Page 18 of Sore Throat, Slight Fever

She brings her hands into her lap as she watches Rory consider this. He hasn’t made the same connection as she has. And why would he? She’s sure he agrees with Kane that vampirism is always the dominant form of magic.

But the manacles cut into the delicate skin on the inside of her wrists, reminding her of the time she fell out of the tree and found herself in the Ether. She had to wear a cast for a month and the sweaty, itchy feeling of the plaster is not dissimilar to how the manacles feel on her wrists now, though with the added sense of a deep, steady vibration from the magic carved into the metal. She slips a finger beneath one and presses against a small patch of irritated skin, absentmindedly calling up the Ether, as if reassuring herself of its presence.

“It wasn’t always,” says Rory after a few beats of silence. “It used to just be a house, but there was a coven who lived here for a few decades. It hasn’t been the same since.”

Kane squawks suddenly. “What is that behind you?”

She realizes she had been leaning further back into the Ether than she thought, and she sits up straight, leaning forward as if to physically distance herselffrom it. The Ether isn’t a physical thing of course, but the change in her body language is enough to ensure the coldness recedes from her fingers. “It’s why the house likes me,” she admits quietly. “I think so, anyway. How could you tell?” She aims the last part at Kane, her tone edged in accusation.

“I could feel the draft.” Kane hops closer and twists his head to the side, yellow eyes boring into her. “It’s the Quintessence, isn’t it?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve never heard it called that, if it’s the same thing.”

“What are you talking about?” asks Rory, eyebrows knitted together.

“There is a place that only witches can access.” Kane hops around to look at Rory, his talons clicking against the tabletop. “There are many names for it. I’ve always heard it referred to as the Quintessence, though I’ve never been honored with an invitation. It’s a refuge for those in need.”

Rory leans back, eyeing her almost suspiciously. The urge to slip away into the darkness rises in her again, but she stays in the present moment, feeling Rory’s consideration trail over her body like a shard of ice being dragged along her skin. “She’s not a witch.”

“I can still go there, though. It’s a place only for witches. Made by—made by the First Witch.” She leans forward, bringing her arms up onto the table. The chain scrapes across the wood. “If the house answers to magic, then maybe I still have some? Whycan’t I still be a witch?”

His scowl deepens. “Smile.”

“Excuse me?”

He sighs again, gesturing impatiently. “Your teeth. Show me your teeth. They’re sharp, right?”

She purses her lips before smiling artlessly. “Yes,” she says between gritted teeth.

He squints. “And your heartbeat? Breathing?”

She rolls her eyes, slumping back impetuously. “Gone. All gone.”

“And your fever?”

She lifts a shoulder. “It’s fine. I feel fine.”

He raises an eyebrow and holds up a hand in a silent request. She nods tightly and he brings his hand down to her forehead.

“You’re burning up.” His voice rumbles through his chest, and she imagines the words vibrating through his palm and into her head. This close, she can smell a remnant of cigarette smoke on his fingertips, but it’s a different brand than the ones her husband preferred. Sweet and spicy, like a cup of ginger tea. The moment only lasts a few seconds. His hand falls away as he turns to Kane. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Nothingis wrong with me,” she says, chin raised.

Kane clicks his beak. “Perhaps she needs to feed to complete the transition?”

Rory’s nostrils flare as he looks at between Kane and Calliope. He settles on Kane. “You didn’t make her drink when she woke up?”

The bird hops backwards until he reaches the edge of the table. He takes flight, just a few pushes of his wings. He perches on Calliope’s shoulder, taking refuge behind the frizzy curtain of her hair. His nails bite into her skin, but she doesn’t blame Kane; there’s a current of anger in Rory’s face that she would hide from too, if it was aimed at her. “She said she was okay.”

Rory opens his mouth and then snaps it shut twice before, eventually, he just shakes his head. He shoves away from the table. The sound of the chair legs scratching against the floor sets her teeth on edge. “Kitchen. Now.”

“Can I maybe change first?” She looks down at her white tank top, dirty and stiff with blood. “Dried blood isn’t really a good color on me.”

* * *

Rory looks entirely out of his depth and only the memory of his recently faded anger keeps her from laughing. Arms on his hips, he looks around the dusty assortment of items that have seemingly piled themselves in the spare room. Then again, she wouldn’t be surprised if the house is a bit of a hoarder. Based on where the hallway ends, she’s sure this room has been magically extended to accommodate all the objects and furniture stacked precariously along the walls.

He makes an indistinct grunting noise in the back of his throat. “I’m sure there’s a dress or somethinghere, somewhere.”

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