The mention of Lennie stings like a slap against a still-bleeding wound. “Yeah. War spawn, I think.” My voice is rusty with emotion. “I haven’t been able to find them yet. I was hoping you might have information.”
Devon nods, his mouth tight. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” He pauses, seeming to search for the right words. “There will be others. Thereareothers,” he corrects himself with a grimace. “Some, like me, will want to ally, seeking refuge for a variety of reasons. Others… they’ll want to challenge you because your father has deemed you a worthy successor. Even if you can convince your father to take it back, it won’t matter.”
He waits, watching expectantly for understanding to dawn.
And it does, with a spiral of sickening clarity.
The spawn will still come after me. They’ll challenge me because I am here to be challenged. And to defeat one who Death has chosen, even once, is a big opportunity to be a high-scorer. It would be good for bragging rights, to say the least, and the Old Ones and those who follow them have killed for less. Even being raised “outside,” I know that.
But as bad as that is, that’s not even the worst part.
A black hole opens in my chest, and I look to Devon, willing him to speak up to say that what I’m thinking is wrong, that I’ve assembled these puzzle pieces to form a horrific image that cannot be true.
Instead, that soft expression of sorrow returns, his green eyes holding mine as he gives a slight nod.
I swallow convulsively over a sudden lump in my throat.Devon said he thought he would be the first one here, after the announcement.
He might be the first seeking an ally, but he’s not the first challenger.
Lennie didn’t die because some random spawn decided to try me for the unclaimed territory of Beecher, territory that no one probably cares about, being a dead zone and all.
Territory spats are temporary by nature, even when someone’s being a jackhole and torturing and taunting to prove their strength. It’s a one-on-one battle that ends when someone dies or concedes. Period.
No, Lennie died because my father painted a giant flashing target on my back. And with it, on everyone I care about. By naming me, my father has guaranteed I will be under siege, along with anyone I’m connected to.
Now and forever. For as long as I’m alive.
Oh, fuck.
13
“I have to go.” My words come out clipped, short. “I can’t do this right now.”
Devon looks like he wants to object, but he compresses his mouth into a line. Then he says, “Just… be careful.”
Be careful? I’m the heir apparent to Death. Careful doesn’t cover it.
I stagger into the hallway and down the stairs; it feels like the house is spinning around me.
“Jo, hey. When did you get here?” Aadesh asks, sounding vaguely confused as he passes me on the steps, a plate of pizza in his hands.
I shake my head at him, unable to answer.
Why would my father do this? It makes no sense. He hasn’t spoken to me in years. Then again, I suppose his decision doesn’t have to make sense. As long as he’s fucking entertained.
Death has always preferred to be hands-on in his approach. Drifting from place to place and feeding as he sees fit, amusing himself as he watches humans plead for their lives or the lives oftheir loved ones. Once there were even temples dedicated to his various incarnations, and human sacrifices were just part of the deal. These days, not so much.
So if I’m not useful to him as spawn, maybe he thinks watching my life blow up in bloody bits might be fun. But why now? Because I’m the closest to happy I’ve ever been at Beecher? I could see him being pissed about that.
My father thinks I owe him my life. And I do. Not in the usual sperm-meets-egg sense, either. His choice was far more deliberate, with immediate consequences.
Death broke his rules for me. I was dying before I was born. Until he intervened.
My mother had joined her husband on a dig, somewhere in Mexico. He, Jim, was an archaeologist. She left him sleeping in the hotel one night to drink in a bar. She was pregnant, but after six miscarriages in four years, she knew what was happening. She was losing another baby. Me, this time.
In his words, he found “this charming woman,” utterly desolate and alone, nursing a drink. He “felt called to her.”
Yeah. I bet he did. Despite knowing that there was nothing she could have done, she blamed herself. That sense of failure, rejection, even, would have been enough to draw his attention.
