Welcome back,Buffyfans.
Here teens are trained as guides for Slayers girls gifted with supernatural strength to fight the forces of darkness.
Instead she follows her instincts to heal, carving out a place for herself as the school medic.
Credit: Everett Collection
Until the day Ninas life changes forever.
White has exclusively shared an excerpt ofSlayerwith EW, as well as the tantalizing cover.
Read on below, andpre-order your copyahead of its Jan. 8, 2019 release.
Simon & Schuster
On either side of her stood a little girl in pink cowboy boots.
They were both skinny and pale, their red curls now leeched of color in the darkness.
Darkness was the great equalizer.
Everyone was the same in the dark.
The hunter would keep them that way.
It was her job, after all.
She turned to the vampire beside her.
They were both invisible in the black recess of a mausoleum.
The children are yours.
Technically only one of the girls needed to die, but it was better to avoid any prophetic loopholes.
The vampire strolled out toward the grieving family.
He didnt hide or prowl.
He didnt need to.
One of the girls tugged frantically on her mothers hand.
The woman turned wearily, without enough time to be surprised before the vampire threw her.
She flew back, hitting her husbands granite headstone and falling unconscious to the soft ground over him.
merrick jamison-smythe loomed above her in classically carved letters.
The hunter wished she could take a photo.
It was perfect staging.
The vampires glee was audible.
The hunter checked her watch.
She should have picked a hellhound, or perhaps the Order of Taraka.
But they were outside her price range and, frankly, overkill.
Two children needed a very minimal amount of kill.
And she liked the symmetry of using a vampire.
He held out his arms, as though inviting the children in for an embrace.
you could run if youd like.
I dont mind chasing.
Works up an appetite.
One of the girls nodded.
Before he could kick the girl off, the other one jumped on his chest.
And then the vampire was gone.
Both girls stood, brushing dust from their neat black dresses.
The second little girl tucked the stake back into her flowery cowboy boot.
They hurried over to their mother and patted her cheeks until she stirred.
At least the mother had the sense to be panicked.
The hunter sighed, annoyed, as the mother pulled the girls to herself.
Now they were all watching the night.
The hunter had hoped to avoid the confrontation of revealing herself, but it had to be done.
She pulled out her crossbow.
She should never have used a vampire.
That was what she got for trying for a bit of poetic tragedy.
Punishment for thinking she could hide from prophecy.
Punishment for risking the entire world for her own selfish desires.
The hunter would find them again.
She flipped up her hood and strode to the nearest gas station.
A pay phone waited in an anemic pool of light.
She picked it up and dialed the number on her beeper.
No, the hunter replied.
Im disappointed in you.
She hung up, scowling, and then went inside the gas station.
She had failed to avert the apocalypse, for now.
To say nothing of ancient Sumerian.
And ancient Sumerian translated into Latin?
My tongue trips over pronunciation as I painstakingly work through the page in front of me.
I used to love my time in the library, surrounded by the work of generations of previous Watchers.
Bounce my toes against the floor.
I want to go for a run.
Thereisone possible reason that tugs at my brain, but .
That cant be right.
I peer at my own writing.
The shadowed one will rise and the world will tickle before him?
I do hate being tickled, Rhys says, leaning back and stretching.
His curly brown hair has once again defied its strict part.
I shake out my hands, needing to movesomething.
Maybe I really will go for a run.
No one would miss me.
Or maybe Ill ask if I can join combat training.
Theyve never let me, but I havent asked in years.
I really want to hit something, and I dont know why, and it scares me.
It could be the demonic prophecies of doom Ive been reading all morning, though.
I scratch out my botched translation.
As far as apocalypses go, ticklings not the worst way to die.
Imogen clears her throat, but her indulgent smile softens the severity.
Can we get back to your translation, Nina?
And, Rhys, I want a full report on half-human, half-demon taxonomy.
Rhys ducks his head, blushing.
Someday hell be in charge, part of the governing body of the Council.
He wears that weight in everything he does.
Watchers have to make the hard decisions, and sometimes the hard decisions include weapons.
Guns, in my fathers case.
Not all of us train, though.
We all take our education seriously, but theres slightly less pressure for me.
Im just the castle medic, which doesnt rate high on the importance scale.
Learning how to take lives beats knowing how to save them.
But being the medic doesnt get me out of Prophecies of Doom 101.
I push away the Latin Sumerian Tickle Apocalypse.
Imogen, I whine.
Can I get something a little less difficult?
She gives me a long-suffering sigh.
Imogen wasnt supposed to be a teacher.
But shes all weve got now, on account of all the regular teachers being blown up.
Her blond ponytail swings limply as she stands and searches the far bookshelf.
I hold back a triumphant smile.
Imogen is always nicer to me than to anyone else.
Actually, everyone here is.
But that doesnt make them any easier to translate.
Magicisstill broken, right?
Its been two months without a drop of magical energy.
For an organization that was built on magic, it hasnt been an easy adjustment.
I wasnt taught to use magic, but I have a very healthy respect for slash terror of it.
So its creepy seeing Imogen treat that particular tome like anything else on the shelf.
Fresh out of batteries and no one can find the right size.
Rhys scowls at his text as though insulted by the demon hes reading about.
When Buffy breaks something, she breaks it good.
Really think through my options.
There had to be another way to avert that particular apocalypse.
Buffy sees, Buffy destroys, I mutter.
Her name feels almost like a swear word on my tongue.
We dont say it aloud in my family.
and Where are our stake-carving supplies?
Okay, not that last one.
Because again: We dont talk much.
Living under the same roof isnt as cozy as it sounds when that roof covers a massive castle.
In her defense, the world was ending, Imogen says.
In her not defense, she was the reason the world was ending, I counter.
And now magic is dead.
No more hellmouths or portals.
No more demons popping in for vacations and sightseeing.
Foodie tours of Planet Human are canceled.
Sorry, demonic dimensions.
Of course, it also means no current tourists can get back to their home-sweet-hellholes.
Rhys scowls, pulling off his glasses and polishing them.
None of it is current anymore.
Even if I wanted to understand how things have changed, I couldnt.
No books on this subject.
I pat his head.
Imogen tosses a huge volume on the table.
And yet your homework still isnt done.
A poof of dust blows outward from the book; I flinch away and cover my nose.
No, its fine.
I actually havent had an asthma attack in a while.
Has nothing to do with the demon.
I pull down my sweater sleeve over my hand and carefully wipe the leather cover.
Sounds like the dude just needed a better prescription for glasses.
Rhys leans close, peering curiously.
I havent read that volume.
Notes have been scrawled in the margins, the handwriting changing as it moves through the centuries.
On the last few pages there are orange fingerprints, like someone was reading while eating Cheetos.
The Watchers before me have made their own notes, commenting and filling in details.
Seeing their work overwhelms me with a sense of responsibility.
I find a good entry.
Did you know that in 1910, one of the Merryweathers prevented an octopus uprising?
A leviathan demon gave them sentience and they were going to overthrow us!
Merryweather doesnt give many details.
It appears they defeated them with .
I think this is a recipe.
Imogen taps on the book.
Just translate the last ten prophecies, how about?
I get to work.
In years past, Rhys and I wouldnt have studied together.
Hed have been in classes with the other future Council hopefuls.
But there are so few of us now, weve had to relax some of the structure and tradition.
Not all of it, though.
Without tradition, what would we be?
Which I guess is what we arewithtradition too.
Normal people can go on living, oblivious and happy, because ofourhard work.
And Im proud of that.
The library door slams open and my twin sister, Artemis, walks in.
She takes a deep breath and scowls, crossing past me and tugging initiate the ancient window.
It groans in protest, but, as with all things, Artemis accomplishes her goal.
She pulls out one of my inhalers from her pocket and sets it on the table beside me.
Everything in this castle runs because of Artemis.
She is a force of nature.
An angry but efficient force of nature.
Hello to you too, I say with a smile.
She tugs my hair.
We both have red curls, though hers are always pulled back into a brutal ponytail.
I have a lot more time for moisturizing than she does.
Her freckles are darker from spending so much time outside.
Her gray eyes more intense, her jawline somehow stronger.
In short, Artemis is the strong twin.
The one who got left behind.
I dont just mean the fire, either.
But even after that, even after I managed to survive, my mother kept choosing her.
Artemis was chosen for testing and training.
Artemis was given responsibilities and duties and a vital role in Watcher society.
And I was left behind on the fringes.
I only sort of matter now because so many of us are dead.
Artemis always would have mattered.
And the truth is, I get it.
I was born into Watcher society, but Artemisdeservesto be here.
She sits next to me, pulling out her notebook and opening it to todays to-do list.
Its in microscopic handwriting and goes past the first page and onto at least one more.
No one in this castle does more than Artemis.
Listen, she says, I might have hurt Jade.
I look up from where Im almost finished with this book.
Every other prophecy had margin notes detailing how that particular apocalypse was averted.
I idly wonder what it means that this is the last prophecy.
It also has no Watcher notes.
And Watchers are meticulous.
If it doesnt have notes, that means it hasnt been averted yet.
But my own castle emergencies are far more pressing.
And by might have hurt Jade, you mean .
On cue, Jade limps in.
She picks up her tirade midargument.
and just because magic is broken, doesnt mean that I should be Artemiss punching bag!
I know my father worked in special ops, but I dont want to.
I was good at magic!
I am not good at this!
No one is, next to Artemis, Rhys says.
His voice is quiet and without judgment, but we all freeze.
Its one of the things we dont talk about.
How Artemis is inarguably the best, and yet shes the assistant and Rhys is the official golden boy.
Watchers excel at research, record keeping, and not talking about things.
The entire organization is ever-so-British.
Though technically Artemis and I are American.
We lived in California and then Arizona before coming here.
Rhys, Jade, and Imogenwho all grew up in Londonstill laugh when I treat rain like a novelty.
Its been eight years in England and Ireland, but Iadorerain and green and all things non-desert.
Jade flops down on the other side of me, hauling her ankle up onto my lap.
I rotate it for range of movement.
That one translates as Slayer, Artemis says, peering over my shoulder.
She crosses out where I had mistranslated a word as killer.
Nothing is broken, but its swelling already.
I think its a mild sprain.
I glance at Artemis and she looks away, guessing my thoughts as she so often can.
She knows Im going to tell her there is no reason to train this hard.
To hurt each other.
Instead of rehashing our usual debate, I point to my translation.
What about this word?
Protector, Artemis says.
Thats cheating, Imogen trills from where shes reshelving.
It doesnt count as cheating.
Were practically the same person!
No one calls me on the lie.
Artemis shouldnt have to do my homework on top of everything else, but she helps without being asked.
Its how we work.
Any word from Mom?
Nothing new since Tuesday.
She should finish up South America in the next few days though.
Artemis planned our mothers whole scouting mission.
She was on assignment in Scotland keeping tabs on Buffy and her Slayer army antics.
It didnt do us much good.
Buffy still managed to trigger an almost-apocalypse.
He shouldnt have to run my errands.
He ranks far above me in pecking order, but he puts friendship before hierarchy.
Hes my favorite in the castle besides Artemis.
Not that theres a tremendous amount of competition.
Rhys, Jade, and Artemis are the only other teens.
Imogen is in her early twenties.
The three Littles are still preschoolers.
And the Councilall four of themarent exactly BFF material.
Its right next to the stitches pack, behind the concussions pack.
The medical clinic is actually a large supply closet in the opposite wing that Ive claimed as my own.
The training room is amazing, naturally.
We prioritize hitting, not healing.
George Smythe, the youngest of the Littles, bursts into the library.
He buries his face in Imogens skirt and tugs on her long sleeves.
Imogen puts him on her hip.
I dont blame George for preferring Imogen.
I hold up my paper triumphantly.
In my defense, Im hungry.
Did I get the rest?
Well, even with Artemiss help, it doesnt make sense.
And it doesnt have any calamari recipes.
I tuck my papers back into the book.
Rhys returns with the supplies just as the other two Littles break into the library and swarm Imogen.
Sometimes I wish my sister belonged as much to me as she does to everyone else.
Rhys strides toward me with the sprain pack.
Little George runs at his legs and Rhys trips just before he gets to me.
The pack flies out of his hands.
Good catch, Rhys says.
Id be offended by his surprise if I werent experiencing another ripple of anxiety.
It was a good catch.
Way too good for me.
Yeah, lucky, I say, letting out an awkward laugh.
I break the ice pack and wrap it into place around Jades ankle.
Twenty minutes on, an hour off.
Ill rewrap you when the ice comes off.
That will help with the swelling.
And rest it as much as possible.
Jade leans back with her eyes closed.
Shes substituted all the time she used to spend on magic with sleeping.
But we do what Watchers do: We keep going.
We avoid contact with the outside world.
Paranoia is a permanent result of having all your friends and family blown up.
Cillians almost here with the supplies.
Do you need help?
I dont know how Id manage without you.
The great hall of the castle, always chilly, is lit with the late-afternoon sun.
The stained-glass windows project squares of blue, red, and green.
I fondly pat the massive oak door as I step out into the crisp autumn air.
The castle is drafty, with questionable plumbing and dire electrical problems.
Most of the windows dont open, and those that do leak.
But this castle saved our lives and preserved what few of us are left.
And so I love it.
Though swordbickeringwould be more accurate, since they pause between each block and strike to debate proper stance.
The mystery of the Littles escaping is solved.
Ruth Zabuto is dead asleep.
I watch her across the meadow to ensure her chest is moving and shes only dead asleep, notdeaddead.
She lets out a snore loud enough for me to hear from this distance.
Reassured, I follow Rhys to the path outside the castle grounds.
I can still hear Wanda and Bradford arguing.
Cillian is on a scooter, boxes strapped to either side.
He lifts a hand and waves brightly.
His mom used to initiate the sole magic store in the whole area.
Most people have no idea that magic iswasa real thing.
But his mom was a decently talented and knowledgeable witch.
And, best of all, one who could keep her mouth shut.
Cillian and his mother are the only people alive who know there are still Watchers in existence.
That we didnt all die when we were supposed to.
We havent told them much about who we are or what we do.
Its safest that way.
And theyve never asked questions, because we were also their best customers until Buffy killed magic.
But even now, Cillian still makes all our nonmagical supply deliveries.
Cillian stops his scooter in front of us.
I
Theres a flash of movement behind Cillian.
A snarl rips apart the air as darkness leaps toward him.
My brain turns off.
I jump, meeting it midair.
We slam into each other.
The ground meets us, hard, and we roll.
I grab jaws straining for my throat, hot saliva burning where it falls on me.
I shove it aside and scramble to my feet.
My heart is racing, eyes scanning for any other threats, legs ready to leap back into action.
Thats when I hear the screaming.
It sounds so far away.
Maybe it was happening the whole time?
I shake my head, trying to force the world back into focus.
And I realize theres a creaturea dead creature, a creature I somehow killedat my feet.
Bradford Smythe runs up.
Artemis, are you all right?
He hurries past me, bending down to examine the thing.
Black, mottled skin.
Patchy fur more like moldy growths.
Fangs and claws and single-minded, deadly intentions.
Because I killed it.
Demon, a voice in my head whispers.
And its not talking about the hellhound.
Nina, Rhys says, in as much shock as me.
Bradford Smythe looks up in confusion.
Everyone stares at me like I too have sprouted fangs and claws.
I dont know what just happened.
Ive never done anything like that before.
I feel sick and alsoelated?
That cant be right.
My hands are trembling, but I dont feel like I need to lie down.
I feel like I could run ten miles.
Like I could jump straight over the castle.
Im not a killer.
Thats what I do.
Rhys studies me like Im one of his textbooks, like he cant translate what hes seeing.
I cant do what I just did.
Bradford Smythe seems less surprised.
His shoulders slump as he pulls off his glasses and polishes them with resignation.
Why isnt he shocked, now that he knows it wasnt Artemis?
The look he gives me is one of pity and regret.
We need to call your mother.
