Page 39 of The Trouble With Spells
“It was the stuffing,” Mom cried, falling to her knees beside dad. “The chef said he used dried cranberries, not fresh. I’m so sorry, baby, I had no idea. I thought they were fresh, I thought they were fresh.” She kept repeating it over and over.
“Not…your…” I tried to ease her worry, but my chest hurt, my stomach rolled, and I fucking couldn’t breathe. I hadn’t had an allergic reaction like this since I was a kid, and we’d learned the hard way that I was deathly allergic to mushrooms, in any form.
My eyes were glued to Callum’s as I tried to focus, to stay conscious, to keep fighting to breathe. Understandingdawned in his eyes, and he smoothed my sweaty hair back from my forehead. “Dried fruit have fungi.”
“Yes,” Dad confirmed, “it’s advised he avoid any dried fruits, along with a slew of other foods. You’ll need to know what to avoid, just in case.”
Sirens sounded in the distance, and I’d never been happier to hear them in my life. Though the EpiPen Dad had injected me with had seemed to help a little.
Callum cupped my cheek, his hand squeezing mine. “Hang on, Michael. The paramedics are almost here. You’re going to be fine.”
The next few minutes were a haze of people surrounding me, words coming from all sides. Oxygen, another injection of intramuscular epinephrine, and strangers quizzing my parents on my medical history, and what I had eaten. All I cared about was that I could finally breathe and wasn’t going to die of anaphylactic shock. Closing my eyes, I let my parents deal with all the questions while I concentrated on letting the meds and oxygen work their magic.
Thankfully, even when the paramedics had shouldered Callum to the side and out of the way, he had stayed close enough that I wasn’t bombarded with my brain exploding on top of the allergic reaction.
“I’m riding with him,” Callum’s voice broached no argument, and my still-beating-too-fast heart nearly jumped out of my chest. Because if they insisted he couldn’t ridewith me, I didn’t think I’d be able to deal with the pain that would explode in my head. Frankly, I hoped to never feel that again as long as I lived.
“There’s not enough room,” the paramedic argued.
Callum never let go of my hand, as they wheeled the gurney outside to the waiting ambulance. I closed my eyes and blocked out the looky-loos that were lining the streets, the lure of the flashing lights of the ambulance like a siren’s call.
“I’m going with him.” Callum bit off each word, his voice loud and strong.
I heard the paramedic huff in annoyance and resignation. “Fine. But stay out of the way.”
“We’ll be right behind you,” my dad told us, and I let myself drift, exhausted.
“I’m right here, Michael,” Callum whispered, his hand squeezing mine, in a gesture I was getting way too comfortable with. “You’re going to be fine.”
Blinking my eyes open to slits, I took in his worried green eyes, the way he nibbled on his lower lip. I wanted to reach out and gently ease the skin out from his teeth, but I couldn’t get my arms to move.
“They’ll monitor him at the hospital for a few hours,” the paramedic advised Callum, watching a machine of some kind they had hooked me to. “Then likely send him home.”
Callum nodded, but said nothing, his eyes locked onto mine. “We are going to make sure we always have an EpiPen from now on. Always. They will be everywhere. You hear me?”
Smiling a wan smile, I nodded, closing my eyes and whispering, “I hear you.”
Warm lips planted a kiss to the knuckles of the hand that he was clasping tightly. “I don’t want to lose you, Michael. That scared the fuck out of me.”
In that second, it dawned on me that I didn’t want to lose him either. It still made absolutely no sense, Callum and me. We were opposites in every way you could be opposites.
But the way this man was making me feel, as he held onto me tightly, like I was the most precious thing in the world to him?
That was a feeling I didn't want to let go of anytime soon.
Chapter Sixteen
Callum
Nibbling on the ragged skin around my thumb nail, I stared at Michael’s sleeping face, not willing to look away for even a second. He looked younger in sleep, his sandy hair a mess, face pale. He was turned towards me on his side in the hospital bed, one hand holding my free one tightly. Just like I couldn’t look away from him, I couldn’t let go of his hand.
Worry filled me, not just because of his allergic reaction, but for all the potentially life-threatening events that had happened to him since the spell had been placed on him. I hadn’t sensed black magic on him–still didn’t–and the spell didn’t appear strong enough to cause all the havoc and danger it seemed to be causing.
As it was, I was no longer comfortable waiting on my family to return next weekend to break the spell. If we could find the original spell caster, and get him to reverse the spell, I would feel a lot better. Maybe some of the danger surrounding Michael would disappear. There wasn’t much to be done about the spell binding us until Daphne got home, but honestly, there were worse things in life then having to have Michael near me twenty-four-seven.
A soft, feminine throat clearing jerked my head up, and I turned to see Jessica standing in the doorway of the emergency room cubicle. She looked pale and worried but offered me a tentative, somewhat shaky, smile. I had no idea how long she’d been standing there, watching us, my mind a million miles away.
“How is he?” she whispered, moving quietly forward to peer down lovingly at her son. She brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, and Michael didn’t stir. The events of the last few hours had left him exhausted.
