Page 54 of Death's Daughter
Eat. Take. Feed.
Gritting my teeth, I step back. It doesn’t help. Nothing is going to help but getting out of here.
But what’s becoming increasingly clear today is there’s no place for me to go.
15
I stare at my reflection in the water-spotted bathroom mirror. Under the harsh fluorescent bulbs, my skin is too pale, pallid, even. The few freckles across the bridge of my nose look more like gray spots.
The water pouring out of the tap is hot enough to send tendrils of steam upward, but the yellow bar of soap—removed from its clear plastic wrapper—is cheap and crumbly. Impossible to lather.
I do my best.
Of all the places in and around Beecher that I might have considered a refuge—the basement at P. Edgars where no one ever goes because of the relentless spider colony and the shelves of semi-creepy artifacts dug up from the original Beecher village, the Around the Clock diner, Weir Hall (the sciences building), Chessa’s parents’ house—the Just Fuck It wouldn’t even make the list. Under normal circumstances.
But after Devon drove around campus and town for the better part of an hour, I gave up. There just aren’t that many places that I knew could meet the—admittedly complicated—qualifications.
Somewhere without a bunch of innocent bystanders as potential victims, isolated enough that the spawn wouldn’t have a place to hide while attacking, but not so isolated that I couldn’t be easily found.
Here, there are no houses or residence halls nearby. The old KFC restaurant next door is boarded up, which means that its parking lot and the Nantucket’s empty swimming pool provide lots of open space to see someone lurking or approaching.
Not to mention, the funk of depression hangs heavy over this place. Even as we were checking in—Devon paying with a credit card that definitely did not have his name on it—a man came in with an overstuffed duffel bag, trailing dress-shirt sleeves and an air of resignation.
I was able to pull from him enough to take the edge off my hunger, for now. But it is rumbling beneath the surface, sending up spiky demands for more.
Food. Now. Food now!
I may have to walk past the other rooms, see if I can source more. Especially if I have to take on someone that powerful again.
A needlelike pain stabs behind my left eye, and I lift a dripping hand to press against it. I’ve never felt anything like that pressure and intensity, when I tried to interfere and save that girl, Izzy. It was like I was being turned inside out, scraped clean. An ice cream container torn open at the seams to suck out every last bit of goodness.
The stabbing sensation fades slightly, and I lower my shaking hand back to the water to continue scrubbing. Between my fingers and under my nails.
There’s no blood. Never was. Not this time. I touched Izzy’s shoulder, that was all. But my hands still feel dirty.
Because it’s my fault. Even though I don’t know her, I’m still responsible for what happened to her.Ibrought this to campus—or rather, my father did, with his announcement. And thanks to my decision to stay out of the Old Ones’ world, I have no idea how to handle it.
The soap breaks apart in my hands, chunks of it falling into the sink.
“Fuck,” I hiss. I toss the remnants of the bar into the shell-shaped sink to join the rest and turn off the water.
Scrubbing my reddened hands on my jeans, I force myself to walk away from the sink and back into the main room.
Devon is propped up against the headboard of one of the queen beds, the contents of several Walmart bags spread around him on the ugly peacock-blue bedspread. Again, I suspect these purchases were courtesy of a “borrowed” credit card, though I wasn’t there to see it.
I stayed in the car. I could too easily picture a scene in which Devon and I are wandering the aisles and humans start dropping left and right around us, bleeding, choking, dying, from some unseen force.
Instead, I focused on pulling emotional “sips” from shoppers passing by—hints of depression, despair, or failure—in the parking lot to keep myself going.
Devon returned to the car with protein-heavy snacks, water bottles, a bunch of new clothes in various sizes, a first aid kit, a disposable phone for me, and a small sketch pad and pencils.
It’s the sketch pad, propped up on his raised knee, that he’s currently frowning over, tapping a pencil against the underside of his chin.
The phone, three different types of snacks, and a pile of neatlyfolded clothes are laid out for me on the other bed. The tags have already been removed from the clothes, ready for me to wear. The impossible plastic packaging around the phone has been torn open, but the phone remains still nestled inside.
He’s helping me. Making things easier for me.The realization brings an unexpected pulse of warmth and gratitude.
But the wave of suspicion that follows is immediate and fierce.He just wants you to let your guard down, to trust him, a cynical voice in my head says.And maybe win some bonus thoughtfulness points while he’s at it.
