The Slayer Chronicles: First Kill by Heather Brewer Page B

was through.
    And suddenly, Joss began to see the light. The pain all but faded to the background of his mind as a strange euphoria filled him, as did the realization that he was destined for something greater, that he was special. That he was meant to be a vampire Slayer.
    He could hear Abraham’s voice, but it sounded so far away and garbled. It sounded like he said something that resembled, “One more, Joss.” But he couldn’t be sure. The next thing he knew, he was falling, maybe flying, and he swore he could hear the happy laughter of Cecile.

10
     
    A BRIEF REPRIEVE
     
    Pain ripped through Joss’s back as something—it felt like flesh, but must have been a bandage—was torn from him in one quick tear. He scrambled to get to his knees, but calming hands stopped him, pressing him back on the mattress that he’d been lying facedown on. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten to the bed. His last memory was of the shadow of laughter that sounded so like Cecile.
    “Stay still, Joss. The worst is over. This ought to help ease the pain a bit.” Sirus sounded calm, but concerned. Then his fingers gently applied something cool and moist to Joss’s back and Joss nearly melted into the sheets. The cool mixture instantly quieted his pain, and for that he was so grateful. He would have hugged Sirus ... if it weren’t for the fact that even the slightest movement made him want to scream.
    “Thank you, Sirus.” He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Noon. He’d been out all day and all night. “I don’t even remember passing out.”
    Sirus finished applying the salve, then gently replaced Joss’s bandages with clean ones. Once he was finished, he said, “It’s been three days, Joss. Your uncle brought you in after your purification and told me to take care of you. Within half a day you developed a fever from infection, and for a while, we weren’t certain you’d wake up at all. It’s not easy for a grown man to experience a whipping, let alone a young boy.”
    Joss pushed himself up, his back burning once again. He clenched his jaw against the pain and reached for his T-shirt on the nightstand. “I’m not that young.”
    Sirus eyed him for a moment as if he was about to say something to negate that fact, but then he shook his head instead and picked up the jar of salve from the bedside stand. After he stood, he said, “You might want to stay shirtless for now. It’ll sting like hell to lift your arms. Are you hungry? We’ve been feeding you soup on occasion, but I bet you could use something heavier by now.”
    Joss’s stomach rumbled in agreement.
    Sirus’s brow seemed permanently creased with worry. “Abraham was wrong to whip you. I’ll report him to Headquarters later today.”
    “Don’t.” Joss’s voice sounded foreign, even to him. “It was my fault that Malek was killed. I deserved this, at the very least. Besides, it was only way to purify me so that I can continue my training.”
    “Malek was a tracking specialist. He likely saw his enemy coming before you could even turn your head. If he chose to face off without the aid of nearby Slayers, that was his choice to make. As for Abraham, he had no right to whip you without the prior consent of Headquarters, so that will be reported. Whipping is a method of purification, but it is an ancient one not used anymore without permission.” Sirus folded his arms in front of his chest. “As for what you deserve, Joss, you deserve a little respect and kindness. That’s the least of it. It’s a miracle you didn’t share Malek’s fate. Food’s waiting for you downstairs. If you don’t make it down in five minutes, I’ll bring some up for you.”
    “Sirus, . . .”
    Sirus paused when Joss said his name, and looked back to him from the door. Joss shifted ever so gently in bed and met his gaze, his heart heavy. “Will there be a funeral for Malek?”
    “We buried him two days ago, up on the hill, in that clearing you were camped in.”