Patch’s words caught me off guard. I’d woken this morning with an insatiable appetite for devilcraft because Blakely had caused me to crave it more than eating, drinking, or even breathing?
The thought of waking up every day, driven by that hunger, put a red-hot feeling of shame in my veins. I hadn’t realized how high the stakes were. Unexpectedly, I found myself grateful to Patch for getting the antidote. I’d do anything to never feel that unconquerable need again.
I unstopped the vial. “Anything I should know before I take this?” I passed the vial under my nose. No odor.
“It won’t work if you’ve had devilcraft introduced into your system in the last twenty-four hours, but that shouldn’t be a problem. It’s been well over a day since Blakely stabbed you,” Patch said.
I had the vial an inch from my lips when I stopped. Just this morning I’d consumed an entire bottle of devilcraft. If I took the antidote now, it wouldn’t work. I’d still be addicted.
“Plug your nose and tip it back. It can’t taste as bad as devilcraft,” Patch said.
I wanted to tell Patch about the bottle I’d stolen from Dante. I wanted to explain myself. He wouldn’t blame me. This was Blakely’s fault. It was the devilcraft. I’d guzzled a whole bottle of it and I’d hardly had a choice, I was so blinded by need.
I opened my mouth to confess everything, but something stopped me. A dark, foreign voice planted deep inside murmured that I didn’t want to be free of devilcraft. Not yet. I couldn’t forfeit the poford a choicwer and strength that came with it—not when we were on the brink of war. I had to keep those powers close, just in case. This wasn’t about devilcraft. It was about protecting myself.
The cravings started then, licking up my skin, watering my mouth, causing me to shudder with hunger. I pushed the feelings aside, proud of myself when I did. I wouldn’t give in the way I had this morning. I would only steal and drink devilcraft when I absolutely needed it. And I’d keep the antidote with me always, so I could break the habit whenever I wanted. I’d do it on my terms. I had a choice in this. I was in control.
Then I did something I never imagined I’d do. The impulse fired into my consciousness, and I acted without thinking. I locked eyes with Patch for the briefest of moments, summoned all my mental energy, feeling it flex inside me like a great, unleashed, and natural power, and mind-tricked him into thinking I’d taken the antidote.
Nora drank it, I whispered deceptively to his mind, planting an image there that backed up my lie. Every last drop.
Then I slipped the vial into my pocket. The whole thing was over in seconds.
Chapter 19
I LEFT PATCH’S PLACE, INTENDING TO DRIVE HOME, all the while combating a violent wrenching in my stomach that felt part guilt, part genuine illness. I couldn’t remember a single time in my life when I’d felt more ashamed.
Or more ravenous.
My stomach contracted, spiking with hunger pangs. They were so sharp, they left me doubled over against the steering wheel. It was as though I’d swallowed nails, and they were scraping my insides raw. I had the strangest sensation of feeling my organs shrivel. It was followed by the frightening question of whether my body would eat itself for nourishment.
But it wasn’t food I needed.
I pulled over and called Scott. “I need Dante’s address.”
“You’ve never been to his place before? Aren’t you his girlfriend?”
It irritated me that he was slowing the conversation. I needed Dante’s address; I didn’t have time to chitchat. “Do you have it or not?”
“I’ll text you the address. Something wrong? You sound antsy. Have for a few days now.”
“I’m fine,” I said, then hung up and slouched in my seat. Sweat beaded my upper lip. I clenched the steering wheel, trying to fend off the cravings that seemed to grip me by the throat and rattle me. My thoughts were glued to one word—devilcraft. I tried to swat the temptation away. I’d just taken devilcraft this morning. A whole bottle. I could beat these cravings. I decided when I needed more devilcraft. I decided when, and how much.
The prickly sweat spread to my back, little rivulets scurrying beneath my shirt. The bottoms of my thighs, hot and moist, seemed to stick to the seat cushions. Even though it was October, I blasted the AC.
I steered back onto the road, but the blare of a passing horn caused me to brake abruptly. A white van sped past, its driver making an obscene gesture through the window.
Get a grip, I told myself. Pay attention.
After a few head-clearing breaths, I uploaded the address to Dante’s house onto my cell phone. I studied the map, gave an ironic laugh, and flipped a U-turn. Dante, it seemed, lived less than five miles from Patch’s townhouse.
Ten minutes later I’d driven under a lush arch of trees canopying the road, crossed a cobblestone bridge, and parked the Volkswagen on a quaint and curving tree-lined street. Houses were predominantly white Victorians with gingerbread detail and steeply pitched roofs. All were flamboyant and excessive. I identified Dante’s—a Queen Anne at 12 Shore Drive—that was all spindles and towers and gables. The door was painted red with a big brass knocker. I skipped the knocker and went straight for the bell, pushing it repeatedly. If he didn’t hurry and answer . . .
Dante cracked the door, his face registering surprise. “How’d you find this place?”
“Scott.”
He frowned. “I don’t like people showing up at my door unexpectedly. A lot of foot traffic looks suspicious. I’ve got nosy neighbors.”
“It’s important.”
He jerked his chin back toward the road. “That piece of junk you drive is an eyesore.”
I wasn’t in the mood to exchange witty insults. If I didn’t get devilcraft into my system soon—just a few drops—my heart was going to gallop right out of my chest. Even now my pulse raced and I was laboring to draw breath. I might as well have spent the past hour running up a steep hill, I was so winded.