Page 44 of The Devil We Crave
“Hang on.”
Damiano disappears into the trees next to the path. A moment later, he emerges,sansgloves, wiping his palms on his jeans.
“Business?” I ask with a nervous smile.
“More like hobby. Come on.”
We start to walk down the path I just ran up, heading back toward campus. After a minute or two of silence, Damiano clears his throat.
“Who were you talking to, Yelena.”
“Nobod—”
“I’m not an idiot.”
I glance over at him, cocking a brow. “Okay, what wereyoudoing out at night, and what did you hide in the woods that you obviously didn’t want me to see?”
He glances at me, twisting his lips but saying nothing.
“Those questions aren’t the same weight,” he finally growls. “Who?—”
“No?” I smile sweetly as I step in front of him, forcing him to stop. “Then how about I throw in a slightlyweightierquestion concerning the black lipstick on your collar.”
His face tenses up, his hand going to the fabric near his neck.
“Huh,” I grin. “Seems we’ve reached an impasse on both subjects.”
He exhales slowly, shaking his head and giving me a searching look. “The longer we're at school together, the more Iunderstand why Uncle Nero and Aunt Milena asked me to keep an eye on you.”
I laugh. Damiano sighs, chuckles, and then ruffles my hair despite mysevereprotests as we turn and start heading back to Morvaine Manor.
But all the time I’m smiling and chatting with my cousin, I have the unshakeable feeling that there are eyes on me.
Haunting me.
Following me.
Not once blinking or looking away, even when I’m back in my room and sliding under the covers, wondering if it’ll be my dark nightmares or darker fantasies that welcome me to sleep.
8
ACHILLES
When I was little,I was obsessed with dinosaurs and trucks, which is hardly peculiar for a seven-year-old boy.
But it wasn’tjust“dinosaurs and trucks” as general interests. It was very specifically Velociraptors, who despite what Hollywood would try to tell you actually hunted alone, and vintage Chevy C10s.
That particular Dino. That particular truck. They were myworld. My parents called them my “fascinations”.
As I got older, my “fascinations” changed. At twelve, I knew every stat of every player ever to have swung a bat for the Yankees. Then it was every football player who’d played for the Giants. Then the Islanders. For a while, my parents thought I was just really getting into sports. But it was my mom who eventually figured out that these “fascinations” would drop, usually very suddenly, and beimmediatelyreplaced with something else.
Velociraptors were replaced by the Yankees in a matter of days. The Yankees and the Islanders were replaced at fourteen by anobsession with Napoleon. Distance running and weightlifting at seventeen. An intense fascination with all things Mozart and Chopin at nineteen.
At first, when they finally clued in to my pattern, my parents thought it was a sign of ADHD. Intensely latching on to a certain interest which becomes your entireraison d’êtreonly to drop it in a heartbeat for a new one is pretty textbook.
We saw plenty of specialists. My parents didn't want to “fix me” or anything. They saw nothing “wrong” with me. They just wanted to be able to provide me with all the tools and assistance I might need, given that I was the “The Drakos Heir”. Son of the King and Queen. Future monarch of the empire.
But none of the doctors and specialists thought it was ADHD, or OCD, or any other acronym ending inDfor “Disorder”.
