But Carter just nods.
We wait until the police officers are on the far end of the barricaded area, with their backs to us, and then we hurry across the street to the cemetery once more.
Devon and I crouch down near the cemetery’s center, trying to keep out of sight. Carter, however, stands ramrod straight, as if daring someone to challenge his right to be there.
Taking Devon’s hand in mine, I draw in a deep breath and focus. I haven’t pulled life from others this frequently… ever. What frightens me most is that it seems to be getting easier and easier. Like how the thing you told yourself you’d never do gradually becomes part of your new normal if you just keep crossing that line.
“I’m scared I’m going to kill you,” I blurt.
“You won’t,” he says, smiling at me. He reaches out with his free hand and tucks my hair behind my ear, out of my way.
I wish I had his confidence. It took real effort to stop myself from draining the Fear spawn, and this, too, feels like a slippery slope. Not just feeding but killing. It’s what I was made for. I’ve found ways around it, sure, but when it comes to instinct, desire, that’s where I live. To take lives.
The life in Devon swirls brighter, stronger than any I’ve seen before. I have the distant thought that maybe that’s because Devon, himself, is stronger than anyone else I’ve ever fed on. But I don’t have time to chase the idea or ask before raw greed rises up in me.
We all have that avaricious side to us. The id proclaiming, “I want it, so I’m going to take it.” But society—and, hopefully, awareness of others as individuals in their own right—trains usnot to act on our own need for immediate gratification. To consider others and laws regarding their rights before taking.
But this pure, unadulterated hunger that rises in response to Devon’s life joyously swimming in him is like nothing I’ve ever felt before. It hits with no warning, no ramp up. Just sudden and absolute need, even though I would have sworn I was fine seconds ago.
Without even making the conscious effort to do so, I’mpullingfrom him, our joined hands forming a bridge between us, as I drink him in, one overwhelming and delicious gulp at a time. It is endless and singular at the same time, until an irritating buzz begins in my ears.
I jerk my head to one side, like a horse trying to flick off a fly, but the distracting sound continues.
Then I realize it’s talking. Devon is talking to me. “Enough, Jo. Enough.” His voice is tiny, very far away.
I can ignore it. I can just keep drinking in his life. He can’t stop me. The thing in me that is me and not me at the same time—the part of me that is my father—shivers in delight.
But with the delight comes a vague sense of horror at my reaction. And it’s only the tiny whisper of self-loathing that pulls me, the conscious me, back into the driver’s seat.
Opening my eyes, I lurch back from Devon, untangling my hand from his, where I’d evidently locked onto his fingers. Carter is a shadow standing over us.
“No,” I croak.
“It’s okay. Try it again,” Devon says.
I try to shake my head no, but spirals of dizziness curl around me. Is this why my father does this? Does it always feel this good?
I won’t be able to stop myself next time. I know it.
“No. The claim,” Devon says, redirecting me with a gesture toward the ground.
Oh. That. Right.
Warm and drunk with the life moving in me, I reach down and touch the cold earth beneath the icy spears of grass. It takes me a moment to find the words. “Beecher is mine. I claim Beecher as my territory. Beecher is mine. Beecher is my territory.”
Just as before, I’m awash in the sensation of movement, in the feeling of my recently acquired energy departing in a cool rush.
“More. Push,” Devon says, nodding encouragement.
But there’s nothing more to give, and I can feel the first ripples of that rejection—the pushback—starting.
“I don’t… it’s not…” I try to explain but my words come out slowly, slurred.
Devon touches me, and instantly I feel the connection between us resume—me pulling from him, feeding from him, and channeling it into the ground.
No, no, no!
The tiny ripples of pushback from the ground swell into tsunami-sized waves and slam into me.
