No, Joss thought as he ran down the street, coming to a stop a block away from Element. Joss was definitely Batman. The hero that the city, that humanity, didn’t realize that they needed. But he was going to give it to them anyway.
Kaige was evil, and he was going to kill that girl. She might not recognize or remember that, but it was going to happen. And if Joss hadn’t stepped in, she’d be dead by now. Yes, he’d taken a life. But it had come down to that girl’s life and Kaige’s, and luckily, the coin had fallen the right way. Joss refused to feel remorse. He’d done the right thing, and he’d argue that point home with anyone who wanted to question his actions.
Withdrawing his cell phone from his pocket, he pressed number two on speed dial and put the phone to his ear. “This is Joss. I need a cleanup on the rooftop of Element on East Houston at Essex. Police are on the scene. No pickup required.”
The voice on the other end sounded monotone and unfeeling. “No cleanup crew available. Exit the scene until a replacement can be made available.”
Cursing under his breath at having briefly forgotten about their eradicated cleanup crew, he hit END, marveling at how calm his voice had sounded, how in control, when he felt anything but.
Then he pressed number three on speed dial and waited for his uncle to answer. “I’ve got a lead, Uncle Abraham. Assemble everyone in the living room. I’ll be home in a few minutes.”
He turned back then, looking at the lights of the police cars from a distance as they flashed brightly against the surrounding buildings. People on the sidewalk spoke animatedly and pointed at the building that held Element and The Vault. Police officers and security guards began a search around the perimeter of the building. Just as Joss was turning away from the scene, something gave him pause. It was the sight of a girl his age running up the front steps, into the nightclub. She wore black and red striped tights, a black lace tutu, military combat boots, and what looked like a concert T-shirt from a band called The Mopey Teenage Bears.
It was Em. Joss would have bet his stake that the girl he saw was the girl from his picture, the girl who wasn’t a girl at all, but rather an inhuman, blood-drinking monster. From a distance, she looked a lot like Kat but Joss shook away that thought immediately and turned from the scene, breaking into a run once again. He couldn’t think about Kat right now, couldn’t think about Sirus or last summer at all. He couldn’t think about Em, or the fact that he was running away, and leaving Morgan behind in the mix of so much chaos.
He could only think about getting back to base and washing the blood from his hands.
16
IN THE COMPANY OF LIARS
A yawn escaped Joss as he climbed the brownstone’s front steps, but he shook it off. He was in no mood for another night’s sleep, another evening of nightmares in which he would be tormented by a horrific version of his little sister. He knew he had the nightmares, but most times the details of which were extremely difficult to recall. Still, simply waking up with his heart racing, his body soaked with sweat, his tears drenching his cheeks was enough for him to want to keep the dream Cecile at bay. There were times, though he would never admit it to anyone else, when he wondered if the dream Cecile were actually real, rather than a part of his distorted subconscious. The idea scared the hell out of him, and made it even more difficult to fall asleep at night. Nightmare Cecile was terrifying, but he could deal with her. If she were actually real, actually his younger sister back from the dead and looking for revenge against her older brother . . . Joss might as well lock himself away in a padded room and hope that that was the worst of his life from here on out.
Uncle Abraham and the other Slayers were waiting in the living room, expectant expressions on their faces. Joss didn’t sit, as it didn’t seem like he was supposed to make himself cozy while he regaled the other Slayers with his tale of carnage. Cratian said, “So . . . Morgan has told us his side of the story. What’s yours, exactly?”
Morgan stood at the other end of the room, looking down at the floor between his feet. Joss couldn’t shake the feeling that they were in trouble, somehow. Even though this was what they were supposed to be doing. Killing vampires. Killing these vampires in particular.
Morgan shrugged, darting a glance at Joss with a hint of embarrassment. “I’m afraid mine got away from me, little brother.”
Paty snorted. “Maybe it wouldn’t have if you hadn’t been so distracted by the short skirt.”
The room grew very quiet, full of a tension that hung in the air, as thick as a New England fog.
Joss cleared his throat before beginning. Then he told them everything—everything but details of Dorian’s involvement. Something in his gut told him that involving Dorian any more would create problems for him. Maybe for them both. Telling Morgan about Dorian was one thing. Telling Uncle Abraham would be quite another.
As he spoke, he kept his voice even and calm, answering the occasional question with ease. But one question—one asked by Ash—gave him pause. “How did you get into The Vault? From what I’ve heard, the bouncers there are pretty strict.”
At this, even Morgan raised his eyebrows. Joss cleared his throat to buy some time—time in which he scrambled inside his mind for a reply that wouldn’t implicate Dorian and his strange involvement in Joss’s life. As he hurried to reply, not really knowing what he should say, the actor in him took the reins and smiled, cocking his head slightly to the side with sly confidence. “Let’s just say I’m a smooth talker and leave it at that.”
Cratian, Ash, Paty, and Morgan laughed aloud. Abraham did not. “And why exactly did you fail to follow protocol and keep the citizens of New York out of your mess?”
His smile crumbled, but no words came. But he suspected that that had been Abraham’s intention. To silence him in the face of Joss’s vanity.
Abraham stood as if to leave the room, and his movement stirred Joss’s subconscious, bringing something important to the top. “There’s one other thing.”
“What’s that?” his uncle inquired, an air of doubt hanging over his every word.
“I know where they prefer to hunt. And money says we’ll find them there.”
“Oh?” Abraham raised an eyebrow. “And where’s that?”
Joss straightened his shoulders confidently. “Central Park.”
Abraham grew quiet at first. Then he grunted. “We shall see.”
The air carried a tension in it. Maybe it was because Joss had succeeded in killing Kaige, but everyone knew that there were more brothers out there to be dealt with.
Maybe it was nothing.
Later, as he dabbed hydrogen peroxide on the small cuts on his face and the few on his elbows and knees, Joss tried hard not to think too much about what had just transpired. He didn’t think about the way that blood had sprayed from the vampire’s body and splashed against his cheek. He merely watched the peroxide as it bubbled wildly against his wounds. On the surface, he was emotionless—a machine that served a single purpose and had dutifully fulfilled that purpose well tonight. The Slayer Society had tasked him with the destruction of a killer, of what had turned out to be a group of killers, and Joss had eradicated a second one.
Eradicated. It sounded so much more pleasant than killed.
The cut on his cheek was deeper than the rest, and Joss couldn’t for the life of him recall the exact moment when he’d received that particular injury. He looked it over in the mirror, leaning closer to his reflection and tilting his head this way and that. There was no avoiding the fact that it needed to be stitched closed. If he forewent that nasty little task, he was going to have a scar. Joss might not have been as vain as many people viewed the McMillans, but the idea of a scar lining his cheek did bother him—even though his uncle Mike probably would elbow him and laugh and say that chicks dig scars. Joss wasn’t at all girl crazy, but the idea of “chicks” digging him was pretty appealing. Still, he hated the idea of a scar on his face. So “chicks” would just have to find some other reason to dig him.
br /> “What are you thinking about?” Paty was leaning against the doorjamb of the bathroom, overseeing his nursing skills. He was relieved that she’d followed him upstairs after his debriefing, and not one of the other Slayers. Paty was more gentle than the rest of his team, and what Joss really wanted right now was to be with someone who’d be gentle.
“Just wondering if what my uncle Mike told me is true. He said that chicks dig scars.”
Paty grinned, her eyes on his wounded cheek. “Oh, yeah. You’re going to have the ladies lining up around the block with that baby.”
A laugh escaped Joss. It was pleasant and completely unexpected. Chasing it was curiosity. Maybe Paty, being a chick and all, knew what made chicks like someone. It was something to talk to Henry about, for sure.
Retrieving a large, sterile needle from a package inside the medicine cabinet, Joss reached for the bottle of rubbing alcohol and stitching thread. He’d seen Sirus sew stitches at the cabin last summer, and Sirus had kindly given him tips, just in case one day Joss would be sewing his own stitches. “The key,” Sirus had said, “is to get your stitches as close together as you can. Keep them tight and you’ll scar less. Take your time, focus on your task, and breathe through the pain.”
Paty’s forehead was lined with concern. “Are you sure you don’t want me to do it? I’m fairly good with a needle. And it is on your pretty face, after all.”
He shook his head. “I can do it.”
“Listen. Joss. About what Abraham said at your debriefing . . .”
“It’s okay, Paty.” He’d snapped at her, and instantly regretted it. Flicking a glance her way, he nodded his apology. “It’s really okay. He’s right. I was messy. I should have taken Kaige down without the cops having been called.”
Paty stepped forward then and placed her hands on his shoulders, meeting his eyes with warmth and understanding. “You did a great job. And I think you’re right—I think we could find the other brothers in Central Park. Your uncle just struggles with the concept of encouragement, that’s all. Don’t worry. You’re doing fine, Joss. Okay?”
It wasn’t okay. But he knew that Paty wouldn’t accept that as a reply, so instead he simply nodded again.
She glanced at the needle. “Want me to stay or go while you sew yourself up?”
He gestured to the door with his chin. “If you wouldn’t mind. I’d rather do this part alone.”
Just in case he cried. But he didn’t say that part out loud.
Paty kissed his uncut cheek lightly and gave his shoulders a gentle squeeze before slipping out the door and closing it behind her.
Joss cleaned the already clean needle with alcohol, as well as the thread and the wound itself. Then he threaded it, leaned close to his reflection, took a deep breath, and pinched his cut closed, shoving the needle through his skin.
The pain was burning and immediate, and before Joss realized that the voice was his, a string of curse words echoed into the room. But he pushed forward, looping the stitch as tightly as he possibly could, and poked the needle through again. By the fourth stitch, he hardly felt the pain—so grateful for endorphins that he almost thanked them aloud.
He finished up his sewing handiwork and tied a tiny knot at the end. After he washed the wound again, he looked closely at his stitching skills. It wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t bad. The stitches were relatively close, and he was certain that Sirus would have given him a pat on the back if he were here.
But Sirus wasn’t here. Sirus wasn’t anywhere anymore. Sirus was dead. Because Joss had killed him. Like Joss had killed the vampire on the bar’s roof tonight. And his brother in an alley the other night. Joss was a killer. A killer of vampires. It’s what he did, who he was. And every time a vampire died, it brought him that much closer to soothing Cecile’s tortured, restless soul.
Joss set his jaw and turned away from the mirror, unable, for the moment, to look himself in the eye.
17
FAMILY DINNER
It was late, but Joss was starving. He descended the stairs, only to find Ash and Cratian arguing over who got the last two pieces of bread in the house. Apparently, Joss’s stomach wasn’t the only one rumbling in the late night.
Paty stood, clapping her hands together, as if to punctuate the end of their argument. “I’m starving. Who’s up for a late night dinner out?”
Abraham said, “I know a wonderful restaurant not far from here.”
Morgan raised an eyebrow, clearly suspicious. “You buying, boss?”
Without replying, Abraham stood and exited the room. Joss exchanged glances with the other Slayers, but no one further questioned Abraham’s sudden onset of generosity. They merely stood and made their way to the door. As they filed out the front door, Abraham placed a hand on Joss’s shoulder, stopping him briefly. Then he called to the others, “Two blocks east. You can’t miss it. Has striped awnings. We’ll be along shortly.”
He watched the other Slayers move forward for a moment before speaking to his nephew in a low, somber voice. “Don’t think me a fool, boy. I’m well aware that both you and Morgan are keeping something from us. And if you think I won’t find out the details of your little secret, you are sorely mistaken.”
Joss swallowed, his throat burning for a moment. The heat quickly found its way up and out, setting his skin aflame with guilt. He opened his mouth to say something—anything, really, that might set his uncle’s suspicions at ease—but then closed it again. Nothing he could say would make his uncle believe him. Not even if he had nothing to hide.
But he did have something to hide. And for some reason, Morgan seemed to think that hiding the fact that Joss knew Dorian was a good idea. So Joss followed suit and gave away no secrets.
Instead, he looked his uncle in the eye and said, “Uncle, I have no idea what you’re insinuating, but Morgan and I have nothing to hide. And quite frankly, your tone seems a bit edged in panic and conspiracy.”
The corner of Abraham’s mouth lifted in a strange smile then and he turned away. For a moment, Joss thought that their conversation was over and that Abraham was leaving without further comment. But then his uncle turned back to him and gripped the front of his shirt with his hand, twisting the fabric until Joss was convinced that it would rip. To his surprise, the fabric held. Abraham pulled him closer and as he spoke, his words didn’t seem like words at all, but a bit like steam after water has been dripped onto a hot surface. “Don’t think you can pull one over on me, boy. I’ve seen things, done things that would curl the hair on your backside. I’ve lived ten lifetimes with one life, and I can spot a liar a hundred yards away.”
Joss’s heart betrayed him, picking up its pace with a steady thump-thump-thump. As his uncle pulled him even closer, until their noses were almost touching, his heart almost stopped.
Abraham hissed, “And you, boy, are a liar.”
The actor Joss set his jaw and then forced a calm smile. “Think what you want about me, old man.”
When Abraham released him, he did so forcefully, shoving Joss backward, as if he couldn’t stand to be in his company for even a moment longer. Joss stumbled, but regained his composure, and then smoothed out the wrinkles in the front of his shirt. Without another glance at his uncle, he turned and walked in the direction that the other Slayers had. He found them two blocks up. Morgan immediately leaned over and quietly said, “Everything okay, little brother?”
He nodded in response, wondering if Morgan could read the anger in his eyes. Something told him that Morgan could see through the actor to the real Joss within. “Fine. Everything’s fine. But I’m a liar and he knows it.”
Morgan nodded. “I’m a liar, too, kid. But so are poker players. And a good cardshark knows when to show their hand, and when to keep their mouth shut.”
Joss regarded him for a moment as he listened to his uncle’s steps approaching softly behind him. He had the distinct impression that Morgan was not only telling him that it was okay that they’d lied to his uncle. He was
also saying that they should keep lying to him. Until . . .
Well. Joss had no idea until when. But he did know one thing. He trusted Morgan.
The tiny hairs on the back of his neck. He’d trusted Sirus, too. And at one point in time, he’d trusted Vlad. What did that say about his level of trust in people? Maybe he was incapable of trusting the right people. Maybe Morgan was someone that he shouldn’t be listening to at all.
From the outside, the restaurant looked like any other small Manhattan eatery. And from the inside, it was much the same. So Joss couldn’t figure out exactly why his uncle’s energy seemed to suggest that this was absolutely the place to dine in New York City. Regardless, Abraham strode inside and approached the hostess with the air of someone who was greatly pleased with himself. “There are six of us tonight, dear. Would it be too much trouble to locate a private table in the room? Something with atmosphere?”
The hostess smiled and scanned the pile of papers on her podium for a moment before answering. “Yes. I think that’s something we can arrange, sir.”
Then Abraham leaned closer to her, a whisper escaping his lips—words that Joss could not distinguish, no matter how hard he strained his hearing. When he was finished, the hostess smiled brightly and said, “Certainly, sir. Now if you’ll all please follow me.”
She led them through the dimly lit room to a large round table in the far corner. Once they were all seated, a man stepped forward and smiled. “Good evening, everyone. My name is Markus. I’ll be serving you tonight. Can I get everyone’s drink order?”
But before Joss could utter the words Mountain Dew, the hostess whispered to Markus, who smiled and said, “Of course! Right away.”
Markus—who Joss highly suspected of simply being Mark when he wasn’t working at a hip, posh restaurant—disappeared and a moment later was replaced by a lean man with long black hair that curled at the ends. His eyes were bright green, and when he smiled, Joss felt a strange wave of caution move through his insides. When he approached the table, he stood behind Morgan’s chair and said, “Good evening, all. I’m Jacques, the owner of this establishment. Markus tells me that my company has been requested at your table. Is everything to your liking so far?”