Chapter Twenty-Three #2
“That’s enough,” Bastian croaks, flopping his hand down, and I wrench my fingers away, rubbing the burning sensation.
Bastian spreads his fingers across his wound, then twists them into a shape I recognize for sealing.
He groans as a blast of blue light sinks into his wounds but, amazingly, I see the wounds closing.
Not permanent, I remind myself, but I can’t help the staggering flood of relief inside me.
“It’s okay.” I stroke his hair and rub his arm, feeling him tremble all over. “You did it, you’re okay.”
“We need to go.” Bastian is already wincing and trying to stand up. “Someone will notice the door’s open.”
“Okay, come on.” I slip his arm over my shoulder and pull him to his feet.
He groans and is leaning against me pretty heavily, but I manage to drag him out of the cathedral and round to the conjuring circle.
I sit him on the wall while I pull my backpack on and shove the books back in Bastian’s satchel, throwing it over my shoulder.
I see the dark clumps of the Black Shuck’s hair on the grass and fumble to press them into the glass specimen vial Bastian had ready.
Then I rush back to him. He’s listing to the side, propping himself up with one hand and looking like he’s about to tumble down onto the paving stones.
“You’re never going to make it back down to Spinningfields.” I press my hand against his forehead. It’s cold and clammy. “Let’s get a taxi.”
Bastian nods wearily. Clumsily, I do up his denim jacket to cover the bloodstains. Together, we stumble down to the main road and luckily, a taxi driver is sitting idle, singing loudly to Radio One.
“Hey, mate,” I call out. “Could you give us a lift down to Spinningfields?”
“Peak fare, though.” The driver nods, looking curiously at Bastian as I manhandle him gently into the back of the cab. “He had a bit too much?”
“Food poisoning,” I say, improvising.
“If he throws up in here it’s a hundred and fifty quid for cleaning,” the driver warns, pulling out into traffic. As he does, Bastian slumps against me, his head dropping into my lap.
“Are you okay?” I whisper, automatically stroking his hair. “It seems like you lost a lot of blood.”
“Yeah, I just need a coconut water.”
“Coconut water?”
“Yeah, it’s … it’s good after blood loss.”
“For hipsters, maybe.”
He laughs and then coughs, looking drowsily up at me.
“Hey.” Bastian reaches a clumsy hand up to pull on one of my brown curls. “It’s curly. It was straight when you shifted.”
“Yeah, I—” I’m trying not to be distracted by his hand in my hair. “Giving you magic made it curl.”
“I like it, it’s cute.” He frowns and puts a heavy, weary hand on my shoulder. “Are you sore? After the shift?”
“No.” I smile wryly at him. “Adrenaline’s a hell of a drug.”
“Ha, yeah, I could do with some of that.”
“Here we are!” The cabbie calls through the glass. “That’s fifteen quid, love.”
It’s complete highway robbery for a five-minute drive, but Bastian presses his debit card against the card reader and I open the door.
Bastian groans as I drag him out and we stagger past the people dressed up and heading to the Ivy and the other fancy bars.
They stare at us; a few yell drunkenly, probably noticing the blood, but I ignore them and pull Bastian on.
When we reach the door, Bastian manages to punch in the code and we stumble into the lift.
In the mirror and the fluorescent lights, we look a total mess.
Bastian is too pale and his jeans are covered with blood, his hands grubby with it.
I’m not looking too good myself, coated in blood, dirt, and salt.
In the time it takes to get to the twentieth floor, I examine my new form.
I’m shorter again; Bastian has to stoop to lean against me.
My boobs are much smaller than my last female form—I probably won’t feel like I need my binders—and my hair is jaw length and a curly, mousy brown.
My eyes are wider apart, my nose longer, my chin sharper.
Elizabeth’s white-gold hoops still shine at my earlobes.
“Come on,” I mutter, heaving Bastian over the threshold.
Immediately, René is barking and jumping around our ankles, so excited to see us.
Bastian’s feet are slowing entirely; he’s clearly used all of his energy just getting into the room and he’s almost too heavy for me to drag him to the sofa, flopping him down with a huff. “Coconut water?”
“In the fridge,” Bastian moans. The sofa is one of those ridiculously long ones, a sectional that wraps around the coffee table and is almost as wide as it is deep.
Bastian easily pulls his feet up onto it.
René jumps up next to him and starts to lick Bastian’s face.
“There’s some painkillers on the side, too. ”
“Where’s your dad?” I ask.
“Fucked if I know.” He gently pushes René away from licking the blood off his trousers. “He writes notes on the fridge.”
“Okay.” I open the huge fridge, notice with a smirk the giant wheel of goat’s cheese with a note that says BASTIAN’S, DO NOT TOUCH among the Tupperware of various pepper- and allspice-scented leftovers all marked with a “B.” The kitchen might be immaculate, but it looks like Bastian enjoys cooking.
I pull out a carton of coconut water for Bastian and the orange juice bottle for me. “Here.”
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 says LONDON UNTIL NOVEMBER 2. “Does your dad know you were suspended?”
“No, and I’m not telling him,” Bastian mutters.
I scoop up the painkillers 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 used your power 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.”