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"It was a test, and you passed."
What on Earth is that supposed to mean?
"Every Slayer, on her eighteenth birthday—should she live to see it—is trapped powerless in a controlled environment with a single vampire, whom she must defeat in order to pass. It's called the Cruciamentum, and it's an ancient tradition dating back to the early sixth century. Every Slayer before you has faced the same rite of passage."
The word Why? gets stuck in her throat.
"I'm very proud of you, Chantal," he goes on. "The suppressant I administered before the trial should wear off within the next few days; in the meantime, I must remind you not to travel after dark without an escort..."
She blinks, and he's stopped speaking. Dizzy spell. She's been having them, since... well, apparently since her Watcher started drugging her. The thought seems too heavy to hold; she puts it down, and finds herself at the piano in the foyer, tracing her fingers over the case.
Her hands aren't steady enough to hold a crossbow, but they're steady enough to play Claire de Lune. She sits.
The lights turn off. She looks up from her hands, which are playing Für Elise, and blinks. What time is it? Dark out already. She needs to patrol.
She can't patrol without her powers.
She looks down at her hands again, still tapping out note after note without her help. She thinks about ending the song, but that doesn't seem to be happening. She'll have to wait until the song ends on its own, and then go to bed without patrolling...
Ten steps out the door, pockets heavy with stakes. It's not that she doesn't remember how she got here. She was present the whole time, at least in theory. It's just that... it's like playing the piano. One note leads into the next. Dusk is time for patrol, so she's patrolling. She doesn't know how to turn around. In theory it's easy but in theory lifting your hands off a piano before the song is over is also easy, and she's no good at that either.
She makes it a short one, at least, steers her feet down Clover Lane and then onto Front Street even though the Clover Lane patrol usually runs twice that far. A short Clover Lane patrol isn't unheard of, if she's tuckered out from training. Sometimes she even cuts through the park on the way back. Should she cut through the park? It's faster, but some nights it's a hotbed of vampirism... while she was thinking about it, her feet have already decided. She shoves her hands deeper into her pockets, warding off the late autumn chill.
A voice from behind her says, "Hey, beautiful." She walks faster. If she doesn't turn around she can pretend it's just a catcaller, and you don't have to stake catcallers.
The vampire's hand catches her shoulder, and her body twists. Trained instincts pull a stake from her pocket, aimed for the heart. The vampire's face is smooth, but she can feel the subtle hum of demonic energy, the fingertips cold against her neck. It's obvious.
He knocks her arm aside, laughing.
This is, she thinks distantly, a very stupid way to die.
