Page 88 of Death's Daughter
Devon eyes us but says nothing about it. Guilt pinches hard in me. “There’s one more thing I want to try if you’re game, Jo,” Devon says.
“She needs to eat and warm up,” Carter says.
“Maybe you should leave it up to her,” Devon argues.
Not this again.I sense we’re seconds away from laser-eyes again and I am rapidly losing patience. It’s weird—this is not like jealousy, who gets to sit next to me or whatever, but more about which version of me they know and want to see. Carter knows me as a student and plain old human, Jocasta Trelane. To Devon, I’m Death’s daughter and a whole bunch of hope and the prospect of change. Both cannot exist simultaneously.
“What’s your idea?” I ask Devon loudly over the top of them arguing.
“I want you to try to claim Beecher again—”
“But it didn’t work—” I begin.
“—with me,” he finishes. “I want you to pull from me and then try it again.”
I gape at him, mouth open, nerve endings stinging in the cold air.
“No,” I say, when I’ve recovered. “No fucking way.”
“Listen to me.” Devon steps closer, cutting between Carter and me. “If it’s about strength, then maybe you need to be at full power before—”
I step back, folding my arms across my chest. “I’m full. I just fed on that Fear spawn, remember?” Then I grimace, realizing how that must sound to Carter. “It was self-defense,” I say to him.Mostly.
“You’ve been living on the bare minimum for so long, love, I think your capacity may be diminished,” Devon says gently. As if he’s not calling me defective. “You might need more than you realize.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “That’s a hell of a risk to take for a ‘might.’”
“I’m not that selfless.” He gives me that charming, full-tooth smile. “For just a minute or two. Won’t cost me that much.”
“More than I’m willing to take,” I snap.
“You want to protect Beecher, the people here, right?” he asks. “This will help you do that. If Beecher is your territory, you’ll be more closely connected. You might be able to better pinpoint whoever is behind this. Force them out of hiding.”
“Might,” I repeat.
“She said no,” Carter says tersely.
“And as I believe I said, it’s up to her. Unless you have another idea or additional information to contribute to the conversation?” Devon beams at him, but there’s hardness behind the surface of that smile.
Carter’s jaw tightens, a muscle at the back jumping beneath his skin, but he stays silent.
“You really think that might make a difference?” I ask Devon.
“I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t,” Devon says.
I want to argue, but what he’s saying kind of makes sense. Not every spawn is strong enough to claim territory. I always assumed I would be—I’m first generation and my father is Death. But because I’ve worked hard to survive on as little as possible, my current version of “full” may not be enough.
“Thirty seconds,” I counter.
“A minute, at least,” Devon says back calmly, with no concern.
I don’t like it. I really don’t like it.
But… if claiming Beecher would help us figure out what the hell is going on or stop it, it might be worth the risk. Sort of.
I look to Carter. “If it looks like this is going wrong, if he’s too pale or”—I pause, grimacing—“aging before your eyes, I need you to interrupt. Throw something at me. Don’t touch him. Don’t touch me. You might get pulled in. Okay?”
In his place, I think I would have a thousand questions. Or I would have noped out of here the second we had to talk about husks. I mean, seriously. He was just some random guy who hadthe misfortune to sit next to me on a couch at a party one time. That’s how it all started.
