Second Chance by Heather Brewer

wondering the same thing. He moved down the bar some and said, “Otis, it’s good to see you again. In town for pleasure?”
    “Business. I’m here to assist your father’s search.” Joss could hear the empathy in Otis’s tone—empathy that had not been there the night that Joss had staked Vlad. “I’m sorry, Stephen, I know that you and Boris are close. It shouldn’t have come to this, but we have little choice now.”
    Joss cupped the small piece of paper in his hand and took a sip of his tea. He was just about to casually slide from the bar stool and make his way to the door when a memory flashed through his mind—one that sent a shiver up his spine.

    On the ground in front of him, Vlad was kneeling, Joss’s bloody stake poking out of his chest, the silver tip now stained burgundy. Blood had stained his clothing red, pooling around him on the ground. Vlad’s skin was unbearably pale, and as he lifted his head and parted his lips to speak, Joss already regretted the hateful words that he knew would come. He deserved to hear them, yes, but he didn’t want to have them echoing in his mind for years to come. What he wanted to do was to cover his ears, his eyes, and run away from this scene as fast as he was able.
    He’d just staked his best friend. He’d just killed one of the only people on the planet who cared about him, who he cared about. And the worst part was, he wasn’t even sure why. His fingers, slick with Vlad’s blood, were trembling.
    Vlad tried to speak, but his words could only manage to come out in a whisper. “Joss, behind—”
    Then Vlad crumbled over onto the ground. Unconscious. Likely dead—and if not, he would be soon.
    Joss turned at his friend’s warning to find Jasik, D’Ablo’s assistant, he presumed, approaching quickly. He darted a glance to the stake in Vlad’s chest, but wasn’t sure he could bring himself to remove it. Then, much to Joss’s surprise, Jasik gestured behind him. “Do yourself a favor, young one. Get out of here. Now.”
    Then, in a blur, D’Ablo and Jasik were gone. The evening played out over and over again in Joss’s mind, and confusion enveloped him. Had he really just stabbed his best friend? Had he really just killed the only boy besides Henry to stand by his side? Or was it something else, something to do with D’Ablo? Was D’Ablo—pale-faced and strangely motivated—in fact, one of the undead? Had D’Ablo or Jasik somehow been controlling his actions? Or was Joss now just looking for someone else to blame for the awful thing he’d just done?
    Joss’s thoughts were racing in panic as he tried to figure out what to do next. Slayer rules dictated that he should immediately contact the disposal unit, followed by his team. But what Joss really wanted to do was to call the hospital and do what he could to help Vlad, even if it meant facing the Society’s wrath. Making up his mind to listen to his gut and throw caution and rules to the wind, he reached into his pocket for his cell phone.
    But in a blur that reminded Joss only of a strong wind, the phone was knocked from his hand by an unseen force. A moment later, Otis Otis stood in the clearing, inches from Joss, crushing the phone into bits and pieces. His eyes were fierce and fiery. His mouth was curled in a snarl. And in his mouth, his fangs shone brightly. Angrily. Hungrily.
    Joss McMillan was about to die.

    Otis turned abruptly toward him then, as if the spark of Joss’s memory had attracted his attention. Their eyes locked. Otis’s voice was quiet, but Joss could feel it coming to a boil just below the surface. “Joss McMillan. Fancy meeting you here.”
    Joss froze, but offered Otis a polite nod. He couldn’t count on his fingers how many times they’d shared the same room, breathed the same air. Otis had seemed harmless then. Just another teacher. Just another man. But he was something else to Joss now. He was the enemy.
    Beside Otis, Enrico clucked his tongue. “Enemy? That’s