Page 31 of The Girl Who Inherits the Dead

“What was that?” Delina breathes, then chances a look up at Maison’s face.

His eyes reflect the light back at her, unreal and unmoving, and the expression over his face is an unholy amalgamation between horror and hunger.

She freezes, like a mouse caught in a cat’s gaze.

“Delina,” Maison says, his voice deep, a tremor hiding beneath it. “Did you do that on purpose?”

Slowly, she shakes her head, and his expression doesn’t shift, though his fingers shake against the palm of her hand.

Even without explanation, she somehow knows it’s bad by the stillness in his body, and by the horror growing in his eyes.

Like she’s the frightening one here.

“Delina,” he says again, his voice softer, “if that happens with anyone else, you need to tell me. Tell Gurlien and Chloe. And nobody else.”

“That’s not good, is it?” Delina asks, small, like the one spark of energy shrunk her down in size.

He hesitates, for a bit too long, then shakes his head and releases her hand.

Her palm is cold without his grasp.

They stare at each other for a few more seconds, his eyes never returning to normal, before she clutches her hand to her chest and flees to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

After a few hoursof curling up on the bed, halfway between horror and fear warring inside of her, she ventures out of the bedroom.

It’s just Chloe in the kitchen, thankfully, busying herself by sautéing something fragrant in a cast iron pan, though her face pinches together when Delina comes into view.

“Feeling better?” Chloe asks, forcefully cheery. It’s awful.

The answer is no, but Delina shrugs.

“Well, Gurlien and Freddy are outside arguing in the dark if you want to join them,” Chloe says, bright and sunshiny and fake. “They haven’t seen each other in six or so years, they probably have a lot to yell about.”

Maison hardly ever yells.

“Freddy already got a chance to stress bake, so it’s my turn.” Chloe says, pointing down at the pan. “Do you like frittatas?”

“I think I scared them,” Delina blurts out, like she’s a child who has no control over what she says. “I don’t know how, though.”

“I’d say you did,” Chloe replies, as delicate as a hammer. “Don’t worry, we’ll get it all figured out.”

Chloe certainly is worrying, that’s for sure, as she pours in an egg mixture over the top of the veggies, then shoving it in the oven.

“But are you feeling better?” Chloe asks once the idle motions are done. “Physically. Does your head hurt and are you seeing gold still?”

“No on the head, yes on the gold,” Delina replies, thankful for the direct question for once.

“And can you tell if I’m uncomfortable?” Somewhere in the conversation, Chloe’s face had turned clinical.

So Delina breathes out, and thinks.

Her mind immediately snaps over to the dead bird outside, cold and horrid, but she wrangles it in to the person in the room with her.

Chloe’s changed her shoes, now padding around in a pair of comfortable slippers, though the tips of her fingers hurt, like she had grasped something from the freezer for a bit too long.

“Did you touch something really cold?” Delina asks. “Like, ice cold?”

“Nice,” Chloe says, and the encouragement is a welcome surprise. “Yep, you got it.”

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