Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Virtue had been gone for thirty-six minutes.
Sasha knew this because she’d been counting.
Not intentionally—there wasn’t exactly a clock in the bog witch’s cottage.
But she’d been stirring the same cauldron of liquid over the fire for so long that the leaves of tea had turned to mush and the water had gone the color of something that had died in a puddle.
She was counting seconds in her head because it was either that or think about him.
So. Counting.
Virtue had announced, with all the dramatic gravitas of a man born to deliver monologues to the wind, that he was going to “patrol the perimeter for enemy scouts.” Like they weren’t sitting in the middle of a bog.
An evil bog. A bog so evil that even the frogs sounded like they were plotting something.
And it was her evil bog, moreover.
“What are you expecting to find?” Sasha had asked, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. “Mordor’s JV squad? A pack of rabid goblins with a grudge? We’re in a swamp, Virtue. My swamp. The only things out there are mosquitoes and existential dread.”
He’d given her that patient, golden, impossibly kind look that made her feel like she was being gently scolded by a golden retriever. “The Dark King’s forces have been mobilizing. I’ve felt it. Something is coming. I won’t be long.”
And then he’d strapped on his golden sword, pulled his tattered red cape over his shoulder, and walked out into the fog.
Into the evil bog.
To patrol for enemies.
But Virtue was a hero, and heroes patrolled. They couldn’t sit still. They had to be out there, swinging their shiny swords at the darkness like it would listen.
Meanwhile, the people who were actually going to save the day were stuck inside a cramped cottage that smelled like moss and dried animal parts, babysitting a cranky taxidermy lizard who had just eaten something that was definitely still moving when he’d caught it.
Dundle was an idiot. And now he was having a fit because his lunch was squirmy.
Seven hundred and—whatever. She’d lost count again.
Sasha abandoned the ruined tea and sat down on the stool at her workstation. Dundle was asleep on the table next to a jar of something that glowed faintly violet. She stared at it. At the swirl of purple light trapped inside the glass.
Her spell.
Conveniently made off-page. Neat trick, that. Using scene breaks to create magical spells that could kill Vile. But she couldn’t help but keep staring at the jar. It was going to kill him. End him.
No, it wasn’t. He wouldn’t die forever. It was just going to stop him for a little while. Besides, he was evil incarnate, all villains combined, and he’d gleefully chopped her up into tiny pieces.
She had to keep telling herself that. A reminder. A reason to keep her distance. A reason to stop being so fucking stupid.
But lately, it was starting to feel less like a warning and more like an observation. Like saying the ocean was wet. Or that Vile was—that he—that they had—
She pressed her palms flat against the table and stared down at the grain of the wood.
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about him.
Because as the saying went. Speak of the devil and—
But she could still feel the ghost of shadow against her skin. The press of darkness that was somehow warm. The way his voice had sounded when he’d said let go, Sasha like it was the simplest request in the world. Like all she had to do was stop fighting what she already knew.
Don’t.
She was supposed to be fighting against him. To be plotting to unmake his book. To be overjoyed that she’d made a spell that could burn the anchor of his existence and she could walk through the ashes back to Earth.
And she was going to do it.
She was.
She just wished she could stop thinking about the way the darkness had felt inside her.
“You’re doing the thing again.”
Sasha’s head snapped up.
Sidney was sitting on the cot across the room, her legs pulled up beneath the silvery fabric of her elven gown, watching Sasha with the kind of expression that only a twin could produce.
It was the expression that said: I know exactly what you’re thinking, and I’m debating whether to call you out on it or let you suffer in peace.
Apparently, she’d chosen to call her out.
“What thing?” Sasha kept her voice flat.
Casual. Normal. No, she wasn’t spiraling out.
No, she was totally fine. She wasn’t having an existential crisis about an eldritch demigod of villainy that she’d slept with.
Twice. In ways that defied the lewd laws of physics and probably several Geneva Conventions.
“The staring-at-the-table-like-it-personally-wronged-you thing.” Sidney tilted her head. “You’re chewing the inside of your cheek, your left eyebrow is doing the twitchy thing it does when you’re overthinking, and you haven’t blinked in about thirty seconds.”
“I blinked.”
“You didn’t.”
“I definitely blinked.”
“Sasha.”
Sasha blinked. Aggressively. To prove a point.
Then she turned away and busied herself with rearranging the jars on her workstation, which didn’t need rearranging.
“I’m fine. I’m thinking about the spell.
It’s complicated and there are a lot of moving parts and I don’t exactly have a recipe for ‘Unmake An Ancient Evil Demigod,’ so if you could just—”
“The spell is already done, isn’t it?”
Her silence was damning.
“Yep.” Sidney sighed. “You’re thinking about Vile.”
The jar in Sasha’s hand slipped. She caught it before it hit the table, but the flinch had been visible. Dammit. She was a terrible liar. She’d always been a terrible liar. Sidney could read her like one of the books on Vile’s shelves.
“I’m not.”
“You are. And it’s written all over your face, Sash. Your whole body language changes when you’re thinking about him. You go all tense and then you go all…soft. Like you can’t decide if you want to punch him or—”
“Finish that sentence and I will feed you to Lundle.”
From somewhere in the rafters, Lundle let out a hopeful “skkritch?”
“No, Lundle.” Sasha pointed up at the ceiling without looking. “She’s not food.” She glared at Sidney. “Yet.”
Sidney was quiet for a long moment. She had the expression of a woman who wanted to say something important but was terrified of what would happen when she did.
The fire crackled between them. Outside, something in the bog let out a low, gurgling call that sounded like the land itself coughing up phlegm.
“Can I talk to you about something? Seriously?” Sidney’s voice had gone quiet. Not scared-quiet. Vulnerable-quiet. Which, from Sidney, was infinitely more alarming.
Sasha set the jar down slowly and turned to face her sister fully. “Yeah. Of course.”
Sidney drew a slow breath, pulling her elven cloak tighter around herself like a security blanket. The runes stitched into the silver fabric threw tiny constellations across the wall. She looked impossibly beautiful and impossibly small at the same time.
“I’m in love with Virtue.”
The words came out steady and deliberate, like she’d been rehearsing them. Which she probably had. Probably the entire time Virtue had been out pointlessly swinging his golden sword at the fog.
Sasha didn’t say anything for a moment. Not because she was surprised—God, no, she wasn’t surprised—but because the ache in her sister’s voice was so raw that anything she said too quickly would feel like stepping on it.
“Sid…”
“Don’t give me the face.” Sidney held up a hand. “Not the ‘oh honey’ face. I know it’s stupid. I know he’s not—he’s not even real, he’s—he’s every hero ever written, he’s a concept with cheekbones and a smile that makes me feel like the sun just came out, and I know how pathetic that sounds.”
“It doesn’t sound pathetic.”
“It sounds a little pathetic.”
“Okay, it sounds a little pathetic. But so does everything when you say it out loud.” Sasha managed a small smile. “When did you know?”
“I think…maybe in Neverland? No. Before that. When he caught me in the library and I didn’t want him to let go.” She let out a breath that shuddered at the edges. “Definitely in Sherlock. When he came to me in that dream and I hit him and he just…took it. And held me.”
“And it’s been months in this story.” Sidney’s voice cracked as she continued talking. “For me, it’s been months, Sasha. Side quests and campfires and him carrying me when my legs gave out and him singing—did you know he sings? He’s terrible at it—and just…being with him. Every day.”
Sidney wiped at her face quickly with the heel of her palm. “And I know it’s the story. I know the story is making it happen. But it doesn’t feel like it. It feels real. He feels real. And I’m—” Her voice broke again. “I’m scared, Sash.”
Sasha got up off the stool and crossed the room. She sat down on the cot next to her sister and put an arm around her shoulders. Sidney leaned into her immediately, the way she’d been doing since they were kids. Head on Sasha’s shoulder. The familiar weight of her twin against her side.
“What are you scared of?” Sasha asked quietly.
“Everything.” Sidney laughed, but it came out waterlogged. “I’m scared of dying again. I’m scared of you dying again. I’m scared that the plan won’t work, and Vile will find out, and he’ll—” She swallowed hard. “But mostly I’m scared of what happens if it does work.”
Sasha frowned. “What do you mean?”
“If we destroy the book. If we go home.” Sidney pulled back just enough to look at Sasha.
Her eyes, the same shade of brown as her sister’s, were red-rimmed and glistening.
“He said he’d be here. Alone. For maybe a century, just…
minding the library by himself. He said he’d have stories to keep him company.
” She was trying to smile, and it was the most heartbreaking thing Sasha had seen in a long time.
“Like that makes it okay. Like being the hero means you’re just supposed to be fine with being lonely forever. ”
“Sid…”