Second Chance Read online

  So Joss needed mindless tasks. He needed a void in which he could tumble and roll without a care in the world, so far away from the harsh bleakness of his reality.

  As he peeled the bubble wrap back from the framed Black Corsair, Joss smiled. This time it wasn’t an act. This time it was a real, honest, actual smile, brought on by the love of his grandfather and the framed gift he’d bestowed upon Joss before he’d died. The Black Corsair was a large insect, and at first glance, there didn’t seem to be anything vicious about it at all. But just try explaining that to the May beetle, the preferred victim of the assassin Corsair. The Corsair would attack from behind and hold on to their prey with the spongy pads on their legs. They were sneaky, these assassin bugs. Deadly. And no one would know it by looking at them. Just like a Slayer.

  He’d wished he’d known that his grandfather had been a Slayer, but it was probably for the best that he hadn't. It was important for a Slayer to keep his position secret, especially from his family. Having that secret revealed could endanger them, and that was inexcusable. Family was important. More important, maybe, than anything else in the world.

  His smile slipped, fading away just as quickly as it had come, and Joss set his prized possession on the bed. Stepping over the pile of cardboard, he moved back down the stairs and rummaged in the junk drawer for a hammer and nail. The Black Corsair, as in every house they’d lived in since he was eight, would hang in its place of honor over his bed.

  Digging through the drawer, Joss frowned. In this house, much like every house they’d lived in, the nails and screws and batteries and tools and flashlights and weird things that had no place found their home in the junk drawer. But not a single nail was in the drawer. Furrowing his brow, Joss said, “Hey, Mom, where’s a nail? I want to hang up my Black Corsair.”

  His mother was still sitting at the table, but now a steaming cup of tea sat on the table in front of her. Her fingers curled around it, as if huddling for warmth. The tea-bag string dangled over the cup’s edge. He was about to ask her again, when something in her eyes shifted, as if the fog had momentarily lifted. “There’s a box of them in the garage. Your father can show you.”

  He hesitated before he moved, mostly because he knew what would happen if he asked his father for a nail. They’d discuss his grades, or the fact that Joss needed a haircut, or something else that had nothing to do with the fact that his dad was still grieving and had turned Joss into the Invisible Boy. He bit the inside of his cheek until he couldn’t bear it anymore. Then, on his way back upstairs, said, “It’s okay. It can wait until later.”

  “Oh. Joss? I forgot. This came for you earlier.”

  When he turned back, his mother was sliding a large white envelope across the table toward him. Joss moved back down the steps, retrieved it, and headed upstairs. He was in his bedroom before he ripped the end of the envelope open. When the small parchment bundle tumbled out, his heart picked up its pace some. It was wrapped in a burgundy ribbon, and held closed with a wax seal that bore the initials S.S., meaning that it could only be from the Slayer Society. He wagered they were simply requesting his final notes on the reconnaissance he’d convinced them he’d done in Bathory, but hoped it was his new assignment, and that it would take him far away from this house and the emotional ghosts that haunted it.

  Joss,

  Your presence is required in Manhattan in two days time. There is private business to attend to. Bring your supplies and pack enough clothing for the entire summer. All arrangements have been made.

  —Abraham

  Downstairs, the phone rang shrilly, its metallic jingle echoing through the entire house. Joss heard his mother’s voice, but not her words. Then moments later he heard his father’s deep tones. Opening his suitcase, he emptied it of clean and dirty clothes and began repacking. If Abraham said he was going, he was going. And soon.

  “Joss. Downstairs. Now.”

  His father’s voice shook him to the core. What once had been immense and immeasurable sadness was now manifesting in his dad in strange, angry ways, and Joss wasn’t sure which he preferred (though he honestly preferred neither). But he knew that whenever his father barked that he should immediately drop whatever he was doing and hurry to wherever his father was barking from, or he’d have hell to pay. So he jumped lightly over his cardboard pile, noting that he should pick it up before his dad saw the mess, and hurried down the stairs, where his parents were now both sitting at the kitchen table. Mom’s mug of tea was half gone, its wrinkled tea bag lying on a spoon to its left. Joss stood at the end of the table somewhat awkwardly. “Yeah, Dad?”

  “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.

  2

  HOMECOMING

  Sunshine 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 me
mory 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.

  3

  BITTERSWEET REUNION

  Joss 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 cou
ld 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.