Chosen - Kiersten White Page 0,38
at this point. It’s hard when you’re trying to project an impression of someone other than yourself. No one is intimidated by Nina the Vampire Slayer. All I’m doing is annoying him. Last I checked, irritating enemies is not among my innate Slayer strengths. Or maybe I’m just special.
I half wish the seething darkness that keeps popping up at inopportune times would roar to life, but it seems semi-sated by what I did at the demon conference and deeply unconcerned about this sitting room. I set down my teacup. “So you’re hunting a werewolf. And you need me for what?”
“To be part of the hunt, of course.”
“Didn’t you already capture him? Seems a little unsporting to capture him, let him go, and then hunt him. Doesn’t your particular brand of wealth prefer birds? Foxes? Much younger women? Go buy an island or something.” I lean back, folding my arms. “Werewolves are people, you know.”
“You could say the same of vampires.”
“That’s different! Vampires are always vampires. The person—the soul—is gone. They’re only predators. Werewolves can’t help it, and they’re people most of the time.”
“Ah, but they’re infectious. You draw a distinction that I don’t think exists between vampires and werewolves; both are victims of a, shall we say, condition that robs them of their humanity and turns them into monsters. That’s bad enough, but they can also infect others. If I had someone with Ebola, would you argue they should be set free to do what they would?”
“I would argue you should get them the best medical care.”
“Well, until we have an antidote for lycanthropy, or a way to restore souls to vampires—”
“Actually—”
“Do not interrupt me. In the absence of a medical way to intervene, the only humane choice—the only moral choice—is to prevent the spread of infection and end the suffering of the afflicted.”
“By hunting them.”
He shrugs, taking a sip of his tea. “A man must have hobbies.”
“Again, buy an island. Do you see Richard Branson running around hunting humans?”
“Actually—”
I hold up my hands. “No. I don’t want to know. Werewolves are people. They have souls. You don’t get to decide that they should be hunted out of existence.”
“I do, in fact. You understand about power. About the responsibilities that come with it. And my responsibility is to use the power and privilege that I collected over my lifetime to prevent the supernatural from becoming natural. From becoming accepted. You of all people should understand. You’re a Slayer. A killer. This is your job.”
And just like that, it hits me. How wrong he is. All these years, I thought the first Watchers were a bit dense for giving power to only one girl. One Slayer to fight everything? One Slayer to make impossible choices? But … that’s the beauty of it. Because the Slayer is young. The Slayer is a girl. The Slayer isn’t some rich dude, insulated from life and pain and struggle, sitting in his Mr. Darcy house deciding who gets to live and die.
The Slayer is on the streets, in the dark, in the night, walking right alongside the things she hunts. So when she makes life-or-death choices—they’re life-or-death choices for her, too. Not just for the things she’s hunting. She’s not a committee, a council, a group working at a remove.
She’s part of the darkness.
And when you’re already in the dark, you can see the subtle differences in the shadows. Some things are so absent of light that there’s no question. And other things, like werewolves, like the Dougs and Clems of the world, they’re delicately shaded.
I think of Artemis and Honora behind the wheel of that truck. All those shades of darkness in demons. Just like in humans.
My ancient ancestors actually got this one right. The whole one-Slayer thing wasn’t a flaw. It was a feature. The fact that there are more of us now doesn’t change that. This is my calling. My duty. My right.
I don’t have to pretend to be anyone else right now. Nina the Vampire Slayer is exactly who I am and should be. I’m going to play his game, and I’m going to win, and he’s going to regret everything.
I lean back and prop my booted feet up on the mahogany table. “So tell me the rules, Mr. Most Dangerous Game.”
All noble pretense at civility is gone, revealing a face with less humanity than Doug’s neon-yellow one. His tone goes cold. “You’re hunting a werewolf. The other Slayers will be in the trees before you. They want to protect him.