Chapter 17
I can’t breathe.
Carter keeps talking but his voice washes out into a dull buzz, like a call on speakerphone from the other side of a restaurant.
I catch a few words, names, here and there. “Chessa … Daan … carbon monoxide … gas main leak … calling it a localized explosion … Foreign Language House.”
Devon reenters the room and finds me crouched between the bed and the far wall.
I don’t know what he sees in my face, but it’s enough to convince him to reach over and pry the phone out of my hand.
With the phone to his ear, he asks a few questions, answers a few times. The only time he hesitates is when his gaze catches on mine. Then he turns away and answers whatever Carter is asking about.
I want to demand the phone back, shout at him that this is none of his business.
But I feel so small, shrunken down in myself, like I’m viewing all of this, including myself, at an enormous distance. Daan. Chessa.
And then Devon’s pulling on my hand and leading me out to the parking lot and the car.
Maggie and Shane are gone. I don’t know where they are, what Devon said to them. I don’t care right now.
Devon puts the windows down as he starts to drive, letting the cold air circulate until I can feel it biting at my cheeks, pulling me back to the surface of myself.
“I need you to tell me again what happened,” I say, voice hoarse, as if I’ve been screaming.
Devon gives me a sideways evaluating look. His hand is still locked with mine, and our intertwined fingers rest on the center console. I stare at our joined hands. I’m not sure if I reached for him or if he just took my hand again once we were inside.
I don’t remember the last time someone held my hand for an extended period of time. Or the last time I allowed it. It always felt too risky. Continuous close contact can make feeding more tempting, and if my control slips, it might be an accident, but an accident I would never forgive myself for.
The tattoos on my hands aren’t just a warning for others, but reminders for me as well. I am death, I am poison.
But right now, the warm grasp of Devon’s hand is reassuring, a stable tether in the midst of a hurricane-level chaos.
And, if I’m honest, so is the knowledge that he is well aware of who I am and what I’m capable of but still chooses to offer that connection.
My own mother hasn’t hugged me or touched me, except by accident, in eight years.
“Tell me,” I insist when Devon still hesitates.
“According to your friend Carter, Chessa and Daan went back to campus late last night. Some of Daan’s residents at the house where he lived were upset about what happened at the sorority earlier. He wanted to be there for them.”
My eyes sting. Of course he did. He pretends to grump about them, but he cares about his residents. Even the ever-annoying Emile.
“Chessa came back to campus with him. She was at Branwick when … it happened. She’s fine,” Devon says quickly.
“But Daan…” I prompt.
Devon draws in a breath, carefully making a turn at a red light. “He’s still alive.”
In the ICU. Those particular letters are burned into my brain.
“He and one other. They’re … being treated.”
As if the human doctors have any hope of being able to fix this. What exactly is the cure for being devoured from the inside out?
I can picture the scene in the ICU all too clearly. Daan’s blank eyes open and staring up at the ceiling, tubes and wires snaking around his body, making sure his heart is still beating, his lungs continuing to pump air.
But there may not be enough Daan left in there to ever be Daan again.
Someone got greedy and couldn’t finish their meal. That’s what this is. Eight students live in the Foreign Language House. Assuming they were all home, six are dead.
“Chessa called Carter, trying to reach you,” Devon finishes. “He met her at the hospital and was keeping her company when you called Chessa’s phone.”
Guilt creases my insides in a white-hot sizzling line. I should have been there. I could have stopped this.
You sure about that? The memory of that suffocating pressure returns, making my breath catch in my chest.
If nothing else, I could have at least distracted the spawn. I’m the actual target, after all.
“Stop,” Devon says, squeezing my hand. “I can hear you thinking over there. You made the choices you did to protect them.”
Anger swells in me like an overfilled balloon. I snatch my hand back from him. “Except it didn’t fucking work. Instead of leading the spawn away, I just left them, everyone, defenseless!” I shout at him, even though I know it’s not Devon I’m furious with.
He doesn’t respond, just lets me yell, which only makes me angrier.
“This is exactly why I cannot be who you want me to be,” I say, turning in my seat to face him. “Do you get that now? This is not who I am. I have no idea what I’m doing! I cannot be Death, new or otherwise.”
“So you’ve said,” he responds evenly.
“What does that mean?”
“It means no one expects you to be perfect,” he begins.
“I do! In this situation, I expect me to be perfect,” I hiss at him. Tears well up in my eyes, and I swipe at them furiously. Not now!
“Then you’re lacking context,” he says without hesitation.
“Consider what anyone else in your situation might have done. Fled? Ignored the human deaths to create a stronghold within the confines of the university and stabilize your new grasp on authority? Or destroyed the entire town to out your enemy?”
Any and all of those have been, I’m aware, strategies in the past, some of them even from my own father. Generally in the middle of a larger power struggle between the Old Ones themselves. Which, I suppose, is what this is. Indirectly.
“None of those are viable options,” I mutter.
“Viability is in the eye of the beholder,” Devon reminds me gently. “You, instead, removed yourself from the situation hoping to protect innocent lives and, in the process, risked your own.”
I open my mouth to argue.
“And no, it didn’t work,” he agrees. “But you made the choice that was about them, the people you care about, the humans in this town, not about you. That’s all anyone can ask. All you can ask of yourself.”
I hate how much I want to believe him, to let myself off the hook. But I don’t deserve it. I’m already failing. How much harder would I fail if I accepted my fate as my father’s heir, with even more people counting on me?
I shudder.
“No one wants you to be anything more than you already are,” Devon says. He takes his gaze from the road, his brow furrowing at the sight of my stupid tears. He reaches up and brushes his thumb over my cheek, wiping some of them away. And the warmth of his touch soothes something in me.
Lust power again. Except I’m really not so sure that it is, this time. I’m beginning to trust him.
Before I contemplate all the ways in which that is a terrible idea, we’re turning into the hospital parking lot.
Beecher Memorial Hospital is a small facility, only a few stories tall.
But wealthy Beecher alums and parents of current students have made their influence known here as well.
Heavy wooden benches and modern sculptures in shiny metal blobs and jagged edges line the exterior, as if it’s a museum instead of a healthcare facility.
Its bright white structure with clean modern lines screams, “Trust us. We have money and resources!”
The main entrance is quiet, with only a minivan in the turnaround and a few people lingering under the overhang, near the revolving doors. They’re on their phones or smoking or sitting on a bench staring despondently down at their empty hands.
Shit.
Devon swings toward an empty visitor parking spot in the first row. He’s turned the car off, unbuckled his seat belt, and opened his door before he realizes I haven’t moved.
“Jo?” he asks, frowning at me.
The boiling cauldron of despair and self-loathing in my chest has morphed into a paralyzing wave of fear and self-loathing.
I don’t know if I can do it. If I can walk in there and see my friend, my Daan, lying so still and empty on the bed. See Chessa watching me with hostility, blaming me for not being there. Carter shaking his head in disapproval.
Fuck. I cross my arms over my chest, squeezing tight.
To his credit, Devon doesn’t ask me if I’m all right. A stupid question to ask in most every situation it’s usually asked in.
Instead he sits quietly in the driver’s seat, waiting while I wrestle with my feelings.
I can’t stay out here. I won’t hide. Even if Chessa and Carter are angry with me, they have the right to be, even if only for the stuff they know about. They have the right to be angry about so much more. And Daan … I owe Daan so much more than just a visit.
You will not be a coward about this, not this time.
“All right.” Steeling myself, I unbuckle my seat belt with one hand and open the door with the other, not allowing a moment for second-guessing or for the fear to dig in deeper.
It’s finally stopped sleeting and snowing, but the air is so cold it hurts to inhale. Every breath emerges as a cloud of thick white steam that looks solid.
It’s going to be okay, I’m going to find a way to fix this.
Apparently, I’ve chosen lying to myself as a coping mechanism. Whatever gets the job done for now, I guess.
Waves of despair and depression emanate from the building, growing stronger as we get closer. I grit my teeth against them, even as my hunger throbs in me.
I can’t risk it. Even taking what’s offered, these mini-emotional deaths, I might accidentally kill someone if they’re too close to death.
I mean, depression or despair when facing the end of one’s life is a logical reaction.
And I don’t want to tip someone over the edge, stealing from them what little time they have left.
This is why I hate hospitals. Even when they’re not currently housing people I care about. I am the fucking Grim Reaper, and I don’t want to be.