Page 52 of Witchlore
“I need to research what stage of the moon cycle is best,” Bastian says. “But once we know that, as soon as we can.”
“And then after the Black Shuck, we’ll be ready to do the spell?”
“Yeah, we need to get some earth from Elizabeth’s grave, but that’s it.” Bastian shrugs, drinking his coffee. There’s something about the way that he says this, the casualness with which he throws out Elizabeth’s name, that feels like cold water poured on my head. All the sweetness I’ve felt toward him suddenly sours. He never even met her and yet he can talk about her grave so effortlessly, as if she’s just an ingredient on the list. It’s unreasonable, I know, because Bastian owes Elizabeth nothing, but it stings just the same and some of the old resentment I felt toward him slides up inside me, slippery and insidious.
“I’m going to have a shower,” I say shortly. “My hair is full of sand.”
“Cool,” Bastian says. “I’ll go in after you.”
As I clamber out of bed, I get a whiff of the scent of him, salty and sweaty. Despite all my visceral annoyance, I can’t help myself.It’s biological, utterly unhelpful, but I automatically wonder what it would smell like if I were to stand in the circle of his arms, held completely safe.Don’t think about that, you idiot,I snap at myself, not daring to even look at him as I rush to the sanctuary of the bathroom.
I turn on the shower and am relieved to climb under it. I wash away sand and dirt and salt and try not to think about the scars I saw on Bastian’s chest. Yet I can’t get his words out of my head:You look good.
The drive home is painless. We talk about nothing and everything and I learn things I never expected to about him. I learn that Bastian likes to sing along to songs while he drives, that he doesn’t have a great voice but his enthusiasm is infectious. Soon, we’re both screaming lyrics to cheesy pop songs at one another as we bomb down the motorway. I learn that his favorite book isBabel-17(which I obviously tease him about for being a sci-fi nerd) and, when we stop at a service station, I learn that he loves pickled onion Monster Munch more than any reasonable person should. I learn that his childhood in Cornwall was outwardly idyllic but inwardly full of complexity, a combination of finding magical acceptance and growth in his coven while also struggling with being the only nonwhite family in their town. When they moved so Shasta could start college, he tells me how initially bewildering and then quickly affirming life in London was. He describes the gigs he and Shasta attended, their adventures in the city, and a New Year’s Eve party gone hilariously awry. Bastian is suddenly alive with storytelling, animated, sometimes forgetting to hold on to the wheel as he gestures wildly, forcing me to screech andlean across him to grab the wheel as he is caught up in recollections about his brother.
“It’s good to talk about him,” Bastian says quietly, indicating to change lanes.
“Tell me something about him that people don’t always know,” I ask. “Like… what did he order in a coffee shop?”
“What?” Bastian laughs and looks at me.
“It’s a way of getting a sense of a person.” I smile. “When someone dies, we always talk about the big stuff, right? Their achievements and who their family were, but we don’t talk about how many sugars they had in a brew.” After Elizabeth’s death, I unconsciously began making my tea the way she liked it, much too sweet, just to feel close to her. I shake off that thought and try to lighten my tone. “You know, a person who always orders a hot chocolate is a very different person to a Frappuccino drinker.”
“Not much different.” Bastian smiles. “He didn’t like coffee. He thought I was weird that I liked it so much. He’d always get a cup of tea.”
“Milk? Sugar?”
“White, no sugar.”
“See?” I nod. “That’s a steady, reasonable person right there. I feel like I know him so much better already.”
Bastian smiles at me widely and I can’t help admiring him, accidentally catching his eye for a second. I’ve never noticed until now what a beautiful color his eyes are, hazel but much more green than brown today.Like his brother’s,I realize, thinking of the photograph on his phone.
“What does my coffee order tell you about me?”
“Black Americano and a Samuel Delany book?” I snort. “That you secretly wish your life was a Kubrick movie.”
Bastian laughs so hard we almost swerve into the wrong lane. I grin. I’d forgotten, I think, that I can be funny. Not just funny to make fun of, but actually funny. Not even Elizabeth found me this funny. I’m struck by that same feeling I had last night.I feel safe with him.When that thought flitters through my brain, I frown. I’ve been told my entire life that my magic is the thing that will make me safe, that being able to shift, that accepting a gendered form, is the only way for me to move safely in the world. Elizabeth made me feel loved and wanted, but I’ve never met a person who can make me feel as safe as I do being completely alone. I didn’t know anyone could. I look at him with slight amazement while he sings away to the radio.Why is it you?I wonder, but then comes the obvious next question:Why wasn’t it her?I don’t have an answer to, either.
When we arrive at Beryl’s, I’m surprised when Bastian gets out of the car, too, and walks around to lean against it as I pull my backpack on.
“So I’ll message you,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say, because it’s obvious and it’s what we’ve been doing for the last four weeks.
“Cool.” He’s looking at me sort of strangely and I can’t shake the feeling that he’s forgotten something. “Unless…”
“Unless?”
“Well, you’re working on Saturday afternoon, right?” I nod dumbly, wondering where this is going. “I could come and meet you for a coffee or drink afterward. To talk about the Black Shuck and stuff.”
It sounds suspiciously formal, like a date, so I find myself repeating, “Just to talk about the Black Shuck and stuff?”
“Yeah,” Bastian says easily, and I wonder if I’m blowing this out of proportion in my mind. After all, we get coffee and food together all the time when we’re studying up in town, and talking at length about a deadly hellhound is hardly the stuff of romance.
“Okay, sounds good,” I say. Bastian smiles broadly.
“I’ll message you?”
