head, gentle and apologetic. “Since Buffy destroyed the Seed of Wonder, we have not seen any evidence of magic. And all the portals are gone. We’ve been traveling too, checking them to make certain nothing remained that we were unaware of.”
“I’m surprised we didn’t find each other sooner.” Once again my mother’s tone is so careful I suspect there’s more meaning to her statement.
Wanda Wyndam-Pryce clears her throat. “Best to be thorough with our checks. Well done.” She acts like she assigned the Silveras to do it. She has a way of saying things that makes it sound like everyone works for her, all the time. “I expect you’ll have a written report for us soon.”
I’m still annoyed this is taking precedence over today’s hellhound attack, but there are hundreds of semipermanent portal sites across the globe. My mom has covered only the UK and North, Central, and South America. So there’s still work to be done. A goal. A goal that will take the Silveras away from here before I ever have to look in Leo’s eyes again.
After all, his eyes are like two pools of blackness, so dark and deep, when I look at him, I cannot breathe. Oh, I hate him. Or I hate poor thirteen-year-old me.
“Between Helen’s information and ours, we can officially declare all hellmouths and demonic portals inactive. Now that we’re reunited, it’s time to move forward. To become Watchers again. It’s time,” Eve says, my hopes for their swift exit sinking, “to get a Slayer.”
“We already have one,” Ruth Zabuto says with a dismissive wave of her hand.
Bradford Smythe reflexively coughs.
My mother speaks first, her tone no longer passive. “No, we do not.”
Wanda Wyndam-Pryce pounces. She’s always hated my mother. The Wyndam-Pryces were once considered the most prestigious Watcher family, but then their golden boy, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce—they have a thing for alliteration and for feeling superior—was so staggeringly inept that he was fired from the Council. Wanda has never gotten over her disappointment that my father’s tenure as a Watcher is held in esteem while the Wyndam-Pryces’ only actively assigned Watcher ended up as a private investigator in Los Angeles—working for a vampire.
So Wanda is gleeful as she senses my mother’s anger. “Oh yes! We have reason to suspect that our very own Nina is a Slayer.”
Leo startles. His eyes widen at his mother, but she ignores him. He’s definitely upset by this news, but I can barely register it because Rhys gasps and turns toward me. I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. I keep my eyes on the room.
“Imagine,” Wanda continues, “being her mother and never realizing she might be a Potential Slayer. And the change had to have happened at least two full months ago. How odd that you didn’t notice something so dramatic, Helen.”
My mother refuses to be baited. But her stillness is as much a tell as someone else wringing their hands. She is freaking out. A small, mean part of me feels smug. She didn’t want to talk with us about it, but she can’t avoid talking to the Council. “Nonsense. Nina would have been identified by our seers. Besides, she only killed a hellhound. Every member of our community should be able to do the same. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Hearing her say it so dismissively triggers that rebellious feeling again. Because she knows I was never trained. She didn’t let me. And she knows how I feel about violence. The way I killed the hellhound can’t be ignored. It was like something had awakened inside me that had been sleeping there for a long time, just waiting for an opportunity. Something awful and powerful and terrifying. Something I had no control over.
Bradford Smythe shifts, turning his head so I can see his profile. His lips are pursed so tightly beneath his mustache that they disappear. He sighs. “I’m sorry, Helen.”
“Don’t,” she says. I flinch from her tone, but Bradford doesn’t react.
“It’s too late now.” He pauses. My heart is beating so loudly, I wonder how they can’t hear it through the wall. Then he tugs on his mustache and speaks. “We were always aware that Nina was a Potential Slayer.”
Rhys gasps even louder this time. Artemis swears. The walls are thick and the Council is making their own variations of shocked noises, covering ours. I stagger back, losing my view of the room. It can’t be true.
It can’t.
They would have told me. It doesn’t make sense why they wouldn’t. I’m a Watcher!