The Slayer Chronicles: First Kill (18 page)
Read The Slayer Chronicles: First Kill Online
Authors: Heather Brewer
He imagined it would be the most difficult of all lessons for him to learn.
Quickly, he ran down his list of resources, but it didn’t take long—mostly because he had so few. Namely, one. Chazz’s stake was still in Joss’s grip, but he wasn’t exactly certain what to do with it. Ash hadn’t yet taught him anything practical about weaponry, like how to wield a stake. Was this another thing that would come naturally to him? What he’d read in the Slayer Society manual was that a Slayer’s stake was a weapon that had to be earned, that one didn’t just grab a stake and go off chasing vampires. It was a gentleman’s weapon, and something to be held in the highest regard. In short, you had to build to that.
As Joss struggled against Cratian, he waited for the miraculous knowledge of how to beat his fellow Slayers without a weapon to come.
It didn’t.
The most he could hope for was that Cratian would grow tired and give up, but something about the way his face didn’t show any sign of strained effort told Joss that was unlikely. So Joss weighed his choices and did all that he could do.
As he bit down hard on Cratian’s hand, Joss wasn’t proud. Nor did he think it was a particularly brilliant fighting move. Really, it was kind of chicken, and more akin to a catfight than Slayer-to-Slayer combat, but it was the only thing that Joss could think of to do with his limited resources. Fortunately, judging by the surprised cry and hesitation, Cratian hadn’t seen it coming either.
Cratian yelped and sat back, relaxing his grip on Joss’s wrists just enough for Joss to shove him back. He fell over, a look of surprise locked on his formerly emotionless face. As he fell back on the ground, Joss whipped the stake in his hand forward, stabbing the ground next to Cratian. Then he beamed. “You’re dead, Cratian.”
“As are you, nephew.” Something cold and sharp pressed against Joss’s throat. Abraham was standing behind him, holding a blade against his tender skin. And he wasn’t exactly being gentle about it. Joss swallowed hard, his heart racing, and felt blood trickle down his neck.
He took a slow, shallow breath, followed immediately by another. Then, without thinking, he reached back and grabbed Abraham by his left shoulder, flipping him over so that Abraham flew through the air, landing on his back in front of Joss.
The moment Abraham’s back hit the ground, shock filled Joss. He was stronger than he’d thought.
Joss straightened his shoulders, pride filling him. He’d been challenged by three well-trained, highly skilled Slayers and had won.
It took several seconds for Abraham to stand, and when he did, he didn’t look at Joss at all. He merely walked out of the clearing without a word. As Joss watched him leave, his heart sank with every step. Breathlessly, he called out, “Uncle Abraham? What is this? What is this supposed to teach me about hand-to-hand combat?”
But Abraham was gone.
Chazz had stood and was still brushing the dirt from his pants when he said, “Run ten laps on the long trail. And don’t come back to the cabin until you do, little man.”
Joss rubbed the back of his neck absently. He was still wondering what exactly he’d done to upset Abraham, and he had no idea where to find the so-called long trail. “Where is it?”
Cratian was breathing heavily as he walked by, knocking his shoulder into Joss’s with a playful flare. “When you find it, start running.”
19
RUNNING ON EMPTY
Joss stumbled toward the back door to the cabin in the morning light on wobbly knees. His lungs were burning so badly that it was difficult to breathe, so much, in fact, that his chest ached. His legs were throbbing with intense pain. The hurt of his day and night spent running couldn’t even be masked by the rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins. It had taken him a long time to locate the long trail that Chazz had instructed him to find, and a couple of hours to run it once, let alone ten times. He was reasonably sure he’d been alone on his run, but knowing the Slayers, they were watching him, so stopping and lying about his run wasn’t exactly an option. Besides, it was the principle of the thing. He’d know that he’d lied, that he hadn’t lived up to their expectations, and that he just couldn’t live with.
He’d thrown up on his third pass around the trail, and almost gave up on his sixth, but he realized something while he was standing in the woods, breathless and hurting and so homesick that he almost cried—he, Joss, who never cried, not even on the day of Cecile’s funeral, though he’d desperately wanted to, desperately needed to. He wouldn’t let himself cry, wouldn’t allow himself that release of pain. He deserved to hurt, deserved to suffer.
He realized on the trail, when his lungs were aching so bad that he thought he might actually keel over and die, that this too was a test, but more than that, it didn’t matter how many tests he passed or how much he impressed his uncle. He would never have Abraham’s approval, and Abraham was simply waiting for him to fail. Maybe hoping that he would. Maybe knowing that he would. And Joss wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction.
This was about more than a desire for vengeance for Cecile now. It was about him and Abraham and this strange tension between them. It was about Joss proving himself to no one but himself, and showing Abraham who was the better man in the end.
His thigh muscles screamed as he stepped up onto the back porch, and his shoulder screamed again when he reached out to grasp the doorknob. He stepped inside, his eyes first falling on the clock in the kitchen. It was just after six in the morning. Which meant that he’d been running, hurting, and puking his guts out for almost twenty-four hours straight.
Sirus was standing at the sink, rinsing out some pans—probably some that he’d used just a few hours ago to make the other Slayers breakfast. When he turned to Joss, his face went white. “Joss, you look awful. Are you okay?”
Joss’s legs wobbled a bit more, and he found his way to a chair in the dining room. If he didn’t sit down soon, he was going to fall down. And if he did that, he might never get back up again. And then Abraham would win, wouldn’t he?
When he replied to Sirus, his voice sounded gravelly, as if he’d been eating sand. It also sounded strangely distant, as if they weren’t really his words at all. “As okay as I can be after ten laps on the long trail, I suppose.”
Sirus shook his head, a look of disgust settling into his eyes—disgust, Joss would have bet, for Abraham and his idea of training. “I had no idea you didn’t come in last night. I thought you came back after I’d gone to bed. I thought you were still upstairs asleep. If I had known—”
“You’d what?” Joss snapped, then sighed, feeling immediately awful about taking out his frustrations on his best ally here at Casa de Slayer. “There’s nothing you can do, Sirus. No one can do this for me, and no one can swoop in and rescue me every time I’m challenged. I have to do this on my own.”
Sirus watched him in silence for a few moments, then moved back into the kitchen. Joss heard cupboards opening and closing along with the refrigerator door, and assumed that Sirus was making him a sandwich. A few minutes later, Sirus returned, and Joss realized that he was only half right. On a small plate in Sirus’s left hand was the most delectable looking turkey sandwich that Joss had ever seen. In his right hand was Joss’s Slayer manual.
On the plate beside the sandwich were three pills—Joss raised an exhausted eyebrow and Sirus slid a glass of water closer to him. “They’re vitamins. After a night like that, you need to replenish your nutrients. Take your vitamins and sip your water. Small sips, but drink a lot—I’m sure you must be dehydrated. Then eat your sandwich, slowly. I want you to spend the day resting.”
“I don’t need to rest,” he snapped, despite his gratitude toward Sirus.
“Then you’ll study.” Sirus dropped the journal in front of him loudly, his patience clearly at an end.
Joss reached for the pills, and as he closed his hand over them, he met Sirus’s eyes. It touched him that Sirus seemed to care about him—so much more than his own parents ever had in the last three years. It meant more to Joss than Sirus would ever know. He wanted to speak again, to thank Sirus for every shred of kindness he had afforded him, but the words refused to come. So instead, he nodded to Sirus and popped the vitamins into his mouth, swallowing them dry.
He was just taking his second bite of the sandwich and marveling that something as simple as turkey, bread, and assorted veggies could taste so delectable, when Sirus spoke again. “Survival isn’t an easy thing, especially not in the wilderness. You have to know what to eat, what to drink, and how to shelter yourself. Meat is always your best bet—high in protein and, as long as it’s a fresh kill, you don’t have to worry about contaminants. Stay away from mushrooms. Many are poison, and though they’ll fill you up, they won’t do you as many favors as some other plants will in the wild. If you have to drink water, boil it first, unless it’s fresh rainwater or from a running stream. You’ll find many tips in the survival section of your manual, but don’t be afraid to add things as you learn them.”
Joss chewed the mouthful of sandwich and swallowed slowly. “What about berries?”
Sirus shook his head and tapped a finger on the cover of Joss’s journal. “Only if you know what you’re looking for. I’ve scribbled a few descriptions and images in the back of your journal to help you along, but you really ought to study up on the different species of edible plants.”
Joss nodded, but paused to raise a questioning eyebrow. “How am I supposed to boil water in the middle of the woods?”
“Didn’t your father ever take you camping?”
He shook his head, biting into his sandwich again. Embarrassment engulfed him. Was that what dads did with sons, when sons weren’t invisible? Took them camping? Showed them how to start a campfire?
Sirus furrowed his brow in concern. “No Boys Scouts? Nothing like that?”
Joss swallowed again and shook his head, wishing it were possible for him to disappear completely.
From within his pocket, Sirus withdrew a small metal instrument. It looked a bit like a nail file. He held it up for Joss to see before laying it on the table. “This is a Swedish FireSteel. It contains a magnesium alloy that sparks to make a fire. Takes some practice, but once you’ve got the technique down, it’s foolproof. Keep it. It’s yours.”
“Thanks, Sirus.” Joss closed his hand over the FireSteel, his heart welling with gratefulness. It wasn’t just the gift that had him feeling emotional. It was Sirus’s unfailing kindness. “For everything.”
Abraham walked into the dining room then, looking well rested, clean, and well fed. He looked very much like he hadn’t been out running all night long just to prove himself. Unlike Joss.
Joss lifted the sandwich to his mouth once more. It was almost impossible to keep his composure, to not scream and rant and yell at his uncle for everything he’d been put through. But somehow, he managed. He kept his cool. And just as he was taking that third bite of turkey yumminess, Abraham said, “Cut and stack the firewood.”
Joss immediately set his sandwich on the plate and stood, his muscles and joints screaming for him to let them rest, please God, just let them have a moment of stillness. Sirus shot Joss a look—a look that told him that it was okay, to sit down and finish his sandwich, that he needed his rest and Sirus had the power to force that on Abraham—but when he did, Joss shot a look back. He hoped that his look was full of meaning, that Sirus could understand without a single word that this was more than training now.
Without a word to Abraham, he pushed open the back door, letting it slap closed behind him. And though it wasn’t the most mature thought that he had ever had, Joss wished very much that the sound had hurt Abraham’s ears. It would be something, at least.
Outside, Joss found the ax stuck in the top of a stump. Beside it lay the trunk of a tree. It had been cut into three long logs and the branches had been trimmed away. Against the back of the house was a quickly dwindling stack of firewood logs. Joss looked over the new logs and wondered how long they’d been lying there. Probably close to six months. Maybe a year, even. But he was betting they were seasoned and ready for the fire. If you didn’t wait long enough, the wood would be too wet and wouldn’t burn right, wouldn’t burn long enough or hot enough. But this looked ready. And more than that, it looked like hickory, which was a nice wood for burning. Joss may not have known much about surviving in the wilderness, but he knew all about cutting wood. His grandfather had shown him how to do it two years before. It had been one of the last things that Grandpa had taught Joss. Before his life was taken by a vampire—like Cecile. Since then, it had been one of Joss’s chores at home. He had two woodcutting seasons under his belt now. So if Abraham thought he was challenging Joss in new and unexpected ways, he had another think coming.
Of course, all of Joss’s woodcutting had been turning logs into firewood, not turning entire tree trunks into logs. But he was reasonably sure that he could do it. After all, how much of a difference could there really be? Rubbing his hands together, Joss yanked the ax free and approached the first log with a confident step.
An hour later, sweaty and broken and so frustrated that he really wanted to kick something, Joss knew exactly how much of a difference there was between cutting logs down to size and cutting trunks into logs. Huge. There was a huge difference. Enormous. Because while it was difficult hoisting larger logs onto the tree stump and chopping them straight through the middle, it was almost impossible to hack away at a giant piece of hickory in hopes of cutting it into large disks that he’d struggle to lug onto the stump in hopes of maybe, just maybe, chopping that stupid thing into quarters, just so he could chop those quarters into usable logs. Never mind the fact that Joss hadn’t slept. Never mind the fact that he’d only had three bites of a turkey sandwich and not a single drop of water in twenty-four hours. Never mind the fact that he’d just run he didn’t even know how many miles and was now expected to do chores for his uncle—an uncle he was coming to loathe with every fiber of his being. And now he had to chop another hunk from another log, lug it over to the stump, struggle to lift the stupid thing and drop it on the stump without dropping it on his foot, and then cut that stupid thing into stupid pieces that would fit nicely inside Abraham’s stupid fireplace. Joss held the ax over his head and swung it down hard with a frustrated growl. It hit the stump and stuck in deep.
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