Chapter 22
Carter is leaning against the wrought iron fence near the main gate, hands wrapped around two of the black metal supports, just below the sharp-edged finials on top.
He’s still in the rumpled shirt and jeans he was wearing at the hospital, but now he has a battered leather jacket over the top.
And in typical Carter fashion, he doesn’t look entirely happy to be here—jaw tight, mouth set in a firm but lush line.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, scrambling to my feet and trying to ignore the embarrassment scorching my cheeks. I have no idea how much of that little temper tantrum he witnessed, but any of it would be too much. “How did you know where to find me?”
A corner of his mouth turns up in a small smile. “It’s always easy to find you, Jocasta. You’re always where you’re not supposed to be. Generally in the middle of trouble.” He tips his head toward the fire trucks and police cars in the street.
His words might have stung, but they were said with a sort of sad fondness that tugs at my heart instead.
Shit. I can’t decide whether that gives me hope or just adds to the sickening anxiety spiral.
I brush myself off and head toward him. “That doesn’t explain why you’re here,” I say, proud of how calm I sound. I’m fine if you’re here to further reject me and the absolutely world-shattering news I gave you earlier. Totally cool. Cool, cool, cool.
Carter takes a breath, then hesitates. “I need to talk to you.”
Well. Never in the history of the world, either the human version or the Old Ones, has that ever been followed by good news.
“Okay,” I begin uncertainly. “You want to give me a hint about—”
“Hey! What are you two doing? You’re not supposed to be in there!” one of the firefighters shouts.
Everyone standing by the giant hole in the road across from the cemetery turns to stare at us. Carter holds up a hand. “Sorry. We’re leaving,” he calls back.
“We are?” I ask.
“Yes.” He opens the main gate, which pivots much more smoothly than the side gate I used, to let me out.
“I can’t leave,” I say, as we cross the street away from the cemetery, toward the front lawn of Theta Iota house.
“Not right now, not until I figure this out.” I wave my hand in a vague gesture at the cemetery and the torn-up road.
“Something is here. I think.” Though, if that’s true, what’s the delay?
Why not just come out and kill me? It’s incredibly frustrating.
Carter opens his mouth, reluctance writ large on his face. “Right. I understand. I just think it would be better if—” His gaze shifts to a point behind me, and his expression morphs along with it, resuming that distant unreadable look I’m familiar with.
He used to look at me that way in class, skimming right past me, his face set in stone. Like he didn’t know who I was or care to know. Back then, I hoped it was his method for hiding strong emotions. These days, I don’t know anymore.
When I glance back, I find Devon approaching rapidly, features grim.
Aadesh is trailing after him, a smaller pile of flyers in hand.
“Jo, I found three more of those skin things on the other side,” Devon says quietly, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the street on the opposite side of the cemetery.
A residential street, not university owned or affiliated.
Just people, families, children.
So, not only on campus then. And possibly spreading.
“Okay,” I say. Except … what am I supposed to do now? I have no idea.
“I tried to claim Beecher,” I tell Devon before he can suggest it again. “It didn’t work. So either I did it wrong or something is messed up here, possibly connected to everything else.”
He nods, but his eyes are fixed on Carter. “I doubt you did it wrong,” Devon says to me. “I don’t think there is a wrong. Just intention and power. So your hypothesis that all the anomalies are connected seems more likely. What is he doing here?”
The topic change catches me off guard, so it takes me a second to make the leap. “Carter? He came because he wanted to talk to me…” I turn sideways to include them both in the conversation.
“I just wanted to let you know that I’m here. If I can help,” Carter says to me, but his tone is flat and his gaze never strays from Devon.
“Excellent. Welcome, brother.” Devon’s faint accent is stronger, icier. “I always say it’s better to take action than, I don’t know, watch from the sidelines.”
That feels oddly specific.
“I’m just concerned about Jocasta. I want to make sure someone is looking out for her instead of his own agenda,” Carter says.
It’s as if I don’t exist, standing between the two of them while they shoot laser-beam eyes at each other over my head.
What is this?
“Okay, enough.” I hold my hands up to stop them. “I don’t know what you two are doing, but it’s weird and gross. I can take care of myself, thank you, and we can use all the help we can get. Got it?”
Devon, at least, has the sense to look a little ashamed, dropping his gaze. Carter remains impassive, but the tension in his frame seems less.
Thank God.
Aadesh reaches us then, breathless. “Jo, hey. Did you tell her about the notes on the doors?” he asks Devon. Then he clocks Carter in what would, under other circumstances, be a hilarious double take. “Oh. Carter. Uh, hi?” Aadesh sounds confused to find his former TA here. Which, same.
Carter nods at him in a formal manner, one that gives “teacher trying not to be annoyed” vibes. “Aadesh.”
“What notes?” I ask.
“People have been leaving notes on their doors, telling household members who aren’t home where they’re going.
That’s what the emergency alert advised,” Aadesh says quickly.
“Most of them are taking shelter at the public library on that side.” Aadesh gestures toward the houses in the residential area.
“On our side, they’re heading to Wibberley.
But Devon thinks…” He pauses, glancing at Devon with uncertainty.
“I think that the notes might indicate someone from that house is missing,” Devon says smoothly. “If they can’t be found to evacuate with the others.”
Or if there’s a fucking husk nearby.
“It might be worth noting which buildings seem to be missing an occupant or two,” Devon continues. “To give us a range.”
And a rough body count.
Aadesh frowns. “A range?”
“For the university or the cops,” I say, hoping that will be enough to satisfy him.
“Oh.” Aadesh nods, but his brows are still drawn together in confusion. “But why would they—”
“In fact,” I cut in, “why don’t you give us the rest of your posters for Jack and we’ll hang them? You can head home.”
He pulls his bundle of pages closer to his chest with an uneasy smile. “I don’t know, I feel like this is my responsibility, and my flight doesn’t even leave for another—”
Carter reaches out and plucks the flyers from Aadesh’s hands.
“Done,” I say brightly.
After we talk Aadesh into actually leaving—with a little push from Devon in the end—and explain to Carter what to look for, Carter, Devon, and I set out to try to find the boundaries of the phenomenon.
It takes a little over an hour and a half to walk the area surrounding the cemetery, expanding outward in a block-by-block spiral.
And when the three of us meet up again in front of the Theta Iota house, we’ve got a rough estimate of twelve to fifteen people possibly missing, based on the notes.
We’ve found eleven husks between the three of us.
Devon pulls his sketchpad from his back pocket and marks them on the campus drawing, which he’s going to have to expand.
The farthest one out is two blocks to the east. But it may have blown there. Maybe. And of course we can’t go behind the barricade, so we’re missing that block.
So the numbers are probably, most definitely, higher than even our best estimate.
“I’m about to find a shovel and start digging up graves,” I say flatly, staring at the cemetery across the street.
But the cemetery takes up an entire block, side to side and front to back. Short of a backhoe or a lot of luck, it would take weeks. Weeks we don’t have because I’m pretty sure this, whatever it is, is getting stronger.
This does make me reconsider Devon’s suggestion that the magic might be connected to Beecher itself, rather than a spawn that’s (still, unbelievably) hiding. But I don’t understand how I could have lived here this long without noticing it before.
Unless … it’s because something else has changed. Not me, not Beecher, but some other, unknown factor that I’m not aware of.
All I can say for sure is that I never felt magic on campus, not even a hint of it, until yesterday morning, when I found Lennie’s body.
“I doubt they would look favorably on that,” Carter says in response to my shovel idea, nodding at the two police officers who were left to guard the barricade after everyone else departed. They look bored and cold. Probably not a good combination.
I’m tempted to shout at both of them, “Wake up, don’t you see you’re in danger? Everyone’s in danger!”
But it would do no good. They wouldn’t believe me. I’m lucky—uncharacteristically so—that Carter is here and not looking at me like I’m one White Claw short of a six-pack.
Humans are attached to their myths and stories—most of the time, they prefer them. And they get really angry and scared when something comes along that doesn’t fit within the standard narrative.
And the existence of magic—magic that’s killing people—definitely qualifies.
Just a little pull from both of them, and they wouldn’t notice a damn thing. They’d wake up a year or two closer to death, but …
No. I shake my head. No!
Exhausted, I scrub my freezing hands over my face and stomp my feet to get the blood circulating into my toes.
My nose is so cold I can’t even tell if it’s running anymore.
It’s a stupid thing to worry about, but I would rather not walk around with streams of snot pouring over my upper lip in plain view of my former hookup.
Bigger fish, Jo.