Chapter 19
Nineteen
Drake
I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, hovering with nowhere else to go.
Time loses its meaning when you’re half-in, half-out of the world.
Rose’s room is empty, and the whole building is quiet but for an almost imperceptible croak of a frog somewhere in the hall.
I look down at my hands. They’re barely there.
I can see the pattern of the rug right through my them.
It’s getting harder and harder to be here.
The door slams open hard enough to shake the hinges. Rose explodes into the room like a force of nature, hair coming undone, cheeks flushed, arms full of books. She’s so alive it hurts to see her, and yet it also makes me more determined to stay. For her.
She doesn’t notice me at first. Too busy talking rapid-fire to the frog, who, for the record, is perched on her shoulder like a parrot.
“Hank, you sweet, sweet boy,” she’s saying. “If this works, I’m conjuring you a year’s supply of crickets.”
“Ribbit,” says Hank, so smug I can almost hear the frog’s self-satisfaction.
Rose drops her haul on the desk, flipping the biggest volume open with one hand. She’s practically vibrating, she’s so excited. Then she turns, and her eyes find me.
And her face lights up like the sun.
I try for a smile.
She crosses the room. “You’re back!”
“I am,” I say. “But I don’t know for how long.”
Tears well in her eyes and my heart cracks a little. “I’m sorry, I should’ve been here sooner. I’ve been digging in the library for hours, I lost track.”
Her hands are shaking as she drags the heavy, battered book across the desk and opens it to a dog-eared page. “Look. Hank found this. It’s about anchoring spirits. This is real magic. Bloodline magic.”
She scans the page, mouth moving as she reads.
“It says that spectral entities are tethered by unfinished business or emotional connections, which, obviously. But if the connection weakens, the spirit fades, blah blah, we know that. But here.” She jabs at a paragraph with her finger.
“It also says ‘the living can reinforce the connection, through magical resonance or intense focus of emotion. The stronger the tie, the more anchored the ghost.’ That’s you, Drake. That’s us.”
I stare at the words. I want to believe them, I really do. But I know how this story usually ends.
“Rose,” I say. “That kind of magic, that kind of emotional anchoring? It’s dangerous. For you. You shouldn’t burn yourself out trying to keep me around.”
She crosses her arms. “Are you seriously pulling the ‘it’s not safe for you’ card right now? After everything we’ve been through?”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” She slams the book shut. “You think I’m going to just sit here and watch you vanish, minute by minute, when I could do something about it? No. Not happening.”
“Rose—”
“No.” She cuts me off, voice sharp. “Don’t you dare go all noble-ghost-martyr on me. You’re not protecting me by giving up.”
I open my mouth, but she’s already barreling ahead.
“You’re afraid,” she says. “You’re scared that if you let yourself hope, and it doesn’t work, you’ll have nothing left.
I get it. I do. But I’m not giving up on you, so you don’t get to give up on yourself, either.
And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not like other witches.
” She laughs at herself. “There has to be some kind of upside to everyone else wanting my power.”
My edges flicker, my voice is barely more than a whisper. “It’s not that I don’t want to stay.”
She takes a step closer. “Try,” she says. “Just try. Focus on me, on our connection.”
I do. I focus on her, on the way her hair is falling out of the messy top knot on her head, on the way she looks at me, on how much being near her makes me want to be alive .
I reach for her hand, expecting my fingers to pass through since I haven’t been able to hold myself together enough to physically touch anything, including her, lately.
Except they don’t.
For a second, my hand is solid. Bone, muscle, skin. I can feel the pulse in her wrist, the heat of her palm pressed against mine.
I pull back, and just like that, the sensation is gone. My hand goes transparent again, the connection lost.
“How?”
“I just wanted you to stay. I felt it, and my magic responded. And you snapped back into place.”
I try again, slower this time. I reach for her cheek, willing my hand to be real. I focus on her face.
It works. My fingers brush her cheek. She leans into it, her eyes closing for a heartbeat.
“Drake,” she says.
I don’t trust myself to speak. I just let my hand linger. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to touch my girl ever again. She’s holding her breath, afraid if she exhales I’ll vanish again.
“Stay,” she whispers, and I want to laugh, or cry, or both. Like it’s that simple. Like I haven’t been trying, with everything I have left, every second I still exist.
But I don’t say that. I just close my hand around hers again, this time holding tight.
For a moment, it’s so normal, her hand in mine, the way it once was. She grips my hand back, her knuckles white, terrified that if I let go I’ll dissipate for good.
“Do you feel that?” she asks, wonder and disbelief crashing into her voice. “It’s like you’re really here. Like you’re actually alive.”
I nod, afraid to speak. If I open my mouth, I might unravel the whole thing by saying the wrong words. I draw her in, and she lets herself be drawn, folding against me. My arms wrap around her shoulders, and for the first time since death, since after, since whatever the fuck this is, I feel whole.
She fits under my chin, nose tucked into my chest, and she is warm, and I want to stay here until the world ends, and beyond. But it’s too much to ask. I don’t say it, but she feels my hesitation. She always does.
“Don’t even,” she says. Then she pulls back and looks up at me, scowling. “I can handle it. I know I can. Now that Ash turned my magic back on. It actually feels like it’s making me stronger, to be honest.”
I want to believe her, but I remember what power costs. Always, always, there’s a price. “Rose, you don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
This woman. My Rose. If I had to die just to be part of her world, it was worth it. It would be worth it to die a hundred times over. I clear my throat, though it comes out roughly. “Maybe we should test it. See how long I can stay.” I try to sound casual.
She grins, the left corner of her mouth quirking up. “Test it how, exactly?” She lifts her chin, the tip of her nose brushing my jaw. “Usually the scientific method involves repeated trials and experiments.”
“I’d suggest nothing less.” I deadpan. “Are you proposing any particular sort of ‘experiment’?”
“I’m proposing we see how long we can make you last.” She waggles her eyebrows up and down, and there’s no mistaking her meaning. “Maybe you’ll be stuck with me forever.”
“Forever’s a long time. You could get sick of me.” I say.
She doesn’t answer, just takes a step backwards and begins removing her clothes.