Cassidy’s words echo still in the clearing—“demonic cannibal.” And maybe that is what she is. It’s not like anyone gave her a rulebook when her body stitched itself back together after Low Shoulder carved her up like a pumpkin. No one explained why her hunger had fangs. She remembers that first night after the sacrifice. The hollow, yawning nothingness in her stomach. The pitch-black bile she vomited all over Needy’s kitchen floor. So maybe demonic cannibal fits. Maybe Cassidy has a point.
But Jennifer Check doesn’t back down from a title just because someone else says she’s wrong. Her lip quirks, amused, as she raises her hand—still smudged faintly with drying blood—and produces a battered pink lighter from the waistband of her track pants. The same one she used to smoke pot behind the school dumpster when she was alive. ( Is she even still alive? Sometimes it doesn’t feel like it, but other times, like now—she feels more alive than she’s ever felt in her entire 18 years of existence. ) She clicks it open and sparks a tiny, hissing flame.
❛ Pretty sure I am immortal, though, ❜ she murmurs, voice flat but vaguely amused, like she’s correcting a classmate who got the quadratic formula wrong. ❛ If I wasn’t, could I do this? ❜ She grabs a dry, curled leaf from a nearby branch and sets it ablaze after rolling up her sleeve. The flame gutters as it burns down toward her skin—until it touches. It singes. Crackles. Sizzles against the tender inside of her forearm. Jennifer doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. She watches, eyes glassy and reflective like polished obsidian, as the flame sears her flesh—then watches it vanish, the skin beneath it regenerating before it has the chance to scar.
No pain. No blistering. No ash. Just pink skin made new. She drops the twig and grinds it into the dirt beneath her boot. The smell of burnt flesh lingers for a moment, acrid and sweet. ❛ I haven’t, like, tried shooting myself in the head yet or anything, ❜ she adds with a half-shrug, as if discussing weekend plans, ❛ but we live in America. It’s only a matter of time before someone tests the theory for me. ❜
Cassidy shifts—her jaw cracking, morphing—and Jennifer’s gaze snaps back to her, sharp and suddenly riveted. The girl’s mouth changes into something else entirely: not human, not wolf, but something caught in between. Something monstrous. Jennifer watches her devour the heart like it’s an aphrodisiac. She can’t look away. There’s a twist of heat in her gut that has nothing to do with hunger. ❛ That, ❜ she says, with a voice low and almost reverent, ❛ was actually pretty fucking sick. ❜
A rare thing: honesty, unfiltered. The compliment tastes strange on her tongue, but she means it. Cassidy’s performance was grotesque and intimate and absolutely gorgeous. Jennifer begins to circle her, slow and deliberate, like a shark deciding whether to play or devour. ❛ Ya know, ❜ she muses aloud, ❛ I don’t need much. I don’t, like, binge or whatever. I just… if I wait too long? I get gross. Like, literally disgusting. I look like a crack whore. It’s not cute and it feels like shit. Like period cramps times a billion. ❜
Jennifer’s gaze flicks up again as Cassidy talks about nutrients and muscle and organs like they’re on a cooking show. She listens, but only half-heartedly, because she’s too busy watching the way Cassidy moves. Her mouth, her hands, the way she holds herself like something ready to either devour or dominate. When Cassidy comments on her blood-smeared outfit, Jennifer scoffs, brushing her fingers along her sleeve. ❛ Don’t act like it doesn’t make me look hot, ❜ she says flatly, ❛ in a badass, yandere kinda way. ❜ And then Cassidy touches her.
Jennifer doesn’t pull away—doesn’t flinch—but her eyes do narrow just a little, calculating. But she lets Cassidy wrap fingers around her wrist, watches with thinly veiled interest as the blood lifts off her skin in ribbons of red, floating like jellyfish in the night air. The magic crackles. When the orb ignites and burns itself into smoke, Jennifer raises her brows, clearly impressed. ❛ I don’t think Jacob could do that either, ❜ she echoes, smirking.
But Cassidy’s offer makes Jennifer pause. The sarcasm practically drips from her lips as she replies: ❛ Right. Because being ritually sacrificed by a satanic indie band and coming back with a craving for human flesh is something you just journal about and get over. ❜ She shrugs. ❛ But I just ate. So I should be normal-ish for, like, a few weeks. Again—kinda like a period. But with more murder. ❜
She watches Cassidy carefully. The other girl might talk like this is just a fun little girls’ night with a side of evisceration—but Jennifer’s not stupid. This could be a trap. An ambush. A test. ❛ I can’t decide, ❜ she says coolly, ❛ if you’re a dumb bitch for inviting me home after I literally ate a guy’s face off—❜ her smirk returns, slow and sly, ❛—or if I’m the dumb bitch for going with the girl who just cracked her jaw like a fuckin’ Pez dispenser and scarfed down his still-beating heart. ❜
She tilts her head. Her eyes gleam. Her voice drops, soft yet sharp as a blade. ❛ But fuck it. Lead the way. ❜
