“My point is that you were in various places on Friday and Saturday, including the bar, your work, and where your friend lives.”He taps his pencil on each location in turn. “And nothing happened in those locations.”
“Yet,” I add grimly.
I flip to the next page, even as Devon reaches up to stop me. “Wait—” he begins.
It’s a quick sketch, barely more than an outline But I can pick out the curve of a heart-shaped face, a shy smile, and wavy hair covering one side of her face, as though she’s not sure she wants to be seen. Love emanates from the sketch, from her looking up at the artist. At Devon.
But grief, too, somehow, is etched in every sweep of the pencil.
“Who is this?” I ask softly.
Devon’s hands flex as if he’s working hard not to reach out and take the book away from me. Then he takes a deep breath, seeming to come to a decision about something. “That is…” He pauses. “ThatwasAmelia.”
Oh, shit.“I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“She was my first love,” he continues.
This can’t be good.
“And my first kill,” he finishes.
Yeah. That’s what I was afraid of. I squeeze my eyes shut, sorrow swelling in my chest for the shy girl in the sketch. And for Devon too, clearly still mourning her loss. He seemed so adamant about how he fed and not hurting people… this has to be why.
I open my eyes and shift slightly on the bed to face him. “Devon, you don’t have to talk about this.” I hold out the sketchbook.
But he pushes it back toward me. “No. I need to. You need to understand what—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Youhave a right to know.” He runs a hand through his hair, the messy curls tangling around his fingers.
But his gaze is fixed on a distant corner of the room, as if he can’t look at me while speaking.
“We were fifteen. She sat in front of me in three of my classes. Alphabetical order by last name.” His mouth curves in a small smile.
I blink, surprised. That sounds so… normal for someone who’s been going on about being raised in the world of the Old Ones.
“We talked every day. About school, homework, astronomy, space. She wanted to be an astrobiologist. She was convinced that there was life somewhere else and she wanted to prove it, even if it was like a bug or a bacteria or something. She was… interesting.”
It’s not your fault.But I know he won’t believe it any more than I would. I settle for resting my hand briefly on his shoulder.
“I wanted her, of course I wanted her. I was in love with her. And she was in love with me.” He clears his throat. “I thought. I didn’t know then how powerful I could be without trying, without meaning to. I knew I needed to feed, that I could influence humans, but I didn’t realize that I could create a cycle with one, making us dependent on one another.”
He blinks rapidly, green eyes bright with unshed tears. “It was, uh, years before I understood. We were seniors, and it became clear something was wrong. She, she was confused all the time, disoriented. She would forget to go to class, to get up in the morning. She lost interest in everything except spending time with me.”
Didn’t you know? Couldn’t you tell?The questions are on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow them back. Because I know from terrible experience that it’s easy to think you’ve got it under control,to not realize that your grip is slipping.People faint, throw up all the time. It’s the heat or bad turkey sandwiches, not me.
But as your power grows, so does your need for control. And sometimes, the power gets there ahead of you. I… did not have many friends in middle school or even the first couple of years of high school, while I was still working it out.
As Missy Banks once told me in middle school, “I don’t know, it’s just I feel like shit every time I’m around you.”
Hard to get sleepover invites and homecoming dates when that’s your rep.
“I tried to pull back, repeatedly. I found other people to meet my needs, even though it upset her.” Devon’s throat works audibly. “I fucked up. I took this bright, beautiful girl, and I destroyed her.” He scrubs his hands against his jeans as if wiping away a substance that just will not come clean.
“When I realized that pulling back wasn’t helping, I cut Amelia off completely. I broke up with her, I thought… I thought I was freeing her. That she would eventually recover.” He draws in a deep breath. “Instead, she tied weights around her ankles and wrists and then jumped into her parents’ pool in the middle of November.”
I suck in a sharp breath. “Oh my God.”
“She slipped under the pool cover.” His voice is flat, dull. “We didn’t find her for three days.” He reaches up and pulls a slender gold necklace out from under the collar of his T-shirt. The name “Amelia” is written in delicate swirling script. “She was still wearing this, my gift to her.”
I flinch. Instinctively, I reach out and grasp his other hand, holding tight.
