Slayer (Slayer #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER

ONE

“By signing this paperwork, you are acknowledging that you have reached the age of majority and are no longer under state supervision,” my caseworker, Linda, said.

Her voice carried over the soft buzz of the old ceiling light, the kind that flickered every few seconds like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to stay alive.

The room smelled faintly of stale coffee and whatever microwaved meal the staff had eaten for lunch, and a dying fern sat in the corner, one leaf hanging so low it practically touched the floor.

It was the most depressing space I’d ever been in.

Though Linda was cool. She was better than Maureen, who never seemed to like me from the start. It could have been that I ran away from three foster homes under her care, but still. Judgy much?

Linda’s desk was cluttered with sticky notes, a half-empty mug that read I became a social worker for the money , and a stack of case files leaning sideways like a tired tower.

But Linda was sweet. She looked perpetually tired and like she had about five cats waiting for her at home, but she genuinely seemed to care about me.

Her hair was pulled into a loose bun, and her eyes were warm in a way that made the whole room feel less cold. I had a sixth sense about people, and Linda could be trusted.

I signed my name on the line she pointed to, granting me my freedom. Growing up as a ward of the state always made me feel like a piece of property to be owned, not a person. The government dictated where I lived and what I did and paid for my basics, but now I was officially an adult.

The pen scratched across the paper, louder than it should have been in the quiet office, and the reality of what I was doing settled like a weight on my shoulders.

Stella Adams. Adult.

The word felt heavy.

“And here is a packet of community resources you might need. You always have my office number, so you can call if you need help,” Linda added, shoving the packet across to me and yawning before taking a sip of her coffee.

The packet contained a stack of brochures advertising low-income housing and community college programs, the edges curled from being handled too much.

“Thanks,” I told her with a genuine smile.

My voice sounded small in the cramped office.

“You’ve come a long way,” she said like a proud mother.

Her eyes softened, like she was holding back about fifteen emotions.

When I was eleven and ran away from my foster home to look for my birth parents, Maureen dropped me and they assigned Linda to be my case manager.

She made the decision to put me in a group home instead of foster home after foster home.

It was then that Linda leveled with me and told me the truth about the incident surrounding my birth.

I remembered sitting in this same office years ago, the walls then covered with different posters but the same fluorescent hum buzzing overhead, and Linda sliding the torn green folder toward me with a look that warned me the contents wouldn’t be easy.

There were so many times growing up when I was almost adopted, but ultimately, I was told that my “birth history” scared people off.

They didn’t mind the fact that a baby had been dropped off at a hospital with the umbilical cord still attached.

Or even that I was severely dehydrated, had low blood sugar, and was rushed to the NICU for a week. It was…the marks that scared them off.

Even now, the memory of those photographs made the tiny room feel colder.

Seeing pictures of the…runes or hieroglyphs, whatever they were, all up and down my little baby arms was terrifying.

The images Linda had shown me years ago were still burned into my brain, printed on thin paper.

Was my birth mother a drug addict? Did she draw them on me while under the influence of something?

The attached report said that the doctors tried to wash them off, but they appeared tattooed on.

The skin was inflamed and red as if they’d been burned on my skin.

Then, on day three of my hospital admittance, the marks disappeared.

Just gone. No explanation. They just vanished overnight like they’d never existed, except for the photos and the confused notes in the margins of my file.

I couldn’t imagine being a NICU nurse and having a tattooed baby in my charge just suddenly have burned skin marks vanish. One of the notes in the report said something about hospital workers wondering if I was involved in a satanic ritual or something.

That line always made my stomach twist. Even now, sitting in Linda’s stuffy office with the AC clicking on and off in the corner, it made the back of my neck prickle.

I stopped dreaming about my birth parents then.

Stopped wondering if they were just some young couple who got knocked up and couldn’t afford me.

That they might now be married and have stable jobs and maybe another kid.

That they might want me back. I realized that giving me to the government for safekeeping was probably for the best. The doctors clearly hadn’t looked at the marks closely enough, because if they were tattooed or burned on my body, I’d still have them.

It was definitely weird. The pictures creeped me out.

I couldn’t imagine how much they would scare off a potential adoptive family.

Satanic child sacrifice needs a home. Plays well with others.

Nope. Pass. I wouldn’t want that creepy kid anywhere near me while sleeping.

Except that creepy kid was me.

I shoved the packet in my bag and stood, grabbing my duffel.

The chair legs scraped lightly against the linoleum floor, and the sound cut through the quiet hum of the office.

My duffel felt heavier than it should have, stuffed with everything I owned, which wasn’t much.

The zipper tugged at my fingers when I lifted it.

Linda looked a little startled at my abrupt exit. “You don’t have to leave now, Stella. You’re eighteen, yes, but the group home is willing to keep you for sixty more days if you need. Then they’ve got another kiddo moving in?—”

Her voice wavered just a bit, enough to tell me she wasn’t ready for me to walk out the door for the last time.

“No offense, but I’ve been waiting for this day my entire life.

And I couldn’t have done it without you.

You’ve been really great, Linda. Thanks for all your help,” I told her, straightening my spine.

I wasn’t good at the mushy stuff. She’d been the one to get me my job at the local library when I was sixteen.

I’d saved four grand in that time because I knew how to live cheaply, and the government paid for almost everything. I was ready for this.

I ate whatever food the group home served even if it was gross. I rode the bus even though I could afford to get a used car. I never got my nails done or bought makeup like the other girls did. I knew how to stretch a dollar.

Her face softened. “Okay. Do you have a place to stay? A plan?”

Did I have a plan? I’d been planning for this since I was twelve.

Being poor sucked, so I’d spent countless hours at the library researching the best-paying jobs that took the least amount of schooling since college was expensive.

My friend Rae aged out two years ago, and she was going to let me crash on her couch until I got my own place.

I was going to be my own person, make my own rules, pay my own way.

I nodded. “I’ll be staying with Rae. I’ll keep my job at the library on nights and weekends and go to community college during the day.

In two years’ time, I’ll be an ultrasound tech making nearly six figures a year.

I’ll eventually buy a house in South Hill, pay off any student loans I might have incurred, and hopefully get a dog. ”

The dog part slipped out, surprising even me. A small dream I had. Dogs were loyal and loved you unconditionally. I’d never had that in my life.

Linda stared at me with her mouth open, coffee cup to her lips.

Then she set the cup down and grinned. Peering behind me toward her open office door and the fellow tired employees that lay beyond, she lowered her voice.

“We’re not supposed to have favorites, Stella, but we all do, and you’re mine.

There’s something about you. The system breaks some kids, but you didn’t let it.

You’re going to be just fine, and I’m so proud of you. ”

Her words hit me harder than I expected, enough to punch straight into my chest and squeeze my heart. A stupid lump formed in my throat.

Linda stood then and sidestepped her desk. Her chair wheels squeaked across the floor, the sound small but sharp.

“Would it be okay to ask for a hug?” she asked me in a sweet, motherly voice.

Oh no. The lump was tightening and my eyes were watering. Why’d she have to say all that nice stuff about me?

My vision blurred for a second, the overhead light turning into a soft smear.

Damn you, tired Linda.

I nodded, and then her arms wrapped around me tightly as I stood stiffly for a moment.

When I was little, they hugged us all the time, our foster parents or the house mom.

But as we got older, they stopped hugging.

My friends didn’t hug at school, so I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been hugged like this.

It did something weird to my body, making it feel like the center of my chest was on fire.

My heart? Was my heart on fire from a genuine hug?

That was sad. I was definitely overdue for therapy.

But who could afford that?

Her sweater was soft against my cheek, pilled and worn but warm, and for one second, I let myself lean into it.

She wasn’t letting go, so I wrapped my arms around her and squeezed her back.

The office felt quieter than before, like the whole building held its breath for our hug.

Why did hugging feel so good? Why did I feel so safe in tired Linda’s warm embrace?

Her perfume smelled faintly like vanilla and laundry detergent, familiar in a way that made my throat ache.

You need therapy , I told myself and tried with every ounce of self-control I had not to cry, but a single traitorous tear slipped through my eyelids.

I pulled away from Linda, wiping all evidence of the tear away as she went over to her desk and wrote something down. The pen scratched loudly against the thin stack of forms.

When she handed it to me, I glanced at the piece of paper to see her name, home address, and cell phone number.

“Call me when you graduate from college. I’ll come to the ceremony.” She beamed at me.

Her tired eyes crinkled when she smiled, and for a second, the whole fluorescent-lit office felt softer.

Oh man. I had to get out of here before I really started giving in to the emotions that were overwhelming me. They were bubbling under my skin like someone had shaken a soda can and set it in my chest.

“Okay. Thanks, Linda. You’re cool,” I told her.

My voice came out steadier than I expected, considering everything inside me felt like it was tilting.

She peered behind me again at a passing employee. “And if you ever need me, you can call or just check in. It’s not a bother.” She pointed to the personal number she’d just given me. “I’m rooting for you, Stella,” she finished.

It was one of the sweetest things anyone had ever said to me. That they were rooting for me. That they were proud of me and wanted me to succeed.

The words sat heavily in my chest in a good way, like warmth trying to replace all the cold spots that had collected there over the years.

I wondered if she planned this all day, if she sat here with her fourth cup of coffee and mentally went over what she would say to me, her favorite .

I pictured her here early this morning, cardigan slipping off one shoulder, hair tied up, scribbling notes to herself.

I decided then that everyone needed a Linda in their life.

I left her office walking a little taller.

I was eighteen, and I had a place to stay and a job. I’d been accepted into Spokane Community College’s diagnostic sonography program and was starting right after summer break was over. Even Linda believed in me.

What could go wrong?