Chapter 30
THIRTY
Channeling magic was second nature to her now, and when the pain hit, this time she was prepared to push through. It was a familiar bed after a long night. She reached out, quick as a bird, and pulled that explosive spell’s magic into herself, where it detonated in her body.
Joan, miraculously, did not turn into a pile of goo.
This remained, nonetheless, her breaking point.
Perhaps it was all the magic she’d already channeled, poisoning her body slowly but surely, weakening it far past what it had ever reached before.
Or maybe it was too much magic for anyone at any time, but though she clung to the barest shred of consciousness, Joan was nearly 100 percent sure at least one of her internal organs popped.
Her ribs crunched in.
Joan threw up blood, so much blood, and it wasn’t just that—she felt it seep out of her pores, ooze from her eyes.
Of all the ways she’d imagined her death, she’d never expected this, magic turning her inside out.
Hands fumbled at the ropes binding her to the chair, and then the pressure released, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Joan was free.
She fell.
Someone caught her.
“I have you,” Astoria was saying. “Joan, stay with me, okay? Stay with me a little while longer.”
The world smeared around them. Joan coughed and it was wet. She thought faintly that she was leaving a trail of blood on Astoria’s vest. She was being lifted, maneuvered carefully into Astoria’s arms.
Cradled, gently. She was so warm, and it felt so nice on Joan’s torn skin.
“Don’t die, you bastard,” Astoria growled, huffing a little as they started moving. “You’re not dying like this.”
Blood dribbled out of Joan’s mouth. This was really it. Astoria’s temple was cut, her impaled shoulder slick, but she was moving, heading in the direction Wren had gone.
She looked so sad.
Joan hated that. “How… will I die, then?” she forced out.
Astoria shifted her higher in her arms, picked up the pace as they moved down the hall, an orb of light following them.
“You’ll die in your sleep when you’re super old, in someone’s arms, warm, with dahlias on your bedside.
The last thing you’ll say will be some stupid, taunting joke.
You’ll make someone laugh before you go. ”
More blood and spit foamed out of Joan. She thought maybe there was some dripping from her nose too, or maybe that was her whole brain, liquefied by the spell. “You… think about my death?”
“Shut up. The point is, it’s not happening right now,” Astoria hissed. “And it will not be because you saved my life. So it’s not time yet. Say it. ‘It’s not time yet, I’m not going to die.’”
Joan shivered. Astoria’s heat wasn’t making a dent anymore; the cold was creeping too far into her. “You saved my life first.” She coughed, almost choked on it. “Astoria, tell CZ… tell him to ask Grace out.”
“We’re almost to Wren,” Astoria said, rounding a corner. “She’s close, and she’s good at healing spells. I’m shit at them. I only… I only destroy. Fuck. We can cast one together. Hold on so you can meddle in CZ’s love life yourself.”
The cold reached her lungs. They seized, and her breath skipped. Magic wasn’t a cure-all. There were limits to its ability to heal.
Joan rather suspected she was past those limits.
“Stop channeling, Joan,” Astoria hissed.
“I’m… not.” She wasn’t, was she? Magic slid through her as the world dimmed.
Astoria was screaming for Wren now. Oh gods, Joan never wanted to hear Astoria scream like that again, voice fraying, mask finally cracking into a look of genuine terror.
There was a distant answering call. The thundering of shoes. It sounded like hooves.
She was jostled. Oddly enough, the pain wasn’t as bad as it had been a minute ago.
Maybe a bad sign of her impending death.
There was a hand on her face, flaring hot, cupping her cheek.
Someone was talking at her, but she couldn’t hear them.
She was pretty sure her ears were full of blood. They felt wet.
The hand shook her face, harder, which was a terrible inconvenience. A thumb brushed across her cheekbone; she felt its softness with a jolt. Who would hold her like this? The curiosity alone was enough to get her to pry her eyes back open.
Astoria was sitting on the ground, Joan cradled in her arms, as Wren knelt over them both.
Their exchange was rapid-fire, but it was all mumbles to Joan.
She couldn’t believe she was going to die in Astoria’s arms. She couldn’t believe she was going to die in Astoria’s arms without ever having kissed her. That was so cruel. And homophobic.
Astoria’s grip tightened; Wren’s hands started to move over Joan.
She couldn’t see the magic. That was another shock to her system—where was magic?
She’d always been able to see it, but it was no longer visible.
All she could feel was a deep coldness coiling through her.
And the distant pressure of Astoria’s body against hers.
And then sensation lanced through her body like a white-hot brand.
She wanted to scream, she opened her mouth for it, but it was so full of blood that she could only make a horrendous gurgling sound.
Her ears burned, like someone was shoving pokers into them, and she heard the horrible noise she was making again.
She heard it.
Her hearing leaked back in, enough to pick up the edge of whatever Astoria was yelling at Wren.
“Keep going.”
But the magic hurt; it was like someone was taking a cheese grater to her whole body. It was all salt in the wound. It was worse than whatever Fiona had done to her, a thousand times worse. Stop it, please. Stop doing this to me. They were pinning her spirit back into a wrecked body.
“She’s magic poisoned.” That was Wren, hands shaking. “This is going to kill her, the damage is too extensive, Astoria.”
“Keep going,” Astoria ordered. “She can take it.”
She looked down at Joan. Her eyes were filled with tears. Joan didn’t ever want to see that sight again. “You can take it, Joan.”
She couldn’t, she—
Her fingers knit back together with painful snaps. She convulsed, but Astoria held her firm. She kept saying it: “You can take it, you can take it. You’re strong.”
“Astoria—”
“Give her more time, keep going, Wren.”
Joan didn’t feel strong, Joan felt like a blade of grass being ripped in half lengthwise.
Her vision blacked out as her eyes burned next.
Magic might as well have scooped them out of her head raw, for the way it felt.
The red haze was receding but slowly, too slowly, not fast enough to keep up with the damage magic was still doing to her body.
She blinked and magic was back, funneling into Astoria in massive amounts and getting shaped by Wren.
Blood trickled from Astoria’s nose, but she didn’t stop her mantra. “You can do it.”
It was so much magic, it was—Astoria couldn’t process all of it.
She was showing the same signs of poisoning that Joan had, that Grace had shown at the market.
A sore opened on her neck, gently weeping blood.
The more there was to heal, the more magic it took, and there was no witch on earth powerful enough to reverse the damage done to Joan’s body.
But Astoria didn’t relent. When Wren questioned her, worry so evident in her hesitation, Astoria told her to work faster, a snap to her tone.
Joan needed them to stop.
Joan needed them to stop because it was going to kill Astoria if they didn’t, and then Joan was going to die anyways. The moment they stopped casting, Joan was going to die.
Their spell was the only thing keeping her alive.
Some ribs popped back into place. Joan’s nose gradually stopped bleeding as the burst vessels of her body knit back together.
Bloody tears leaked from Astoria’s eyes. The wound in her shoulder gushed blood harder.
Enough. “Stop,” Joan gasped. “Astoria, you can’t.”
“You don’t tell me what to do,” Astoria said. Red spread across the whites of her eyes.
Joan wasn’t going to let her do this; Joan would rather die herself than let Astoria tear herself apart for her. The spell slowed as Astoria struggled to keep channeling.
Darkness began to creep across Joan’s vision again. She could see magic once more. It was a whirlwind around them, thick and cloying, close enough to taste on her tongue. Joan would do anything to reach it, strike any deal.
I know you’re listening.
New York heaved around them.
I know you can hear me, Joan said, around the burning in her abdomen as the spell fought to regenerate blood as fast as Joan was losing it. New York, don’t touch her.
The words were a faint laugh, wind over a lake. She offers willingly.
Don’t. Touch. Her.
Magic wiggled away. She’s ours. We could take her now, save her so much heartbreak. She’d be grateful for it, eventually, to avoid the pain coming for her.
Wren’s hands slowed; Astoria snapped at her again, but her voice was weaker this time. Wren wouldn’t let this go on. Thank everything, thank gods Wren prioritized Astoria’s life over Joan’s.
But the spell kept going.
Wren looked blankly at her still hands, and then her head snapped up. “Stop it, Astoria. You’re at your limit.”
“Not yet,” Astoria ground out, maintaining the spell herself. “She needs more.”
“No one…” Joan coughed wetly. “No one can save me. Stop, Astoria.”
Her heartbeat was a hummingbird against Joan’s body. So fast, it’d burst.
“I’m not facing them without you,” Astoria said. Her fingers loosened, her strength failing. “I promised CZ. I need… a little more magic.”
Why wouldn’t she give up? She needed more than a little more to fix Joan, more than any normal witch could bring in, more than Wren could give her in tandem. Maybe as much as Joan was uniquely capable of channeling.
She’s not yours, Joan thought. Her hand came up; she wrapped it around Astoria’s arm. Don’t touch her, she’s mine.
Joan reached for magic, and though its touch was a pyre, though its slide into her was a superheated knife, she wrenched as much as she could away from Astoria. Astoria’s spell faltered, and she bled harder, like the effort of it was all that was keeping her conscious too.
“Heal us both, Wren,” Joan hissed. Maybe the channeling would kill her faster than the spell, but maybe in the race, she could save them both. Being alive hurt more than dying, but it was life she’d be choosing.
“You fool,” Astoria started, but Joan dug her fingers into her arm.
“Share, Wardwell,” Joan said. Let me in. “Share it with me.”
Astoria’s eyebrows knit together in confusion.
“Split it with me, you dense, gorgeous, self-sacrificial woman, so we can both live.”
Astoria stopped struggling.
Moments ago, you were ready for death, Green Witch. Now you fight against it. In your half-life state, the world unravels for you, New York murmured. We enjoy the feeling.
Come and get me, Joan snarled, and wrestled magic like a slippery fish, kicking it up a notch and releasing it directly into Wren. Astoria strengthened her when she faltered, took the edge off when it was too much, both of them feeding it into Wren’s spell.
The skin began to knit back together on Astoria’s shoulder.
The red receded from her eyes; her nose stopped bleeding.
It moved faster through Joan too, keeping up with the damage and then surpassing it, pulling her body back together quickly enough for her to stabilize.
They locked eyes, Joan and Astoria, and Joan held the gaze, a lighthouse in the burning currents of magic.
It might have been seconds, it could have been hours, but finally, the spell stopped.