Page 131 of Death's Daughter
“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 mythroat. 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.Mycoat. 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 proppedagainst 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. Ithasto.
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.Mypower. 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.”
32
“Are you so concerned that I’m here to attack?” he asks, amusement creasing lines on his face. “It’s hurtful. I’ve never harmed you before, even in your more… defiant moments.”
