Second Chance (2 page)

“Your uncle Abraham just called.” The look in his father’s eyes said that this was something that shouldn’t surprise Joss, like he’d orchestrated whatever excuse Abraham had given for getting Joss to Manhattan for the summer. But Joss stood stone-faced, revealing nothing that might so much as hint at the fact that he was privy to more information than his suspicious father. After a moment, his father spoke again. “He’s working in conjunction with the Natural History Museum in New York this summer, and thought it might be a good experience for you to tag along, act as an intern. He thought that perhaps the discipline of a job might spark some semblance of responsibility in you. And your mother and I agree.”

Relief flooded through Joss—relief that he hated to feel. Those feelings made him a bad person, a bad son—didn’t they? He was thrilled to be going somewhere, anywhere, out of this house, away from the stress of being there, away from the pain of his day-to-day life. Anywhere was better than the shadow of his parents’ grief. Besides, he was looking forward to seeing his fellow Slayers again. The summer before this one felt like it had happened a million years ago. He missed them. He even missed Abraham, and wondered if it was possible that Abraham had missed him—in ways that his own parents, apparently, had not.

“You get on a plane in two days, so you’d better get packed.” Joss nodded and turned around, ready to walk back up the stairs. But he was given pause by his father’s next words. “But pick up the damn boxes and stick them in recycling first.”

His feet felt lighter with the aid of his newfound relief as he moved back up the stairs, and the first thing that Joss did, without complaint, was to gather the pile of broken-down boxes into a heap in his arms and carry them downstairs and out into the garage. While he was out there, he retrieved the hammer and a single nail.

Once back in his room, he tapped the nail into the wall above his bed and carefully hung the Black Corsair in its place. He hoped that wherever his grandfather was in the ether, wherever he was on his Next Great Adventure, that he was looking on his grandson with an approving smile. Because Joss might not be the greatest student, the greatest cousin, the greatest friend, or even the greatest son . . . but he was a Slayer, like his grandfather before him. He was dedicated to a cause full of nobility and purpose. He was driven. He was bent on revenge for his withered home life. And though the reward would never be anything concrete, Joss knew that he was doing good. For mankind. For Cecile. For his grandfather.

And maybe, just a little, for himself.

S
unshine filtered through the branches of a large oak tree that loomed overhead like a watchtower. At first glance, Joss had no idea where he was. But he knew that tree. Knew it very well. Though he couldn’t quite put his thumb on exactly where he knew it from.

The trunk was wider than he could wrap his arms around. Its crooked branches reached so high up into the sky that gazing up at them made Joss’s head swim. But it might have been just any old oak tree, if it weren’t for the striking feeling of familiarity that clutched Joss tightly in its grasp.

An image flashed in his mind. It was bright and quick, but so real that he sucked in a breath before grinning and running around the massive trunk to the other side. The image was a memory—one that came from the day his cousin Henry had first come to visit them at their new yellow house. As he whipped around the tree, the memory engulfed him, and all he could do was smile.

Henry couldn’t have been more than eight years old at the time, but it was already clear which of the two of them was in charge of their friendship. Henry made the decisions, and Joss dealt with the aftermath—which usually ended with them in trouble, but was always a spectacular amount of fun. Henry didn’t worry about taking care of his sibling, or being a good example. That was his brother, Greg’s, job. Henry was the youngest. Like Cecile was in Joss’s family. And that meant freedom.

They’d come to the tree so that Henry could show Joss something he’d brought with him that summer. And though Joss’s heart was racing at just what that something might be, and whether or not it would land them both in unimaginable amounts of trouble, he was also anxious to see what his cousin had hidden in the cup of his hand.

Henry looked around, to make certain they were alone, before holding his hand out and peeling his fingers back. In his palm lay a small pocketknife. Joss gawked at it a moment before speaking. “Wow. That’s so cool! Where’d you get it?”

Henry beamed. “It’s Greg’s, but he won’t care.”

Joss watched as his cousin pulled the blade free, revealing the sheen of metal that had been hidden inside the ivory handle. He’d always envied Henry for having a brother. Not that Cecile wasn’t perfectly nice, but the most she could possibly lend him was a baby doll. And, to an eight-year-old boy, a pocketknife would have been way cooler at the time. He sighed, his eyes on the blade, and said, “I wish I had a brother.”

Henry was quiet for a moment, then his eyes brightened. “I’ll be your brother, Joss.”

A small lump formed in Joss’s throat then. “Really?”

Henry nodded. “Really really. Watch this.”

Henry stabbed the tip of the knife into the tree and dragged it down, cutting through the bark and into the wood beneath. Then he pulled it free and did it again, forming a crooked
X
on the trunk. When he was done, he wiped the blade clean on his jeans and closed the knife, slipped it into his pocket, and turned to look at Joss. “That
X
marks the spot where we became brothers, Joss. And as long as it’s here, we’ll always be brothers.”

Joss’s chest felt so heavy and full of love for his cousin that he didn’t really know what to say. After a long pause, searching for the right words, what he came up with was, “Forever, Henry?”

Henry grinned. “Forever and ever.”

As the memory came to a close, Joss reached the other side of the tree. He traced his fingertips along the sunbaked
X
carving and allowed the smile to slip from his face with the realization that he was standing in the front yard of his old yellow house. The home his family shared when Cecile was still with them.

Slowly, he turned around, toward the house. Staring in disbelief at his surroundings, he crossed the grass, his sneakers sinking slightly into the lawn, and made his way around the side of the house. How could he be here? How was this even possible? Was he in the past? Had he been transported here somehow?

He turned the corner then, and his heart froze before picking up its pace slightly. Cecile was on her knees in the flower bed that edged the house, facing away from him, focused on her task. Ever so carefully, she picked up a small flowering plant and placed it in a hole she’d dug, before covering its roots with rich, black soil. As she moved through her task, she hummed a happy tune—one that reminded him of his mother. It was an endearing scene, watching his little sister plant flowers in the garden, so Joss had no idea why witnessing it set his nerves on edge. Apart from the fact that he knew the only way he could see Cecile was to travel back in time.

Without turning toward him, Cecile stretched her arm out, pointing to the spade that was lying just out of reach in the grass to her left. “Will you hand me the shovel, Jossie?”

After a moment of hesitation—one where he questioned whether or not he really had managed to travel back in time without realizing it, and why his sister was outside planting flowers unsupervised—Joss crept forward and crouched, plucking the spade from its spot in the grass, and held it out for her. “What are you planting, Cecile?”

She didn’t respond with words, but instead began digging furiously with her hands, as if her task couldn’t wait any longer for the spade that Joss was trying to give to her. Curiosity overtaking him, Joss leaned forward, peering over his sister’s shoulder. The earth had been disturbed in a rather haphazard, desperate way, and several new flowers had been planted in crooked rows along the flower bed. And there, in the middle, poking up from the ground, gray and horrible, was a human pinkie finger.

Joss’s heart raced, and his head began to spin. Why was Cecile digging in a place where a body was buried? Did she know about the corpse? Had she seen it? Who did that pinkie belong to, and why had the flower bed become their grave? Nausea pushed its way up Joss’s intestines, his stomach, his chest, tickling the back of his throat. A dead body. A dead person. In the garden. But why?

His throat felt raw as he forced the next question out. “What are you doing, Cecile?”

Suddenly Cecile’s hand closed over his wrist. He dropped the spade into the grass, his eyes growing ever wider at the image of Cecile’s fingernails. They were long and sharp, almost clawlike, and Joss could feel them digging into his skin. He looked at Cecile, who at last turned her head toward him slowly. Her eyes were closed, and she was smiling. And when she spoke, her singsong voice sent a terrified chill through him. “I’m digging your grave, Jossie.”

Joss pulled his hand back, but Cecile’s grip tightened. In a moment of sheer panic, he yanked his hand free, her claws digging bloody tunnels through his skin. As he scrambled backward in a crab walk, his voice shook. The sun was gone now, no more warmth on his skin. There was only gray and cold and Cecile crawling slowly after him. “I’m not dead! I’m not dead, Cecile! That isn’t me in the garden there.”

His back met with the trunk of the oak tree—he had no idea he’d made it so far—and all he could do was stare at his sister as she crawled toward him with her eyes closed. “Oh, but you will be. You’ll die at the hands of a monster, Jossie. The same way you let me die.”

He swore that she could see him, even though she wasn’t looking, not even a peek. Her clawlike nails dug into the earth. It was like she was pulling herself along the ground, making her way toward him. He stifled a scream. This was his sister. He had nothing to be afraid of. Did he?

Her left hand met his ankle and he jumped. Her skin was cold, too cold, and felt lifeless. Her claws dug into him and she climbed her way up his leg, her smile spreading as she moved. Her teeth were dark gray, with spots of black. The sight of them made Joss quiver, but he couldn’t look away. “I’m dead, Jossie, and all because of you. And soon you’ll be dead, too.”

She moved until her face was mere inches from his—the smell of her breath was nauseating, like rotten meat. When Joss opened his mouth to speak, his throat went dry, and his voice came out in a harsh whisper. “But why, Cecile? Why will I be dead?”

Slowly, she reached up with one of her claw hands and petted Joss’s cheek, leaving traces of dirt and Joss’s blood behind. She tilted her head sweetly, as if somewhere inside of this creature, his young sister still existed. “Because, Jossie. Because bad boys go to hell. Especially when they send their sisters there.”

Tears welled in Joss’s eyes. He opened his mouth again, this time to say that he was sorry for everything that he hadn’t done to rescue her the night she’d died, and for failing to avenge her death now that she was gone. But he didn’t have a chance to speak.

Cecile opened her eyes, revealing deep, dark caverns of black that went on forever. She lunged forward then and Joss screamed—but not before he noticed two long fangs inside of her hungry mouth.

J
oss sat up from his nightmare with beads of sweat clinging to his forehead. He was thankful, at that moment, to be almost the last person still on the plane—mostly because he wasn’t certain he could handle the sidelong glances from strangers as he lost his cool. The nightmares were getting worse.

After powering on his phone again, and ignoring another text from Kat (
I’VE DECIDED NOT TO HARM YOUR FAMILY IN ANY WAY. JUST YOU, JOSS. I’LL DO YOU THAT KINDNESS, THE WAY YOU DIDN’T FOR ME.—K
), Joss stood and stretched. He retrieved his backpack from the compartment over his seat and navigated his way down the aisle, pushing away all thoughts of Kat and her threats. She couldn’t touch him. Could she? In the end, wouldn’t the Society offer him some protection? He was one of them, after all. But then . . . maybe they expected him to be strong enough to stand up to an untrained girl. At least, he thought she was untrained. But who knew what her father, Sirus, had taught her and not told him about? Sirus was, after all, immensely talented at keeping secrets. Like the fact that he was a vampire.

Joss forced a smile at the pretty blond flight attendant, and once she’d wished him a good day, he found his way up the ramp and into LaGuardia Airport. As Joss exited the security area, he breathed a sigh of relief. He’d been on too many flights this week, but thankfully, he sat alone this time, free of any obligation to smile politely as he partook in conversation he really didn’t care about. He moved down the hall with purpose, his eyes sweeping the area around him, as always, for any sign of anyone who might not be a hundred percent on the human side. Everyone looked fairly normal as he walked, so he proceeded to the baggage claim area and waited at carousel number five for any sign of his black and purple suitcase, with the neon green luggage tag that read
STEAL MY LUGGAGE, WASH MY CLOTHES
.

Something hard pressed into Joss’s back, and his mind screamed “GUN!” His heart ceased its beats for a moment, in question of who exactly was behind him and why exactly they were threatening to assault him. A vampire wouldn’t use a gun, so clearly the person was human. And what human would brandish a gun in an airport? He doubted that many would, given the security measures of the day. Turning his head slightly to the left, Joss glimpsed his assailant and rolled his eyes. “What are you doing, Ash?”

“Blowing you into forty-seven-million bits.” Ash grinned. “Also, entertaining myself while we wait for your luggage.”

Joss turned around then, knowing that Ash would never really cause him physical harm, and looked down at the Sharpie marker that Ash had been jabbing in his back. He raised an eyebrow, as if to ask Ash if that were really necessary, and Ash chuckled and grabbed him into a rough hug. “Good to see you, kid. But I barely recognized you. You must’ve grown a foot since last summer. You could pass for twenty, at least, if someone wasn’t looking too closely. Everybody else is waiting for us back at our temporary base of operation. Let’s find that bag of yours so the party can begin.”

Joss gave Ash’s back a pat as they hugged, and when they separated, a kind of peace settled over him. He was home, in a weird way. He’d finally received the warm welcome that he’d very much wanted from his mom and dad. The Slayers, after all, were family to him, and a family like no other. They knew all of Joss’s secrets, all of his strengths and weaknesses.

Well, not
all
of his secrets. They knew nothing about the private job he’d taken hunting the Pravus vampire in Bathory. They also didn’t know that he’d failed miserably to kill said vampire. Or that he’d become good friends with Vlad, the same way he’d become good friends with Sirus.

He was pretty sure they didn’t know, anyway.

Once they’d located his suitcase and grabbed a cab to take them deep into the heart of Manhattan, Joss allowed himself a small moment of happiness. Last summer had been all about training to become a Slayer. This summer, he was a Slayer, ready to take on vampirekind and kick their undead butts into eternity. Thinking about his stake, Joss cast a glance at their cabbie, who was busy chatting in another language into his Bluetooth headset, and said, “Hey, Ash. How do you travel with your stake? I mean, you can’t take it in your carry-on, right?”

Ash shook his head. “Nah. Gotta check it. Which sucks, considering how many vampires work in the airline industry. But you’ll find out all about that once you earn your stake.”

Joss paused. Dorian had delivered his great-great-great-grandfather’s vampire killing kit, complete with stake, to him at the end of last summer. He’d assumed it had been given to him at the instruction of the Society, but now he was wondering if that were the case. He didn’t say anything to Ash, because the last thing he wanted to do was to have his only means of protection take away from him. So he and Ash chatted all the way to Greenwich Village about school, what it was like to live with his cousin Henry, and how it felt being solo for the first time. By the time the cab came to a halt in front of the brownstone that was to act as their base of operations, Joss was really looking forward to seeing the other members of their little group. After Ash paid the cabbie, they exited the cab, Ash collected his bag from the trunk, and they headed up the steps to the double front doors. Joss opened the door and stepped inside, holding it for his escort. From inside came Morgan’s voice. “Ash? You back already?”

Something about the question didn’t sit right with Joss. Mostly because it was a question. The Slayers knew exactly who was walking into their domain, no matter what time of day or night it was. So why the question? He looked at Ash, who also seemed a bit on edge. Ash reached into his inside jacket pocket and gripped his stake, placing a finger over his lips before he replied. “Yeah. Traffic was surprisingly light. Everything okay here?”

Joss’s eyes locked on his suitcase, where his vampire slaying kit was locked safely away. He wondered if it was possible to get his tools out without alerting anyone they didn’t want to alert, but he highly doubted it. So he stepped ever so carefully closer to Ash and followed his lead. Ash moved down the small hallway, pausing for a moment to gesture that Joss should take point. Joss wanted to argue. Take point? He didn’t even have a weapon! But Ash was the Slayer with seniority here, so Joss stepped in front of him without question and readied himself for anything he could drum up in his dark imagination.

Morgan called out again, his voice full of suspicion. “We’re in the parlor. You coming in?”

When Ash spoke again, his words were but a whisper. “Be right there.”

Joss’s heart was racing. He had no idea what they were walking into, and very much wished that he had his stake in hand. His eyes combed the hall for potential weapons. He was eyeing the legs of a small plant stand, one of which might make a suitable pseudostake in a pinch, but before he could decide whether or not that would be the best choice, Ash shoved him from behind, sending him stumbling into the parlor. Joss spun as he tripped over his own feet, trying desperately to recover, certain that vampires had somehow infiltrated their group. They were going to leap on him any second, and Joss was going to die. Or worse, be turned. He could think of no greater nightmare than that—not even the last nightmare he’d had about Cecile.

A strong arm grabbed him around the neck then, and Joss stomped hard on the assailant’s foot with his heel. Cratian swore loudly, and released him, but Joss was free for only seconds until Paty swept his leg, knocking him on his back. As she looked down at him, she pointed a long finger to his face and said, with a sternness that made Joss want to behave, “Stop it. We were just playing with you. You’re not being attacked.”

It was only at that moment, ironically, that Joss felt the weight of her foot pressing into his chest, pinning him in place. He flicked his gaze around the room, finding Ash and Morgan in the corner stifling their laughter, and Cratian sulking a bit as he rubbed the soreness from his stomped toe. On a small table sat a white cake, with big red frosting flowers all along its top edge. Paty removed her foot and took his hand, helping him to his feet. Joss turned, confused, and looked around the parlor. Bookcases and an intricate fireplace lined the walls, and the only furniture in the room were two large, leather easy chairs and the table on which the cake sat. Words that formed a lump in his throat swirled across the top of the cake in black frosting:
WELCOME BACK, JOSS
!

They hadn’t been overrun by vampires at all. His fellow Slayers were just trying to surprise him. Joss turned back to them, his heart so full of gratitude that it nearly burst, and managed to say, “Thank you.”

Ash clapped his hands together. “Enough screwing around. Let’s eat!”

Paty cut several slivers of cake and placed them on small paper plates, saving the biggest piece for Joss. They stood around, eating sugary yumminess and chatting, Joss’s tension and sadness and looming sense of failure leaving him for the moment. As he swallowed a lump of red frosting, he said, “Where’s my uncle, anyway?”

Cratian shrugged. “Abraham left pretty abruptly two days ago to fly to Headquarters in London. He gave us instructions to secure a temporary base of operations here and said to await his return for further orders. At this point, kid, you know about as much as we do about why we’re all here.”

The front door opened and a second later, slammed closed. Everyone in the room tensed, but no one spoke. Heavy footfalls carried Abraham, as if on cue, into the parlor. His face was drawn, as if something were troubling him. Joss tried to catch his eye, but before he could utter a word, his uncle said, “A man is dead.”

Joss exchanged looks with his fellow Slayers, his heart sinking fast. Who was dead? And why did knowing that sit in the pit of Joss’s stomach like a hot coal? He turned back to his uncle, ready for anything.

He hoped, anyway.