Page 57 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

I think I’ve been holding onto the idea that I invited this pain into my life by not listening to her. I didn’t realize just how much I felt I deserved what happened to me until this very moment. Until Damien demanded that I see how wrong I was with that overwhelming, all-consuming, immovable command he seemed to pull out of nowhere.

And now he’s comforting me while I sob into his shirt.

“Weepy epileptic strikes again,” I hiccup against his chest, looking for some self-deprecating humor to escape into.

He kisses the top of my head. “You’re safe,” he says softly, not taking the bait. Forcing me to feel. And I can’t tell if I love him or hate him for it.

It’s certainly easier not to feel.

But there is something lighter about this too. It feels good to let go of the blame. Because it has been horrible. All of it. The dead animals, the jokes about exorcising me, the heartbreak I went through after Whitman pulled the rug from under me. I’d thought for so long that I was just unlovable. Fuckable. But unlovable.

Bastion doesn’t love me. He certainly loves to fuck me, sure. But he’s made it clear many, many times that any relationship between us would be for the longevity of powerful magic. I’ve had others come to my bed, or I’ve gone to theirs. But it’s always been transient. There’s always a gradient of obsessive awe at being able to fuck a Nightingale, or respectful distance when they learn how little people from my background like to tie themselves to anything.

It always feels like the wheel of the year. These relations that drift from an advent to their inevitable deaths. Only there’s never the sense that anyone ever thinks of me as something they want to keep.

But Damien.

Gods, he feels solid. He feels real.

And it’s fucking terrifying.

Damien is leaving in a little over two months. And my hidden double life aside, he is going to want me to come visit him if he decides he wants to be with me. And I can’t. I can’t go with him on tour. I can’t leave to see him in Seattle, either.

I’d been excited just to have his attention. What fangirl wouldn’t want that? The fact that he happens to be sweet and caring is a plus. But to feel the scaffolding of his support and know that I’ll lose it soon... It’s painful.

“So... Gloam. What makes her witchy?” he asks me, bringing me back to the conversation that brought us here in the first place.

“She’s like my familiar,” I say, scritching her chin after he takes her down from his shoulder. “I was a lonesome kid with my mom gone and Nan too old to play with me. One day she just burst out of our fireplace in a cloud of soot, smelling of brimstone. And she’s been my little thoughtless wonder ever since.” I leave out the part where I specifically summoned the creature into being, and the ways magic can be strange and unruly when you’re a child.

“Familiar? Like a protector?”

“Yeah. At least that’s how I think of her.”

I order our Chinese food while Damien gets to work doing the dishes from the dinner that got ruined. Once he’s done, he joins me and Gloam on the couch to cuddle.

We spend the night eating and talking about the Tarot. I do a few readings for him and we practice interpreting the cards. Before long, we’re laughing and telling each other stories from our childhoods, and it feels so easy.

I want to tell him everything about me. I want to take him to The Buried City and show him where I grew up. I want to lay everything bare so I can find out if he’ll bail or if he’ll stay around and figure out how we can make this work, But I’m also afraid to pop this bubble. I’m so worried I’m going to shorten the few weeks I get with him.

I don’t want the music of Portent to be lost to me forever, but I also don’t know if I can get out of this situation without that happening.

By the time midnight rolls around, Gloam is best friends with Damien. Seeing my childhood cat in his arms cements him in my mind as something that belongs here. It makes him feel more permanent. I can envision his place in my home with such ease. The splash and clink of dishes while he washes them. The way he tucks my cold feet under my throw blanket after draping my legs over his lap. The soft purr Gloam rumbles out while loafing contentedly in his muscular arms.

He looks over at me while I study him and he smiles.

“I really love spending time with you,” I say.

“I love it too,” he says, quiet so he doesn’t wake Gloam from her nap.

He reaches up to comb his fingers through my hair before brushing his thumb over my cheekbone. These little intimate touches have become my favorite thing. Stolen little Instances of closeness I’ve never experienced before. Again, that glorious feeling of being coveted and treasured overwhelms me.

“You should come with me on tour. Come with us for our shows in other cities—other states. I want you there with me,” he says, shattering the warmth that’s been building in my chest. I don’t want to have this conversation. Not right now, when the night feels perfect.

“I can’t,” I say, hating that I have to refuse him. “I can’t leave the store with no one to run it.”

“No? What if I help? I can pay someone’s wage to run the shop for you.”

“Damien...” I say. “It won’t work.”