Chapter 31
The whine of the electric drill is piercing, even several floors below. And the sound of a power saw outside is working on my last nerve.
When I woke up this morning—a regular old Monday, in my own bed in Branwick—I had a headache worse than anything alcohol has ever given me. The dry mouth and nausea were no party, either. A magic hangover, I suppose.
But it’s worth it to be here at the hospital. The construction noise is from a service boarding up the broken-out windows in the lobby below, where the glass shattered as a result of a “freak earthquake in Beecher, the second in as many days.” That’s the official story, anyway.
The most important result, though, is sitting up in a bed across from me.
“This woman, she was trying to attack Chessa?” Daan presses the button on the bed remote to adjust his position a little higher. He’s awake today. Woke up shortly after I sent all that power into the ground last night—surprise, surprise.
He doesn’t remember anything after returning to campus on Saturday. The brain blocking out trauma would be my guess.
But he’s alive and well. For now.
I’m grateful, so grateful, but … I don’t know what that means for him. For anyone who was affected by that wave of magic. Will his recovery be permanent? What if there are unexpected side effects?
I’m just trying to focus on the positive aspect for now.
“They think she might have been a patient who escaped a secure ward,” I offer from where I’m leaning against the wall in the corner. Again, humans making up stories to make things make sense.
“And then Jo winds up and bashes her right in the face,” Devon says with obvious delight, rocking back in the visitor’s chair.
“And then this woman took her clothes off and ran away?” Daan asks with disbelief.
It’s a ridiculous story. But it’s not ours.
Not entirely. Before the security cameras cut out on the maternity floor, due to an “anomalous power surge,” they showed a confrontation that looked like nothing more than a bunch of hand-waving and people falling randomly on the floor.
And then, in the aftermath, when the authorities finally arrived, the confronter—a young woman—seemed to have vanished …
leaving nothing but a pile of clothing. The humans are doing their best to piece together what happened, based on their limited understanding of the world.
Last night, the police released us—Devon, Maggie, Shane, and me—as soon as they got us outside.
They knew enough to be looking for a woman fitting Nova’s description.
We gave statements, confused jumbles of truth and fiction, about a young woman abducting our friend and attacking us, without a mention of the words “magic” or “Death.” Devon may have helped a little in convincing them we weren’t involved.
One college student, an out-of-state visitor, a social media–famous meteorologist, and a skater kid from Danvers—we were an odd bunch.
Our statements made no sense, but then, neither did the limited security camera footage, so the police were stuck.
Detective Morales hasn’t found me for her conversation, but I expect she will.
I don’t think she’ll say anything to her colleagues because what can she say? She doesn’t know anything.
So, when Chessa texted me this morning to let me know that she had checked on Daan and he was awake, we decided between the two of us that he didn’t need to know either.
“It was wild,” Devon says, with a glance at me. He winks in a very obvious, flirtatious manner.
Chessa introduced Devon to Daan as “Jo’s new friend,” and Daan is clearly putting the pieces together now exactly as intended. He raises his eyebrows in an approving look.
I try not to squirm. It makes sense for that to be the story if Devon is going to be sticking around, which he obviously is, but I feel like it adds a layer of complication to my life that I don’t need right now.
Especially with things as … confusing as that one kiss made them.
But it’s nice to have someone around who knows the truth and has a solid understanding of the Old Ones.
I just miss Carter.
And I hate myself for it.
While Devon continues to regale Daan with the sanitized version of all that he missed, Chessa catches my eye and tips her head toward the door.
I follow her out.
“Are you all right?” she asks once we’re in the hallway, her arms folded awkwardly over one another. Her right arm is in a purple cast from wrist to elbow.
I shrug. “Hell of a headache, but that’s about it.
” The awareness of my connection to Beecher and to Carter, Devon, Shane, and Maggie has faded, mostly.
It lingers in the back of my mind, like a distant ache, something you don’t really feel until you move a certain way.
I’m choosing not to think about it for now.
“How’s your arm?” I ask.
Chessa makes a face. “Six weeks in a cast. It’s going to make it hard to keep up with my classes.”
I would offer to help, but I don’t know if that would be welcomed. The last time we spoke in a non-emergent situation, she told me she never wanted to talk to or see me again.
Silence fills the space between us for several beats, a level of awkwardness that has never existed between us before.
“So … are you staying?” she asks finally, kicking her shoe against the tile floor.
“In Beecher?”
She nods.
“Yeah.” I hesitate. It’s mine now. Not in the way I intended or expected, but mine nonetheless. And in a far more permanent fashion than grad school would have allowed. “But we don’t have to live … I mean, I can move out.” I probably should. It would be safer. For everyone.
Chessa takes a deep breath, and I brace myself against the oncoming hurt.
Then she looks up, shoving her falling glasses further up the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know. I’m already used to you. And who else is going to put up with all this weird-ass stuff?”
I want to laugh in relief. But I can’t; the sound is locked in my throat.
I shake my head. “It’s not over, Chessa.
There will be other challengers, other spawn looking for me.
” And anyone in range, in close proximity, physical or otherwise, will be a target.
“I’ll protect you as best as I can, but living with me …
being friends with me, even, it’s a risk. ”
Chessa is quiet for a long moment. I know her well enough to guess that she’s spinning scenarios, weighing odds, thinking of her family and her sisters before deciding. I stay quiet. I refuse to influence her one way or another, though I know what I would choose in her shoes.
“Probably safer to be in the know than pretending the danger doesn’t exist,” she says at last. But she doesn’t sound happy about it.
Same, Chessa. Same.
Monday classes may be remote—and canceled for the day, due to the “earthquake” last night—but Dr. Kelleher still wants me at work. She texted me while I was still at the hospital with Daan.
I could have called off. Probably should have. But no matter what else has changed, I still need my scholarship and, you know, money.
I burrow my head deeper into the pulled-up collar of my coat. My coat. It feels good to be back in my own clothes.
Before leaving for work and more spreadsheet fun, I stopped by the growing impromptu display for Lennie in the statue garden, right below my window at Branwick.
Beautifully arranged bouquets in all hues were mixed with handfuls of single roses, bravely attempting to withstand the cold.
She had so many friends on campus, not necessarily close ones, but friends nonetheless.
The picture of Lennie on the memorial posterboard propped against the wall was one she hated, though—her senior year portrait for the Beecher yearbook. She looks serious, studious, with her black off-the-shoulder blouse and the pearls around her neck. Nothing like who she actually is … was.
I carefully peeled off that photo and replaced it with one I’d printed off my phone. Lennie in a booth at Happy’s, her head thrown back in laughter, cheeks flushed a lively pink. I could never make up for what happened to her, but I could do that for her, at least.
The afternoon sun is bright in a pristine blue sky on my way to Hayes Hall—it almost feels like nothing ever happened. Everything is back to normal. On the outside, anyway.
The new connection to my “territory” feels … itchier. For lack of a better word. It’s moved to the forefront of my awareness. Like, somewhere along those spiderweb lines, something is vibrating or twitching.
It sends uncomfortable shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with the cold.
I ignore the feeling. It’ll go away again, eventually. It has to.
I try to focus instead on what Kelleher will have me doing and whether I’ll have time to sneak some work in on my paper that was supposed to be due today. Topic: “The Narcissistic Parent and Codependency: Generational Damage.”
I’m almost to Hayes when a car pulls up alongside the curb, slowing to a stop just ahead of me. It’s a sleek black sedan of some variety, with a livery license plate and a driver dressed in black behind the wheel.
The itch in my head turns into a shriek.
I stop, heart skittering in my chest. Instinctively, I grab for those threads, the ones vibrating with urgency. And power. My power. Huh. Maybe that’s why territory is such a thing for other spawn.
The back door of the car opens, and a man steps out.
His hair is silvery and slightly too long, touching his collar in the back. His nose has a bump in the bridge, like it was broken once.
He looks like a GenX tech bro, dressed in a loose patterned shirt, broken-in baggy jeans, and a dark blazer. Not intimidating at a glance, maybe someone who would go surfing in his free time.
Until you get close enough. Gray eyes as cold as slate. Sharp cheeks that cling to the bone underneath like his skull would very much like to pop out and say hello.
In other words, he looks exactly as he did the last time I saw him, even though it’s been years. If Old Ones age, they do it so slowly as not to be noticeable.
Death inclines his head toward me in greeting. “Jocasta.”
Mors. I swallow hard. “Father.”