Page 63 of Witchlore
I pinch my first finger and my thumb into an eye shape around the huge blue sapphire on Bastian’s middle finger. With his other hand, Bastian holds two of his bloody fingers over the eye my fingers make, blinding it. His ring glows blue and I smell it, the rush of wood catching light that accompanies Bastian’s magic. Our fingers are welded together, hot and sticky, starting to burn, and then I feel it. It’s like the beginning of a shift, the stretching and dragging inside me when my body changes, but instead of flowing through me, it’s flowing out of me. It’s weirdly uncomfortable, reminding me of the times I’ve had a period in a female form, and I breathe through it heavily. If this is what magical compatibility feels like, I’m not sure I like it. Then I’m aware that my hair is changing around my head, my shifting power still working on my body even as it is pulled out of me like a rubber band.
“That’s enough,” Bastian croaks, flopping his hand down, and I wrench my fingers away, rubbing the burning sensation. Bastian spreads his fingers across his wound, then twists them into a shape I recognize for sealing. He groans as a blast of blue light sinks into his wounds but, amazingly, I see the wounds closing.Not permanent,I remind myself, but I can’t help the staggering flood of relief inside me.
“It’s okay.” I stroke his hair and rub his arm, feeling him tremble all over. “You did it, you’re okay.”
“We need to go.” Bastian is already wincing and trying to stand up. “Someone will notice the door’s open.”
“Okay, come on.” I slip his arm over my shoulder and pull him to his feet. He groans and is leaning against me pretty heavily, but I manage to drag him out of the cathedral and round to the conjuring circle. I sit him on the wall while I pull my backpack on and shove the books back in Bastian’s satchel, throwing it over my shoulder. I see the dark clumps of the Black Shuck’s hair on the grass and fumble to press them into the glass specimen vial Bastian had ready. Then I rush back to him. He’s listing to the side, propping himself up with one hand and looking like he’s about to tumble down onto the paving stones.
“You’re never going to make it back down to Spinningfields.” I press my hand against his forehead. It’s cold and clammy. “Let’s get a taxi.”
Bastian nods wearily. Clumsily, I do up his denim jacket to cover the bloodstains. Together, we stumble down to the main road and luckily, a taxi driver is sitting idle, singing loudly to Radio One.
“Hey, mate,” I call out. “Could you give us a lift down to Spinningfields?”
“Peak fare, though.” The driver nods, looking curiously at Bastian as I manhandle him gently into the back of the cab. “He had a bit too much?”
“Food poisoning,” I say, improvising.
“If he throws up in here it’s a hundred and fifty quid for cleaning,” the driver warns, pulling out into traffic. As he does, Bastian slumps against me, his head dropping into my lap.
“Are you okay?” I whisper, automatically stroking his hair. “It seems like you lost a lot of blood.”
“Yeah, I just need a coconut water.”
“Coconut water?”
“Yeah, it’s… it’s good after blood loss.”
“For hipsters, maybe.”
He laughs and then coughs, looking drowsily up at me.
“Hey.” Bastian reaches a clumsy hand up to pull on one of my brown curls. “It’s curly. It was straight when you shifted.”
“Yeah, I—” I’m trying not to be distracted by his hand in my hair. “Giving you magic made it curl.”
“I like it, it’s cute.” He frowns and puts a heavy, weary hand on my shoulder. “Are you sore? After the shift?”
“No.” I smile wryly at him. “Adrenaline’s a hell of a drug.”
“Ha, yeah, I could do with some of that.”
“Here we are!” The cabbie calls through the glass. “That’s fifteen quid, love.”
It’s complete highway robbery for a five-minute drive, but Bastian presses his debit card against the card reader and I open the door. Bastian groans as I drag him out and we stagger past the people dressed up and heading to the Ivy and the other fancy bars. They stare at us; a few yell drunkenly, probably noticing the blood, but I ignore them and pull Bastian on. When we reach the door, Bastian manages to punch in the code and we stumble into the lift. In the mirror and the fluorescent lights, we look a total mess. Bastian is too pale and his jeans are covered with blood, his hands grubby with it. I’m not looking too good myself, coated in blood, dirt, and salt.
In the time it takes to get to the twentieth floor, I examine my new form. I’m shorter again; Bastian has to stoop to lean against me. My boobs are much smaller than my last female form—I probably won’t feel like I need my binders—and my hair is jaw length and a curly, mousy brown. My eyes are wider apart, my nose longer, my chin sharper. Elizabeth’s white-gold hoops still shine at my earlobes.
“Come on,” I mutter, heaving Bastian over the threshold. Immediately, René is barking and jumping around our ankles, so excited to see us. Bastian’s feet are slowing entirely; he’s clearly used all of his energy just getting into the room and he’s almost too heavy for me to drag him to the sofa, flopping him down with a huff. “Coconut water?”
“In the fridge,” Bastian moans. The sofa is one of those ridiculously long ones, a sectional that wraps around the coffee table and is almost as wide as it is deep. Bastian easily pulls his feet up onto it. René jumps up next to him and starts to lick Bastian’s face. “There’s some painkillers on the side, too.”
“Where’s your dad?” I ask.
“Fucked if I know.” He gently pushes René away from licking the blood off his trousers. “He writes notes on the fridge.”
“Okay.” I open the huge fridge, notice with a smirk the giant wheel of goat’s cheese with a note that saysBASTIAN’S, DO NOT TOUCHamong the Tupperware of variouspepper- andallspice-scented leftovers all marked with a “B.” The kitchen might be immaculate, but it looks like Bastian enjoys cooking. I pull out a carton of coconut water for Bastian and the orange juice bottle for me. “Here.”
