He was bathing in guilt. But he couldn’t determine if the dreams were really Cecile, reaching out from the grave to torment him with things he could not change, or his own immense, overpowering guilt at having taken a life and failing to preserve another. Slipping out of bed, Joss rubbed his sore shoulder, but didn’t dare touch his neck or his side. He was aching in the worst way, but also strangely relieved. Pain meant that he was still alive. And even more so, pain meant that last night had really happened, and Joss had really taken out the serial killer, like the Slayer Society had charged him with doing. He was done now. He could go home. But first, he might try asking his uncle if there was any way they could spend a few extra weeks in New York. Like a vacation. A real vacation. Joss had never really been on one before. He threw on some jeans and a T-shirt before moving painfully down the hall and down the stairs.
