Page 35 of The Girl Who Only Died Once

CHLOE (6:49 AM): Probably not, but I’ve gotten some good clues and hints, so it’s going well.

CHLOE (6:49 AM): I had nothing two months ago. Now I have all of this.

It’s something, something she wouldn’t have ever let herself dream on, and she cradles the phone to her chest.

Because even with the demon stealing the sifting sands of her research, she’s so close.

And her blood sings once more.

Chloe stares avidlyat the compass, after a full day of lying there and thinking, at the closeness of the needle. They’re so close that if she paces from one side of the room to the next, the needle shifts, and when she tromps down to the lobby the needle shifts some more.

At what passes for breakfast in the crowded hotel lobby, when Chloe’s practically vibrating out of her skin with energy, a man sits across the cheap table from her.

Her immediate reaction is to throw her energy drink at him, but instead, she just stares at him.

“What are you doing here?” the man says, leaning forward. His eyes are the brightest shade of blue Chloe’s ever seen, and it sends prickles down her back.

“Do I know you?” Chloe asks, picking at her pastry.

It’s not unreasonable to think she might, with the college having a presence in the area, but the man shrugs.

“You just stick out.” He smiles at her, and the smile doesn’t meet the blue eyes at all as he stands. “Enjoy your trip.”

And he strides away, without touching anything and without another word, leaving Chloe staring at his disappearing back, her skin crawling.

After duckinginto a convenience store to buy some pocketknives, Chloe stands in the warmth of the sun instead of going back inside. In the parking lot, leaning against the car, Chloe pokes and prods at the knives, reinforcing the metal pins, strengthening the cheap steel, enchanting it to always sharpen itself, before she takes a deep breath, settling her mind into the molecular structure, mapping it out like she did the gun.

The Wight flickers into existence next to her. “What are you doing?”

“Making it cut demons,” Chloe murmurs, flicking the metal into place, ironing out the enchantments into the mineral itself.

“That’s impossible,” the Wight murmurs right back.

“I shot one, didn’t I?” Chloe mutters, and it’s not exactly easy work, and she has to start over twice before she can preserve the structural integrity of the knife as well as holding her spells. “If our friend is in there, I want at least some sort of weapon.”

“How many demons do you know?” the Wight asks, her eyes narrowed, and that’s far more a complicated question than it should be in her life. “They should have stopped you. Demons…”

“Hold a grudge?” Chloe supplies. “Remember those who hurt them? Can recognize bad actors? Hates almost every human magician because they know what we’ve tried? Rightfully so?”

The Wight gives her a glance bordering on appreciative. “Oh, so you did go full conspiracy theorist.”

“All we know about this one is he’s also after the fox and wanted to put me behind a shield instead of just immediately killing me. That’s somewhat better.”

Chloe knows she can’t assign human morality to demons, but at least this one seems not the worst in terms of respecting life.

“The fact that a demon knows about the fox is terrifying,” the Wight says, soft, like somehow Chloe has endeared herself. “I can’t imagine what would happen if they got ahold of it.” Still, she stands, stretching. “They say someone’s trying to take over,” she murmurs, so quiet Chloe almost loses it in the background noise of the motel parking lot. “Going through and killing competition. Consolidating power. Being charismatic.”

“Who?” Chloe asks, tilting her head at her.

“Humans don’t pass on their knowledge easily to Wights,” she says softly. “Just hearing rumors of some grand unification. That after Toronto fell and Boltiex died and all those experiments got out, that they’re looking for someone to lead.”

“Not surprising,” Chloe mutters.

“Ambra killed Boltiex, right?” the Wight asks, almost shrewd. “I know he had a hand in her captivity, and I know she killed Nalissa.” She swallows, like she has intimate knowledge of just how awful Nalissa was. “Nalissa deserved it.”

“Boltiex was insane, though,” Chloe says instead. “He gave a lecture to my class once, we kept track of how often he brought up how ‘powerful’ he was in the speech and then took a shot for each one.”

The Wight coughs out a laugh, like it’s startled out of her, and Chloe’s not sure that the Wight has ever laughed in her life. “How drunk did you get?”

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