Second Chance by Heather Brewer Page A

a strong word, young Slayer. You’d best be careful who you refer to as such around my fair city. Unless, of course, you’re looking to make enemies. Largely by coming here, to my establishment, to cause trouble.”
    Otis touched a hand to Enrico’s chest, as if Enrico had been on the verge of coming at Joss. Only as far as Joss could tell, Enrico had seemed incredibly calm and unmoving. Then, with his eyes still locked on Joss’s, Otis spoke to his friend. “There is no trouble here, Enrico, nor desire for trouble. This Slayer, while a skilled adversary, is just a boy. He’s not here to cause trouble. Are you, Joss?”
    Joss swallowed hard. The actor in him forced a calm smile. “Not at all. I simply wanted some tea.”
    “Thirsty, eh? I’m a bit parched myself.” Enrico licked his lips. “A positive, are you?”
    “Enrico.” Otis shook his head. Something about the way he stood—so still, so confident—told Joss that he’d already planned out several ways that he could take Joss’s life, if Joss gave him reason to. “Enough.”
    Slipping from the stool, Joss tightened his grip on the piece of paper in his hand and made his way calmly but quickly to the door. As he stepped outside, his tension eased some, but not much.
    Behind him, the door opened again. He fought the urge to break into a run—an urge that was made more immediate by the setting sun. It was about to be dark, and he’d just left a café full of hungry vampires. His Slayer crew, as far as he knew, was halfway across town. Nowhere near close enough for Joss to alert them that he required assistance.
    “Joss.”
    Cursing under his breath, Joss stopped and turned back to Otis, who’d removed his hat. The look in Otis’s eyes was serious and meaningful. “I was planning to kill you that night—I would have. But I made a promise to Nelly that I would let you live. If you ever touch my nephew again, I’ll take your life. And I will do so with the greatest pleasure imaginable.”
    Joss swallowed hard before answering. “Thanks. For not letting Enrico come after me, I mean.”
    As he returned the purple top hat to his head, Otis said, “It’s the last favor I’ll ever do for you, Slayer.”
    “I know.” And he did know. Once you’d hurt someone that somebody cared about, there was no asking for forgiveness, and no turning back.
    Then, just as Otis was turning back to the door of V Bar, he paused, tilted his hat pleasantly at Joss, and said something that caused the tiny hairs on the back of Joss’s neck to stand on end.
    He said, “Give my regards to your uncle.”

9
    BORIS
    J oss didn’t read the bartender’s note until he was well away from V Bar. He didn’t unfold the slip of paper, or even unclench his fist from around it until he was nearly ten blocks away. When he’d decided he was at last a far enough distance from that place and the vampires gathered there, Joss slowed his steps and opened his hand. The piece of paper that the bartender had handed him was a bit sweaty and semicrushed, but Joss was very relieved to see that it was still there, that he hadn’t dropped it while fleeing or been tricked by some strange vampire power into thinking that he’d been handed a note in the first place. Ever so carefully, as if what he were holding were precious cargo—and, in a way, it was—he unfolded the slip of paper and read over what the bartender had scribbled. In scratchy, hurried handwriting, it read:
Boris—The Bourgeois Pig, 111 East 7th Street, 10:30 p.m.—please try reasoning with him first. Remind him of Cecile.
    Joss’s heart sank hard and heavy into the pit of his stomach. Boris somehow knew something about his younger sister. But how? Did Boris kill her? Was he the vampire that Joss had seen the night he’d found Cecile murdered? Or did he know who did it?
    And what did some middle-class pig have to do with anything of this?
    He folded the paper once again and returned it to his pocket, then withdrew his