Chapter 20 #2
“Yeah.” I want to shout, “This isn’t right!” but we already know that and it’s starting to feel downright repetitive.
But more intriguing than the damage itself is the obvious directionality of the disturbance. It ends in front of the Foreign Language House porch, the frozen yard and sidewalk all churned up.
Following the destruction in the opposite direction with my gaze, I find it leads very clearly back to one place and one place only: the old gated cemetery.
The destruction is lesser there, as if whatever it was had to build up a head of steam first. But even from here, I can see that the ground beneath the various monuments and gravestones within has shifted, and that the markers in turn have moved.
Not sunken in or toppled, just … tilted.
Or lifted up. It’s as if the earth under them shuddered, like a dog’s skin rippling at the feel of fleas jumping and skittering in its fur.
More ominously, the number of crows has doubled to an even dozen, their shiny black-feathered bodies sitting silently on the wrought iron fence and perched in the tree that now seems to be leaning forward slightly. It’s … eerie.
And that toothache feel of magic is stronger. But again, not like someone is actively using magic—more like the sense of it in the air, an echo. Which means powerful shit.
What the fuck. The cemetery has literally been there for centuries. I’ve passed it weekly, if not more, for years. None of this makes sense. But clearly that’s the place to start.
Devon pulls to the curb and parks a couple of houses away from the barricade, then cuts the engine.
“What do you think?” Devon asks, tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel.
“The cemetery,” I say.
He nods in agreement.
“But the cops aren’t going to let us close enough to get in through the main gate,” I say.
“Obviously.” And I don’t particularly love the idea of getting arrested—or “detained”—again.
“But there’s another gate on the far side.
” I’ve passed by it a thousand times on the way to Happy’s.
“I don’t know if it’s locked or what, but we could try it.
That might get us in without being quite so obvious. ”
Devon and I get out and cross the street to the opposite side, closer to the cemetery, in silent agreement.
“You know the one thing you haven’t tried?” Devon says conversationally.
I’m pretty sure I’m not going to like this. “What’s that?
“Claim Beecher. Town, campus, whatever.” He shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “If it’s your territory, that might help dissuade some of the smaller challengers.”
Like Gym Bro, JT. I wince.
“And maybe it would help clear … whatever this is.” He gestures vaguely to our surroundings.
“You feel it too?”
He shudders. “Hard not to. It’s grown so much stronger since I first arrived.”
Which is weird because I never felt anything like that until after Lennie died, and I know he was here before that. But maybe I was immune to it, kind of like how you don’t smell your own perfume after a while?
“It’s a reasonable idea,” I admit reluctantly. I just hate that any suggestion he makes feels like a trick or a possible deception, especially when he’s looking over at me with those clear green eyes, all guileless and straightforward.
It makes me feel guilty, and then that makes me extra suspicious because I know how guilt can be used to manipulate.
On a related note, it is entirely possible I’m very screwed up.
“I don’t know how,” I say. Because I never wanted to know. Never wanted to be tempted, kind of like how my mom avoids chocolate by not buying it. If you don’t have it in the house, it’s easier not to eat it.
This also explains my tendency to hoard Oreos and dark chocolate in any form. Generational Disordered Eating for the win. But whatever.
“As I understand it, it’s sort of the opposite of feeding, you just push instead of pull, and as territory is understood as the literal earth…” He mimes placing his hand on the ground.
My last attempt at pushing magic into Izzy had not gone particularly well, so I’m not super eager to try it again, even with just dirt.
Plus, claiming Beecher as territory is more than just putting my stake in the ground, metaphorically speaking.
For a while—months, years?—I won’t even be able to leave.
Not to go home to Chicago, not to go to a concert in another city.
I’ll be stuck here, within the borders of my territory, defending it.
But even beyond that, it’s a permanent tie. It’s a signal that I’m committing to this life, even if I am not committing to being the new Death.
Except … haven’t I already done that? I just blew up my life as normal human Jocasta Trelane by telling Chessa and Carter the truth.
I guess some dim, dumb part of me is hoping it can all be undone. That they’ll learn to accept me as I am and we’ll all go back to, I don’t know, Friday nights at Happy’s.
A ridiculous thought, given that the Friday nights at Happy’s started at my instigation so I could feed on Lennie and others with ease.
“I’ll think about it,” I say to Devon, as we round the corner by the Theta Iota house.
He’s quiet for a moment, then he says, “That’s a conflict-avoidant way of saying no.”
I trip over the edge of an uneven sidewalk square, gaping at him. “Who is the psychology major here?”
“I’ve been studying up.” He grins, and it tugs at me. Not in the magical way, but in the “cute guy is paying attention” way.
He took the time to research something important to me.
A pleasant warmth spreads through my chest. Okay, no, this is not a complication I need right now. But it’s … nice. To have a normal moment in the middle of this shit-tastrophe.
Actually, to be honest, it’s better than normal.
Most guys—human and otherwise—are far more interested in explaining their majors, plans, or sports in excruciating detail than in even hearing about mine.
And Devon learning more, voluntarily and on his own, without me present to witness the effort? Just … wow. Way better than normal.
“And when did you have time to acquire this academic prowess?” I tease.
He stops abruptly, and it takes me a second to realize he’s no longer with me.
I turn to face him, confused. “What’s wrong?”
“I always make time for what’s important to me,” he says with a seriousness that makes my pulse jump again.
You, you are important to me. That’s the implication, and I’m stunned by how much I want it to be true. The sudden swell of yearning takes me aback.
But Devon’s gaze holds mine, without hesitation or fear, and it sends a bolt of heat through me. He closes the small distance between us, the lapels of his open coat brushing against my chest.
We already decided this was a bad idea, didn’t we? With everything going on. With my own unresolved feelings with Carter. Though now, after Carter walked out on my confession, I guess that’s pretty much resolved on his end, if not exactly on mine.
So, bad idea or not—definitely bad, Jo—I let the moment unfurl, selfishly wanting to be wanted, after the sting of rejection.
Devon’s focus drops to my mouth, and I bite my lip reflexively.
He traces my cheekbone with his thumb, as if he’s touching something infinitely precious, unquestionably fragile. Then he curls his fingers beneath my jaw, tipping it up.
My breath catches audibly, and the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile, one I’ve never seen from him before. Not smirky or smug. Soft, uncertain, if anything.
He leans in, and my eyes close reflexively. His lips brush over mine, once, twice, and it’s almost a playful gesture. But when his tongue dips in to taste my mouth, I can’t stop a moan from escaping.
These light, gentle kisses radiate through my whole body, sparking a conflagration that I can’t control. A shudder runs through me.
More. I clutch at the front of his jacket and try to pull him closer, the soft fabric biting into my skin with the fierceness of my grip.
But with a final nuzzle against my cheek, Devon steps back.
I stumble forward after him, blinking hazily. Wait. What is happening?
“We should keep going,” he says.
Yes, yes, we should. I reach out for him.
With a glint of amusement in his eyes and something that looks like melancholy, Devon shakes his head and then jerks his chin toward the cemetery.
Fuck. Right. Work to do.
Aaannd keep in mind, he’s likely still in love with his poor dead girlfriend.
I grimace. Nice, Jo.
Devon starts walking again, and I follow after a beat, hurrying to catch up.
“Um,” I begin. Good, strong start, Jo. “Should we, uh, talk about … that?” Why am I out of breath? Gasping for air. It’s like I’m talking to my first crush again, Braedon Nichols, in sixth grade.
Devon glances sideways at me, through his lashes. “Do you want to talk about it?”
My face flushes hot even in the cold air.
“I don’t know, I just want to be sure—” I stop, my attention is caught by faint motion on the ground. Near the base of a tree in the front yard of the Oats’ house. The movement is odd … unsettling, even at a distance. Something about it just screams WRONG!
Dread pooling in my stomach, I tip my head to one side, squinting to try to make sense of what I’m seeing. “What is that?” I ask, pointing.
Devon follows my gesture. “I have no idea,” he says after a moment, not sounding happy about it.
At first glance, it appears to be just a thin drift of snow, accumulated against the rough bark of the trunk. But the contours and texture are all wrong, and so are the wispy movements.
Part of it is blowing gently with the wind.
Not individual snowflakes swirling in a mini-cyclone, as you might see with an actual drift.
No, this is more cohesive than that, like a long strip of nearly see-through fabric, the end of which is tattered and torn into five uneven segments rippling in the breeze.
Or …
My brain puts together the pieces belatedly. It’s a hand waving.