Death’s Daughter (Children of the Old Ones #1)

Chapter 1

It’s Friday night, and I’m hungry. A little too hungry.

I ignore the cold sweat forming on my upper lip. “Here’s the spreadsheet printout you wanted,” I say at the threshold of Dr. Kelleher’s office, forcing a smile.

I don’t want to go in. Kelleher, the head of the Office of Alumni Records and Engagement, is the queen of “Great, thanks. Oh, one more thing…” Last month, when we were working with the campus redevelopment committee on the big historical display for the union, it took me an average of four attempts to successfully exit the building.

Tonight, I just need to drop these papers off and ghost out of here—no good night, no “see you Monday”—before she “one more things” me to death.

Well, not my death.

Behind the desk, Dr. Kelleher flips over another page in a file folder, turning a red Sharpie between her elegant fingers, before looking up at me. “Oh, Jo,” she says, sounding vaguely surprised. As if she and I aren’t the only ones left in the building, more than an hour after closing.

After tucking a loose strand of silvery blond hair behind her ear, she waves me forward, a leisurely gesture, as if she has all the time in the world. She does not.

I shake my head at myself. Get a grip, Jo. I’ve put off feeding for too long this time. I can tell when I start thinking like that. Sometimes it feels like my whole life centers around that act—feeding or not feeding, minimizing my need, trying not to hurt people.

With Kelleher waiting, I cross to her desk and hand her the manila folder, virtually identical to all the others stacked neatly on her desk. She adds it to the pile nearest her, aligning the edges with a deliberate snap that speaks to exactness.

But experience tells me she will never be able to find that folder again.

I’ll have to print it out for her at least twice more, even though it’s on the shared drive.

Which she refuses to learn how to use. I shouldn’t complain—it’s because of her organized disorganization and anti-tech attitude that I got this work study job to begin with.

The first couple of years I worked in the union cafeteria and that was rough. One word: hairnets.

On this particular evening, though, I might have traded the relatively cushy office setting for the precision operation of food service on a college campus. Hairnets aside, I was never late getting out of there.

Dr. Kelleher returns her attention to the open folder in front of her, and I start backing out of the office, sweat trickling down my spine under my sweatshirt and pooling at the waistband of my jeans.

I am never waiting this long again. It’s just … last week, Friday dinner hadn’t worked because it was Halloween. And the week before, it was midterms. I already feel guilty enough—screwing up someone else’s grades because they were too tired or hazy to perform well just seemed additionally cruel.

My boot touches the thicker carpet of the hallway behind me, and I almost let out a breath of relief. Almost.

But then Kelleher looks up, as if she’s sensed my escape. “Oh, Jo. Wait. One more thing.”

Damnit. If I didn’t need this job …

“Do you know where we left off with the class of 1970? I have the summary here somewhere, don’t I?” She frowns at the piles of neatly labeled folders, surrounding her like castle crenellations, protecting the vulnerable interior.

Vulnerable. Yes. But the glow of life in her is strong still. I can sense it, like the warmth of sunlight playing over my face. She’s in her later forties but she still rows crew with a group of alums on weekends, and she runs. Marathons. For fun.

It would be so easy to just … pull. To drag a little of that life out of her and inhale it like a monster bag of cheesy puffs.

A moment of disorientation, a few more silver hairs, maybe a month or two off her lifespan. I could probably stop myself before I went too far.

Probably.

That thought jolts me back to myself with an accompanying burst of horror. I have to get out of here. Now.

Kelleher frowns. “Jo? Are you all right? You don’t look well.”

“I’m just—” My stomach interrupts with a loud rumble, despite the peanut butter and crackers I managed to force down twenty minutes ago. Sometimes real food can hold off the hunger for a while. But not this time. Not when it’s been so long.

“Oh my goodness.” Kelleher tsks her disapproval. “You girls and skipping meals.”

We could certainly fix that, a little voice in my head coos. Right now.

Kelleher looks at her watch. “It’s only a little past six. But I suppose you can go if you—”

I don’t wait for her to finish, just in case there’s a task at the end of that sentence.

Grabbing my coat and backpack from the reception area at the end of the hall, I’m down the stairs and out the door in less than a minute.

The sky is dark when I push out the front door of Hayes, the administration building, but central campus is well-lit with high-powered street lamps at regular intervals along the sidewalks.

On the edge of the purplish-white artificial brightness, Hayes is cast in shadow, a stacked brick-and-column structure with bare ivy strands turned into grasping tentacles.

A single crow chitters a complaint as it settles into the branches of a nearby tree, but I ignore it.

I already feel better, just being outside. Making progress.

A thudding bass line cuts through the cold air, carrying all the way over from the freshman residence halls, and leaves crunch underneath my boots as I cross the walkway and cut through the browning grass.

Across the quad, other students are scurrying to evening classes in twos and threes, trailing brightly colored scarves, beanies pulled low against the chill.

This is my favorite time of year. The sweet musty decaying smell of the leaves, the early nightfall, and the crispness of the air—even the stars seem brighter. It all just adds to a sense of anticipation. A feeling that something good is coming.

Seasonal depression and high flu rates, family holiday drama and failing grades, these are a few of my favorite things.

I close my eyes for a second, trying to focus.

Faint wisps of rejection, depression, misery hang in the air, all my fellow students experiencing tiny forms of death.

Every sip helps, but at a distance, it’s like trying to catch cotton candy strands in gale-force winds.

They break apart and scatter before I can feed on them.

I need more. A direct line.

Pressing my hand against my stomach through my coat, I blow out a slow breath, trying to regulate the hunger.

I’m working on it. I will feed you. Sometimes it’s easier to think of the need as a “thing” inside me, something separate from myself. It’s not accurate. But it’s easier.

Ducking my head against the wind, I angle through the grass by the library, P.

Edgars Hall, and down a side street to reach old Beecher campus.

The newish wrought iron fence around the remains of the church cemetery is shocking in its modernity, compared to the sunken graves and slanted stones within its boundaries.

A lone mausoleum, outsized compared to everything else, dominates the entire back right corner.

I hurry past the Greek Row bungalows, where a seemingly unattended bonfire burns in a parking area. Farther down, at the Foreign Language House—it’s German this year, much to Daan’s chagrin—Daan’s bright yellow bike is gone from the rack.

That’s good. That probably means he’s already at the bar.

I can see the sign for Happy’s, a smiling anthropomorphic pizza slice holding a beer, glowing through the trees, a glimpse of the promised land.

I’m almost at the corner where I can—though we’re not supposed to—cut through residential backyards to reach the run-down strip mall where the pizza pub holds court.

It’s a well-worn path, despite a multitude of warnings from campus admin and no-trespassing signs.

But what is private property to college students if it stands between them and cheap foamy beer and parmesan-crusted dough nuggets?

Especially when it saves ten minutes of walking in a Massachusetts winter.

But before I can cross the street, tires crunch on the road behind me, headlights casting my shadow ahead of me. The engine is smooth and nearly soundless, catching me off guard.

The vehicle slows, and instinctively I tense, hands clenching into fists in my mismatched gloves.

Beecher is relatively safe, both the campus and the surrounding small town, if you don’t count the rumors of a serial killer fifty-plus years ago.

I mean, every college has to have its urban myths, right?

Still, that doesn’t preclude a drunk townie, a random creeper, or—more likely, given that I’m still technically on campus—a bunch of obnoxious frat guys.

They can’t hurt you. No, but I could hurt them, and that would mess everything up just as neatly. Hard to explain a bunch of dead rich boys in a car.

I need to stay in control.

I keep walking, my pace even and unrushed. Showing fear is only going to escalate the situation.

The whine of a window going down tells me ignoring them isn’t going to work, not this time.

“Hey little girl, want some candy?” The harsh raspy voice sounds … odd, forced. Someone trying not to be recognized.

A pulse of panic and preemptive guilt flashes through me as I spin around, hands up, ready. Just like good old “Dad” taught me. Find the center, the brightest glow of life, and pull.

Imagine it streaming right toward you, like water flowing from a hose, only you’re in control.

There, you’ve got it! His voice is soft in my memory, but his pride in my accomplishment comes through loud and clear, sending chills over my skin even now.

Like I was learning to ride a bike without training wheels or some other normal childhood activity.