The Book Eaters(17)
“Separated is basically divorced,” Hester said, but that wasn’t right or true. Divorce was a choice; forcible separation wasn’t. Amberly Blackwood hadn’t been given any choices. “And you are the dictionary definition of aloof.”
“Well—”
“Wait, I’m still guessing!” A bright laugh. “I think your family is fusty and rules-bound, very old-fashioned, and you’ve been married before but didn’t like it. Am I right?”
Something uneasy stirred in Devon’s chest. Was it her imagination, or did Hester’s gaze suddenly sharpen?
She feigned amusement. “Uh-huh. Sounds like you’re projecting, there.”
“Maybe I am.” Hester blushed, washing away Devon’s brief flare of suspicion. “Fine, last guess. I’m going to get something right. I think … I think you are a secret bookworm. You’ve got that pensive look to you. Do you read much?”
“Er.” Across thirty years of life, Devon had eaten close to thirty thousand books, and read at least three thousand. “Fair bit of reading, I guess.”
It was more information than she could access simultaneously, and her mental sifting grew slower every year in steady little increments. Just like Ramsey had warned, when they were younger.
“I thought so,” Hester said, tipping her glass back. “I bet you read everything.”
“Nah. Not a literary kind of person. I like thrillers and crime.” She shrugged. “Trashier the better. Fun books. Moreish books. Leave all that posh lit-fic to the old fuddy-duddy types.” Like her uncle. “Want another drink? I’ll pick up this round.”
“Just Coke this time,” Hester said. “When you’re my size, you hit your limits faster.”
Devon dipped inside to queue up. Her phone buzzed while she was ordering and she flipped it open to check her texts.
Changed me mind. Keep ur money. Sry.
She snapped the clamshell shut and folded it away, too tired and disappointed to even be angry. There were still leads she could chase, a handful of names left on her mental list to check up on.
In the meantime, best if she could find someone safeish for Cai to feed on before they left town. Someone happy, innocent, sweet.
Someone like Hester.
The thought sank through her like a brick in water. In truth, Devon didn’t like the idea of feeding women to Cai, and had so far managed to avoid it. It felt worse, somehow, which she knew was irrational. A life was a life, and all that.
Except it wasn’t all equal, not to Devon. Drag out Hardin’s lifeboat ethics scenario and suddenly you found that there were all sorts of criteria for who to save, and who to drown. Perhaps it was book eater upbringing, whispering to her that women were valuable and less disposable; or possibly it was just a shade too easy to sympathize with someone of the same gender. Whatever the reason, Devon wanted to spare women from her son.
But here and now, strapped for time and options, she found herself considering the choice without recoiling. Cai was hungry, she needed out of Newcastle, this stranger had landed in her lap like a gift-wrapped present. On Christmas Eve, no less. It made sense, if she could manage to woman up and do it.
Suddenly, Devon felt very sober despite the rounds of Guinness. Her son was patiently waiting at home. Guilt swarmed her for having forgotten about him, even for a couple of hours. And elsewhere in the city, knights were circling. No time for weakness.
She collected her drinks and walked back to the table, smiling but laser focused.
When they were halfway through their pints, Devon leaned across the table and said above the din of chatter, “Wanna come back to mine?”
“That depends,” Hester said, into her ear. “Is this going to be one of those bi-curious hookups where you wake up tomorrow and decide you like men better, after all?”
Devon considered her answers and settled on honesty. “I don’t have a good answer for that. I just like you.” And she did, though not the way Hester would have wanted.
“You’ll do,” Hester said in her dry way.
Devon laughed and hoped it didn’t sound hysterical. You’ll do was a phrase she had sometimes said to herself, when eyeing up potential victims. Mentally, she echoed the phrase back: You’ll do … for Cai. One last meal to lift him out of hunger before hitting the road again.
They finished their drinks and left the bar together, though not before Devon stopped to pick up a bottle of vodka for the road. She would need a drink after tonight’s debacle, for certain.
“Is your house far?”
“Just a flat, not a house, and no. Above the tire shop—down that way.” She gestured vaguely. “You’ll like it.” Such a lie.
Hester touched her arm. “Aren’t you cold? Do you want to go back for your coat?” and Devon realized she’d forgotten, in her haze of alcohol, to keep her jacket on.
“I’m from the north,” she said, like that was a sensible answer in this subfreezing weather. “I grew up on the moors, it gets very cold out there.”
“Really? The moors? How romantic!” Hester shivered into her fur-lined coat. “Next you’ll be telling me you grew up in a manor, like something out of Wuthering Heights.”
A twang of alarm rang through Devon’s head, a sense that the comment was yet again too close to home, but she was tipsy and couldn’t not laugh. Besides, what was she afraid of? Hester was human.