I flinched. She’d always called me “Needy” as a joke—because my name was Nidia, and I clung to her like a life raft. But now it sounded like a diagnosis.
“Not that kind of hungry, Needy.”
“You’re bleeding,” I said, pointing at a dark drip from her nostril.
I should have run. I should have called the police, a priest, the guy from the Discovery Channel who debunks myths. But Megan leaned in and pressed her cold forehead to mine. For one second, she smelled like the girl who let me copy her algebra homework. Then she smelled like the inside of a slaughterhouse. Jennifer--s Body -2009-
I picked up her hairbrush. It was crusted with something dark at the bristles. “The thing inside you. Can you feel it?”
JENNIFER CHECK — 1991–2009 SHE WAS A MONSTER. BUT SHE WAS MY MONSTER.
Megan was at her locker when she heard the news. She smiled. I flinched
And underneath that, smaller:
I closed my eyes. The wind smelled like her hairbrush.
Because that’s the thing about surviving a demon. You swallow a little of its darkness. And once it’s inside you, you start looking at boys—at everyone—and wondering what they taste like. “Not that kind of hungry, Needy
“I’m hungry,” she whispered. Her eyes weren't human. They were the color of root beer bottles held up to the sun.
For the first time, her face cracked. Just a hairline fracture. “It’s not inside me, Needy. I’m inside it . And it’s always hungry.” She looked at me—really looked, like the old Megan peeking through a keyhole. “Run away. Tonight. Don’t look back.”
I smiled.