of a dog, which is accurate, because I’m almost certain it’s a hellhound. Black, mottled skin. Patchy fur more like moldy growths. Fangs and claws and single-minded, deadly intentions.
But not anymore. Because I killed it.
I killed it?
Demon, a voice in my head whispers. And it’s not talking about the hellhound.
“Nina,” Rhys says, in as much shock as me.
Bradford Smythe looks up in confusion. “What?”
“Not Artemis. That was Nina. . . . Nina killed it.”
Everyone stares at me like I, too, have sprouted fangs and claws. I don’t know what just happened. How it happened. Why it happened. I’ve never done anything like that before.
I feel sick and also—elated? That can’t be right. My hands are trembling, but I don’t feel like I need to lie down. I feel like I could run ten miles. Like I could jump straight over the castle. Like I could fight a hundred more—
“I think I need to throw up,” I say, blinking at the dead thing. I’m not a killer. I’m a healer. I fix things. That’s what I do.
“That was impossible.” Rhys studies me like I’m one of his textbooks, like he can’t translate what he’s seeing.
He’s right. I can’t do what I just did.
Bradford Smythe seems less surprised. His shoulders slump as he pulls off his glasses and polishes them with resignation. Why isn’t he shocked, now that he knows it wasn’t Artemis? The look he gives me is one of pity and regret. “We need to call your mother.”
2
“HOW COULD THERE BE A hellhound in Shancoom?” Wanda Wyndam-Pryce’s tone, along with her pinched and furious expression, seems to indicate that it was my fault. Like I signed up to provide doggy day care and accidentally checked the “Unholy Hellbeast” column.
I can’t stop staring at it, there, on the ground, dead.
Dead.
How did I do that?
Bradford Smythe smooths his walrus mustache. “It is troubling. Shancoom has always had natural mystical protections. It’s part of why we picked this location.”
“No mystical protection left.” Ruth Zabuto retreats further into her cocoon of scarves and shawls. “Can’t you feel it? Everything is gone. Only evil is left.”
“What are you all doing?” Artemis demands, hurrying up to us. She takes in the hellhound and, before we can explain, throws herself between me and the dead demon. Her first instinct is always to protect me. “Lockdown! Everyone into the castle. Go!”
Rhys startles, and the older Watchers—three-fourths of what’s left of the once illustrious and powerful Council—have the sense to look scared. If there’s one threat, there might be more. They should have known that. Artemis didn’t have to think about it. Rhys grabs Cillian and pulls him along.
Cillian frowns. “The castle’s off-limits to me, innit? What was that thing?”
“Go!” Artemis jogs backward, scanning the trees for more threats. Sticking close to me. She’s the one with training. The one who can handle this sort of thing.
Crack went its neck.
I hurry along the path to the castle doors. I should be terrified that there are more of those things out there, but it doesn’t feel like there are. Which worries me. How would I know that?
Once we’re inside, Artemis bars the door, barking out orders. “Jade and Imogen will guard the Littles in the dorm wing. Bradford, go tell them. Rhys, take Cillian and Nina. Barricade yourselves in the library. There’s a secret room behind the far shelf with a window for escape if we lose the castle.”
“There’s a secret room?” I ask, at the same time Rhys says, with genuine hurt, “There are more books I didn’t know about?”
Cillian steps toward the door. “Barricade? Losing the castle? Bloody hell, what is this?”
Artemis holds up an arm to block his way out. It’s not lost on me that Rhys was assigned to protect Cillian, the innocent civilian, and me. She has no idea I killed the hellhound myself, and I don’t know how to tell her. It feels like it happened to someone else. I’m . . . embarrassed. And terrified. Because if it felt like something else took over, that means all the weirdness in my body I’ve been ignoring the last couple months is definitely, super, for-sure real.
Artemis opens a dusty old chest beside the door and passes out weapons. Wanda Wyndam-Pryce recoils from a large crossbow. Artemis glares up at her. “Would you prefer a wooden switch?”
“Watch your tone,” Wanda snaps. I don’t understand the exchange, but Wanda takes the crossbow and hurries away. Rhys gets a sword. Bradford Smythe takes another crossbow. Ancient Ruth Zabuto