Page 64 of Witchlore
I toss the coconut water gently to him and he drinks slowly, as if it’s taking all his effort to swallow, but he is managing it. While he’s drinking, I drain the orange juice, relieved to quench my thirst. When I’m finished, I notice that Bastian is watching me with amusement.
“Thirsty?”
“Shifting always makes me thirsty.” I close the fridge. I glance at a note that saysLONDON UNTIL NOVEMBER 2. “Does your dad know you were suspended?”
“No, and I’m not telling him,” Bastian mutters. I scoop up thepainkillers and cross back over to the sofa. I sit gingerly down next to him and pop the painkillers out of the packet, watching him take them. I’m amazed to see how the color is beginning to flush back into his cheeks just from drinking the coconut water. René shuffles past Bastian and puts his head on my bloody jeans, looking up at me with those big adorable eyes.
“Well, you’re the nicest dog I’ve met tonight,” I say, stroking his ears before turning back to Bastian. “I should sort you out before that spell fades.”
“Do you know how?” He looks skeptically between me and his injury.
“Yes, Bastian, I know how to wipe up blood and bandage wounds,” I say, pointedly holding up my wrist. My scars are just visible under the edge of my long-sleeved T-shirt, stained on the hem with blood.
“Sorry.” Bastian winces. “There’s a first aid box in the cupboard under the sink. There’s some skin glue in there and some Steri-Strips, you might need both if it’s already failing.”
There’s a rise of sickness in my throat at the idea of Bastian’s wounds reopening, returning to the leaking, terrifying gashes they were before, but I nod and retrieve it, sparing a second to quickly wrap a bandage around my sore finger before dampening a clean tea towel under the tap. René follows me into the kitchen, looking balefully up at me when I put the painkillers back down next to a glass jar of dog bones. I drop him one and he merrily trots back to his basket by the big windows. The view at night is even more astonishing than in the day, the lights of the city yellow pinpricks in the darkness, the reflections shimmering on the canals. On the sofa, Bastian is carefully shrugging off his denim jacket and trying to lift his T-shirt.
“Easy,” I say, helping him pull it over his head, trying not to look at his scarred collarbones. He’s breathing shallowly as he leans back, gingerly twisting so he can rest back against the sofa cushions. The two slashes across his abdomen have closed, but the dried blood is smeared all across his skin.
“They still look good,” I say skeptically. “The spell doesn’t look like it’s failed… yet.”
“Huh.” Bastian’s face is wearily quizzical. “I guess… I mean, I do have a healing ring… and if I usedyourpower it might be strong enough on its own, right?”
“Are you asking me about witch-ring powers?” I say, trying to joke as I open the first aid box. He doesn’t smile, just stares down at his wounds in puzzlement and then lets out a huff of exhaustion.
“I guess just use the Steri-Strips and we’ll see how it goes.”
“Okay.”
I gently wipe away dried blood, trying to avoid the wounds and trying not to notice the dark curls of hair that matt wetly against his stomach above his jeans.
“That’s nice,” Bastian mutters, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. I feel myself blushing as I pull out some antiseptic wipes.
“This might hurt.”
“It’s okay, I’ve had worse.” He gestures clumsily to the scars across the top of his chest and shoulders. His many necklaces and charms hide most of it, the splotchy texture of healed skin.
“Is it… from Shasta’s car crash?” I ask hesitantly. I’ve suspected Bastian was there when it happened for a while but we’ve never discussed it.
“Yeah. The only good thing that can be said for being mauled by a hellhound is being hit by a four-by-four is worse.”
“Hold on to that.” I tentatively brush the antiseptic wipe over the wounds, as carefully as I possibly can while still getting rid of the grit and blood. Bastian hisses through his teeth as I mutter apologies then tentatively apply Steri-Strips and some long, sticky dressings over the wounds.
“All done.” I wipe my hands and pack everything away while Bastian breathes deeply through his nose, a clenched fist pressed to his forehead. I queasily throw the bloody, dirty wipes into the wastepaper bin behind the sofa and am silently thankful it wasn’t something much worse.
“That was fast thinking,” I say. “With the magical compatibility thing in the cathedral.”
“Yeah, finally putting all that reading to practical use.” Bastian smiles wanly, then his face takes on a look of worry. “You didn’t feel pressured, did you?”
“No, I’m glad you did it,” I say. I feel strangely awkward talking about it, though. It’s supposed to be this massive magical milestone that we passed together, but I don’t have words for the quiet anticlimax of it. I’ve done the unthinkable, something no shapeshifter should do or has done in centuries (if my parents are telling the truth) but I feel utterly unchanged. He might as well have borrowed a pen or my lecture notes. I want to ask Bastian if he feels any different, but his face is already slackening with exhaustion as his shoulders wilt.
“That’s a relief.” His eyes droop. “You were so amazing, getting rid of it. Was it an exorcism circle?”
“Yeah, my blood and then some holy water. I was shittingmyself. I didn’t know it would work but it turns out Professor Wallace was right, sometimes the oldest ways are the best.”
“Ha.” His eye opens and he gives me a slightly wry look. “Good thing you asked that question in class, then.”
“Is it too soon for an ‘I told you so’?”
