The Slayer Chronicles: First Kill Read Free Page A

waking up here every morning for the next few months. He loved his room. Loved the jars on his bookshelves filled with various stick bugs. Loved the framed specimens on his walls. His favorite was, of course, the Black Corsair hanging over his bed—a gift from his grandfather when he was eight.
    He remembered that trip vividly. He and his parents had gone to visit his grandparents on the outskirts of Bowling Green, Kentucky, one summer. His grandfather was teaching him how to chop wood for their campfire one night, and as they turned a log over, Joss spied the most magnificent specimen of insect that he’d ever seen. It was in perfect condition, shiny black head and dull black wings. Grandpa told Joss that a Black Corsair was a “nasty little critter,” and that Melanolestes picipes —as they were known in the scientific world—would run down other insects in their hunt for food. It would chase them and never stop until it caught its prey. They were known to suck the blood of rodents, and even humans. And disturbingly enough, they preferred to go for the eyes and lips.
    Luckily this one was dead already. His grandfather took it home and mounted it, and six months later, Joss had opened it as a gift under the Christmas tree. He treasured it. Not just because it was such a rare species. But because it had been a gift from his grandfather, who’d inspired his love of entomology before passing from this life into the Next Great Adventure.
    That’s what he’d called dying. The Next Great Adventure. Grandpa believed that beyond this life, there was something bigger, something better for us all. The thought gave Joss a smile. He missed his grandfather.
    That night, after dinner and some mindless television, Joss lay tucked neatly in his bed, staring up at the frame of the Black Corsair and wondering if his grandfather had been right about death, if it really was an adventure and not something to fear.
    With that thought, he drifted off into a deep, dreamless slumber.

2
     
    CECILE
     
    Nothing had woken Joss.
    He was awake, certainly. He lay in his bed, cozy and warm, despite the chill of night. But there had been no sound, no movement that had brought him out of sleep.
    There was only the darkness, and a feeling that something wasn’t quite right.
    As he pulled the covers back, that little voice in his head—the one that’d been enjoying his soft bed and cozy covers—told him to cover up quickly and forget about the unsettling feeling that was poking at the edges of his brain. It was nothing, the voice urged. Probably just the wind.
    But Joss couldn’t go back to sleep, no matter how tired he was. He had to take a look around and see for certain that nothing had woken him, and that all was well and nothing was lurking under his bed or just inside his closet door.
    He paused before swinging his feet over the edge of his bed. He didn’t believe in monsters. His dad had explained movie special effects to him at a very young age, and his mom had told him all about the genius of the imagination. But a part of him—a small part—shrank back in fear at the idea of placing his feet on the floor in the dark, not knowing who or what might be lurking underneath his bed at this late hour. What if it had scales or claws or a venom that it might inject into Joss and proceed to slurp out his insides?
    Nonsense. Monsters weren’t real.
    With a determined breath, Joss’s feet hit the floor, and the sudden shock of cold sent them back underneath the covers for a moment. Maybe the voice in his head was right. Maybe it was nothing.
    But then there was a noise. Soft and familiar. For some reason, it sent a bolt of fear through him as it never had before. Cecile was crying.
    Despite his initial resistance to her very existence, Joss adored his baby sister. And he was the only person in their house who was even remotely capable of calming her down after a nightmare. Which meant that despite the nip in the air, he was getting out of