Page 173 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

I nod, happy that it most likely won’t be necessary.

“I need you to keep the staff out of here,” I say.

“For how long?”

“At least an hour.”

“How do we... explain his miraculous recovery?”

I look at Wren and she seems to know what I have in mind.

“Once we’re sure it’s worked, we’ll rewrite the staff’s memories. If anyone witnessed his injuries, there will be conflicting reports—we may get a clone conspiracy or two out of it, but it’s better than exposing magic as real.”

“Shit. Alright,” Roxie says, running a hand through their tangled, copper hair.

I approach the door and hold onto the handle for just a little bit too long. My stomach flips with fear over what I’m going to see, even with the knowledge that I’m planning to heal him.

If I can’t heal him, fully—even if the scars wind up ghastly and extensive, I will still love him. He’ll still be everything to me, no matter what he looks like.

But to see someone you love in pain like this... To know that it’s your fault they’re fighting for their life…

My throat tightens. I steel myself, pushing the door open and forcing my feet to carry me inside.

Oren stands from where he sits on a pale green vinyl chair, looking shocked to see me even though he knew I was on my way up. “It’s such a trip, dude,” he whispers. “You really got here in under an hour.”

I nod, not looking at the bed yet. A heartrate monitor beeps a steady rhythm. Fletcher stands from a chair in the corner of the room, looking exhausted. He pulls me into a hug and exhales a relieved breath.

“You’re a good lass,” he says, sniffling.

I want to tell them that this is my fault. That Damien was likely used as bait. The sound of a blood pressure cuff inflating draws my attention to the hospital bed.

And it’s just... horrific.

Where his face isn’t red and furious, it’s charred black. His lips are swollen and crisped with soot, hanging slack against a hose extending from deep in his throat, connected to a machine that presumably breathes for him. His hair is burned from about three quarters of his head. His eyes have swollen shut. His blacked-out arm has transformed to a sleeve of red, bloody flesh that stretches onto his chest. His hip oozes red and white and clear onto an absorbent pad beneath him.

I can’t help it. My eyes fill with tears and spill out with a loud, ugly sob.

Fletcher hugs me closer, crushing me against him. “I know, love,” he says. His accent would almost be comforting, if the situation weren’t so horrible.

Oren kisses the top of my head, shushing me softly. “It’s going to be okay. You’re here now,” he says, sounding choked up too. Sounding a little desperate.

I nod, sobbing for a little longer as I try to arrange my universe around this horror in front of me. I’ve never seen burns like this. It looks so horribly painful. A terror settles in me that I might not have enough time with him to heal him properly. That I might not have enough energy stored up. That my magic might not work at all. That the Aberrant has drawn me out to torture me with the mutilation of my love before he takes me as his servant.

“What do you need from us?” Oren asks. “Aside from keeping staff out?”

I’m at a loss for a long moment. I’m honestly not even sure where to start. I’m so overwhelmed by the seemingly insurmountable task set before me.

But I think of Bash. And I think about what he would do. The next correct step.

I swallow my next sob and heave out a controlled breath through tight lips.

“I might need more energy than I brought with me,” I say. “Can I siphon off of you if needed?”

Fletcher stiffens in my arms, but Oren doesn’t hesitate. “Of course. Whatever you need.”

“Alright,” I say. “Fletcher, I know you’re exhausted. Why don’t you just stay with Roxie and Wren and Satoshi outside? Keep staff out. Oren, I just need you to stand by in case I need you.”

“Sure,” he says.