Third Strike (2 page)

J
oss took a deep breath and reached for his bedroom doorknob once again. He couldn't hide upstairs all day, and if his dad found out that he was standing in his room when there was entertaining to do, he'd ground Joss on the spot. But Joss had needed just a few minutes to escape the noise and the laughter and the warm bodies that hosting a family reunion at their home had created. He'd needed just a moment to himself, without questions about his school and friends he didn't have, and the occasional sympathetic gleam in someone's eyes whenever anyone brought up the word “sister” or the name “Cecile.” What Joss really needed was some time to put on his happy face, his normal teenager mask, when he was anything but. And it's not like he was the only one in his immediate family who was pretending.

“Joss! Get your butt outside. Now!” His dad was calling from outside, but he might as well have been standing right next to Joss, his voice was so loud, so full of a tension that had grown by leaps and bounds in the past few years. What would Joss give to ease that tension?

Just about anything.

Ever since relatives had begun pouring into their home this morning, his dad had been wearing a plastic smile and referring to Joss as “son”—always with a hearty slap on the back, like they were buddies or something. But his plastic smile, his plastic, cheery voice had slipped just then, and Joss wondered if anyone else had noticed.

Joss's mom wore a smile as well, but only when someone else—someone who hadn't been subjected to the downfall of their immediate family—was looking. But Joss could still see the shadows lurking in her eyes. He could feel the pain wafting off of her in a way that all of their extended family couldn't—or wouldn't—in the spirit of keeping this gathering relatively pleasant. It was as if the three of them were merely players putting on an act for the rest of the world to see. A strange play called
Normal Family
, and Joss had the starring role.

It was false, this image, but for whatever reason they all felt the need to take part in it, to fool the world, even though Joss was relatively certain that they weren't fooling anyone. But everyone pretended—even their audience. It was like clapping after the failed performance of a sad troupe of clowns. People felt bad for them. People pitied them. But no one truly believed them.

Readying himself, Joss donned his fake, polite smile and opened the door to the hall, leaving backstage behind. It was time for Act Two.

The moment the door was opened, the sounds of family and joyous laughter filled his ears. Joss moved along the short hallway and down the narrow stairs into the kitchen, where he exchanged smiles with Aunt Matilda before she whisked a big bowl of some kind of creamy dip off the counter and into the living room. Joss's mom followed her with an armload of bags of chips, but as she did, she called over her shoulder, “Joss, please help Henry with those vegetables.”

Sitting at the counter on a bar stool, his shoulders hunched, looking miserable and angry and on the verge of an explosive outburst, was Henry. A voice from their shared past whispered through Joss's memory when he saw his cousin.
“We'll always be brothers.”

Even though there were only a few feet of space between the two cousins, it might as well have been a mile-wide chasm. And Joss wasn't certain that the chasm could ever be healed. It was a wound in their shared world. One he'd caused. One that Henry was keeping open. Maybe things would never get back to what they had been before the incident with Vlad. With the stake. With the Society.

On the counter in front of Henry sat a cutting board, a paring knife, a tray half full of sliced vegetables, and a bowl of whole carrots, celery, broccoli, and cauliflower. Joss approached slowly, the way one might approach an animal in the woods. “Need some help?”

Without warning, Henry stabbed the tip of the knife into the cutting board, so that the knife stood on end. It wavered a tiny bit before stopping, its blade catching the light in a way that made it shine. He met Joss's eyes, his jaw tight, his every muscle looking wound up like a spring that was about to break. “Why don't you do it? You're the one who's so good at stabbing things. Y'know . . . like people.”

At first, Joss didn't know what to say or do. He hadn't seen Henry since he'd staked the vampire Vladimir Tod in Bathory, and Henry clearly hadn't forgiven him for having done so, or come to understand Joss's reasons. Vlad had been Joss's friend—or so Joss had thought. But Vlad was also a vampire. And killing vampires was Joss's job. But more than that, it was his mission in life to defend mankind . . . of which his cousin Henry was a part. But Henry refused to understand that. “Are you ever going to let that go?”

Henry stood and moved past him, knocking his shoulder into Joss's. As he did, he said, “No. So that should be the last time you bother to ask.”

Joss didn't respond or even look after Henry as he left the room. He merely stood there, stunned at how much his life had changed in just a few short years, and not knowing whether it would ever again resemble anything at all what it used to be, or if the fiction that it had become would go on forever.

After a few quiet minutes finishing the vegetable tray, Joss cleaned up and carried the tray into the living room, where the majority of his relatives were gathered. Some of the men were outside, emptying brown bottles with enthusiastic grins and commenting on the meat as Joss's dad flipped it over on the grill. But one man in particular was still indoors, and it made Joss's smile switch from false to genuine the moment he saw him. Uncle Mike—or Big Mike, as everyone called him—looped his arm around Joss's head, tugging him closer, almost knocking the tray from his hand. Then he rubbed his knuckles into Joss's hair before letting him go. “Hey, Jossie Boy, what are you up to?”

Joss couldn't help but grin. His uncle Mike just had a welcoming, happy air about him, like a lighthouse to a lost crew. After setting the tray on the coffee table next to the dip, Joss turned back to his uncle and beamed. “Not much. I saw Henry in the kitchen. He seemed . . . upset.”

He wasn't sure why he'd brought it up exactly. There was nothing that anyone, not even Big Mike, could do to mend what was broken between Joss and his cousin. Because the truth was that Joss had staked Vlad, intending to kill him, and Henry would never forgive him for that. But what Henry didn't know was that a small whisper of doubt had entered Joss's mind just before the stake had made contact with Vlad's skin, and Joss had moved the weapon slightly to the left on purpose, knowing that Vlad would likely survive.

Because Joss wasn't sure how he felt about Vlad, exactly. How he felt about Dorian. How he felt about vampires in general. He was confused. But Henry wouldn't understand that either.

Big Mike ruffled Joss's hair with his enormous hand. “Don't you let Henry's foul mood get you down, Jossie Boy. That boy's been moody for months now. I think it's girl troubles, myself, but your Aunt Matilda thinks he and his buddy Vlad—you remember Vlad—are having issues. He'll get through it. Just don't you mind him until he does.”

He wished he could believe his uncle, but he couldn't. Because Joss knew very well that Henry's issue wasn't with some random girl or his best friend—it was with Joss, and Henry had already made up his mind about him.

“Joss, would you please take these steaks out to your dad?” Without awaiting an answer, his mom handed him a plate of thick, red, raw meat.

With a shrug at Uncle Mike—because Joss didn't really have any idea how to respond to him about Henry—Joss made his way through the crowd and out the side door. He was glad to see so many family members outside, because it would make speaking to his dad a lot easier. Speaking through their masks was so much more pleasant than interacting the way that they did whenever no one else was around. “Hey, Dad. Mom sent these out for you.”

His dad smiled his fake smile and took the plate, offering Joss a semi-grateful nod. Then a hand fell on Joss's shoulder. When Joss turned his head, resisting his Slayer instincts to flip the unseen person over his shoulder and pin them on the ground, he realized that it was his cousin Greg, Henry's older brother. Greg was looking tan and fit, as usual, dressed in tan cargo shorts and a black tank top. “Hey, Joss! How ya doin', man? Listen, do you mind if we talk?”

Before Joss could utter a word, Greg was steering him away from the grill, and away from all the people. Joss didn't feel alarmed at all, just relieved to not be onstage for the moment, as he and Greg crossed the lawn to the forest's edge that bordered the property. Just at that edge, Greg stopped and gave him a look that said that he was worried. “What's going on with you and Henry, kid?”

Joss swallowed hard and shrugged, trying desperately to put his mask back on so that his cousin wouldn't see how upset the whole situation really made him. But Greg saw the scramble and tossed that metaphorical mask on the ground with a sigh. “Joss, it's clear you two are fighting. But about what? I can't help you if you don't tell me what's going on. You guys used to be so close, and then suddenly every time someone at my house says your name, Henry's eyeballs catch on fire. What's up?”

At least Joss knew that he wasn't misinterpreting Henry's fury toward him. He shrugged one shoulder in response, but when Greg crossed his arms in front of his chest, Joss knew that he wasn't about to accept aloofness for an answer. He raked his hair back from his forehead with an exasperated sigh. “I don't know, Greg. I guess . . . I guess Henry just doesn't like me anymore.”

He wasn't exactly certain what Greg's response to that might be, but he did know that he hadn't been expecting what Greg said next.

“Well, that's crap.” Not so much as a smile on his lips. Not even the hint of one.

Joss blinked. “What?”

Greg shook his head. “
Of course
he likes you. He's your cousin. He's your friend. But it seems like he's worried about you. Any idea why that might be?”

There were a million reasons that Henry should be worried about Joss. The danger of vampires. The risky missions. The price that Dorian had warned him had been placed on his head by Em. But Joss was fairly certain that Henry wasn't worried at all. He was pretty convinced that Henry was angry. Because Joss had staked Vlad. And Henry's mind had been clouded when he was turned into Vlad's human slave.

Joss met his cousin's gaze. “Greg, I don't think he's worried about me, but I am worried about him. This Vlad kid—”

“Hold up. Vlad? You mean the kid who was your best pal for much of the last school year? The kid who's been like a second little brother to me since day one? That Vlad?”

Joss paused. He didn't want to get Greg worked up or ticked off at him, too. So instead, he chose more gentle words. “You don't have to get defensive. I just . . . Vlad's not who you think he is, that's all. I'm not saying he's a bad guy or anything, I'm just saying . . .”

What was he saying? Even he wasn't sure. What he really wanted to do was to grab Greg by the shirt collar and scream into his face, “He's a vampire, okay? Vladimir Tod is a dangerous creature that will bite you and suck the lifeblood from your veins!” But he didn't. He remained calm. Even though it was killing him to do so.

Greg uncrossed his arms at last and sighed. “Then what are you saying, Joss? Because if you know something that I don't, if Vlad is getting mixed up in some bad stuff, I need to know. I can't let my brother follow him down a bad path.”

Or a dark one, thought Joss. Or an alley. Or anywhere that they might be alone, without witnesses to the horrors that Vlad was capable of. But he didn't put voice to any of those thoughts. Instead, he said, “I'm just trying to help Henry see that maybe Vlad isn't as good as he thinks he is, that's all.”

“That's all?” Greg's posture relaxed, but he went back to shaking his head. “No wonder his eyes catch on fire like that. You've gotta be careful, Joss. Vlad's been as close to Henry as a friend can get since they were kids. You've really gotta get a grip on your jealousy. Vlad is Henry's friend, but you're family.”

Jealous? Is that what Greg thought? Joss wasn't jealous of Vlad. He was merely trying to protect his cousin. But how could he make Greg understand any of that without exposing the existence of vampires and the Slayer Society? “That's not what I—”

“Joss. A word, if you please.”

Joss turned his head at the familiar voice. A strange tension entered his body the moment his eyes met with that of the speaker's. “Uncle Abraham. When did you get h—?”

“A word.” Abraham's eyes narrowed. In stark contrast to what Greg was wearing, Abraham donned his usual slacks, shirt, and vest. Over it, he wore a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows; he was looking very much like his cover story, a successful university professor. “If you don't mind, Greg.”

“No problem, Uncle Abraham.” Greg looked back to Joss before walking away to rejoin the men by the grill. “Just remember what I said, kid. Jealousy isn't healthy.”

Joss couldn't say anything to that. He wasn't jealous. He was just trying to do a very important, very secret job.

“Who are you jealous of, nephew? Greg? Henry? Either would be an apt choice. Both are physically adept, confident young men.” He cast Joss a sidelong glance. “Either would make a fine Slayer.”

Joss wouldn't allow himself to feel any of the barbs that his uncle might throw at him. He knew very well that his uncle hadn't exactly been accepting of the notion that Joss was the next Slayer in his family line. “I assume you're not just here for the barbecue.”

The corner of Abraham's mouth lifted in a small, knowing smile. “I have your next assignment.”