he left them, but Joss made a mental note to check his suitcase as soon as he went downstairs. Parents, even well-meaning parents, just couldn’t be trusted with the important things.
Looking over his room, Joss sighed. The truth was, he was really going to miss waking up here every morning for the next few months. He loved his room. Loved the jars on his bookshelves filled with various stick bugs. Loved the framed specimens on his walls. His favorite was, of course, the Black Corsair hanging over his bed—a gift from his grandfather when he was eight.
He remembered that trip vividly. He and his parents had gone to visit his grandparents on the outskirts of Bowling Green, Kentucky, one summer. His grandfather was teaching him how to chop wood for their campfire one night, and as they turned a log over, Joss spied the most magnificent specimen of insect that he’d ever seen. It was in perfect condition, shiny black head and dull black wings. Grandpa told Joss that a Black Corsair was a “nasty little critter,” and that
Melanolestes picipes
—as they were known in the scientific world—would run down other insects in their hunt for food. It would chase them and never stop until it caught its prey. They were known to suck the blood of rodents, and even humans. And disturbingly enough, they preferred to go for the eyes and lips.
Luckily this one was dead already. His grandfather took it home and mounted it, and six months later, Joss had opened it as a gift under the Christmas tree. He treasured it. Not just because it was such a rare species. But because it had been a gift from his grandfather, who’d inspired his love of entomology before passing from this life into the Next Great Adventure.
That’s what he’d called dying. The Next Great Adventure. Grandpa believed that beyond this life, there was something bigger, something better for us all. The thought gave Joss a smile. He missed his grandfather.
That night, after dinner and some mindless television, Joss lay tucked neatly in his bed, staring up at the frame of the Black Corsair and wondering if his grandfather had been right about death, if it really was an adventure and not something to fear.
With that thought, he drifted off into a deep, dreamless slumber.
2
 
CECILE
 
Nothing had woken Joss.
He was awake, certainly. He lay in his bed, cozy and warm, despite the chill of night. But there had been no sound, no movement that had brought him out of sleep.
There was only the darkness, and a feeling that something wasn’t quite right.
As he pulled the covers back, that little voice in his head—the one that’d been enjoying his soft bed and cozy covers—told him to cover up quickly and forget about the unsettling feeling that was poking at the edges of his brain. It was nothing, the voice urged. Probably just the wind.
But Joss couldn’t go back to sleep, no matter how tired he was. He had to take a look around and see for certain that nothing had woken him, and that all was well and nothing was lurking under his bed or just inside his closet door.
He paused before swinging his feet over the edge of his bed. He didn’t believe in monsters. His dad had explained movie special effects to him at a very young age, and his mom had told him all about the genius of the imagination. But a part of him—a small part—shrank back in fear at the idea of placing his feet on the floor in the dark, not knowing who or what might be lurking underneath his bed at this late hour. What if it had scales or claws or a venom that it might inject into Joss and proceed to slurp out his insides?
Nonsense. Monsters weren’t real.
With a determined breath, Joss’s feet hit the floor, and the sudden shock of cold sent them back underneath the covers for a moment. Maybe the voice in his head was right. Maybe it was nothing.
But then there was a noise. Soft and familiar. For some reason, it sent a bolt of fear through him as it never had before. Cecile was crying.
Despite his initial resistance to her very existence, Joss adored his baby sister. And he was the only person in their house who was even remotely capable of calming her down after a nightmare. Which meant that despite the nip in the air, he was getting out of bed.
Tiptoeing across the bare wood floor, Joss crept to his bedroom door and put his ear to the wood. Cecile had quieted, but he was sure she’d start up again soon. Her nightmares were never brief. Without reason, she’d been having them since she was a toddler. They’d come on the heels of her night terrors, and could only be calmed by the presence of Joss and his assurance that everything would be all right. He wrapped his fingers around the doorknob and turned, pulling the door until it opened a few inches.
Cecile was silent.
Joss furrowed his brow and looked longingly back at his warm bed. But a noise drew his attention to the hallway. The soft creak of mattress springs.
Curiosity filled Joss, and he crept down the hall toward Cecile’s mostly-closed bedroom door. Stopping in front of it, Joss whispered, “Cecile?”
There was no sound. Not from Cecile or anything else. The air was heavy with silence. It was almost too quiet.
Joss leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the wood until the door opened just a crack and he could peer inside. What he saw stopped his heart from beating for several moments.
Joss scrambled back from the door. He backed hard into the wall behind him, his jaw hanging open in utter horror, his trembling fingers clamping tight over his mouth so that his screams would not escape. He slid to the floor, frozen in absolute fear.
Cecile—small, sweet, six-year-old Cecile—was lying on her bed, pale as snow. A dark, fluid line had been drawn from her neck to her pink ballerina sheets. Blood. Cecile’s blood. Her eyes, thankfully, were closed. She wasn’t moving. Standing by her bed was a man that wasn’t a man. His teeth were razor sharp and pointed. His skin was paler than Cecile’s. He was a monster, and looked like every stereotypical vampire that Joss had ever seen in a movie or on television.
Joss couldn’t move. Not to check on his sister. Not to force the terrible creature from their home. Not to call for his mom or dad. He couldn’t budge. And what’s worse, the creature—the monster—had noticed him.
It licked Cecile’s blood from its lips and stepped into the hall, crouching before Joss. And when it sighed, Joss almost gagged at the smell of his sister’s blood on its tongue. “Little one,” it said, as if they were old acquaintances. “You weren’t supposed to see this. Or me. So forget my face. It will be easier for both of us.”
Then the monster touched his finger lightly to Joss’s temple, and Joss screamed.
3
 
THE DEATH OF A FAMILY
 
The funeral home was packed with people—most of whom Joss either didn’t know, or simply had no memory of meeting before. All around the room were bouquets of pink roses. At the far end of the room, at the farthest point from where Joss was seated with his hands folded and head down, was a small white coffin. Inside was Cecile, or what had once been Cecile.
He had silently begged the powers that be that her coffin would be closed, that her body wouldn’t be put on display for people to gawk at. But his pleas had fallen on deaf ears, it seemed. So Joss stayed where he was, at the back of the funeral home, and refused every suggestion that he go up and say his good-byes.
He would never say good-bye to his sister. Never.
And he wouldn’t cry over her shell until his pain had been relieved, either. No, he would use that pain, tuck it somewhere inside of him until he had the strength to find whatever had killed her and bring it to justice somehow.
He’d told his parents about the monster—that he’d seen a creature looming over his bleeding sister, but could not seem to recall its face, no matter how hard he tried. Whenever the smallest detail of the face would begin to creep into his mind, it was whisked away by a gray fog. But they wouldn’t listen. They thought a madman had killed Cecile. Joss had tried explaining to the police what happened that night, but no one would listen to him. They simply exchanged glances that indicated that he was merely a hysterical little boy who’d witnessed the brutal murder of his sister. Of course he saw monsters. What other way could his young mind possibly deal with seeing what he actually had?
Now his parents were standing across the room, near Cecile’s coffin, as distant from him physically as they had been emotionally since Cecile had died. It had started the moment the police had left that night. All of a sudden, Joss had become the invisible boy at home, the way he was at school. He hadn’t just lost his sister that night. He’d lost his family, too.
His parents had said nothing to him on the drive to the funeral home, and once they’d entered the building, it was as if they had had only one child, and that child was Cecile.
Joss squeezed the photograph in his hand, careful not to wrinkle it. He’d taken it from the refrigerator door this morning, knowing that he wanted to look at Cecile, but also knowing that he couldn’t possibly stare at her corpse and convince himself that that was his sister. The object lying in that coffin wasn’t Cecile. It was merely bones and tissue, held together by preservatives. His sister was now experiencing the Next Great Adventure. He hoped death was that, anyway, that something lay beyond this life. Otherwise, his sister was a part of nothingness now. The thought brought tears to his eyes.
“There is no shame in shedding tears for Cecile, Joss.”
Joss looked up. He hadn’t noticed his Uncle Abraham enter the room, or sit down beside him, but there he was, dressed in a black, three-piece suit, his expression appropriately solemn. Abraham reached into his inside jacket pocket and withdrew a cloth handkerchief, holding it out to his nephew. Joss shook his head and willed his tears away, careful to keep his attention focused on Abraham and away from Cecile’s coffin. With a nod, Abraham tucked the handkerchief away again. “I’ve been told you were there when it happened.”
Joss nodded. He didn’t know his uncle very well, had only encountered him on occasional holidays, at parties held by other distant relatives. He didn’t know much about him, really. Only that his uncle was a professor of some sort, and a world traveler. “I was. But no one believes what I saw.”
Abraham raised an eyebrow. “And what is it that you saw exactly?”
Joss swallowed hard, clutching Cecile’s picture to his chest, the threat of tears overwhelming him. But he wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t allow himself that moment of weakness. Not until his sister had been avenged. “I don’t remember its face. But I do remember the blood. Cecile’s blood.”
“An injury?”
“Something like that. I can’t remember. My brain is too foggy.”
“Where was your sister bleeding from and how much blood was there?” Joss’s heart grew heavy. He looked at his uncle and begged him with a glance to cease this line of questioning immediately. Abraham gave his shoulder a squeeze, his eyes full of pity. “A morbid question, nephew, but I must know.”
The memory of that night filled his mind. Cecile in her bed, that liquid line of blood running down her neck to her pink ballerina sheets. Joss’s hands gripped the chair he was sitting in without him even being aware of it. “Her neck. She was bleeding from her neck. There wasn’t a lot of blood, not as much as you’d think.”
Joss had once read that an average human child had 2.3 liters of blood pumping around inside of them, so he was amazed by what little blood had actually been spilled in his sister’s murder. He never would have confessed those thoughts to his parents, though. They might have locked him up in a nuthouse if he admitted to thinking such things.
Abraham leaned a bit closer and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “Take a deep breath, Joss, clear your thoughts and don’t force the memory. The harder you think about it, the more like sand the memory will become, slipping between your fingers until there’s nothing left to grasp. Now tell me ... what was the weapon that cut Cecile?”
Inside the memory of that night, Joss looked up at the man’s face, but it was just a gray fog. As his uncle had suggested, he took a deep breath and relaxed. Slowly, the fog began to lift, revealing the man’s mouth. And horrible, blood-drenched fangs. Joss gasped and locked his eyes with his uncle’s. “Fangs! It had fangs. That man . . .”
He didn’t know how he could have forgotten such a critical detail of the event, but now he knew why he’d considered Cecile’s murderer a monster. Not just because the man had killed a child, but because the man wasn’t really a man at all. He was a monster, a creature, a thing. Joss’s heart raced in terror. What if it came back? What if it wanted to finish Joss off, too?
Abraham sat there in quiet contemplation for a moment, before giving Joss’s back a gentle pat. After another moment of silence, he stood and moved down the aisle to the coffin. He’d come here to pay his respects and had somehow gotten wrapped up in his nephew’s newly bloomed madness. Clearly, he wanted to get out of here as soon as possible. Joss didn’t blame him.

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