Page 62 of Dead Rockstar

“I'll be okay,” he reassured me, his good arm reaching out toward me. “It's you I'm worried about. Your head, the drugs...”

“I'll be okay, too.” I looked in his wild green eyes and tried for a queasy smile. “I’m a fucking witch, remember?”

He tried to cradle me in his good arm, but his clothes were damp with blood and I was nauseated when I tried to close my eyes, so we both sat back up, laughing nervously, both in pain and freaked out and trying to look strong for the other. I wondered if my own eyes looked half as wild as Phillip's bright green ones did.

My eyes went to his hair and I laughed harder. It was definitely a man bun. “Your hair,” I croaked. “What's going on there?”

“I thought it'd be a better disguise, maybe. I saw it in that magazine you had. I guess this is how we’re wearing it now?” He licked his lips. “Do they call this a half-Leia?”

“That was a really shitty attempt at a joke, Deville,” I said. “God, you're white as a ghost. Do you think you could bear to change your shirt before they get here? I could help you. That towel really isn't doing anything.” He was still losing so much blood.

“No,” he said, wincing in pain. “They'll just rip it off me anyway.”

“At least let me fix your hair. I can’t stand it, Phillip. You look like Jared Leto on a meth-bender.”

“I don’t know who that is,” he said, but he pulled the band from his hair and let it fall free. It rained down on his shoulders in a long, sweaty cascade.

“I just hope your doctors aren't Bloomer Demon fans,” I said, feeling another woozy spell coming on. I slumped back down on the bed and waited for the ambulance.

Somewhere, in another part of the hospital, Shank was being treated for his injuries. He'd woken up while the paramedics were loading him onto the stretcher, and we had heard him screaming and hollering all the way to the ambulance. Knowing he was alive was a relief, because I didn’t fancy being a murderer, or turning a guy into a vegetable – but I wondered what type of revenge he might try to unleash on me when he recovered. It was no use asking the nurse how he was doing; she wouldn't tell me.

“Will you let me know,” I asked her as she retreated from the room, “when Frank is able to see people?”

I was glad Phillip had had the foresight to come up with a fake name before the paramedics had shown up. He’d suggested Frank Stein, but I’d pointed out how glaringly, ridiculously obvious that was. For a goth rockstar, he sure had the dad jokes. Frank Sloan was the name he'd given them in the end. Sloan would cackle with delight when she heard that later, though for some reason, I wasn’t sure I quite liked it.

The police had already come and gone twice, peppering me with questions about Shank and Phillip, needing my official story. I’d recounted it the best I could, careful to give them the same story I’d quickly rehearsed with Phillip. It was a vague, general story full of holes and discrepancies, if the police bothered to take the time to look into it, but to my relief, neither of the deputies I’d spoken with seemed particularly interested. They were just glad to sign off on the report for what I’d told them it was: a simple robbery. I’d let my eyes fill with the appropriate amount of tears while telling them all about how Shank had demanded money, and when I’d told him I didn’t have any, he had told me to give him all my jewelry and valuables. Phillip had burst in on the scene at just the right time, and he and I had defended ourselves against Shank the best we could.

They’d bought it, I knew they had. So far nobody had thought to ask why I had drugs in my system; I hoped they would continue to overlook that detail, just assume I was a user. They were tired, and overworked, and why would they doubt us? I knew Phillip had recounted the very same story. The cops had told me as much.

“Don’t worry, little lady,” the older of the two, a grizzled, red-faced guy with silvery hair and a big broom mustache, had said kindly, patting my wrist. It was all I could do not to snort; did grown-ass men still actually call women things like “little lady”? “Your boyfriend is going to be just fine. The gunshot wound wasn’t deep, and he didn’t hit an artery.”

I wanted to see Phillip for myself, though. I needed to see with my own eyes that he was alright. I needed to touch him, to smell him. To know that he was still here with me. Lydia had said he couldn't die, at least not easily, but why should I believe her?

Who was she, anyway?

I’d had time, sitting in my uncomfortable, narrow hospital bed, to think about all the people I’d encountered since the spell, and what part they played in all of this. Lydia was married to Guthrie, and even though she claimed she hadn’t seen him in a decade, she was tied into this somehow. It was no coincidence that Phillip and I had been magically bound and then me abducted right out of her front yard. I thought back to her cryptic answers to our questions, her weird, fragile demeanor and how seemingly at odds she’d been with herself – defiant and belligerent one moment, empathetic and concerned the next – and realized that she reminded me of someone. Someone else who seemed at turns empathetic and apathetic, willing to harm one moment and help the next. Lee Courtenay.

The nurse left, dimming the lights as she went, and I was alone in the room with my thoughts. It was only a matter of hours before I'd be allowed to check out, she'd said. It was just a minor concussion. Once the results from the blood test were back, I would be free to go. I didn't want to go back to the motel without Phillip – all those police and their questions to answer – and I was scared. What if Lee was there, waiting for me? Surely, he'd heard what happened to his right-hand man by now.

But as it turned out, he didn't go to the motel. He came to the hospital.

I was drifting off with Judge Judy on mute playing on the TV in the corner, when he let himself into the room. He came in so quietly I almost didn't notice him, just thought he was one of the nurses or doctors, until he cleared his throat and I came to.

My blood rose in alarm, but then I realized I wasn't scared anymore. Not after what had happened. I levelled my gaze on him, as much as I could, since my head was still making me woozy.

“You've got a lot of nerve, showing your face here,” I said finally.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he said. He did look slightly guilty.

“Oh yes, I'm sure. I'm sure you also stopped in to check on Phillip, too.”

“I didn't,” he said. “It's you I worry about, not him.”

“He's a person, you know,” I spat. “A human being.”

“I think I know all too well who is human and alive and who isn't, Stormy,” he said, his voice edging close to bitterness. I had no idea what he meant by such a weird statement, or why his face twisted the way it did, and I didn’t care. “And who is in need of my help.”

“How absolutely philanthropic of you. Do you say that to all your kidnapping victims?”

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