At the bar, I raise up on my tiptoes to see over the crowd and follow the direction of Dove’s transfixed stare.
Despite the sheer volume of bodies in Happy’s, I pick the stranger out almost instantly.
He’s leaning against one of the high-top tables by the dartboards, a mug of beer in one hand. Dressed in dark jeans and an expensive-looking white cable-knit sweater, one of those Irish ones, he stands out among students in their puffer jackets and bright purple Beecher sweats like a predator in a herd of unwitting gazelles.
Or el chupacabra in a daycare.
He’s handsome, of course. A messy tousle of dark hair, strong brows that might be on the edge of too thick, a square chin straight out of a superhero comic book. It’s not his individual features so much as their combination that creates the allure, the charisma that makes it hard to look away from him.
But it’s more than just his appearance; it’s the semicircle ofpeople around him, drawing closer every second. Like they’re dying of thirst and he’s the oasis they’ve been searching for.
He must sense me watching, because his gaze snaps from his adoring fans straight to me, direct, unflinching. Like he doesn’t care who sees him see me. Green eyes meet mine steadily, sending a bolt of attraction zipping down my spine.
Stupid lust magic.
As if he knows what I’m thinking, he winks at me. Then he mouths words, so carefully, so precisely, that I can “hear” him all the way across the room.
“Hello, Death’s Daughter.”
My breath vanishes like I’ve been punched in the lungs, and I struggle to inhale.
He knows who I am.
Instantly, I lower myself from my tiptoes to stand flat-footed, blending in with the crowd a little more. Bad enough that he knows I’m like him—a child of the Old Ones—but knowingmeis worse, so much worse.
My heart thunders in my chest, like the hoofbeats of panicked horses pounding down the beach.Okay, okay, calm down.
This guy can’t be here for a territorial dispute. No one has claimed Beecher, the town or campus. No children of who-the-hell-ever anywhere around. Beecher is the magical equivalent of an abandoned house, as far as the Old Ones are concerned. I made sure of that before I confirmed my enrollment freshman year.
But this is a hella aggressive way to introduce himself. So there’s a decent chance that hewantsconflict. Probably so he can claim to have bested Death’s Daughter. Sweat gathers at my hairline. I can’t go through that again, can’t do that again.
But… running isn’t an option, either. He’ll just follow mearound campus, into classes, maybe even my dorm. It’s not like he’d have a hard time convincing someone to let him in.
I rub my palms, damp with sweat, down my jeans.Okay, so talk to him, de-escalate the situation, and then get him out of Beecher. That’s the plan.
“Jocasta?” Carter asks, his voice rough.
Shit.I managed to forget all about Carter, even with him right here.Get it together, Jo.
“Sorry. I saw someone I know from home so I…” The words die in my throat as I shift to face Carter.
His expression is soft with heat, pupils widened to dark pools of desire. He must be right on the edge of this guy’s range. He’s clearly affected but not so much that he’s drifting toward the other side of the bar to be closer to the source. Not yet, anyway.
I swallow back a wordless scream of frustration.
I take a deep breath.Okay, okay, it’s fine. This is fine.“Never mind,” I say to Carter gently. “I need you to go wait at the booth for me, okay?” I rest my hands on his biceps to nudge him back toward the booth, but he twists away, catching at my hand.
His thumb presses into the center of my palm with just the right amount of pressure. It sends a pulse of heat through me. I’ve never thought of my palm as a particularly sensitive or sensual body part, until now.
“I wanted to hate you,” Carter says plainly.
I freeze. This is part of the lowered inhibitions aspect.Stupid, stupid lust magic.
“You’re going to ruin my plans. Destroy my life.” Carter’s jaw tightens. “And I still want you anyway. You’re like me. Caught up in a mess you didn’t choose.”
Something in my chest gives an agonized twist. He’s right—even more than he realizes—but that doesn’t stop it from hurting. Sometimes honesty isn’t the best policy, especially the magically induced kind.
Okay, enough.“Maybe we can talk about this later, when you’re feeling more like yourself,” I say, guiding him away from the bar. “But for now, I just need you to go back to the booth so I can—” I stop, my gaze locking onto our destination.
