Chapter 18
I make it into the hospital lobby before the nausea catches up to me. Vomit scorches up the back of my throat, and I run for the bathroom.
I slam into a stall door with my elbow and drop to the floor, my knees skidding on the white tile. The little food I’ve eaten comes right back up into the toilet, as reality comes screeching into focus.
Oh my God. What did I do?
Almost killed someone. That’s what I did. And not by accident, not out of ignorance this time.
Ate him up, like an apple on a stick! My nonhuman aspect is seemingly delighted by this turn of events. And at being full once more.
I shudder, bracing myself for another wave of sickness. My stomach lurches but holds steady.
I can’t decide if that makes me feel better or worse. I am sick with guilt but only part of me seems to register it.
After a moment, I force myself up on shaky legs and flush the toilet. I can’t just sit in here on the floor; someone will come in sooner or later. And Chessa and Carter are still waiting upstairs, with Daan.
At the sink, I scrub my hands and splash cool water on my face, trying to ignore the new healthy glow in my cheeks. Damnit.
When I pull open the door and step out, Devon straightens from where he’s leaning against the wall nearby. “You okay?” he asks, holding out an unopened pack of mint gum between his fingers.
“Where did you get that?” I frown. He’s always one step ahead, looking out for me, and it’s both unnerving and flattering.
“Gift shop.” He tips his head in the opposite direction down the hall.
“Thanks,” I mutter, taking it from him. My mouth tastes like I’ve been licking toilets instead of just hovering over one.
“You did what needed to be done,” Devon says calmly, his green-eyed gaze meeting mine. “You know that. You know what would have happened if you hadn’t.” Even now his face is too pale, showing signs of our ordeal.
He’s right, of course, which sucks. JT, the Fear spawn, would have killed or incapacitated us and then wreaked havoc on Beecher because he could, high on his supposed triumph against me. “I don’t have to like it,” I snap.
Devon shrugs, leading the way back to the visitor desk. “But you don’t have to hate yourself for it, either. It’s who you are.”
“You need to make up your mind,” I tell him, folding my arms across my chest. “One minute you and Maggie are like, we want you because you’re not like the others, not killing people for power, and then the next you’re cheering me on.”
In my frustration, the words come out a little too loud, and the silver-haired volunteer at the desk gives me a suspicious look, like she’s three seconds from pushing some kind of silent alarm.
Shit. “Gaming,” I say quickly. “He’s just a sore loser, that’s all. I took all of his sheep.”
Devon makes a sound that might be a strangled laugh.
The woman’s expression eases slightly, but she doesn’t take her eyes off me.
“It’s not the same thing, Jo,” Devon says to me quietly. “You know that as well.” Then he smiles at the volunteer, charm on full. “Hello. Yes, terribly sore loser, that’s me. We’re here to see a friend.”
It takes a bit of Devon-specific sweet-talking to get us in because I don’t have an ID with me. But after the volunteer takes my picture and issues us both sticker name tags with our images printed on them, we’re on our way to the ICU waiting room.
In the elevator, my heart starts pounding too hard. The fear I felt under JT’s influence was real, at least some of it. And it stemmed from this upcoming moment. Being confronted by the real-life effects of my friendship upon my friends.
I back up until the elevator wall presses against me, offering support. And then, before I can stop myself, I reach for Devon’s hand.
After a millisecond of hesitation, his warm fingers wrap around mine, and the relief is instant. I immediately feel less alone.
Why do I keep reaching for him? It’s like having discovered this open doorway, I can’t stop rushing through it.
I should pull away, shake off the comfort his touch brings. It’s just another weakness that can be exploited. And Devon wants something from me, no question. He’s been very upfront about it.
But I don’t. Maybe because he has been honest about wanting me to take on this role as Death.
Or maybe because with Devon, I don’t have to maintain that constant level of awareness that comes with touching someone who’s human.
He is more than capable of letting me know if I’m accidentally taking from him, and of fighting back.
Or maybe because he is, simply, someone who actually understands what it is to live between both of these worlds and never fit in with either of them.
There are times when, even though I love Chessa and Daan—and oh God, possibly Carter—I feel like I’m trapped on the other side of an invisible wall from them.
I can talk, laugh, and interact with them, and sometimes even temporarily forget that the wall is there.
But inevitably I always smack into it at one point or another, face-first.
Whether it’s because I always have to be aware of my hunger and take steps to carefully sate it, or because they’re already working to build a future away from Beecher while I’m working out how to stay, or because my little family is incredibly fucked up.
I mean, lots of dads teach their daughters life skills; most of them are not accompanying them to their first murders.
And most mothers aren’t afraid of their daughters.
The wall is there, dividing me from my fully human friends.
With Devon, there is no wall. Or if there is, we’re both on the same side of it.
“It’s going to be all right, Jo,” Devon says as we both face forward, staring at the floors lighting up on the horizontal indicator.
“You don’t know that,” I say, but all the heat is gone from my voice.
“You’re right, I don’t,” he acknowledges. He glances toward me, offering a small smile. “I guess I’m just telling you what I would have liked to hear.”
When his family cheered on the death of the girl he loved. My heart aches for him. “I’m sorry about being shitty before.”
He shifts toward me. “You’re entitled. It’s a shitty hand you’ve been dealt, and I’m sorry to be the one bringing it to your attention.”
“I’m not,” I say, letting him hear the honesty in my voice. “At least you understand what you’re asking.”
“Doesn’t make it easier,” he says softly.
I scan his face. Now that I know what I’m looking for, I can see past the handsome features and the quick smile to the pain and exhaustion underneath. The constant struggle under the burden he’s been carrying, and the tiniest flicker of hope that I will be able to change that.
“And I’m sorry about what happened to Amelia,” I blurt. For someone to love you like that, with utter commitment and willingness to sacrifice? I envy her, just a little.
Devon’s hand tightens on mine reflexively. I’m poking my finger around a still-open wound.
“I don’t think I said it before, but I should have,” I continue.
His gaze fixes on me, as if to commit my features to memory. “You may not be what JT was expecting, but you are exactly what I hoped for,” he says simply. No flirtation, no attempt to sway, just the words. “Thank you.”
Heat rises in my cheeks, and I don’t know how to respond. Except part of me wants to pull him closer, to press right against him as if to trap our mutual pain between us, muting it or even eliminating it with our closeness.
Or perhaps to soothe ourselves in the shared ache, one no one else can understand.
For a second, just a moment, I wonder what it would be like to be with him. To touch without having to be careful, to speak without having to watch every word, to be myself. Whoever that is.
But even just thinking about it makes me feel more naked and vulnerable than I ever have before. Even when I was actually naked and vulnerable.
Devon knows me in a way that no one else in Beecher does, no one else anywhere, really. Which means whatever happens between us, if anything, would matter more somehow.
I guess that same wall that divides me from Chessa, Daan, and Carter also helps me feel safe.
The corner of Devon’s mouth quirks up in a sad smile, and we both retreat at the same time.
“Bad idea,” he says.
“Definitely,” I agree. Then the tension breaks. Mostly. And I tell myself any small, lingering pang of regret is simply from the knowledge that I’ll never have this kind of openness with Carter. Or anything with Carter.
The elevator slows and then chimes, signaling our arrival on the designated floor.
I take a deep breath, straighten my shoulders, and release Devon’s hand. I need to do this. Moment of weakness over.
The ICU waiting room is a wide-open space, filled with matching upholstered chairs and faux-leather love seats in a vaguely geometric design. The wall to our right as we stop off the elevator is a full bank of windows, revealing the gorgeous pink and orange clouds of sunrise.
The room is sparsely populated. One woman is sleeping on a love seat, her body curled into a tight C-shape, with her jacket over her head to block the light. Another man is snoring with his head tipped against the back of his chair, a clump of tissues still clutched in his hands.
The sense of despair is strong in here, wave upon wave of it, and it takes me a second to adjust. To ignore it.
At least feeding on the Fear spawn gave me that benefit—I’m full enough for now.
I spot Chessa and Carter in the farthest corner, away from the windows, sitting in chairs opposite each other, both of them leaning forward, as if engaged in a battle of wills or chess or something.
Double doors set in the wall behind them lead to the ICU.
They are as close as they can be to Daan without being in his room.
Chessa notices me first, and she pops up to her feet. She pushes her glasses up her nose repeatedly—her telltale sign that she is pissed—as she wends her way through the maze of furniture toward me. Carter follows but at a slower pace.