Page 16 of Witchlore
“Well, if you were a real shifter, I might say shift into someone distracting—”
“You’re a wanker,” I snap, and I spin around to stare at the student who had been sitting behind the desk now marching toward me with her lanyard swinging.
“The library is closing in ten minutes, it’s time to go,” she says, all the simper she had for Bastian lost when she looks at me.
“Yeah, I’ll be down in a second.” I swallow. I have no idea what will happen to us if she sees the spellwork. It’s all well and good to be told to be distracting, but I’m not a handsome bloke like Bastian is. I’m not a bloke at all, and to her I probably look like I’m up to trouble.Be distracting!
“Um, I don’t know if this is a problem or anything,” I gabble, sticking my hands in my pockets to stop them shaking. “But I saw that someone spilled a drink upstairs in the main library—”
Her eyebrows shoot up.
“Not water, something nasty,” I add quickly, imagining a librarian’s worst nightmare. “Something purple and sticky.”
“What? There are signs.” She shoots me an accusatory glare. “Was it you?”
“No, no, I’d never bring a sticky drink into the library,” I say. “I love libraries. I only ever bring in water, I swear.”
“Christ alive,” she mutters, then glares at me, clearly the prime suspect. “You need to leave, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure, on my way out.” I watch her as she walks away along the corridor, her skirt swinging.
“I’m done,” a voice whispers, and I jump. Bastian’s standing right behind me, his breath warm on my neck, and I glare at him.
“Don’t do that!” I hiss at him, stepping back, alarmed at his closeness. I look down at his satchel. “You switched it?”
“Yeah.” He nods. I push past him and stare at the book in the glass display case. It looks absolutely identical, and I have no idea how he managed it.
“Wow, it looks dead real,” I say. Still, a part of me wants to tell him to put the real grimoire back, now.
“I know.” Bastian pulls my arm. “Come on, we need to leave.”
He drags me down the stairs. The heaviness of his satchel against my elbow is the thump of a literal priceless object and I panic wildly that we’re damaging it, that by carrying it out we will accidentally turn it to dust. The shop is empty, an employee is putting chairs up on tables, and someone else is wiping down the coffee machine, and outside, the late-afternoon sun is blossoming in a golden blaze over Deansgate. Bastian is smiling at people and saying polite things to the staff and a part of me wants to stop, to call out to them, and to turn us both in, tell them I’m not acriminal I just made a mistake, but my mouth won’t work. The automatic doors open and we step out into the cold.
“I can’t believe we did that—” I mutter as the doors slide closed behind us. “What if we get caught? There must be cameras…”
“Only in the corridor, and they’ll just see your distracting alter ego,” he says as we walk down Deansgate. “Lando Southerns, defender of books from sticky liquids.”
“I’m not in the mood for jokes right now.” I try not to look over my shoulder, waiting for a yell or running footsteps or sirens.
“Then keep walking.” We march down the road, my heart thundering as I try to embody someone who has not committed larceny. I can’t stop imagining the footage of me directing a staff member to an imaginary cleanup, of us rushing out of the library with surreptitious looks, Bastian’s bag hanging at his side.Won’t they check? What if they clean the inside of the cases?Someone knocks into me, rushing past, and it’s such a jolt I’m suddenly convinced I’ve been caught. I wheel back away from them with a cry, stumbling over the edge of the curb.
“Lando, whoa, be careful!” Bastian grabs my arm to pull me out of traffic.
“Why are we doing this?” I gasp out. It’s absurd, I don’t even know this person and I just made myself an accomplice to a crime. “Why are we even doing this?”
A car horn honks loudly behind me, the sound assaulting my ears, making me jump out of my skin. Bastian keeps a firm grip on my arm, his fingers digging in painfully.
“To resurrect your dead girlfriend,” Bastian says urgently. “Remember that?”
I stop. Suddenly I can’t breathe. Most of the time, I know Elizabeth is dead and it’s fine. Or not fine at all, but possible to endure, aslong as I never forget it. Because then, when I remember it, when I realize that she’s really not here and now I’m walking around Manchester with a complete stranger talking about resurrecting her, it thoroughly takes the air out of me and it’s agonizing. I bend over and press my hands to my knees, thoughts churning:Elizabeth is dead, Jesus Christ, Elizabeth is really dead and it’s my fault.I hear Counselor Cooper’s words in my head:Breathe deeply and slowly.How can four words seem so impossible?
“Lando?” Bastian stops beside me, one hand on my back. “Lando, what’s the matter?”
I wish I could tell him. But I can’t breathe.
CHAPTERSIX
“You’re having a panic attack,” Bastian says bluntly above me as cars roar past and people sidestep me.
