While he might be talking about others like us, children of the Old Ones, the disgust in his tone—not to mention that wallop of bitterness—tells me he’s referring to someone else.
He means the Old Ones themselves. Active. Up to something.
Fuckity fuck fuck.
Our sires aren’t gods, no matter what they might want people to think. They’re not vampires, angels, succubae, or any other mythological creature, either. Those are just the stories that rose up around them over time when humans saw something they couldn’t explain.
But they are old and extremely powerful. They’ve been here forever, occupying a mostly hidden link at the top of the food chain. And they’re easily bored. A dangerous combination.
If the Old Ones ever stopped squabbling among themselves and got organized, humanity would be screwed. Corralled into giant zoos or locked behind glass at some hotel-breeding-farm hellscape.
Fortunately, the Old Ones are more interested in their petty feuds, stoking their own sense of self-importance, and pitting their spawn against one another for entertainment and bragging rights. Petulant emperors turning the lions loose on their own gladiators.
Or, the immortal equivalent of “My honor roll student tortured and killed your honor roll student.”
It’s almost funny and absolutely fucking terrifying at the same time.
“Is one of them here?” I ask Devon. The very thought of an Old One in Beecher makes my stomach plummet like it’s been filled with the smooth river rocks the university uses for landscaping all over campus. “Why would they—” I begin, but he’s already slipping away, head down, moving between tables and heading straight for the back exit by the restrooms.
Damnit.
Just before he vanishes around the corner, I feel the magic pull back, retreating like a wave from the shore. My skin gives one last shudder and then settles.
Around me, the afflicted stir as one, like an animal waking from slumber. Shocked murmurs and uncomfortable giggles follow—they don’t understand what happened, just thatsomethingdid. Something that made them forget all about their dates, crushes, loves, significant others, and situationships. All for a stranger, a man they’ve never seen before but somehow couldn’t resist.
There are going to be some awkward conversations across campus tonight.
I catch Chessa’s confused gaze, and she gives me a wide-eyed look over the top of her glasses. She holds her hands up in a “What the hell was that?” gesture. But her hands are trembling.
I shake my head and lift my shoulders in response, lying my ass off. This is why I hate magic. In all the stories, it’s about waving wands and saying the right words and judicious use. In reality, everyone gets screwed.
She nods with a frown, then turns to chase after Daan, who iswandering around like an oversized deer recently released from the thrall of passing headlights.
Lennie rushes toward me. “Where is Devon going?” she demands. “He’s coming back, right?”
“I don’t think so,” I say, distracted once more by what he said before his rapid departure. What kind of announcement could it be? The Old Ones weren’t really ones for public declarations; they were more of the “fuck around and find out… painfully” type. At least as far as I know. My decision to stay as far from that world as possible left me in a position of ignorance and sometimes led to unintended consequences. Occasionally life-averse consequences.
“What did you say to him?” Lennie asks. “Did you say something to him about me?”
That grabs my attention. “What?” I shake my head. “No, Lennie, of course not. He just said he had to leave. I think we should go too. Maybe we can—”
“Are you meeting up with him later?” she asks, her brown eyes flooding with tears.
“No!” Not unless I can find him and pin him down on answers.
“I don’t see why not,” Lennie says, swiping at her face, where tears are now spilling down her cheeks. “Freshman year it was Benton from Sig Ep. That was a whole big secret thing.”
I wince. Benton and I had enjoyed a comfortable and mostly unspoken friends-with-benefits arrangement until he started throwing around the word “girlfriend.” “Like I said before, no one knew. I didn’t realize you had feelings for him, and it wasn’t really an official—”
“And do you think I didn’t see you with Carter at the bar? What the hell is that? Why didn’t you say anything?” Lennie demands.
Hurt is coming off her in waves now, faster than I can consume it. It’s like trying to breathe through a wet washcloth, and my control is wobbling. I need to shut this down or move out of range. “It’s complicated, and I—”
She folds her arms across her chest. “What’s complicated?” she demands. “I told you I was interested in him, that I wanted to find out if he was single, and you said nothing!”
Lennie’s voice is growing louder and louder, rising above the general din of the restaurant. But it’s the shrill note within it, an edge that announces an imminent loss of control, that’s turning heads in our direction.
This must be what Devon meant by unpredictable.
