PROLOGUE
Abraham’s heels
clicked along the marble floor as he moved the length of the room.
His breaths were even, as usual, but there was a tension in his
muscles—an imminent dread that was impossible to ignore. The room
was dim, the only light pouring in from the arched windows all
along its longer side. It was growing dark. The sun was setting
behind the building, casting a warm orange glow across the sky.
Outside the window, the shadowed London Eye stood
watch.
Seated in a tall,
ornately carved chair at the end of the room was a man in his
eighties, his hair frosty white. His eyes spoke with wisdom beyond
anything that Abraham had yet to experience. To the old man’s left
and right were several smaller, but just as ornate, chairs holding
several other people, each of varying age and experience. Abraham
knew each of them—some better than others—but no words or
expressions of greeting were offered. This was not a social visit.
He had been summoned for a distinct and important
purpose.
As Abraham
approached, he knelt, following the usual pomp and circumstance of
a Slayer Society Headquarters meeting. With a nod, the old man
gestured for him to stand and respond to his summons. Abraham
stood, cleared his throat, and began. “Masters, you have called me
here with a question—the question of who will be next in my
bloodline worthy of serving our noble cause. I submit to you that I
have seen evidence of the Slayer gene in my nephew Greg McMillan,
and call upon you for permission to approach the boy with
enlightenment.”
A murmur passed
through the gathered group, one filled with a doubt that troubled
Abraham, though he would never admit to it. Once the murmurs had
quieted, the elderly man spoke. “You have been called upon to
answer that question, yes, Abraham. But what of the child we have
asked about? He seems far more likely to wield a stake someday than
your nephew Greg. As you know from tracing the bloodline, it has
been determined that the next Slayer in your family will likely be
a niece or nephew. But it is highly more likely that the child will
be fostered by your brother Harold than your brother Michael. The
genetic tests that we’ve run on hair and blood samples collected
from both your brothers show that the Slayer gene is in its dormant
state within Harold’s genes, which means that his offspring are the
likely receivers. The odds of this gene skipping generations and
miraculously appearing within one of Michael’s children is
preposterous.”
Abraham counted two
heartbeats before he spoke again. “Harold has a son and daughter.
But neither Joss nor Cecile seems the right fit for the Society’s
needs. Both are far too emotional, and—”
“They are children,
and children are emotional creatures, Abraham.” The old man waved
his hand dismissively through the air. “Tell us more about your
nephew Joss.”
Abraham paused. He
was never one to openly disagree with the Society’s whims, but for
a brief moment, he hesitated before answering. “Joss is currently
ten years of age. Smart enough, with quick reflexes and adequate
speed. But he lacks the drive to further his physical attributes,
to better himself in that regard, of his own accord.”
“He is not yet
training age. Eight more years may awaken that drive within
him.”
Abraham’s chest
tightened. “He is also incredibly empathetic.”
“He has a scientific
mind.”
“He is not the next
Slayer.” Despite his mastery of self-control, Abraham’s voice rose,
echoing off the walls of the Slayer Society Headquarters. Once he
realized it, he dropped his eyes in shame.
The old man leaned
forward, his demeanor calm, his expression full of compassion. “We
believe that he is, Abraham. The sooner you come to accept that,
the sooner you can begin preparations for his
training.”
Abraham shook his
head, his eyes still on the marble floor below. When he spoke, his
voice had softened to a near whisper, as if to make up for his
previous tone. “Joss is weak. Not just emotionally. Physically. I’m
not sure he could survive the training.”
The man sighed
heavily and sat back in his chair. “Then he will die, Abraham, and
your bloodline in the Society will end. But if he is the next Slayer in your family, you will train him. Of that, you have no
choice.”
“And if he refuses to
train?” Even as the question left his tongue, Abraham reached out
for it with all his wanting, but it was too late. He’d asked a
query to which he already knew the answer.
The old man met and
held his gaze, a look of sadness about him as he replied, “Kill him
quickly. Family deserves mercy.”