Jude stands on the other side with one hand propped against the doorframe, his hair tousled and his coat open over a slightly rumpled hoodie. His eyes smolder as he takes me in, standing before him, alive if not completely intact.
“Selah,” he says, looking alarmed.
But before he can do anything—like run his thumb along the scratch on the side of my face—I take a lurching step backward and start counting sheep.
He looks past me, toward Kate and Twig sitting at the table.
One sheep… two sheep… three sheep.
“Can we talk?” he asks.
For a second, I consider saying no. Nope. Sorry.No talking. No looking. No standing this close. Please just leave before I start hyperventilating like Kate back at St. Fortuna’s. But he says my name again, only this time he adds aplease. And my insides turn to goo.
I join him on the porch with my arms tightly crossed.
Jude pulls at his jaw. “So, you’re hanging out with Rafe now?”
“I’m not hanging out with Rafe.”
“You’re breaking into crypts together.”
“How do you—” I stop in the middle of the question. Because I already know. Rafe told him. Rafe probably reveled in telling him.
“If you wanted to get into the crypt,” Jude says. “I would have helped you.”
“I know you would have.”
“Then why didn’t you ask me?”
“You know the answer to that question.”
Jude growls. “Accepting my help isn’t going to make the mark spread.”
“Spending time with you might.”
“Selah,” he says, his voice raw. “Just because Rafe spun a theory doesn’t make it true.”
“Is it spreading?”
He doesn’t answer.
I cross my arms tighter. “Is the mark still spreading?”
His face hardens. For a moment, he looks like he’s chewing on a mouthful of rocks. Then he answers with a very terse, “No,” like the mark no longer spreading infuriates him beyond reason.
He shoves his hands into his hair, turns on his heel, and takes two frustrated steps away. When he faces me, his eyes are dark, his jaw tight. If there were a picture next to brooding in the dictionary, it would be his, right now. It really isn’t fair that such a tortured expression should look this good on anyone.
I screw up one eye and focus on sheep.
Eight sheep… nine sheep…
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Counting,” I say.
“Selah.”
Ten sheep… eleven sheep…
