Apparently, the bartender was wondering the same thing. He moved down the bar some and said, “Otis, it’s good to see you again. In town for pleasure?”
“Business. I’m here to assist your father’s search.” Joss could hear the empathy in Otis’s tone—empathy that had not been there the night that Joss had staked Vlad. “I’m sorry, Stephen, I know that you and Boris are close. It shouldn’t have come to this, but we have little choice now.”
Joss cupped the small piece of paper in his hand and took a sip of his tea. He was just about to casually slide from the bar stool and make his way to the door when a memory flashed through his mind—one that sent a shiver up his spine.
On the ground in front of him, Vlad was kneeling, Joss’s bloody stake poking out of his chest, the silver tip now stained burgundy. Blood had stained his clothing red, pooling around him on the ground. Vlad’s skin was unbearably pale, and as he lifted his head and parted his lips to speak, Joss already regretted the hateful words that he knew would come. He deserved to hear them, yes, but he didn’t want to have them echoing in his mind for years to come. What he wanted to do was to cover his ears, his eyes, and run away from this scene as fast as he was able.
He’d just staked his best friend. He’d just killed one of the only people on the planet who cared about him, who he cared about. And the worst part was, he wasn’t even sure why. His fingers, slick with Vlad’s blood, were trembling.
Vlad tried to speak, but his words could only manage to come out in a whisper. “Joss, behind—”
Then Vlad crumbled over onto the ground. Unconscious. Likely dead—and if not, he would be soon.
Joss turned at his friend’s warning to find Jasik, D’Ablo’s assistant, he presumed, approaching quickly. He darted a glance to the stake in Vlad’s chest, but wasn’t sure he could bring himself to remove it. Then, much to Joss’s surprise, Jasik gestured behind him. “Do yourself a favor, young one. Get out of here. Now.”
Then, in a blur, D’Ablo and Jasik were gone. The evening played out over and over again in Joss’s mind, and confusion enveloped him. Had he really just stabbed his best friend? Had he really just killed the only boy besides Henry to stand by his side? Or was it something else, something to do with D’Ablo? Was D’Ablo—pale-faced and strangely motivated—in fact, one of the undead? Had D’Ablo or Jasik somehow been controlling his actions? Or was Joss now just looking for someone else to blame for the awful thing he’d just done?
Joss’s thoughts were racing in panic as he tried to figure out what to do next. Slayer rules dictated that he should immediately contact the disposal unit, followed by his team. But what Joss really wanted to do was to call the hospital and do what he could to help Vlad, even if it meant facing the Society’s wrath. Making up his mind to listen to his gut and throw caution and rules to the wind, he reached into his pocket for his cell phone.
But in a blur that reminded Joss only of a strong wind, the phone was knocked from his hand by an unseen force. A moment later, Otis Otis stood in the clearing, inches from Joss, crushing the phone into bits and pieces. His eyes were fierce and fiery. His mouth was curled in a snarl. And in his mouth, his fangs shone brightly. Angrily. Hungrily.
Joss McMillan was about to die.
Otis turned abruptly toward him then, as if the spark of Joss’s memory had attracted his attention. Their eyes locked. Otis’s voice was quiet, but Joss could feel it coming to a boil just below the surface. “Joss McMillan. Fancy meeting you here.”
Joss froze, but offered Otis a polite nod. He couldn’t count on his fingers how many times they’d shared the same room, breathed the same air. Otis had seemed harmless then. Just another teacher. Just another man. But he was something else to Joss now. He was the enemy.
Beside Otis, Enrico clucked his tongue. “Enemy? That’s a strong word, young Slayer. You’d best be careful who you refer to as such around my fair city. Unless, of course, you’re looking to make enemies. Largely by coming here, to my establishment, to cause trouble.”
Otis touched a hand to Enrico’s chest, as if Enrico had been on the verge of coming at Joss. Only as far as Joss could tell, Enrico had seemed incredibly calm and unmoving. Then, with his eyes still locked on Joss’s, Otis spoke to his friend. “There is no trouble here, Enrico, nor desire for trouble. This Slayer, while a skilled adversary, is just a boy. He’s not here to cause trouble. Are you, Joss?”
Joss swallowed hard. The actor in him forced a calm smile. “Not at all. I simply wanted some tea.”
“Thirsty, eh? I’m a bit parched myself.” Enrico licked his lips. “A positive, are you?”
“Enrico.” Otis shook his head. Something about the way he stood—so still, so confident—told Joss that he’d already planned out several ways that he could take Joss’s life, if Joss gave him reason to. “Enough.”
Slipping from the stool, Joss tightened his grip on the piece of paper in his hand and made his way calmly but quickly to the door. As he stepped outside, his tension eased some, but not much.
Behind him, the door opened again. He fought the urge to break into a run—an urge that was made more immediate by the setting sun. It was about to be dark, and he’d just left a café full of hungry vampires. His Slayer crew, as far as he knew, was halfway across town. Nowhere near close enough for Joss to alert them that he required assistance.
“Joss.”
Cursing under his breath, Joss stopped and turned back to Otis, who’d removed his hat. The look in Otis’s eyes was serious and meaningful. “I was planning to kill you that night—I would have. But I made a promise to Nelly that I would let you live. If you ever touch my nephew again, I’ll take your life. And I will do so with the greatest pleasure imaginable.”
Joss swallowed hard before answering. “Thanks. For not letting Enrico come after me, I mean.”
As he returned the purple top hat to his head, Otis said, “It’s the last favor I’ll ever do for you, Slayer.”
“I know.” And he did know. Once you’d hurt someone that somebody cared about, there was no asking for forgiveness, and no turning back.
Then, just as Otis was turning back to the door of V Bar, he paused, tilted his hat pleasantly at Joss, and said something that caused the tiny hairs on the back of Joss’s neck to stand on end.
He said, “Give my regards to your uncle.”
9
BORIS
Joss didn’t read the bartender’s note until he was well away from V Bar. He didn’t unfold the slip of paper, or even unclench his fist from around it until he was nearly ten blocks away. When he’d decided he was at last a far enough distance from that place and the vampires gathered there, Joss slowed his steps and opened his hand. The piece of paper that the bartender had handed him was a bit sweaty and semicrushed, but Joss was very relieved to see that it was still there, that he hadn’t dropped it while fleeing or been tricked by some strange vampire power into thinking that he’d been handed a note in the first place. Ever so carefully, as if what he were holding were precious cargo—and, in a way, it was—he unfolded the slip of paper and read over what the bartender had scribbled. In scratchy, hurried handwriting, it read: Boris—The Bourgeois Pig, 111 East 7th Street, 10:30 p.m.—please try reasoning with him first. Remind him of Cecile.
Joss’s heart sank hard and heavy into the pit of his stomach. Boris somehow knew something about his younger sister. But how? Did Boris kill her? Was he the vampire that Joss had seen the night he’d found Cecile murdered? Or did he know who did it?
And what did some middle-class pig have to do with anything of this?
He folded the paper once again and returned it to his pocket, then withdrew his grandfather’s pocket watch and noted the time. He still had another two hours until the time the bartender had mentioned. Until then, he thought it might be a good idea to head back to base and divulge what he knew to the other Slayers. And it might not exactly be a bad idea to arrange some backup. Especially if Boris really was the serial killer they were all hunting. Boris migh
t be dangerous as a psychotic man, but Joss was betting he’d be ten times more dangerous as a psychotic vampire. Nobody, least of all Joss, wanted to face off with some crazy vampire in the dark streets of New York City. Alone.
Yes, he thought, he’d ask the Slayers to help him take Boris down. Then he’d be done with this job, and could get back to . . .
. . . what, exactly? Being the Invisible Boy? Wondering if he would ever avenge his sister’s death? Not knowing if he would ever be able to invest himself fully in a friendship again?
Joss stamped his thoughts out like hot embers. There would be time for moping later. Now was a time for action.
As he walked back to the brownstone, his feet aching in Converse shoes—why didn’t cool-looking shoes ever have great arch support, anyway?—he thought about Otis. He thought about Vlad. But mostly, he thought about Nelly, and the way that she’d looked the night he’d staked Vlad.
Otis’s fangs were out, horrible and gleaming, and Joss knew that he was about to die. “Not yet,” Otis seethed. “Not until I make you suffer for what you’ve done to my nephew.”
Joss breathed in, but the air seemed almost too thick with tension to fill his desperate lungs. It was a shame, really, that his final breaths would be those of a drowning man. But Joss was drowning. In fear, in guilt. He didn’t know what to say or do to stop this from happening or to explain his actions.
Otis growled, “Don’t bother saying anything, Slayer. There’s nothing you can do to stop what I’m about to do to you.”
In a flash so quick it made Joss’s heart stop beating for a moment, Otis moved and was on him like a cat. His hand gripped Joss’s hair, pulling Joss’s head violently to the side. The heat of Otis’s breath on Joss’s neck made his bottom lip tremble.
This was it. Now he’d know exactly how his younger sister had felt when that monster had ripped out her life. Now he’d be reunited with Cecile forever.
Otis drew back, narrowing his eyes. “Cecile?”
“He’s alive! Otis! Quickly!” Vikas shouted excitedly.
Without even a pause, Otis hurried to his nephew’s side. After feeling for a pulse, Otis’s shoulders relaxed some. He withdrew a cell phone from his vest pocket and put it to his ear. After a moment, he spoke, his voice troubled. “Nelly, Vlad’s been hurt . . . no, badly. Very badly . . . I can save him, but I have to do it now. Can you come get Joss? . . . Just hold him there until I get back . . .”
Joss swallowed hard. His death had merely been postponed.
Then Otis pulled the phone from his ear quickly, as if he’d been hung up on. He looked at Joss as he returned the phone to his pocket. Beside him, Vlad looked dead. “If you move so much as an inch, Slayer, I’ll kill you where you stand. Don’t even think about running.”
And, as much as it might irritate his uncle Abraham, Joss hadn’t thought about running. Not once. He’d staked a vampire, yes. But he’d also very nearly killed his best friend, and he had to stay here to see this through. Whether Vlad lived or died determined who Joss was in this scenario: the Slayer or the boy. Both aspects terrified Joss, though he would never admit to it.
He nodded at Otis, and moved his attention back to Vlad, who seemed so lifeless. His chest didn’t move. His eyelids didn’t flutter. And Joss was very concerned that he might have just succeeded in taking his best friend’s life.
And he still wasn’t sure why.
He remembered everything about the confrontation in the clearing. He remembered Vlad trying to reason with him in a rather cunning way, and he remembered the undeniable sense of right and duty that had washed over him. He had known that killing Vlad was exactly the right thing to do at the moment, so why now was he filled with such crushing doubt?
In a flash, a very angry Vikas was inches from Joss’s stunned face, his fangs out, his eyes furious. “I should rip your skin from your body and wear it like a coat. How could you do this? He is an innocent! He’s just a boy, you vile betrayer!”
In the distance, Joss heard a car approach, followed by a slamming car door. None of them moved, waiting for whoever had stumbled on to this grisly scene. Then, out of the darkness ran Nelly, Vlad’s guardian. Her eyes were red, her face white, her lips trembling. As she approached Vlad’s unmoving body, her shaking hands found her mouth. Otis moved to her to comfort her, but she pushed him away. “That stake has to come out. We need to put pressure on the wound and get him a lot of blood.”
The nurse in her was trying to find reason and sense where the mother figure could not. Otis nodded, “Vikas and I will handle it. We have a team of vampire doctors in Stokerton. The ambulance is already on its way with lots of blood. I’d carry him to the hospital, but even though it would be faster, I fear he would bleed out before we reached it.”
Nelly’s eyes found Joss then and filled with tears that she immediately blinked away. “If you hurt Joss for this, Otis, I will never forgive you.”
Otis’s expression darkened. “You don’t understand, Nelly. The boy is a Slayer. He did this to Vlad.”
Nelly’s jaw set with a stubbornness that surprised Joss—one that he would have bet that she reserved for special occasions. “I understand more than you could ever know. If Joss did this, he had his reasons. Even if those reasons were ridiculous and wrong. I won’t have more blood spilled. Leave him alone.”
Otis and Vikas exchanged looks. Nelly said, “Joss, come with me. We’ll get you cleaned up before I go to the hospital.”
But she didn’t mean “cleaned up.” Joss could tell by the inflection in her voice, by the look in her eyes. She meant “safe,” away from the vampires, someplace where no one could hurt him. Nelly was willing to put off racing to the hospital with her nephew in order to protect a boy she hardly knew. Or did she know Joss? He’d spent countless hours at her house. And every time, she’d welcomed him in with open arms. Was that because she understood him as a person? Joss didn’t know. All he did know was that in a moment when he desperately wished for his mother, Nelly was here to help him. She nodded toward the car. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
As they walked away from the clearing, away from Vlad, Joss’s shoulders sagged. His heart felt as heavy as the guilt it held. He swallowed hard, trying to push down the hurt. Nelly put an arm around him and gave him a squeeze. “It’ll be okay, Joss. I promise. Everything will be okay.”
The lights were on at the brownstone, and Joss had planned on going inside, but he didn’t think it was such a great idea to face his uncle when he was struggling with the sheer, unending regret of having staked his best friend. His steps slowed in front of the brownstone. Wait. No. He’d staked a vampire, who just happened to be his best friend. Or had been his best friend—past tense. Wasn’t that more fitting? Were he and Vlad still friends after what had transpired? After Vlad had betrayed him and he had betrayed Vlad in kind? Had they ever been friends? Had their friendship been truly genuine? Or was the entire thing just a clever vampire ruse? A way of keeping the Slayer at bay and under control?
Joss had no way of knowing. And he was quite certain that he’d never know, that he’d never again return to Bathory—though he very much wished that he could. If for nothing else than to right the wrong that had transpired between him and Henry.
He hadn’t seen his cousin before leaving town, but that was largely because Joss had avoided any contact with Henry. He didn’t know what to say, and wasn’t sure that Henry would have wanted to hear it anyway. So he’d written a note to Vlad, hastily placed it on his locker, and headed outside, where the cab was waiting to drive him to Stokerton International Airport. The note had read “friendship over,” but now Joss was wondering if that were true, or if the actor in him had taken over then, too, blinding Joss with his dramatics. It was hard to tell. It was also sometimes impossible to distinguish between Joss the actor, Joss the Slayer, and Joss the boy. Sometimes he felt like his personality was fracturing into a million pieces, into a million people, and he didn’t know how to stop it. Or if he really wanted to at
all. It was exciting and terrifying. It was life. And it was his, good or bad.
He made his way toward the brownstone’s steps in the growing darkness, listening to whispers coming from the shadows within shadows. Part of him wondered if a vampire might leap out of the darkness and end his torment, reuniting him with the sister who he hadn’t saved. It frightened him. And in a dark way that he’d never admit to, it intrigued him. He only hoped that the Cecile he’d been reunited with would be the sweet little girl that he’d known and loved, not the terrifying creature from his tormenting nightmares.
Cecile.
He flipped through the pages of his memories back to the moment that Otis had been about to rip his throat out. Otis had said his sister’s name in surprise, as if he’d known her personally. But that was impossible, wasn’t it? Unless . . .
Joss’s stomach clenched.
Unless Otis had killed Cecile, or knew who had.
Inside his jeans pocket, Joss’s cell phone buzzed to life. With a deep breath, he pulled it out, hit the button, and put it to his ear. “Joss here.”
It was Morgan’s voice on the other end. “Better head home soon, little brother. Everything okay out there?”
Apart from the fact that he had no idea how he was going to solve all of his problems, yes, everything was fine. Peachy keen, jelly bean, as his mom would say. Or used to say before he’d lost her to the fog.
“I’m fine. Heading in now.” He didn’t wait for Morgan to respond before hitting END and returning the phone to his pocket. He was fine. And he didn’t need anybody to check on him to make sure. He was strong. He was tough. He was a Slayer.
Before he could second-guess his actions, Joss moved up the steps of the brownstone and through the front door, ready to report. Just inside, he found Cratian standing guard. He nodded a hello before moving down the hall to the living room, where Uncle Abraham was reading a well-worn book in an easy chair near the window. As Joss entered the room, Abraham snapped the book closed and looked up at him. “Report.”