58 Jasper
JASPER
“Fuck you forever,” I groan, swaying on my feet in the middle of the kitchen.
Eyes shut tight, I press down the urge to vomit.
Witches aren’t meant to travel the void.
My insides feel like they’re out. I’m cold, shaking.
Sweat beads at my brow as Dáinn drops my hand.
He continues his conversation with Birdie like nothing happened.
She seems wholly unaffected too. She flounces over to the fridge in her sparkly flapper dress, helping herself to a bottle of water.
I can’t even hear their words. It’s all just bright lights and a muffled ringing in my ears. I grunt, glancing down at myself. That asshole mage kept my clothes. Damn. I loved that shirt.
“Jas, if I make a BLT, do you want one?” Birdie calls.
She really expects me to eat food right now? How can I do that when my stomach is in my back and my throat is on the floor? Imagining the smell of bacon grease has me gagging. “Oh, fuck—” I drop like a sack of flour to my knees.
Well, this is fucking embarrassing.
“M’fine,” I say to no one.
Hands grip my face, gentle but direct. “Jasper, look at me.”
I like this voice. It’s soft, like rain on a windowpane. I blink my eyes open to see Birdie’s face floating in front of my own, cast in a halo of light. Her sea glass eyes are wide with concern.
“Are you okay?”
“Just dizzy,” I mumble, leaning into the press of her hand.
She sweeps the sweaty hair from my brow, flipping her hand over to check my temperature. “Is it the drain? You seemed fine before.”
Dáinn pats the top of my head. “He just has the void sickness.”
“Void sickness?” she repeats.
“Yes, it’s common to feel a bit disoriented when traversing the vastness of the void.”
Birdie glances up to where he stands behind me. “But I feel fine.”
“Yet more proof that you are more than compatible with my magic,” he replies with obvious pride in his voice.
“Water,” I croak. It might not help my void sickness, but it certainly can’t fucking hurt.
Birdie twists the cap off the bottle she set aside and holds it to my lips, helping me take a sip. The icy cold water washes down my throat, cooling as it goes. “Let’s get him up off the floor.”
Dáinn lifts me under the arms like I weigh nothing, and the two of them half-carry me into the family room, settling me on the couch.
I’ve always liked this room. It’s more comfortable than the stuffy, formal sitting room.
I can actually relax on this couch and not have to hear Hort complain about damaging the upholstery.
There’s a pair of overstuffed armchairs too.
And my flat-screen TV. I may be the head of a centuries-old magical coven, but I happen to like watching humans play sports ball.
Pickles slinks in, hopping up on the couch next to me. He takes a sniff, then promptly yawns and curls up to sleep. I must not be too bad. He’s a little shit, but I have to think he’d show an ounce more concern if I was actually dying.
I drop a hand, absently stroking the cat’s silky black fur as I sip my water. It’s helping. My body feels more relaxed, my limbs weighted.
Birdie sits herself on the coffee table, placing a hand on my knee. “Do you feel any different?”
I sip more water. “Different how?”
“I mean, does the void sickness feel different from the soul draining? And is that different from a magical drain? I would look up your symptoms on the internet, but I doubt WebMD will say much about causes and treatments for supernatural draining.”
“I highly doubt it.” Curling forward with a stifled groan, I set the empty water bottle aside.
“Well, let’s focus on the soul draining. Because I don’t feel any different. In the moment, it took my breath away, and there was this rush of panic. Then there were all these flashes.” She waves her hands in front of her face. “I saw parts of my life, like stills from a movie.”
“Those were your memories,” Dáinn says gently. “I saw them too.”
“It lasted only seconds,” she goes on. “Then I told him to stop, and it was over. The most I felt was winded. Was it the same for you?”
I listen to her explanation with a sinking feeling of worry in my gut. “No,” I murmur. “It wasn’t like that for me at all.”
Dáinn sits down next to her on the coffee table, his hand drifting to my other knee. “What was it like?”
I look sharply to him, and he winces, dropping his hand away.
“Forgive me, witch. I don’t mean to sound too eager but—I’ve never . . . this is all very . . .” He shakes his head, swallowing back the rest of his words.
Birdie lets out a breath. “Oh god . . . you’ve never been able to ask before, have you? Because anyone you taste, you kill.”
He nods, glancing between us. “We are all in uncharted waters now.”
Birdie turns to me. “Can you tell us your symptoms? It might help.”
Clearing my throat, I lean back, my hand resting on the cat.
“This isn’t a magical drain. I’ve felt those before.
For me, it feels like a short and serious bout of mono.
Weakness, fatigue, headaches. Usually, a nap is enough to clear it away.
And Hort makes this godawful potion that’s like a hyper-concentrated energy drink. Tastes like shit, but it helps.”
She leans forward, stroking my face again. Concern pinches her brow. “So . . . you don’t feel weak or tired?”
“I do,” I admit. “It’s been a long fucking day on top of an even longer week. But those are mortal pains. This is different.”
“Is it the void sickness?” she presses.
“I don’t know. I’ve only been to the void twice. Both times today. It twists me up bad, makes me feel like my outsides are in.”
“That’s quite common,” Dáinn interjects. “Most corporeal creatures have no stomach for it. Why, the first time I pulled Baz through the void, he vomited on his shoes.”
I fight back a smile. Not gonna lie, but that makes me feel a little better about only dropping to my knees. “It’s already passing,” I say, trying to sit forward. “I’ll be fine in another minute.”
“You’re not fine.” Birdie presses me back with both hands. “Your color is off. You have dark circles under your eyes.”
“Gee, thanks,” I mutter.
She takes my hand, brushing her thumb over my rough, tanned skin. “Jasper, you’re trembling. And you were like this before . . . that first night, in the alley. This is from the soul draining. He took too much this time, didn’t he?”
Next to her, Dáinn stiffens, his whiskey brown eyes going wide.
His expression shifts from surprise, to worry, to fear.
Slowly, he lifts a hand, brushing it over his chest. My gaze traces each letter of the tattoo inked on his forearm.
Memento mori. Remember you will die. Did he add it himself?
Or was it already on the body when Baz used it for a render?
He sits forward, elbows dropping to his knees as he holds my gaze. “Say it,” he whispers.
Fuck, we’re doing this.
“I do feel different,” I admit. “I was waiting to see if it would pass, but it’s not passing.”
“Explain,” says the wraith.
“That first time . . . it felt like you were ripping the soul from my chest, carving it loose with a hot knife, and sucking it away through my mouth. It was excruciating. I felt every moment you were stealing. Every memory . . . every emotion.”
They both look to me with rapt attention.
“But then this flood of great loss got sort of reversed and the flood went into me.” I press both hands to my chest. “I thought I might burst trying to make everything that was me fit back inside the cage of my chest.”
“And this time?” Birdie asks.
“This time felt easier. There was far less pain. I felt it the moment he stopped. But nothing poured back into me. I think—” I glance to the wraith, tracing the lines of worry on his face.
“Dáinn, I think you kept the parts of me you took. I think—” I shift my hand a little lower, away from my rapidly beating heart to the point near my middle that now feels emptier. “I think those parts of me are gone.”
“Jasper . . .” The wraith slips from the coffee table and sinks to his knees before me.
I shift and he’s there, pressing himself between the spread of my thighs.
Tentatively, he reaches out, placing his hands on me.
Am I seeing things, or are those tears in his eyes?
“I’m sorry, sweet witch . . . but I fear you might be right. ”
“Right?” Birdie glances between us. “Why? Dáinn, what do you feel?”
Dáinn presses a hand over his own heart. “For the first time in centuries, a soul is filling me and I’m not hungry. I—” He sinks back on his heels, dragging both hands through his hair. “Gods, I haven’t felt this way since—”
“Since what?” I say.
“Since the night Ludmilla first ensnared me. That was the last time I tasted a soul of my own choosing. You see, a soul can only fully satisfy me when it’s freely offered. With Ludmilla, I eat, but I am forever starved. You have no idea the torment—” Eyes shut tight, he chokes on his pain.
Birdie looks like she’s about to cry as she places a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Dáinn. You can’t help the nature of what you are—”
“I should have known better,” he snarls, flinching away from her touch. “And I should never have let this happen.”
“We had to show Baz,” she soothes. “We agreed—”
Shrugging away from her, he stands, pacing out from behind the table.
He turns at the wall, shadows pooling out of his rendered form.
“I should have never come back to you. Never begged for your help. My Jasper, you were free of me. Birdie stopped me, and from that moment I should have fled, never to darken your door.”
“Stop,” I growl.