Chapter 22
By the time I get Harrison back to his place, he’s really out of it. A combination of the stress, the attack, the blood loss—basically everything that happened in the last several hours has just wiped him out.
We’d managed to locate his house keys and his phone where Isaac Crawshanks had set them aside, but I have no clue what happened to his socks, shoes, or any of his clothes except for the trousers he’s still wearing.
Instead, wanting to get him out of that place as soon as possible, I simply wrapped him in my coat and carried him to my car.
He didn’t speak on the drive back to Islington, barely even opened his eyes.
Once I manage to get the door open while propping him up, I wrestle him up the stairs to his flat, his weight pressing heavily against me.
I keep my arms wrapped around him as he silently stumbles up each step.
When we finally make it to his bedroom, I strip my coat off him and he falls onto the bed.
With some manoeuvring, I manage to get him on his back, and my gaze trails over his immobile form.
His eyes are closed again, his breathing slow and even.
He’s so pale. I know it’s probably from the blood loss, but it makes his freckles stand out so prominently.
My eyes skim over his body and fix on the small, puckered, freshly healed scar.
There’s a heaviness in my chest that makes it hard to breathe. Unable to stare at him any longer, I place his phone on his bedside table, hook it up to charge, and fetch a glass of water. He needs his fluids replaced.
Shaking him awake, I try to get him to drink as much as he can.
Although he thankfully hasn’t lost enough blood to send him into shock, I still think he should be at a hospital where they can put him on an IV and monitor him.
But he won’t go, and honestly, I don’t even know how to begin explaining that he was stabbed and is suffering blood loss when the injury looks like it healed weeks ago.
After pushing the glass away, he collapses back into bed. I refill the glass and set it on the table alongside his phone. I pull the covers up over him so he won’t get cold, but as I turn to leave, his hand shoots out and grabs my wrist.
“Stay,” he croaks. “Don’t leave me.”
That’s a loaded request.
I stare at him silently, unsure if I can trust my response right now. But before I can figure out what to say, he’s slid back into sleep, his grip loosening as his hand drops to the sheets.
I reach out to smooth a lock of his beautiful red hair back from his forehead. Then I walk out of the room and leave him sleeping.
In the kitchen, I search through his cupboards until I uncover a bottle of whiskey. It’s brand new and sealed, with a gift label attached at the neck.
For emergencies. Love, Grumps.
Well, Grumps, this definitely constitutes an emergency. I crack open the top. Ordinarily, after everything I’ve been through with my mam, I’d avoid drinking right now. It’s a slippery slope for my family, but I think I can be forgiven this time.
In the cupboard, I find a clean glass, then head downstairs, open the back door, and take a seat on the doorstep.
Breathing in the crisp night air, I close my eyes for a second and search for my equilibrium. My mind is tied in knots, but I try to process everything that has happened.
I pour a generous glass from the bottle, take a sip, and savour the flavour as the liquid slides over my tongue. From my pocket, I retrieve the open packet of cigarettes I’ve taken to carrying around with me and Viv’s mermaid lighter.
I slip a cigarette from the pack and tuck it between my lips. It’s a bit stale from the packet being open for so long, but who the fuck cares—I’m only going to light the fucking thing and smoke it.
The first inhale is pure pleasure, then my eyes fall on the name Sam scribbled across the pack along with those four numbers.
4532.
I don’t suppose there’s any point trying to figure out what it means now, if it ever meant anything at all. Shoving the pack and lighter back in my pocket, I lift my glass and take a deep gulp.
With the glass placed beside me, I take a drag of my cigarette before pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes.
Fuck.
My head’s a mess. I keep seeing Harrison lying on the floor of the bookshop and bleeding out. He could’ve died tonight, and the realisation I came to in that exact moment?
I’m in love with him.
And all that realisation does is cause me pain. Because he has the power to hurt me more than anyone.
He already has.
No matter how many times I tried to convince myself that I was mistaken, I knew. I think I’ve known for weeks, even after he denied it yesterday.
But how can I move forward? My head says I can’t trust him, that he’ll just keep continually letting me down like so many other people in my life.
But my heart. Fuck. My heart wants to forgive him.
A part of me even understands why he didn’t say anything to anyone. But Jesus Christ, I’m not just anyone. I thought we were…fucked if I know anymore.
Hot tears slide down my face, and I grind them away with the heel of my hand, then pick up my glass and down the whole lot in one go.
Taking another drag of the cigarette, I tilt my head back and stare up into the night sky to watch the stars.
They’re a little muted from the light pollution but still a pretty sight.
I’m not sure how long I sit and watch those distant twinkling lights. Long enough to pour another drink and finish two more cigarettes at least. My mind is no clearer; if anything, it’s even more muddied from the booze and lack of sleep.
With a sigh, I push myself to my feet. I should check on Harrison, get him to drink some more fluids. Picking up my glass and the bottle, I’m just about to close and lock the door behind me when I get an uneasy sensation prickling at the back of my neck.
It feels like someone is watching me.
I peer into the darkness, the streetlights long since out for the night, but I can’t see anyone. Then behind me, coming from the shop’s backroom, I hear a couple of chilling notes from the music box before it stops again.
I swallow hard.
As terrible as tonight was, we did stop a killer and banish a demon, but I already know that when it comes to the secrets of the Crawshanks family…
We’re only just getting started.
I wake up slowly, climbing through layers of sleep, my eyes gritty and my head throbbing with a dull ache.
All of that is secondary to the vehement protestations of my bladder, which feels like it’s about to explode.
I have vague recollections of Sam waking me up during the night to make me drink fluids.
Tilting my head to glance at the other side of the bed, I frown when I realise Sam isn’t there.
But before I can puzzle it out, my bladder once again reminds me who’s in charge.
I ease myself out of bed as gently as possible, only to find I feel much better.
I’ve never felt as exhausted as I did last night, but I suspect only part of it was due to my injury.
The healing probably took more out of me than anything that came before. Olivia’s magic is extremely potent.
I quickly head into the bathroom, where it feels like I pee for five minutes straight. When I finally finish, I flush the toilet and turn towards the sink to wash my hands, only to catch sight of myself in the mirror.
I’m an absolute mess. There are dark shadows under my eyes, my skin is still paler than usual, and my hair stands up all over the place.
But it’s my torso that draws my gaze. Naked to the waist, I can see dried blood down my side and staining my trousers.
I trace my fingertip over the raised scar to the side of my stomach.
The events of last night come flooding back to me and I have to close my eyes against the flood of images. Yet all I can think about is Sam and the gentle way he held me despite the anger in his eyes.
I fucked up so badly.
I should’ve just told him when he asked me yesterday. If I had, would things have been different? Or would I still have ended up dangling over a demon trap in the bookshop? Or even worse, would Sam have been hurt, or even killed?
Fuck. I don’t even want to think about that possible outcome.
Stripping off my trousers and shoving them and my underwear in the bin rather than the laundry basket, I turn the shower on and wait for the water to warm up.
Once under the spray, I scrub probably more vigorously than I need to, but it’s not just the blood and dirt I want gone.
I want to scrub away every memory of last night—the demon, Isaac Crawshanks, but most of all, the way Sam looked at me.
The water is running almost cold and my fingers are prunes by the time I drag myself out of the shower and dry off.
Throwing my towel in the laundry basket, I head back into my room and grab clean underwear, a pair of super-soft purple lounge pants with little cauldrons and bats all over them, and a plain white T-shirt.
A buzzing sound has me looking over to the bedside table, and I realise Sam must’ve plugged my phone in to charge before he left.
Wondering if that’s him calling me, I hurry over to disconnect the charger.
I catch a glimpse of the screen and frown.
It’s Grumps, not Sam, but what has really caught my attention is that I have dozens of missed calls, some from Grumps but ninety percent of them from my dads.
“Hello?” I answer. “Grumps?”
“Harrison! Oh, thank goodness.” He exhales sharply. “Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
“I switched it to silent during the funeral, and I must’ve forgotten to switch it back. What’s going on? Why do I have so many missed calls from Dad and Pops?”
“Harrison, they know.”
“Know what?” I say faintly.
“Pretty much everything I do.”
“You told them?” The words come out a little more accusatory than I intended.
“Harry, what happened to you last night?” Grumps says in concern.
“What?”