It’s good. It’s all good. It’s good, I remind myself, over and over like a chant. Sanctuary, what we decided to turn our castle into, is just starting out, but it’s exactly what we dreamed it could be. We’ve taken in demons who had nowhere else to go. We’re keeping them safe, and ourselves safe, and we’ll keep looking for those who could benefit from the generations of knowledge and abilities we have. We’re protecting, not attacking or destroying.
Between our new demonic additions and existing Watchers, everyone has tasks and times to do them. It’s more work than anyone anticipated, keeping everyone taken care of and fed, making sure the castle runs like it should. But so far everyone is happy. Everyone is safe.
I sink down against the wall, feeling the cold of the stone radiating outward. The unpellis demon, all four gentle eyes soft and brown and hopeful, snuggles up to my side like a dog. It’s more animal than human in nature, nonverbal, and still recovering from its frequent de-skinning treatment in Sean’s demon-drug manufacturing scheme. I saved Pelly from that cellar.
I didn’t save everyone, though.
I wrap my arms around Pelly and close my eyes. Everything is exactly what we dreamed it could be. Except I feel Leo’s loss everywhere, and I miss my twin, Artemis, with a constant, physical ache.
And, worst of all, with enough time after Tsip surprised me to calm down and remind my body there’s no danger …
I still feel like killing something.
2
I’M ON THE FLOOR WITH Pelly when Imogen finds me. With Artemis gone and Jessi taking over the care of the Littles, Imogen has shifted to the kitchen. Food quality in the castle has improved tenfold. It feels like everyone has settled into roles that truly suit them. Except me. I don’t know what I want.
“You look like you could use a cookie,” she says, hands on her hips. She’s wearing cheerful pink lipstick and has her hair in two low pigtails. She’s been in a really good mood ever since we stopped the apocalypse prophecy when I blocked Eve Silvera’s new hellmouth. Preventing an apocalypse cost me my Slayer powers (briefly) and Leo Silvera (permanently). In my darkest moments, when I wake up from a nightmare alone in my room without even my sister to comfort me, I’m not sure it was a good trade. Would a new hellmouth have been that big of a deal? We’ve dealt with them since the beginning of time. Surely we could have handled a new one.
But I know that’s selfish. Arcturius the Farsighted had a whole prophecy devoted to Artemis and me, all about breaking and healing the world. I made the right call. It just cost so much. It took away his warm eyes and long-fingered hands and swift, sure movements. His soft lips. The most dazzlingly elusive smile. And the one person who ever really saw me.
The two people, actually. Leo died, and Artemis left. And I’m here on the floor snuggling a demon. I wish Arcturius had seen this, too. They never talk about how hard the part after the hard part is.
I look up at Imogen. “I could use a cookie, yeah. Actually, cookies. Plural.”
“Cookies should never be singular.” Imogen holds out a hand to help me stand. My phone rings. The caller ID is the number we designated for demon scouting trips. Today, and most days, my mother is on the other end of the line.
When we first started meeting with demons for potential acceptance into Sanctuary, I was always with her. But a month ago, there was an … incident. I hadn’t slept at all that night, and I was already on edge, so when I turned around and saw the dead black eyes of a shark staring at me, I punched first and asked questions after. Turns out it was a demon with a shark head trying to escape some bad debts. My mother assured me he wasn’t a good fit for Sanctuary anyway, but the fact that I attacked him didn’t exactly do our reputation any favors. Word of mouth (or whatever the demon species equivalent of a mouth is) matters in finding demons who need our help. So I basically blew it.
I still feel bad about it. I like sharks! On television. Underwater. Where I am not. I can’t even think about the incident without feeling roiling guilt. When did I become a punch-first-ask-questions-later Slayer? And it made me a liability instead of an asset. My mother tried to make it sound like she needed me at the castle for scheduling reasons, but we both know it was to protect me. Or to protect the demons. I don’t know which is worse.
Working together is already awkward enough. She’s trying to be my mom again, but she doesn’t really know how to, so it comes across like those aggressively friendly employees at grocery stores who constantly ask how you are and if you need help and if you’re finding everything okay, and all you can do is smile and answer back in the same bright voice when really you know where the cereal is, thank you very much. And there’s the added pressure of feeling like I have to reward all her efforts, even when I don’t want to. I appreciate it, I really do, but I wish I had Artemis to share the burden of Mom Version Four, or at least to complain to. She’d get it. No one else does.
I answer the call. “Mom? Everything okay?”
There’s a popping noise in the background that sounds distinctly like a gun. I keep the phone to my ear and sprint outside.
“Hello, Nina. I didn’t want to interrupt your work today, but we’ve been pinned down and I didn’t bring the firepower necessary to get out.” By her tone, she might as well be calling to ask if we need more milk. My mother is baffling and also slightly terrifying.
“Is it Sean?” I don’t mean to sound so excited, but it’s almost a relief. I’ve been waiting for demon drug dealer Sean to make a play for Doug again. Doug’s happy-time skin secretions were Sean’s biggest moneymaker. And with ex-Watcher and worst person ever Honora among his former and possibly current allies, Sean knows more than enough about our operations to be very dangerous to us. Plus, I sort of destroyed his entire operation by unleashing a remora demon to crush everything. I can’t imagine he thinks fondly of any of us.
Today’s demon outing was a first meeting with a family of werewolves. Werewolves are low-risk, so my mother went alone. Normally, she takes Tsip, Jade, or Rhys. But we should have known better. Nothing in our world is ever truly low-risk. I wave frantically to Rhys, Cillian, and Doug. Jade doesn’t even look up. She’s probably blissed out on Doug right now. Useless. My sober friends jog up to me as I open the garage.
“No,” my mother says. “This isn’t Sean’s MO. It appears to be some aggressive freelancers. I believe there are two in sniper positions. I’m using my ammunition sparingly to avoid running out, but it won’t be much longer before they feel confident launching a full attack.”
“We’re on our way! When you run out of ammunition, hide. Don’t engage. And don’t risk yourself, okay?” It sounds horrible to say, but I don’t want my mother to die protecting strangers. Not when I’ve just started to get her back after years of being strangers to each other. I want her to annoy me for decades to come.
“Thank you. See you soon. And, Nina?” Her voice gets softer, more tentative. For the first time, she sounds a little worried. “Be careful. You’re not bulletproof.”
The silence hangs between us. I struggle to fill it, to close that gap. Because this mom who is open about caring about me? It’s new, and, like being a Slayer, or my anger or my guilt or my grief, I still don’t know how to react. So instead of telling her to be careful too, I default to something less emotionally fraught. As soon as I start joking, I know it’s the wrong choice, but it just keeps going, and I can’t stop it.