Page 60 of Real

Dorian has hired these clowns to perform a desperate spell for him so he can have more time. He has all the money and privilege in the world, and the only thing he wants is to stay alive.

Suddenly, my sturdy plastic body doesn’t seem so bad.

“How does she use a whale shifter to protect her clients?” Timothy asks Anne.

“The blubber of a whale’s body has magical properties that can protect someone from unintended negative effects of a spell.” Anne explains. “The client simply climbs into the mouth of the whale for the duration of the spell, and they can avoid most of the nasty hiccups that come with rookie spell work. Warlocks often work with whale shifters during their training as a failsafe, but they shouldn’t be relied on indefinitely. Any warlock who uses a whale shifter after their training is complete is…” Anne trails off.

It’s Dorian who finishes her sentence. “A joke.”

Anne nods. “I hate to agree with him because he’s an asshole, but yes.”

Dorian looks so tired as he sits there with a knife pointed at him. The two buffoons he’s hired to carry out his spell aren’t the dangerous warlocks I’d feared. In fact, this whole situation makes me feel sorry for Dorian. Like he said, it’s a joke.

He’s all out of options and all out of time. And he doesn’t even have family or friends to keep him company during the little time he has left. He only has a handful of people who want to kill him and a few others he’s paid to be here.

Dorian may be rich, but he doesn’t have any of the things that matter.

The reflective stars on the alpha warlock’s hat flicker, and I’m reminded that the Lights sent me here. Why? I don’t think I’m supposed to kill Dorian. He doesn’t need anyone to kill him. Like Anne said, Magic will do it for me.

Maybe I’m not supposed to do anything to Dorian at all. Maybe I’m supposed to see him for what he really is: just a man. A lonely, miserable, desperate old man who doesn’t deserve another minute of my time.

“Call an ambulance,” Dorian wheezes, clutching at his chest.

The warlocks glance at each other, but neither of them gets out a phone. They don’t care if he lives or dies.

He pats at his back pocket desperately where his phone has slid halfway out.

I let the knife clatter to the ground and kneel to pick up his phone.

“Nine-one-one,” he whispers.

“Go ahead and call. If Magic wants him now, no medic will be able to help him anyway,” Anne says.

I hand the phone to Anne. I don’t want to be the one who calls for help. I wouldn’t know what to say.

Anne dials a number and her calm, clipped voice rattles in the background. The warlocks are whispering to each other, and Timothy is simply standing there shirtless and staring at me.

“Why did you come here?” I finally ask.

He glances down at the knife. “For the same reason you did, I think.”

“I was going to kill Dorian,” I say.

Timothy nods.

He would have done that for me?

“But I was going to bond to one of the Illusors—”

“I know. Felicity called. Dorian let Candlewick go. He was going to do the spell.”

I smile. Dorian let Candlewick go. Even if nothing else works out, at least there’s that.

Dorian slowly slumps to the right until he’s lying on the porch. Even before Timothy crouches down next to him and feels his wrist for a pulse, I know Dorian’s gone. His eyes aren’t closed, but they’re vacant.

The man who stole me from my people, who made me think I was worthless, who lied to me and hurt me and denied me my humanity is finally gone.

I pick up the knife and set it next to Dorian, almost like a rose. I held that knife in my body for so long when I could have let it go. I stayed within these walls until someone gave me permission to leave instead of forging my own way out. For twenty long years, I’ve been nothing but a puppet performing a clumsy dance on a stage with someone else pulling the strings.

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