Page 162 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

“Yes, but usually something is in motion by then. Some awareness, some kind of decision made. I had this vision before we even knew there was a working placed on Lillith.”

I’m suddenly so tired. So, so tired. I sink to the floor, crossing my legs and dropping my head in my hands. “Fuck this. And fuck me,” I groan.

“I know,” Wren says, crouching next to me and rubbing soothing circles over my back. “It sucks.”

“Understatement of the fucking year,” I say.

“Try the century,” Aemon says, sitting down on the floor, too.

Bastion comes to join us. And we all just sit there in silence for a long time. I weigh the options, or lack thereof, in my mind in the oppressive quiet of the room. Either I let the Aberrant’s subjugation take hold, or I risk placing my magic in the hands of others—one of which only recently became an ally.

My friends are loyal, but we haven’t exactly been seeing eye to eye between the three of us lately. Bastion may still harbor some frustration with me for ending my bloodline. Wren—I love her and I know she loves me, but I can’t really tell where her head is at right now. She’s making out with a demon—familiar—whatever who, up until recently, seemed to be my enemy.

But then again...maybe it would be a relief not to have to worry about my magic anymore. Even if it did all get stolen, who cares? Maybe it would be nice to just be a regular woman and be able to travel the world with Damien. Live a short, but meaningful life and die with the knowledge that I did everything I could?

Even as I think it, though, it feels like a lie. My magic is as much part of me as my damned soul is.

But what choice do I really have?

None. I have no choices.

“What do we have to do to prepare the working?” I ask.

The words sound so small and weak, about as small and weak as I feel. Wren takes my hand in hers, and Bastion presses his knee against mine.

“We need about a week to get the materials together,” Bastion says gently. “And we’ll do the working on the waning crescents of all three moons, effectively wielding that lunar energy like scythes to cut away at the other bonds enough to put our own in place.”

I nod, stomach churning. “And if it rebounds?”

“It’s not going to rebound,” Wren says. “We all need to go in believing that as fact.”

Aemon stays quiet, maybe aware of how nothing he says would feel reassuring. I’m kind of grateful for it. I mentally calculate how to tell Damien that we have a plan without telling him that it could kill me or drain all the magic out of me. He would never go for it. He would abandon his band to be at my side when we tried it.

No. I’m going to have to wait until I know the results to tell him, and that might be the worst fucking part of this whole thing. I hate lying to him.

But I won’t let him give up everything he’s worked so hard for. Not for me. All this garbage happening has already ruined my life. I won’t let it ruin his too. Even if he claims he’d prefer it. I just couldn’t live with myself if he lost his music to this.

I can keep a secret for a week.

And I will.

ㅤ

As it turns out, the subjugation working placed on me is one hell of a spell. Part of me knew this, I think. And I think it’s why my mood has dipped so low since Damien left for his extra tour dates. Breaking—or, rather, overwriting the spell requires a ritual with a complexity the likes of which I have never attempted.

The Aberrant has so much power that he didn’t even need to be the entity casting the spell. He’d been able to send a proxy in his stead. And that’s no small thing. If he’s powerful enough to do that, I shudder to think of what else he could do. What he has planned if his magic is allowed to tap into mine.

We’ve all split up the preparation for the crescent moon ritual between the four of us. I’ve been tasked with any step that doesn’t take the magical “thumbprint” into account, for lack of a better term. It’s a lot of consecration, a lot of incantation writing, a lot of reading.

The frustrating thing, though, is the closer we get to the night of the working, the less predictably my magic performs. Simple workings rebound or do the opposite of what I intend. It’s making me think I might not be the best person for the job of consecration after all, because my magic can’t make heads or tails of anything I’m telling it to do.

We’re two days out from the ritual, now. I’m genuinely concerned that I might need the others to take over. Which might affect the power they have stored up for the actual spell in two nights.

“You look stressed,” Aemon’s voice comes from behind me, making me leap out of my skin.

“I swear to gods, I’m going to put a fucking belled collar on you,” I hiss.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, ignoring my threat. An annoying new talent of his—being able to tell I’m avoidant when I’m blue and combatting it with a determined, direct question.