“And as for Carter, it sounds as though he was caught between—”
“If you say a rock and a hard place, I swear to God—”
“What War wants and what Carter himself wants.” Devon cocks his head to one side. “A position you are well familiar with, I suspect.”
Not the same thing at all.
Except it kind of is. I wasn’t raised by Death, but I still wanted his approval all those years ago when I was a child. If I had been raised by him, who knows what that might have done? What version of me that might have created.
I shudder at the thought.
“We need Carter,” Devon says. “Maggie, too, and the others she represents if she can get them.”
“No. No way.” I shake my head for emphasis. “I am not getting more people involved in this.”
“Is it the risk to them or the commitment that it represents?” Devon asks, once again slicing to the heart of the matter.
I wince. Of course I don’t want to put anyone in Hurricane Nova’s path, but… I would be lying if I said that’s my only concern.
“If you die here, tonight, what happens to Nova?” Devon presses.
“Probably a rampage until Death shuts her down,” I admit reluctantly.
“So, fine, let’s say we write those damaged lives off as acceptable losses, the eggs in this omelet.” Devon waves a dismissive hand.
I stiffen. “That’s not what I’m suggesting—”
“What if Death decides to tap her as a replacement?” he continues as if I hadn’t spoken.
He won’t.But… I never thought he would choose me, either. I suspect the only reason Nova is still alive is so he doesn’t have to admit his mistake in the first place. Would his ego demand that he revert to Nova now that she’s escaped?
I want to say no. But I don’t really know.
And if Nova becomes Death…
“He’s gotten lazy. Sentimental. Only one plague in the last hundred years? It’s pathetic. He’s not even trying to compete with War.”
It will be the reign from hell. And that’s saying something.
“Tonight, right now, you’re the only person with a shot at stopping Nova,” Devon says.
Fuck, fuck. I hate when he makes sense. “I—”
His eyes go wide. “Watch out!”
I stomp on the brakes, and the van fishtails slightly before stopping.
A sweatshirt-clad arm is sprawled out on the street, glowing in our headlights. The rest of the body is in shadow, trailing up over the curb and into the grass in the open space behind Branwick.
Oh what the hell now?
I shift the van into Park, watching. But no one leaps out of the shadows. And the arm doesn’t move.
I unbuckle my belt, open the door, and slide out cautiously. Devon does the same on the other side.
The body is male, a student presumably, though I don’t recognize him. He’s wearing a white Beecher sweatshirt, gray sweats, and the perennial Birks with socks. Though he’s missing one sandal, leaving that foot vulnerable to the elements.
Shit.
