Page 34 of Witchlore
The pedestrian area is full of Saturday-night revelers crowded into the clusters of metal seating outside different bars and restaurants on either side of the ginkgo trees: gaggles of girls in heels and short skirts out on the town; groups of lads shoved shoulder to shoulder on long Oktoberfest-style tables, necking pints; couples having a night at the craft brew bar with friends, a pug or a French bulldog sitting happily at their feet. All these bodies and people, set to this shabby industrial Mancunian backdrop of red brick and bold political street art, it has a festive, anticipatory feeling, as if the buzz of the city center is electric and infectious. I find myself lengthening my stride, standing straighter, actually getting excited. But then I spot them, witches from college who have pushed together a bunch of small metal tables into a cluster. There’s more of them than I expected, about fifteen, chatting in small groups. And then they spot me. They look at me like I’m a street performer or a climate-change activist who’s tied themselves to the front door of Boots. No one looks at me like I’m still myself. More than one set of eyes is drawn instantly to my chest, and I cross my arms, thinking I’m going to have to pull out my old binders from under my bed, when Bastian stands up from a table on the end of the group, smiling at me.
“Lando! Here!” He’s raising his hand in that weirdly formal gesture of greeting that is somehow absurdly endearing. I’m grateful to squeeze my way through the watching witches and settle down in a metal chair beside him, the drops of rain still lingering on it from the day seeping into the back of my jeans.
“Hey, I got you an IPA, I hope that’s okay,” he says, sliding one of the two glasses toward me.
“Yeah, it’s great.”
I’m not really much of a beer drinker, or any kind of drinker,since I’ve never had any friends to do it with. I take a sip. It’s sour and foamy and honestly reminds me a little of the taste of cardboard, but he bought it for me and that’s nice.
“Did you come from work?” He frowns, eyeing my apron poking out of my tote bag. “How did you manage that?”
He gestures to my different face.
“Oh, nothing, a shifter shroud spell,” I say, sipping my drink. Bastian’s eyes light up.
“Really?” He looks so eager. “Do you have it with you? Can I see?”
I hesitate. I imagine my parents bellowing at me, screaming at me not to share secrets with witches, but Bastian did save me from being eaten by a boggart yesterday. Carefully, I reach down and withdraw the shroud from my bag, holding it in my hands under the table, trying not to wince. The pull of the spell, still connected to me, is hot and prickly against my skin. Bastian’s eyes widen.
“Bloody hell, I’ve seen drawings in books but I never thought I’d see one in real life. It’s so heavy,” he says, feeling the weight of it in his hand. I’m kind of relieved not to be holding it. “Is it enchanted right now?”
“Yes, Beryl started it for me.”
“Who’s Beryl?”
I grimace, thinking the only way to say this is to say it in a big rush, to just get it out. If he decides he thinks it’s weird it won’t change the fact we need to do the spell together. Besides, there’s a good chance Carl Lord has been making nasty jokes about my living situation behind my back and he already knows.
“She’s in charge of the shared house I live in. It’s kind of like a halfway house.”
“Halfway from what to what?” Bastian frowns.
“Halfway from the hospital to… normality, I guess,” I say, keeping my eyes on the shroud in his hands, then taking it back and carefully putting it into my bag. I wait for him to ask more, but he doesn’t.
“Hey, I got you this.” He drops something into my lap. I jump and stare at it, rolling the small blue glass tub between my fingers. “It’s a muscle salve. You said you were sore last night.”
I undo the lid and take a hesitant sniff. It smells like arnica and eucalyptus.
“Did you make this yourself?”
“My ring’s good for healing,” Bastian says modestly, twisting his ring on his finger and confirming my suspicion from when I first met him. I suddenly imagine him making a brew in his fancy kitchen, stirring a pot, the blue of his magic glowing softly, doing all of that for me. The thought makes a warmth spread through me. I dip a finger into the salve and rub some over my wrists. Oddly, wrists and elbows and knees and ankles are the joints that hurt the longest after a shift. “I can’t believe you made this for me.”
“Yeah, well, consider me the healer in this particular raiding party.” Bastian grins.
“Is that a D&D reference?” Of course he plays Dungeons & Dragons, he’s got Dungeon Master written all over him.
“Well, what do you call strangers who team up on a quest?” Bastian demands.
“InThe Lord of the Ringsthey’re the fellowship.”
“The Nine Walkers shall be set against the Nine Riders that are evil,” Bastian quotes, and I smile widely.
“Nerd.”
“I’m not a nerd.”
“Quoting Elrond is very nerdy.” I laugh.
“Not nerdier thanknowingit’s an Elrond quote.” Bastian smirks. “I guess you’re my companion, then. If you’re okay with that?”
