Page 188 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

But if he gets to Damien... if he steals that last sliver of my magic from him...

The whole world is fucked.

“Aemon?” I shout, as loudly as I can manage.

“Already on my way to you,” he calls back. “Don’t move. Alright? Stay there.”

I never thought I’d feel relieved to hear Aemon coming my way, but that’s exactly what calms me, like a flush of cool water on fevered skin. I’m not even sure I can move, anyway, so I sit on the ground with my back pressed against the mahogany wainscotting and try to breathe.

“Are you close?” I call.

“I’m sorry, am I not getting through the eldritch horror’s maze quickly enough for you?” he asks.

Something fragile in me snaps—not in the way something bursts when too much pressure is exerted on it—more in the way that a thin film of frost gives way to the gentle brush of a fingertip. “I’m scared,” I hear myself say, the two words just as brittle as a sunbaked sand dollar.

He doesn’t respond for long enough that shame starts to climb my weakened spine. Then he says, “I’m almost there.”

He doesn’t have to shout it that time. And I hope that means he’s close.

“Keep talking to me; it’s going to help me find you,” he says after a couple minutes.

“Why did you bring Damien?” I ask him.

“We didn’t,” he says through a sigh. “I told the buffoon to stay with his bandmates, and the little shit rushed the portal right before Wren closed it.”

“Wren?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says, sounding almost frustrated. “Wren.”

He appears at the end of the corridor, running toward me as soon as we meet gazes and kneeling next to me. “You look like hell.”

“You dodged a bullet then,” I say half-heartedly. “Won’t have to worry about me letting myself go, you know?”

He rolls his eyes but brackets my face in his hands, looking between both of my eyes. He must not like what he sees, because his expression turns grim. “It’s gone,” he says, his tone a condolence in and of itself.

Tears prick my tired eyes and fall onto my cheeks. I nod. “Yeah,” I choke out, swallowing tightly.

He shakes his head. “I’m so sorry,” he says.

I nod. “Can you... Can we make a portal to Damien?” I ask. “We have to get to him. We have to protect him from this thing—”

“I can’t,” Aemon interrupts. “I’m sorry. But I can’t. I—I have enough magic to heal you up a bit and get you on your feet. But I’m afraid the vast majority of my power resides elsewhere now.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, confused. Did The Aberrant get to him too? Then I blink as the realization settles in. More like slams in. Like a gut punch. “...Oh...” I say.

Wren’s power had been arcing off of her like she’d become a human tesla coil. Until now, I haven’t thought too hard about it, frankly. I think I’ve just been half-delusional with exhaustion.

He sighs. “Yep. Finally got my promised bride, just in time to really, really need the power she inherited as her dowry.” His lips are a thin, worried line. “I’ve got just a touch less power than you now. Luckily, though, Wren and Bastion are probably much more enticing meals than your little drummer boy.”

I shake my head. “No,” I say as Aemon’s hands warm on my neck, vitality pulsing into me through his palms. It’s comforting, but it makes me miss Damien even more than I had already allowed myself. “You don’t understand. The creature... He wants to devour my magic so he can break the wards on The Buried City.”

Aemon’s hands stiffen on my neck. “What?”

I nod. “I marked him a while ago—to keep him safe while we were in The Buried City. So even though he ate up the rest I have, the wards are holding on by a thread, thanks to Damien.”

“Fuck,” Aemon growls. “Fuck.” He grasps my wrist and pulls me up to my feet. “Can you walk?”

I wait for signs of an aura, or for a wobble in my knees. But it doesn’t come. “I can walk,” I say. “But I can’t breathe very well. Could you help me with the laces on this dress?”