With the phone to his ear, he asks a few questions, answers a few times. The only time he hesitates is when his gaze catches on mine. Then he turns away and answers whatever Carter is asking about.
I want to demand the phone back, shout at him that this is none of his business.
But I feel so small, shrunken down in myself, like I’mviewing all of this, including myself, at an enormous distance.Daan. Chessa.
And then Devon’s pulling on my hand and leading me out to the parking lot and the car.
Maggie and Shane are gone. I don’t know where they are, what Devon said to them. I don’t care right now.
Devon puts the windows down as he starts to drive, letting the cold air circulate until I can feel it biting at my cheeks, pulling me back to the surface of myself.
“I need you to tell me again what happened,” I say, voice hoarse, as if I’ve been screaming.
Devon gives me a sideways evaluating look. His hand is still locked with mine, and our intertwined fingers rest on the center console. I stare at our joined hands. I’m not sure if I reached for him or if he just took my hand again once we were inside.
I don’t remember the last time someone held my hand for an extended period of time. Or the last time I allowed it. It always felt too risky. Continuous close contact can make feeding more tempting, and if my control slips, it might be an accident, but an accident I would never forgive myself for.
The tattoos on my hands aren’t just a warning for others, but reminders for me as well. I am death, I am poison.
But right now, the warm grasp of Devon’s hand is reassuring, a stable tether in the midst of a hurricane-level chaos. And, if I’m honest, so is the knowledge that he is well aware of who I am and what I’m capable of but still chooses to offer that connection. My own mother hasn’t hugged me or touched me, except by accident, in eight years.
“Tell me,” I insist when Devon still hesitates.
“According to your friend Carter, Chessa and Daan went backto campus late last night. Some of Daan’s residents at the house where he lived were upset about what happened at the sorority earlier. He wanted to be there for them.”
My eyes sting. Of course he did. He pretends to grump about them, but he cares about his residents. Even the ever-annoying Emile.
“Chessa came back to campus with him. She was at Branwick when… it happened. She’s fine,” Devon says quickly.
“But Daan…” I prompt.
Devon draws in a breath, carefully making a turn at a red light. “He’s still alive.”
In the ICU.Those particular letters are burned into my brain.
“He and one other. They’re… being treated.”
As if the human doctors have any hope of being able to fix this. What exactly is the cure for being devoured from the inside out?
I can picture the scene in the ICU all too clearly. Daan’s blank eyes open and staring up at the ceiling, tubes and wires snaking around his body, making sure his heart is still beating, his lungs continuing to pump air.
But there may not be enough Daan left in there to ever be Daan again.
Someone got greedy and couldn’t finish their meal.That’s what this is. Eight students live in the Foreign Language House. Assuming they were all home, six are dead.
“Chessa called Carter, trying to reach you,” Devon finishes. “He met her at the hospital and was keeping her company when you called Chessa’s phone.”
Guilt creases my insides in a white-hot sizzling line. I should have been there. I could have stopped this.
You sure about that?The memory of that suffocating pressure returns, making my breath catch in my chest.
If nothing else, I could have at least distracted the spawn. I’m the actual target, after all.
“Stop,” Devon says, squeezing my hand. “I can hear you thinking over there. You made the choices you did to protect them.”
Anger swells in me like an overfilled balloon. I snatch my hand back from him. “Except it didn’t fucking work. Instead of leading the spawn away, I just left them, everyone, defenseless!” I shout at him, even though I know it’s not Devon I’m furious with.
He doesn’t respond, just lets me yell, which only makes me angrier.
