Page 143 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

It’s bizarre. Since the attack a few days ago, I keep standing in the bathroom mirror trying to undo the plum-colored injury, but no matter what I throw at it, it doesn’t budge. I’ve never seen an injury I couldn’t heal before. I’ve never wanted to heal something so bad in my life, because every time Damien looks at me and catches the dark smudges on my throat, he looks so utterly guilty.

“I already told you,” Aemon says from the doorway. “You won’t be able to heal them.”

I glare at him. “I’m really regretting bending the wards to let you in,” I mutter as I look back in the mirror. I frown at myself once before abandoning my efforts and breezing past Aemon on my way to the living room.

I sit on the couch and click on the electric kettle. I’d moved it onto my coffee table a few days ago, when the couch became my workspace for reading through my mother’s journals and any books I could find on the strange nature of the bruising around my neck. I prepare a sachet of arnica tea and drop a sugar cube into my cup along with it. At least the plant extract can help speed along the natural healing process.

I pick up my phone while I wait for the water to boil. Aemon helps himself to the seat next to me, and I do my best to pretend he’s not there. As I scroll through videos, almost every other post has one or another Portent song as its soundtrack. Hard to believe, but Portent has suddenly blown up across every social media platform because someone decided to use Kiss it Better for a thirst trap trend.

Knowing this is one of the few things cheering me up these days. This sudden surge in viral popularity is only going to do good things for Damien’s career. It’s funny—funny weird, not funny haha. Damien’s been in crisis mode over being a man who can’t protect his partner for the last few days. For me, I’m more afraid of what will happen to him—or frankly to any of my friends—now I’m being pursued by whatever this creature is that has Aemon under his thumb.

The kettle clicks off once it boils, and I tip the steaming water into my waiting teacup. Watching the dried arnica steep into the water and melt the sugar cube gives me the smallest sense that I’m doing something to help my situation, even if I’m not.

“Are we just going to sit here in awkward silence?” Aemon asks.

“Yep,” I say, settling back with my tea.

“And we’re not going to address the problem of the ichor trapped inside of you?”

“Nope.” I take a sip.

“Lillith—”

“Aemon.”

“Seven hells. We can’t just pretend this isn’t a problem,” he says.

“I’ll find a way. Or Bastion or Wren will,” I say, scrolling through more thirst traps.

“How is Wren, by the way? She seemed rather upset when she left a few nights ago,” Aemon says, examining his fingernails.

I narrow my eyes at him.

He continues looking at his nails.

I continue staring.

He finally looks at me, his dark brows twitching. “What?”

“No.”

“That wasn’t a yes or no quest—”

“No.”

“I can’t ask about the emotional wellbeing of one of your friends?”

“Not when she’s fucking hot. And SEEING somebody!”

Aemon rolls his eyes. “Ah yes, the guitar boy.”

“He’s a bassist. And, I repeat: NO.”

Seriously, the nerve of this fucking guy. And he thinks I’m naive enough to not see right through what he’s doing? Be so fucking for real right now. I start scrolling again when a text pops up on my phone from Damien.

Hey, on my way to you.

I frown at the screen. After being with Damien for a little bit now, I can always tell when he’s not in the best mood. The man takes any opportunity he can get to flirt with me. Text, phone call. If fax machines were still a thing, I bet he’d be clogging up the fax line. It’s always a tell when his messages are straight to the point.