Page 31 of Death's Daughter
His eyebrows arch upward. “Wait out here, while you what? Go try to find that guy from Happy’s last night?”
My mouth falls open. Apparently he does remember last night, at least some of it. “I don’t…”
“I’m not an idiot,” Carter says. “And I know you.”
I try to ignore the warmth his words generate inside me. To be known—isn’t that what we all want? Though in this case, he definitely does not mean it in a positive way. Kind of like knowing when your friend is going to shove her whole foot in her mouth or drink too much even when she’s promised to be the DD.
“His name is Devon. At least that’s what he said,” I say finally. “He was talking to Lennie. One of the last people to talk to her, most likely. I want to see if he can tell me anything. That’s all.” And that’s the truth, if not the whole truth.
I mean, come on. No magic in Beecher for years, other than mine. Then, on the same night a fellow spawn shows up, Lennie dies a magic-induced death? That cannot just be chance.
Carter’s fingers drum a tight rhythm on the roof before he stops himself. “You think he killed her,” he says.
“No,” I say quickly. “That’s not Devon’s style.” But he might know whose style it is. A Lust spawn shows up on campus out of nowhere; it doesn’t seem impossible that another spawn might do the same.
“And how do you know that?” he asks, mouth flattening into an unhappy line. “What is or is not Devon’s style?”
Interesting. Someone sounds almost… could it be jealous?
“You just met him,” Carter adds.
Yeah, but he’s a child of Lust and he’s way more into fucking than fucking me over?
I lift a shoulder in what I hope will pass as a casual shrug. “I just… know his type.”
“Jocasta, if you think he’s involved, confronting him is incredibly dangerous,” Carter says in that stern voice of his. “You need to let the police handle this.”And everything elseis the unspoken addendum.
Irritation flickers to life in me. Funny, I only like that bossy tone of his in certain situations. Usually with his hands under my clothes.
Unfortunately for both of us, that’s not right now.
“Like I said, you can wait out here.” I bare my teeth in the semblance of a smile.
I shut my car door and start toward the motel office. It takes only a second or two before I hear the echo of another door and Carter’s steps on the crumbling asphalt after me.
I draw in a deep breath and exhale slowly. It would just be so much easier if he waited outside, but he’s trying to keep me safe. It’s sweet, if unnecessary.
Carter catches up to me, pulling even with my stride. For a second, I think he’s going to try to block the door—not a good idea—but instead he reaches for the handle, intending to go in first. Protecting me again. It’s been so long since anyone has done that on my behalf—it sets off a wholly impractical yearning in me.
I wonder if the new girl, the one from last night, appreciates that quality in him, or if she finds it old-fashioned and annoying. It can be frustrating, yes, patriarchal, even. Except I don’t think Carter steps up because he believes he’s better or stronger as a guy, more just because he wants to protect everyone. It sort of makes me curious what his home life was like.
Before Carter can pull the door open, I stop him with a hand on his shoulder. “Uh, you should know that he probably won’t be happy to see me.”
“Who, the Devon guy?” he asks. “I thought you didn’t know him.”
“No, Erik.”
Confusion clouds his face. “Who’s Erik?” he asks.
I shake my head. “You’ll see.”
9
An electronic bell crackles abling-blongoverhead as Carter pulls open the glass door to the Nantucket Inn’s office. The office itself is utterly generic. Anyone walking in here expecting Nantucket Island or cozy vibes is going to be sorely disappointed.
Black and gray striped squares of indoor/outdoor carpeting tile the floor in a dizzying pattern. A pair of faux leather chairs with shiny metal legs, the kind no one ever sits in, wait in front of the glass windows. A metal spinning rack holds a series of faded brochures about local attractions and features of interest.
But my primary interest is, as I expected, asleep at the front desk, cheek resting on the crease of what appears to be an econ textbook. Erik Simmons goes to Beecher part-time and he’s local, like Chessa. Exceptnothinglike her.
