“How fucking selfish can you possibly be?” I demand. “You killed her to protect yourself!”
His eyes snap open. “If I failed, if War sent someone else in my place, how do you think that would have ended?” he asks quietly.
With more deaths, more bloodshed. Perhaps even direct conflict between War and Death themselves. It’s only Carter’s tight control over his own needs and his divided allegiance that have let us get this far, I suspect.
But I don’twantthat to be the case. I don’t want to be grateful. That feels wrong.
“So you followed Lennie to Branwick?” I continue.
Exhaustion and defeat hang heavy on his shoulders. “Yes.”
I can see the scenario now. Lennie in her manic “You’re never going to believe this!” mode, approaching the doors to Branwick to knock frantically until someone lets her in. It happened all the time.
Carter is right; she would have been eager to puncture my happiness, especially in the name of helping me, after our fight the night before. Not only would she get to be a good friend—by her definition—she would also gain that bit of self-satisfaction to help soothe away the sting of Carter’s earlier rejection.
“And then what, you called her name? Tricked her into the statue garden, away from the cameras? Maybe by asking her to talk.” She would have gone. Without hesitation. Because she knew,shethought, she had leverage in that situation. And because, in spite of everything, she still wanted Carter to choose her.
“I wanted her to be away from the cameras at the entrance, yes,” he admits readily. “But Jocasta, I never intended to frame you.”
So I was wrong about that, wrong about everything.
“And I tried to talk Lennie out of telling you. I told her it wasn’t what she thought. I asked her to let me speak to you first.”
But I already know how that went, and not just because of the outcome. I know—knew—Lennie well; she would never go for that.
In a way she chose me over Carter, but it’s more that she chose to be important, to be necessary. Her parents’ inattention always made her more vulnerable—she needed to be needed. But more than that, she wanted to feel that she’dearnedbeing needed.
“She refused. So I did what I had to do.” His mouth is a flat line. “It was quick. As painless as I could make it.” He swallows audibly.
“I promised…” I swallow and try again. “I promised that I would get justice for Lennie’s death. That I would kill the War spawn responsible.”
He doesn’t seem surprised. He moves closer, entering my space. “I chose a side, Jocasta. Yours. I haven’t told War anything since Friday night.”
Meaning he hasn’t reported that I told Chessa about our existence. That alone might have been enough of an excuse for the Old Ones to shut me up permanently. Though maybe that calculation has changed, now that I’m in line to be Death. I don’t know.
Carter reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his touch gentle and somehow pleading. “After… afterLennie, I realized I didn’t want this to be my life. You are the one who showed me it didn’t have to be.” His voice gains urgency. “I’m sorry I didn’t see it earlier, that I didn’t know.” His frustration is mixed with regret. “But we can still leave, Jocasta. Figure out our own way.”
A longing ache kicks in under my ribs, hard. I want that, so much. Even now. The remnants of that proposed future—the matching coffee mugs, the big bed with books on the nightstands, the shared conversations and arguments ending in sprawling across white sheets—resurrect themselves in my mind in vibrant detail.
Then vanish into a pile of dust.
That future… could never happen. We would constantly be on the run, from either his people or mine. Or random spawn who have something to prove to another Old One. We would be even larger targets than I am now.
Plus, he killed Lennie. Hekilledher, and, intentionally or not, framed me for it. And no, humans aren’t supposed to matter to us. But they do to me. I can’t just forget about that.
“Everyone else wants you to be someone forthem.” Carter gestures in Devon’s direction. “A leader, a protector, the new Death. I just wantyou,” he says, pleading. He takes my hand in his, locking our fingers together. “The brilliant, compassionate person who found her own path through all of this…” He pauses. “Despite seriously questionable taste in sports movies.” His mouth curves upward slightly in a sad smile.
The reference to our first meeting is a knife to my chest. My breath catches, and tears start anew.
“Please don’t cry,” he whispers, brushing his free hand against my cheek.
I want to curl up against his chest or in a ball on the ground and wait for this moment to pass. For time to rewind itself so I can change things or for an asteroid to destroy us all in a giant flaming ball of death.
But I can’t. Carter did what he had to do.
And now I have to do the same.
I draw in a shaky breath, then another, until my resolve steadies itself within me.
