That’s when it clicks:Thisis why.
5
Most of the rules meant to govern my existence and that of others like me are obscure, outdated, and sometimes utterly incomprehensible—no one is stealing a sacrificial lamb anymore. Who would even want to?
But one of those rules is clear, timeless, and sacrosanct: Don’t call too much attention to yourself.
The humans will think you’re mentally ill or a threat or both, and the Old Ones do not want to be bothered coming in to clean up your mess. And if you take it far enough, the Old Ones might see you as a challenger, a usurper to their questionable throne(s).
You’ll vanish in a spectacular fashion as a warning and a cautionary tale. At least that’s what I’ve heard.
So all of this—the tiny, stuffy interview room in the Beecher city police department, the handcuffs around my wrists, the body of my friend below my window, maybe even the blood from overfeeding on my face, if my opponent had done their research well enough—is a chess move.
Strategy. To take me out of play, or to demonstrate my weakness, thereby humiliating my sire.
Or for shits and giggles. Any or all are equally possible.
“I hate this magic bullshit,” I mutter, right as the door to the interview room opens.
“What was that?” a woman in a navy blue suit, one slightly too large for her small frame, asks as she enters. She’s holding two coffees in her hands—the smell of burnt grounds makes my nose crinkle—with a notebook tucked under one arm. She nudges the door closed with her foot.
I say nothing, holding my handcuffed wrists up in mute request. The emergency blanket around my shoulders crinkles with the movement. Its shiny fabric hides the worst of the see-through dampness of my shirt and shorts, at least. Not that that is my biggest worry.
But I’ve been through this before, unfortunately, and right now the most important thing is to keep my mouth shut and stay calm. Never mind the anxious palpitations making it hard to breathe.
“Sorry about that,” the woman says, setting the coffee and the notebook down on the table and producing a handcuff key from inside her jacket pocket. “Just needed to make sure we knew what we were dealing with.”
She releases me, folding the cuffs into her pocket with the key.
I snatch my hands back under the blanket—for warmth, yeah, but also to keep the little voice in my head, the one that speaks to my worst impulses, from getting any bright ideas. The hunger inside me seems to be comfortably quiet for the moment, satiated still from this morning. But I never put it past that part of me—the part of me that is my father’s daughter—to impulsively choose to take the easy way out of any given situation.
“I’m Detective Ximena Morales. You’re Jocasta…” Morales pauses, her mouth twisting. “Jocasta Regine Trelane.”
Thanks, Mom.My mother is a classics professor; I was never going to end up as a Madison or an Ashley. But, as always, Mom takes things to the next level.
“Jocasta is perfectly acceptable in England,” my mother had said when I learned the full context of my first name.
My response then was exactly what it is now: “We don’t live in England!”
And the Regine bit, that was just cruel.
“And you live in Branwick Hall,” Detective Morales says. She pronounces it “Brannick,” like a local. That… is probably not going to help. The locals are not particularly fond of the “Beecher kids,” despite the influx of money and business that the university brings to town. Granted, a lot of “Beecher kids” are spoiled, private school assholes. “Room 308?”
I remain silent.
“Right. And the victim is Lennon McCarthy.” Morales picks up her coffee, nodding at the cup in front of me in invitation. But this is not a casual chat, no matter what vibe Morales might be trying to set.
“You want to tell me what happened this morning?” Morales asks, blowing into her cup, steam rising in her face. “You push your friend out of a window?
“What?” The word bursts out of me before I can stop it.
Morales arches an eyebrow. “Heard the two of you had a pretty spectacular bust-up at Happy’s last night. Someone called it in, but you were gone by the time we rolled up.”
“That was an accident. And I didn’t even get down to the gardenthis morning until after she was already… until after,” I finish awkwardly.
Shut up, shut up!The mental version of Chessa shouts at me.Innocent or guilty, stay quiet.Chessa is prelaw and one of her hobbies is shouting at stupid people on true crime podcasts, reality shows, and police footage fromDatelineepisodes. I guess I would be one of them now.
“Which is what would happen if someone pushed her. Gravity and all.” Morales takes a sip of her coffee.
