Page 96 of Marked By His Hunger

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What was he doing here?

He didn’t know me.

I was nobody.

Just the chubby, weird girl who sees ghosts and blurts it out in a tavern full of supernaturals.

God.

Everyone knew now.

Roommates.

Dietrich.

The other dude—Olaf, I think.

Basically, Buckie’s entire clientele.

I had finally told the truth, and what did it get me?

Fear.

Judgment.

Distance.

Like always.

My chest tightened—not from magic this time—from abject humiliation.

The tears came again.

And that was new.

I don’t cry.

I stopped crying when I was twelve, and a ghost followed me home for six months, whispering about how she drowned in a bathtub.

Ghosts latch onto sadness.

They cling to it.

Feed on it.

I learned early that if I wanted quiet, I needed to be calm.

Cheerful.

Serene—like my name.

Yeah, right.

I just needed to fake it long enough, and maybe the dead would lose interest.

But tonight—tonight I’d cracked.

And the universe had responded with slug-women from hell.

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