I remember what Rosemary had said about the dagbato killing my grandmother, and possibly being the thing that had killed her, too. The dagbato feeds on death, I know that—it probably makes similar deals as it had done with my ancestors to giveit an endless, though constrained, amount of sacrifices. Then it started to want more.
But whythishouse? How could it have known the house would absorb enough eshé for it to drain and free itself from the crossroads?
What if, now that it has killed her, it knows of Rosemary’s gift? What if it isn’t the house or my grandmother’s shannko trapping us here any longer, but the dagbato, looking to feed on Rosemary’s death for an eternity?
The thought is enough to knock me completely back into my human form, my claws shrinking and disappearing until my blunt, unpainted nails are back.
I practically run downstairs.
Seeing Rosemary, alive and safe, makes my heart beat unsteadily. She’s chanting softly under her breath, waving a thin, unlit yellow candle with a smoking wick, walking the length of the four walls of the sitting room. The smoke trails behind her in an eerily straight line before fading into nothing.
She smiles when she’s done. “If my suspicions are correct, which, they usually are, the dagbato will be too entrenched in the eshé of the house for a simple cleansing. This means the entire house is a danger zone for it to manipulate. I’d have warded the entire building, but it’ll be useless. Concentrating on a smaller area means more powerful protection for us.”
“Right.” I swallow when my voice comes out thick.
Stubby lilac candles blaze in the four corners of the room. When I look closer, my nostrils flaring, there seems to be a thin line of white ash that smells like a burnt, unfamiliar flower lining the walls and the open spaces leading to the kitchen and foyer.
“Make sure not to step on the ash,” Rosemary says distractedly, rummaging along the side of her trunk. She stands when she’s found what she’s looking for, and sashays to me.
Fuck, she’s not fucking sashaying. She’s just walking. But the sway of her hips—
There’s something different about her. It’s making the beast fucking feral. Fucking ravenous. From the moment she’d told me about her gift, she’s seemed to have torn free of the force—borne of our own making—that had kept us ruthlessly apart.
Now, it’s thebeastsavagely fighting to free itself from the same constraints, desperate to bridge the rest of the distance to her. I’m holding back only by the skin of my fucking teeth.
“You should wear this.” She holds up a necklace made of twine, which has a minuscule glass charm with what looks like a tiny root of ginger within it. “It should make it harder for the dagbato—or anything else, for that matter—to harm you, especially if it uses the eshé to do so. It doesn’t prevent serious injury otherwise, but it’ll keep you from dying even if you are.”
“Do you also have one for yourself?” I ask as I take it.
For some reason, her scent grows delicious with a blush. I clench my jaw to keep my teeth square and blunt.
“Yes,” she says breathlessly, lifting her left hand to show the twine wrapped snugly around her wrist.
“Good,” I say, and she blushes harder. I raise a helpless, questioning eyebrow.
She ducks her head, fiddling with the twine, and says quietly, “I mean, it’s not like it’s really necessary, is it? I don’t need the extra protection. If it weren’t for the fact that the dagbato is feeding and probably getting stronger off the deaths—”
“Stop talking before you piss me off, Rosemary.”
This time, on top of the blush, is a small hint of arousal.
I move away from her, closer to the faint, flowery scent of one the candles in the corner, flexing my hands to keep them human. “If you’re warding the sitting room, does that mean …?”
“Yes,” she answers. “Don’t worry; I’ll sleep on the floor.”
I can see the small, teasing grin curving her mouth without having to look at her.
And I’m once again assaulted by everything I’m refusing to let myself have.
Maybe, when this is over—
Recoiling from that thought is almost a reflex. I can’t let myself hope. Can’t let myself dream. It’s like I’ve forgotten how. I’ve been fighting this for so long—denying and suppressingmyselffor so long that even the thought of a possible future with her feels as far from my grasp as the stars.
Because how can she ever truly, possibly want me—loveme, when she doesn’t even comprehend the raw truth of me?
Rosemary brings her radio to the kitchen, after she’s warded the room as well. I’d felt the difference immediately; there’d been a slight pressure before, so unobtrusive I hadn’t noticed it until it was gone. Where the floors had held a slightly uncomfortable texture, even through my sliders, they were now just floors. Even the rooms themselves are brighter, telling me the low current may not have been as natural as I’d initially assumed.
It feels awfully domestic seamlessly traversing the space as we make a late breakfast; it’s already early afternoon. She’s frying plantains, while I’m making the oatmeal. We’d cooked together back in uni, though it was never anything fancy considering the tiny, rundown shared kitchens we’d had; the gas cookers that never had any gas, no matter how many times students complained. If we wanted to cook, we had to get our own gas,and sometimes, if one of your roommates was rich and kind enough, a stove they wouldn’t mind sharing.
