Chapter 11 #2
It takes me a second to identify Devon sitting among them, dressed as he is now in a sleeveless Theta Iota T-shirt and loose-fitting gray sweats.
On-screen, a virtual explosion is still rolling outward toward the edges of the television frame. If there’s any death in here, it’s purely virtual.
“—win again?” Aadesh is asking as I jerk to a halt just inside the threshold.
Immediately Aadesh pivots to face me, and the others scramble to their feet, blocking my view of Devon.
“You need to get out of here,” Aadesh says. His dark eyes are endless pools, dazed and empty of their normal sharp intelligence, indicating Devon’s influence.
“Aadesh, it’s me,” I try. But he doesn’t seem to hear.
“He doesn’t want you here,” Logan says, advancing on me. “None of us do. You’re trespassing.” His gaze rakes over me, head to toe.
A tiny frisson of fear traces its way through my body. Lust is not always about seduction. It can be about the thrill of power over another.
And I’m here alone, facing off with six men, who are under the sway of magic, all of whom are taller, stronger, and likely faster than I am? If I were a full-on human female, I’d be scared. And smart to be.
As it is, though, this is just a leftover inborn response, from generations of women before me, passing on their shared experiences through the evolution of the species.
The part of me that isn’t human stretches and uncurls itself, awakening after its large meal. Desire, one that has nothing to do with sex, rises up in me.
Show them. Take from them.
Conquer.
Feed.
I shake my head, curling my hands into fists against temptation to reach out. I won’t. They have no idea what they’re doing. Also, how stupid do you have to be to run around feeding when the cops already think you’re guilty of murder?
Still mostly sated for the moment, the nonhuman part of me relents, curling up and going back to sleep.
That being said, enough is enough.
I lean around to look through a gap between the brothers to Devon, who hasn’t moved from his seat on the sofa.
Instead, he appears to be watching the confrontation warily, as if this is a test I’m supposed to pass and he’s not sure which way it’s going to go.
His green eyes catch mine, sending the electric zip of attraction through me, and he lifts a brow in question.
I hate this. I hate not knowing what’s going on. And I especially hate that even eye contact with him sparks a flare in me that I can’t completely ignore.
“Knock it off,” I say flatly. “They’re not your cannon fodder, okay? You can’t just use them to hide.”
I’m not sure what I expected his response to this to be. Laughter, perhaps? Or a sneer of disgust that I care so much about a bunch of humans? Instead, he simply nods, his silent question seemingly answered. I still have no idea what the question was.
The mood in the room immediately eases, and the brothers relax into more natural positions. “Gentlemen, can we have the room, please?” Devon asks, sitting forward on the couch.
“Oh, come on, we need a rematch,” Logan says. “You can show us more of your … skills.” He winks at Devon.
Devon smiles patiently. “I will gladly school you all again shortly, but for now, I have other obligations.”
I roll my eyes.
The brothers file out, some of them with open hostility aimed at me.
“Video games?” I ask as soon as we’re alone.
“Admiration is part of lust,” Devon says, stretching his arms over his head.
The open side of his shirt rucks up slightly, revealing the start of dark letters tattooed across the right side of his ribs.
Runic symbols I don’t recognize. “Gaming is the modern-day equivalent of jousting. A symbol of masculinity and dominance.”
“Sounds like someone’s aiming for a thesis topic in Gender Studies,” I say.
Devon angles his head, eyeing me with what might be a mix of wariness and incredulity. “You are very different from what I expected.”
“I bet,” I say flatly. Then I nod at the Greek letters on his shirt. “You know they take that stuff seriously. You’re not just borrowing clothes.”
Devon nods, setting aside his controller. “I’m aware. I’m fairly sure I’m lavaliered with one of them. Or more.” He sounds unconcerned.
“You’re not going to hurt them.” If my ultimate goal is to get information from Devon, it probably would have been more politic to phrase that as a question instead of a command.
But I can’t make myself do it. Because that raises the possibility of a different response than the only one I will accept. And that cannot happen. Devon may be a lesser threat than the unknown spawn who killed Lennie, but he doesn’t get a free pass for that.
Devon eases off the couch and comes to stand in front of me.
This close, the pull of him is stronger, regardless of my ability to resist. He’s taller than Carter but not quite as broad through the shoulders.
I would easily be able to rest my cheek against the center of his chest. He could wrap me tight and rest his head on the top of my head without trouble.
He is lean and lithe but no less powerful for it.
And those sweatpants are hiding nothing.
I’ve never been with someone like me, someone who can understand the hunger and the lengths we go to satisfy it.
He would take from me. I can almost hear his soft moan of satisfaction in my ear, the thrust of his desire against me.
He would grow stronger from it, then maybe I could take from him, without harming …
Irritated, I shake my head slightly, to try and clear it. His magic seeps in, even when he’s not trying to overpower me.
Devon reaches out and tips my chin up. “Jo,” he says gently, his eyes searching mine, for what I’m not sure. “If I wanted to hurt them, it would already be done. And I wouldn’t be here, waiting for you.”
I have no idea what that means.
I step back from him. “What about them?” I jerk my thumb back toward the hall and the intermittent moaning and gasps coming from behind the closed doors. Two couples, maybe more.
His mouth tightens but he nods. “Yes. But they were paired already. I took care to ensure their relationship is current.”
Which still means jack shit if any of them had reservations about sex at that moment. Just because they’ve been together before isn’t a green light for someone to magically manipulate them into intimacy again.
The disapproval must show in my expression.
Devon steps back. “I can walk out and find others on the street, if you prefer. Strangers,” he says easily, but a new coolness has entered his tone.
“Don’t threaten me,” I snap. “You act like I’m the unreasonable one here. You’re the one that barged into a bar with my friends, spraying lust around like champagne in a championship locker room. What am I supposed to expect from you?”
Oddly, relief flashes across his face before vanishing. “I apologize.” He lowers his gaze with a grimace. “Last night was an ugly necessity. I needed to know where you stood, and I couldn’t afford to show anything but strength. Just in case. No one wants a weak ally.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but that’s not going to stop me. “And today?” I gesture toward the door and the brothers beyond it.
Devon hesitates. “It occurred to me that your response last night may have been situational. Those people, that location.” He shakes his head. “I needed to be sure.”
Sure of what, exactly?
“Additionally, I’m not in a position where I can afford to be caught off guard,” he says. “I took no more from them than was needed to keep up my reserves. I’m sure you understand.”
Frustration swells in me. “I don’t understand anything,” I say, trying to rein in my temper. “I’m here because Lennie, the friend you were talking to last night, is dead. Someone killed her with magic. Pulled her insides out.”
As awful as the words are to say aloud, it is a relief to just say them plainly. Out loud. No dancing around, no careful restatements to create something close to the truth.
Just the ugly facts, ma’am.
Devon goes still, light green eyes wide.
“And while I do believe in a lot of fucking unbelievable things”—hard not to with my family tree—“I’m having a hard time with the idea that your arrival on campus talking about some mysterious announcement and my friend dying by magic is a coincidence.
” I fold my arms across my chest tightly, holding myself together.
“Shit.” Devon looks away, scrubbing his hands over his face. He looks pale, uncertain for the first time in our admittedly brief acquaintance. “I thought it would take longer. I was sure I would be the first one.” He drops back onto the couch.
“The first one what?” I bellow, my irritation and impatience getting the better of me.
Devon stares at me for a long time. “You still don’t know.”
I let loose the primal scream that’s been building in my chest. “No! Because you won’t tell me!”
“Everything okay in here, Dev?” Aadesh asks from behind me.
A glance over my shoulder shows him frowning at me as if I’m a stranger, one who is disturbing his very good friend Devon.
I fucking hate magic.
Devon manages a weak smile. “Yeah, we’re fine. Thanks, Aadesh.” He offers a half-hearted wink, which makes Aadesh flush.
Once Aadesh is gone, Devon turns his attention back to me. He rubs a hand over his eyes, as if pressure is building behind his forehead. “I shouldn’t get involved in this part. I don’t want to piss off Death if he meant for this play out differently.”
Right. This might be a game to Death, but it’s my real life. My real friends. “Consider what happens if I’m the one who’s pissed,” I say to Devon through gritted teeth.
Devon looks at me and then nods after a moment. “Fair point.” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t know how much you know. I’m guessing not much, since you were raised outside.”
I suspect Devon is referring more to the world of the Old Ones and not my general living conditions.
I didn’t know Death was my father. Or that he was Death. Not at first. It’s not exactly the kind of thing you spring on a little kid.
My mother never referred to him by name. Most of the time, she left the house when he visited. Or he took me with him into the city or a park … or a nearby cemetery. Again, it doesn’t seem weird when you don’t know what normal is.
Once, when I asked his name, he told me to call him Mors. I loved when Mors visited. He seemed to like me more than my mother did. And he told me all these fantastical stories about his friends and magic powers and how I would have them one day, too. I would be like him. I wanted to be like him.
He was a beloved uncle, a treasured family friend, something everyone had.
It was only after I learned the truth that I realized his stories were his way of educating me about the Old Ones without worrying that I might chatter about it to my little friends or a teacher or something. All manipulation and lies.
When I was eight, he taught me a new game. How to find the light in the people around us. How to pull it toward me.
At Navy Pier, he directed me to pull from a person at the top of the Ferris wheel, Centennial Wheel. I thought it was fun, a challenge. And I wanted Mors to be proud of me.
I didn’t realize what I was doing, what was happening. Not when the screams started, not when my nose began bleeding. I was focused, zoned in, blossoming under Mors’s praise. Until the woman, the wife of the man I was killing, fell out of the gondola and smashed into the ground in front of us.
Years later I would learn that the news called it a safety latch malfunction—I think she was just that desperate to get help.
Her life force walloped into me, sending me into a panic. Mors tried to calm me down, to explain that I had done exactly what I was supposed to. That I was special, and the humans were meant for us to use as we needed.
Yeah, that worked about as well as you’d expect.
When he finally gave up and took me home, he left it to my mother to explain who and what he was.
Who and what I was as a result. And that I could never, ever tell anyone.
I think if I’d been a bit older, I would have rolled my eyes and told her she was crazy.
But at eight, a now traumatized eight, it made sense.
I refused to see Mors or speak to him after that. Through the closed door of my bedroom, he warned me that the hunger would kick in eventually and it would be undeniable. That I would require his help. I pretended not to hear him. Prayed that he was wrong.
But when I got a little older and started to feel the first pinches of that unrelenting need, I remembered the stories he’d told me. And when my mother couldn’t—or wouldn’t—answer my questions, I figured out how to turn off the safe search feature on her laptop and did my own research.
So, no, my upbringing had not been traditional, in either the human way or that of the Old Ones. But I’m not completely ignorant.
“Devon,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Death named a successor,” he says finally, looking up at me again, reluctance written plainly on his face. “Someone to take over for him when he fades.”
I’ve never heard that term before—fades—but oh, the sinking in my gut tells me exactly where this is going. The only way it can go, given the pieces of the puzzle I’m currently clutching.
“No,” I begin, backing away from Devon. “That’s not … It’s—”
“He’s chosen you,” he says softly. “You’re the new Death.”