Page 77 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

“Wow,” I say. “Can you see what color my aura is?”

She chuckles. “It doesn’t work like that,” she says. “A misconception, really. An aura is constantly shifting, and it’s not something you can see at all times. It’s something you have to kind of click into. And it’s something you inherit from your ancestors. It shifts and grows the stronger and longer that bloodline is.”

“I see,” I say. “So, by doing this, you give me a little slice of your aura.”

“And I take a little slice of yours,” she says, with a smile that is just... achingly sweet. “But the Nightingale name does mean something down there. So, no one will fuck with you.”

“Nice,” I say. “So, what do we do?”

“I’ll show you,” she says. “And... if you end up not wanting to do this, you’re allowed to tell me, okay?”

“Enthusiastic consent,” I tease.

She rolls her eyes but nods anyway. “Right,” she says.

She opens the pocketknife. The blade has been sharpened so many times that it’s practically the thickness of paper. With unnerving nonchalance, she slices a deep gash in the palm of her hand. Her flesh parts and blood spills out from her hand, dark and thick as boysenberry syrup.

“Lillith, that’s too deep.” I say, grasping her wrist.

“It has to be—at least on my end. I can heal wounds, Damien. This is a devotional discomfort, to make sure it sticks.” She meets my eyes as her blood spills over the edge of her palms and into the small bowl waiting for tribute.

Blood doesn’t scare me. It doesn’t make me feel queasy or uncomfortable—comes with the job when you’re a paramedic. What bothers me is that the wound on Lillith’s hand is deep enough that if it were clean, I’m almost certain it would be down to the bone. What about her seizures? Didn’t she say pain was a trigger?

Her face does look a little pale, as if on cue. I worry that she might go into another episode, but she just closes her eyes and breathes deeply. She whispers something—something so quiet I can’t make out the words. Either that or it’s in some other language.

The bowl rapidly fills with her blood. I can smell the iron in the air. She opens her eyes again, reaches her slashed hand toward me, and smiles. “I won’t need as much of yours, just a little nick on your finger. Alright?”

Fuck, I don’t care. I grasp her hand examining the wound. “Lillith, this needs stitches,” I say.

She shakes her head. “I’ll heal it when we’re done,” she says.

“I don’t understand why you think this is fine,” I say, getting angry now.

“I can heal it, Damien. The pain is an act of devotion. The sooner we finish this, the sooner I can seal it back up and be out of pain.”

I grimace; I want to fix it for her. Immediately.

“Is it about sharing the blade?” she asks. “If you’re worried about the cross contamination, I can get another blade.”

Maybe I should worry about that, but I’m not worried about it at all. She cleans the blade off on the old handkerchief as I watch. I still hold her hand and realize she’s not going to let me do anything to help in this horrifying situation.

“The knife is fine,” I say curtly. “Do it. Hurry up so you can heal yourself. Please.”

She smiles understandingly and nods. “I know it’s awful. I’m sorry to put you through it. We’ll be done before you know it.”

She shifts her hand under mine and holds my index finger with irritating gentleness. She slices into my fingertip, and I feel... I feel nothing. I don’t understand it at first, but then I do. Somehow, I know it. Somehow, I know she’s taken my pain as her own.

Her own index finger twitches and trembles as she turns my finger over the bowl and lets a few small drops join the near half-pint she’s spilled into it. She releases my hand and then picks up the white ribbon with her uninjured hand and carefully sinks it into the bowl of our combined blood.

I watch as the ribbon sinks into the viscous liquid, then my brow furrows at the fabric seems to completely devour the blood. Every spare drop of it. When the process is done, the ribbon is a deep red.

She picks up the ribbon and holds it up. “Grab the other end? Help me tie it around our pinkies?”

I want to be charmed by it, but I’m too concerned about how dark her beauty mark is looking on her pallid complexion. I grab the other end of the ribbon. She links her pinky with mine, as if we’re making a pinky promise. She’s focused as we tie the ribbon around our joined fingers. She whispers a quiet, “Make a bow,” with a smile and I nod, obeying her instructions.

As soon as the knot is tied, the ribbon warms and brightens to an incredibly lurid shade of red—so red it’s practically luminescent. No, it is luminescent. It glows and then becomes a streak of light that flows around our joined hands, then around the back of Lillith’s neck, and the back of mine before settling in a band around my wrist. It orbits my arm like the rings of Saturn before it tightens and between one blink and the next, it becomes... it becomes a tattoo. Bright and red, a simple band around my wrist.

I blink at it and she gives me a tight-lipped smile as she takes her hand back, clasping it against her chest. “I can glamour that to hide it, if you’d like,” she says, her brow faintly dewy with sweat.