The Devouring Gray(66)

People could hurt each other without being monsters. And they could love each other without being saints.

She would have to learn how to handle that.

Violet rolled over on the bed, clutching her comforter, listening to the beating of the rain against the storm shutters.

And realized, her heart jumping into her throat, that it wasn’t just the storm she was hearing. Something was tapping against the metal blinds across her bedroom window.





Violet rose from the bed, gazing at her window. The shutters kept rattling.

Based on the past two weeks, whatever was out there probably wanted her dead.

But there was Orpheus, curled up at the edge of the bed, his yellow eyes fixed on the window. Violet watched as he raised his head, his tail twitching—and then yawned.

Whatever was out there, it didn’t bother her companion. And some deep, instinctual part of her trusted his judgment.

The sound rang out from her window again, and now Violet heard another, lower noise accompanying it, too deep to be the wind. A voice.

She swung her feet to the floor and walked to the window, listening. A gust of wind set the storm shutters rattling, carrying the voice through the glass as it spat out a series of curses.

Violet knew that voice. She cranked open the storm shutters, and sure enough, there was Isaac Sullivan, crouching beside her window. The planes of his face were shadowed and angular beneath the hood of his rain jacket. Hail dotted his broad shoulders as he gestured toward the glass.

The sight of him sent something sparking in her, a pleasant, heady rush of surprise Violet wasn’t sure how to process. She unlatched the window and slid it up, wincing at the gust of wind that tumbled into her bedroom as Isaac maneuvered his way through the opening with catlike grace.

He straightened up and tugged down his jacket hood as she slammed the window shut.

“What are you doing here?” said Violet, once she’d cranked down the storm shutters again. “Shouldn’t you be on patrol?”

There were bits of hail in Isaac’s hair. Violet watched them melt into his dark curls, leaving behind droplets of moisture that glimmered weakly in the dim light.

“Didn’t you hear about my little mishap yesterday?” he said bitterly.

Violet had heard. It had been hard to miss the broken glass in the front window of the Diner at the Founders’ Day festival, and harder still to miss the town’s pointed lack of applause when he’d participated in the pageant. She nodded.

“Figured you had. Yeah, so the sheriff benched me from the equinox patrol.”

Equinox patrol. Of course that would be a thing.

Violet was glad she’d clapped for him. “That sucks. But it doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

Isaac sighed. “Right. Well, Justin figured it was probably a bad idea for you to wait out the equinox alone because, in his words, you’re a disaster magnet and he’s not sure how you get to school every morning without something trying to kill you.”

Violet’s newfound fondness for Isaac evaporated in an instant. She should’ve known he’d only come here because Justin wanted him to. She couldn’t mistake one guilt-induced visit to her house for actual care. “I do not need a babysitter.”

Isaac shrugged off his jacket. He’d tied a thin strip of leather across his neck to hide his scar. Three crimson beads were strung across the center, hanging in the hollow of his throat like drops of blood. They matched the medallions at his wrists.

“Ah, yes, you are perfectly self-sufficient,” he drawled. “You haven’t done your ritual, you keep winding up in the Gray, and you don’t remember raising someone from the dead.”

“And yet I still managed to avoid vandalism and assault.”

Violet knew the moment the words left her mouth that they had been a mistake. Isaac’s torso caved inward, and his eyes winked out like candle flames flickering in the wind.

“I’m sorry.” Violet halved the distance between them. She didn’t try to hide the shame in her voice. “That was a terrible thing to say.”

Isaac worked his jaw back and forth. The veins in his left forearm tensed as his fingers dug into his palm, the cracked red medallion straining against his wrist.

“It’s all right,” he said, in a tone that indicated just the opposite. “I’ve been called a lot worse.”

“By the Burnhams?”

Isaac’s mouth curved into a smile that could’ve sliced through concrete. He leaned toward her, and Violet’s body responded, repositioning itself to mirror his. “No. By my brother.”

“The one who left?” Violet said.

Isaac nodded, and Violet realized his clenched fist was trembling. “My neck—what happened—that was Gabriel. A souvenir, I guess.”

She remembered his fingers on her cheek, how he had looked at her with tenderness when she was at her worst.

She could give him that, too. Not pity or empty words of affirmation, but understanding. He had been hurt and so had she; it did not matter that she didn’t know the details. His pain was bone-deep. So was hers.

Violet reached for his hand. His fingers uncurled the moment she touched him, and she wrapped both of her hands around his, her thumbs making gentle circles across his palm until the shaking stopped.

“He can’t hurt you,” she said fiercely, suddenly certain that if anyone ever tried, she would be the first to stop them. “Not anymore.”