Chapter 3
At the bar, I raise up on my tiptoes to see over the crowd and follow the direction of Dove’s transfixed stare.
Despite the sheer volume of bodies in Happy’s, I pick the stranger out almost instantly.
He’s leaning against one of the high-top tables by the dartboards, a mug of beer in one hand.
Dressed in dark jeans and an expensive-looking white cable-knit sweater, one of those Irish ones, he stands out among students in their puffer jackets and bright purple Beecher sweats like a predator in a herd of unwitting gazelles.
Or el chupacabra in a daycare.
He’s handsome, of course. A messy tousle of dark hair, strong brows that might be on the edge of too thick, a square chin straight out of a superhero comic book.
It’s not his individual features so much as their combination that creates the allure, the charisma that makes it hard to look away from him.
But it’s more than just his appearance; it’s the semicircle of people around him, drawing closer every second. Like they’re dying of thirst and he’s the oasis they’ve been searching for.
He must sense me watching, because his gaze snaps from his adoring fans straight to me, direct, unflinching. Like he doesn’t care who sees him see me. Green eyes meet mine steadily, sending a bolt of attraction zipping down my spine.
Stupid lust magic.
As if he knows what I’m thinking, he winks at me. Then he mouths words, so carefully, so precisely, that I can “hear” him all the way across the room.
“Hello, Death’s Daughter.”
My breath vanishes like I’ve been punched in the lungs, and I struggle to inhale.
He knows who I am.
Instantly, I lower myself from my tiptoes to stand flat-footed, blending in with the crowd a little more. Bad enough that he knows I’m like him—a child of the Old Ones—but knowing me is worse, so much worse.
My heart thunders in my chest, like the hoofbeats of panicked horses pounding down the beach. Okay, okay, calm down.
This guy can’t be here for a territorial dispute.
No one has claimed Beecher, the town or campus.
No children of who-the-hell-ever anywhere around.
Beecher is the magical equivalent of an abandoned house, as far as the Old Ones are concerned.
I made sure of that before I confirmed my enrollment freshman year.
But this is a hella aggressive way to introduce himself. So there’s a decent chance that he wants conflict. Probably so he can claim to have bested Death’s Daughter. Sweat gathers at my hairline. I can’t go through that again, can’t do that again.
But … running isn’t an option, either. He’ll just follow me around campus, into classes, maybe even my dorm. It’s not like he’d have a hard time convincing someone to let him in.
I rub my palms, damp with sweat, down my jeans. Okay, so talk to him, de-escalate the situation, and then get him out of Beecher. That’s the plan.
“Jocasta?” Carter asks, his voice rough.
Shit. I managed to forget all about Carter, even with him right here. Get it together, Jo.
“Sorry. I saw someone I know from home so I…” The words die in my throat as I shift to face Carter.
His expression is soft with heat, pupils widened to dark pools of desire. He must be right on the edge of this guy’s range. He’s clearly affected but not so much that he’s drifting toward the other side of the bar to be closer to the source. Not yet, anyway.
I swallow back a wordless scream of frustration.
I take a deep breath. Okay, okay, it’s fine. This is fine. “Never mind,” I say to Carter gently. “I need you to go wait at the booth for me, okay?” I rest my hands on his biceps to nudge him back toward the booth, but he twists away, catching at my hand.
His thumb presses into the center of my palm with just the right amount of pressure. It sends a pulse of heat through me. I’ve never thought of my palm as a particularly sensitive or sensual body part, until now.
“I wanted to hate you,” Carter says plainly.
I freeze. This is part of the lowered inhibitions aspect. Stupid, stupid lust magic.
“You’re going to ruin my plans. Destroy my life.” Carter’s jaw tightens. “And I still want you anyway. You’re like me. Caught up in a mess you didn’t choose.”
Something in my chest gives an agonized twist. He’s right—even more than he realizes—but that doesn’t stop it from hurting. Sometimes honesty isn’t the best policy, especially the magically induced kind.
Okay, enough. “Maybe we can talk about this later, when you’re feeling more like yourself,” I say, guiding him away from the bar. “But for now, I just need you to go back to the booth so I can—” I stop, my gaze locking onto our destination.
The battered red-pleather booth, where Daan, Lennie, and Chessa should be—where I left them—is empty. Only mugs, crumpled napkins, and a half-eaten pizza remain.
Shit, shit, shit.
I spin around toward the other side of the restaurant, where trouble is currently waiting for me, and pop up on my toes again for a better look over there.
Without the height of the raised bar, I can’t see much.
But a glimpse of the back of Daan’s head through the crowd—he’s so tall and lanky, he always stands out—tells me everything I need to know.
Maybe it’s just a coincidence; maybe one of them, Lennie, decided to drag Chessa and Daan out to dance or play darts.
Or, maybe, just maybe, the stranger, my fellow spawn of the Old Ones, knows more about me than just my designation and aimed for them specifically, before turning loose on everyone else.
I turn back to Carter. “Stay here, okay?” I ask. “Right here. Promise me?”
His brow furrows in serious contemplation, as if he’s suddenly not sure what I’m asking or why, but he nods.
“I’ll be right back.” I hope.
I pull my hand free of Carter’s and edge my way through bodies, past elbows and raised drinks, ignoring the mild protests that follow my movement and trying to consider next steps.
The stranger has to be one of Lust’s offspring. Unsurprisingly, Lust and a couple of other Old Ones compete—perhaps officially, perhaps not, again no one tells us anything—for the title of Most Prolific.
That is one good thing about being Death spawn. I am the one and only. Of course, that can also make me a highly attractive target. Case in point.
But as soon as I clear the bar area and reach the other side of Happy’s, all thoughts of calmly talking to the stranger vanish.
Chessa and Daan are with the other afflicted, all of them staring at the stranger like he’s a Korean pop star who’s just announced he’s single and looking to date a civilian. Eyes wide, cheeks flushed, lips parted, oblivious to the world around them.
But Lennie … Lennie is pressed up against the stranger, whispering in his ear, her nose nuzzling his cheek. His arm curves around Lennie’s waist, and he rests his open palm on her lower back to steady her. Ostensibly. Mainly it serves to press Lennie more tightly against him.
His magic works differently than mine. We both feed on life energy, but he sparks need and then warms himself on the fire.
Lowering inhibitions and raising, well, desire.
Desire for him, desire for someone else, whatever he wants.
All to feed the wielder. And to entertain.
That’s what makes him, and others like him, so terrifying.
You aren’t attracted to men, as Chessa isn’t?
Doesn’t matter. You don’t really have any interest in sex right now, or at all? Makes zero difference.
Resting her hand on the stranger’s chest, Lennie throws her head back in a laugh, an excessively high-pitched and giddy noise that raises the hairs on the back of my neck.
Best case scenario ends with Lennie waking up tomorrow bewildered, exhausted, and sore, with no clear idea of why she slept with an enigmatic stranger fifteen minutes after meeting him. It’s the magical equivalent of being too drunk to consent. Worst case … might be way worse.
His knowing gaze meets mine, then he raises an eyebrow with a smirk, asking without words what I’m going to do about it.
All right, then. So forget de-escalation.
I stalk over to him. “Reel it in,” I snap. “Now. These are my friends, and this is my”—I have to bite back the words that immediately leap to my tongue: territory, home—“campus,” I finish finally.
The Lust spawn grins at me over the top of Lennie’s head. His green eyes are bright with mischief.
Even knowing what it is, his charm is hard to ignore. He’s watching me like I’m not just the center of his attention right now but his whole life. That feels better than it should.
“That territorial instinct is hard to resist, isn’t it?” he says.
I shake off the sensation. “Is that why you’re here?
Territory?” I demand, trying to keep my voice low.
Spawn who are more involved in the world of the Old Ones compete to claim territory.
Theoretically, it’s for feeding purposes.
Like owning enough land and cows to keep yourself and your family fed.
Realistically, it’s more to show off. The more territory you have, the more you have to defend, so therefore the stronger you must be.
And taking territory from another spawn is a power play, a reputation builder.
“It’s been almost four years,” I say. “I’ve never felt any claim on Beecher.”
He winces, shuddering exaggeratedly. “Little wonder, when this place has the vibe of a funeral home.”
Lennie shifts slightly to give me a pointed stare over her shoulder. “You’re interrupting, Jo. I’m talking to…” She pauses, leaving an opening, while she caresses the side of his face with her palm. Her aquamarine ring glitters in the dim light.
“You can call me Devon,” the stranger says obligingly.
“Devon,” Lennie repeats, savoring the syllables like a sip from a wine bottle bearing her family’s last name.
I roll my eyes. That is one hundred percent not his name. I hate this cutesy Old Ones bullshit. Names have power, but not in the way the stories tell it.