“This is exactly why I cannot be who you want me to be,” I say, turning in my seat to face him. “Do you get that now? This is not who I am. I have no idea what I’m doing! I cannot be Death, new or otherwise.”
“So you’ve said,” he responds evenly.
“What doesthatmean?”
“It means no one expects you to be perfect,” he begins.
“I do! In this situation, I expect me to be perfect,” I hiss at him. Tears well up in my eyes, and I swipe at them furiously.Not now!
“Then you’re lacking context,” he says without hesitation. “Consider what anyone else in your situation might have done. Fled? Ignored the human deaths to create a stronghold within the confines of the university and stabilize your new grasp on authority? Or destroyed the entire town to out your enemy?”
Any and all of those have been, I’m aware, strategies in the past, some of them even from my own father. Generally in the middle of a larger power struggle between the Old Ones themselves. Which, I suppose, is what this is. Indirectly.
“None of those are viable options,” I mutter.
“Viability is in the eye of the beholder,” Devon reminds me gently. “You, instead, removed yourself from the situation hoping to protect innocent lives and, in the process, risked your own.”
I open my mouth to argue.
“And no, it didn’t work,” he agrees. “But you made the choice that was aboutthem, the people you care about, the humans in this town, not about you. That’s all anyone can ask. All you can ask of yourself.”
I hate how much I want to believe him, to let myself off the hook. But I don’t deserve it. I’m already failing. How much harder would I fail if I accepted my fate as my father’s heir, with even more people counting on me?
I shudder.
“No one wants you to be anything more than you already are,” Devon says. He takes his gaze from the road, his brow furrowing at the sight of my stupid tears. He reaches up and brushes his thumb over my cheek, wiping some of them away. And the warmth of his touch soothes something in me.
Lust power again.Except I’m really not so sure that it is, this time. I’m beginning to trust him.
Before I contemplate all the ways in which that is a terrible idea, we’re turning into the hospital parking lot.
Beecher Memorial Hospital is a small facility, only a few stories tall. But wealthy Beecher alums and parents of current students have made their influence known here as well. Heavy wooden benches and modern sculptures in shiny metal blobs and jagged edges line the exterior, as if it’s a museum instead of a healthcare facility. Its bright white structure with clean modern lines screams, “Trust us. We have money and resources!”
The main entrance is quiet, with only a minivan in the turnaround and a few people lingering under the overhang, near the revolving doors. They’re on their phones or smoking or sitting on a bench staring despondently down at their empty hands.
Shit.
Devon swings toward an empty visitor parking spot in the first row. He’s turned the car off, unbuckled his seat belt, and opened his door before he realizes I haven’t moved.
“Jo?” he asks, frowning at me.
The boiling cauldron of despair and self-loathing in my chest has morphed into a paralyzing wave of fear and self-loathing.
I don’t know if I can do it. If I can walk in there and see my friend, my Daan, lying so still and empty on the bed. See Chessa watching me with hostility, blaming me for not being there. Carter shaking his head in disapproval.
Fuck.I cross my arms over my chest, squeezing tight.
To his credit, Devon doesn’t ask me if I’m all right. A stupid question to ask in most every situation it’s usually asked in.
Instead he sits quietly in the driver’s seat, waiting while I wrestle with my feelings.
I can’t stay out here. I won’t hide. Even if Chessa and Carter are angry with me, they have the right to be, even if only for the stuff they know about. They have the right to be angry about so much more. And Daan… I owe Daan so much more than just a visit.
You will not be a coward about this, not this time.
“All right.” Steeling myself, I unbuckle my seat belt with one hand and open the door with the other, not allowing a moment for second-guessing or for the fear to dig in deeper.
It’s finally stopped sleeting and snowing, but the air is so coldit hurts to inhale. Every breath emerges as a cloud of thick white steam that looks solid.
