Chosen - Kiersten White Page 0,3

caller ID is the number we designated for demon scouting trips. Today, and most days, my mother is on the other end of the line.

When we first started meeting with demons for potential acceptance into Sanctuary, I was always with her. But a month ago, there was an … incident. I hadn’t slept at all that night, and I was already on edge, so when I turned around and saw the dead black eyes of a shark staring at me, I punched first and asked questions after. Turns out it was a demon with a shark head trying to escape some bad debts. My mother assured me he wasn’t a good fit for Sanctuary anyway, but the fact that I attacked him didn’t exactly do our reputation any favors. Word of mouth (or whatever the demon species equivalent of a mouth is) matters in finding demons who need our help. So I basically blew it.

I still feel bad about it. I like sharks! On television. Underwater. Where I am not. I can’t even think about the incident without feeling roiling guilt. When did I become a punch-first-ask-questions-later Slayer? And it made me a liability instead of an asset. My mother tried to make it sound like she needed me at the castle for scheduling reasons, but we both know it was to protect me. Or to protect the demons. I don’t know which is worse.

Working together is already awkward enough. She’s trying to be my mom again, but she doesn’t really know how to, so it comes across like those aggressively friendly employees at grocery stores who constantly ask how you are and if you need help and if you’re finding everything okay, and all you can do is smile and answer back in the same bright voice when really you know where the cereal is, thank you very much. And there’s the added pressure of feeling like I have to reward all her efforts, even when I don’t want to. I appreciate it, I really do, but I wish I had Artemis to share the burden of Mom Version Four, or at least to complain to. She’d get it. No one else does.

I answer the call. “Mom? Everything okay?”

There’s a popping noise in the background that sounds distinctly like a gun. I keep the phone to my ear and sprint outside.

“Hello, Nina. I didn’t want to interrupt your work today, but we’ve been pinned down and I didn’t bring the firepower necessary to get out.” By her tone, she might as well be calling to ask if we need more milk. My mother is baffling and also slightly terrifying.

“Is it Sean?” I don’t mean to sound so excited, but it’s almost a relief. I’ve been waiting for demon drug dealer Sean to make a play for Doug again. Doug’s happy-time skin secretions were Sean’s biggest moneymaker. And with ex-Watcher and worst person ever Honora among his former and possibly current allies, Sean knows more than enough about our operations to be very dangerous to us. Plus, I sort of destroyed his entire operation by unleashing a remora demon to crush everything. I can’t imagine he thinks fondly of any of us.

Today’s demon outing was a first meeting with a family of werewolves. Werewolves are low-risk, so my mother went alone. Normally, she takes Tsip, Jade, or Rhys. But we should have known better. Nothing in our world is ever truly low-risk. I wave frantically to Rhys, Cillian, and Doug. Jade doesn’t even look up. She’s probably blissed out on Doug right now. Useless. My sober friends jog up to me as I open the garage.

“No,” my mother says. “This isn’t Sean’s MO. It appears to be some aggressive freelancers. I believe there are two in sniper positions. I’m using my ammunition sparingly to avoid running out, but it won’t be much longer before they feel confident launching a full attack.”

“We’re on our way! When you run out of ammunition, hide. Don’t engage. And don’t risk yourself, okay?” It sounds horrible to say, but I don’t want my mother to die protecting strangers. Not when I’ve just started to get her back after years of being strangers to each other. I want her to annoy me for decades to come.

“Thank you. See you soon. And, Nina?” Her voice gets softer, more tentative. For the first time, she sounds a little worried. “Be careful. You’re not bulletproof.”

The silence hangs between us. I struggle to fill it, to close that gap. Because