Page 65 of The Royal Street Witch
“Well, I mean, you told me a long time ago. I guess I just didn’t think it was happening anytime soon. And of course, I wasn’t in love with you then.” But then he leans forward, caging my hand in his. “But there are ways around this. There are ways. We can figure this out.”
“Maybe it shouldn’t be so hard to figure out.”
“Don’t say that. Anything worth saving is worth figuring out. I can’t go back to my life before you.” And he tightens around my hand, his green eyes so sincere, echoing words I have thought countless times.
“Neither can I.” Words that are easy to say.
“Then we’ll figure it out. We’ll cut the trip short so you can get home. But we will figure it out. I promise you.”
That night he sleeps after a long day of light, and I watch him breathe so softly, my heart swelling with a devotion I never thought possible. Is this what my mother felt with any of her lovers? Or is this what she was searching for all along? Because I believe if anyone felt the way I feel for Bastian, it would be impossible to let go of a love like this.
I feel it first, a volt of electricity shooting through my limbs. A crash that jolts me right from sleep. I reach for Bastian’s chest, for his legs with my feet, but the bed is empty, my lover is gone. Did he go out to feed? No, he said he didn’t need to, so we got into bed right after dinner and fell asleep.
I sit up at once, a low heave coming from the bathroom, and I almost don’t feel the ground beneath my feet. It’s like I’m flying, my body being pulled in the dark, to the sounds of sickness, the sounds of fluid. I call out his name as I push the door open, but he can’t hear me, he can’t see me, and I fall to my knees and crawl across the blood-streaked floor to him. Hung over the bathtub, blood pouring from his lips and filling the tub.
I grab his head between my hands as blood runs down his chin, his eyes rolled back, and I yell his name through gritted teeth. He’s not focusing on me, can’t see me, but his head falls heavy against one of my palms as more blood spews from his mouth with a guttural heave and I can smell the metal, smell the potion.
It’s all my fault.
He’s overdosing, he’s bleeding out and it’s my fault.
I’m killing the love of my fucking life.
I taste the salt of my tears as I beg, “Bastian, please. Bastian look at me, tell me what to do.” He’s weaker, unable to hold himself up over the tub, his body sliding to the floor, and I move my legs under him, his head falling to my lap. His aventurines are barely visible, his eyes almost completely scarlet as blood flows out of them, streaking the sides of his face.
“Tell me what to do!” I scream but then bite my tongue. Hotel management can’t hear me, an ambulance can’t be called for a vampire, so I fight to gather my breath, to keep my heart from coming up my throat, to think. But the fact that he can’t even speak, can’t acknowledge that I’m with him, has me spiraling all over again. His bare chest is pale, his grey sweats are soaked in blood, his bare feet looking lifeless against the marble floor. He heaves again and more blood curdles up in his opened mouth and I adjust his head so it’s on his side and the blood pours out onto the floor. I want to scream for help, scream for someone to save me, but there’s no one. It’s only Bastian and me. And I’m the one with magic.
GRABBING A TOWEL FROM THErack with sobs leaving my lips, I place it under his head as a makeshift pillow. I stand, my feet slipping on the blood-slicked floor, and go to the sink. He’s groaning, and it’s the single most terrifying thing I’ve heard.
I’m the reason for this fucking mess. I can hardly see, the tears are so thick and continuous, but I manage to grab a glass and fill it with water. This is what I hate about magic—it’s never certain, it’s never reliable, and I don’t know if my idea will work. Witches can’t cure cancer, can’t heal most illnesses, because nature is cruel yet fair and hasn’t given us more power than we can handle. But I’ve got no time for guessing games.
I stir the glass of water with my finger and chant, “Stop the flow. Stop the flow.” I bend down, dipping my fingertip in a pool of blood, then stir the water with it. “Stop the flow. Stop the flow.” A spell has been cast, but whether it works is another matter entirely. I slide next to Bastian, blood still pouring out of him, and place his head back in my lap.
“I’m gonna save you, baby. I won’t let you die.” I cry as I hold the blood-tinged water in one hand and Bastian’s chin in the other. His eyes are closed as he heaves, and he can’t seem to hear me. So I only pour a little, not knowing what kind of effect the spell will have on him.
The water hits his tongue and his eyes shoot open, and a jolt of hope courses through me. We see each other, actually see each other, and I cry out. “Bastian, please,” though I don’t know what I’m begging. Please stay alive? Please be okay? Yes, yes to it all.
There’s only silence in the bathroom, no heaves and no blood building and pouring out of Bastian’s mouth. But just as I feel relief, his mouth widens, as if he needs air, as if he can’t breathe…as if he’s choking. And that’s it.
He’s choking. He’s choking on the blood.
The spell stopped the blood from pouring out of his mouth, not from existing, and now he’s choking on the build-up of blood and his chest is rising like it’s filling up with something. His eyes are completely red again, and that curdling sound one makes when they can’t breathe is deep in his throat and this isn’t working.
“No!” I shout, both hands over my face, trying to think, think.
And words come out before I can process them. “The blood’s to slow, to a drip, not a flow.” I sprinkle more water in his mouth, and it’s like his body sighs. I don’t breathe as I watch blood drip, drip like a faucet from the corner of his mouth, and his chest deflates, the gurgling sound stops, and I exhale. I couldn’t stop it, but I can prolong it. He can still bleed out, and the reminder of this has my heart racing again because I need help.
“Can you hear me? Can you hear me, Bastian?” I whisper in his ear desperate for a response, but there’s only silence, and his eyes aren’t focusing on me, and my neck, it’s so stiff from panic. “I’ll be right back, right back.” I pull my legs out from under the weight of him and lay his head back on the towel, propping it on its side so the blood can keep dripping out.
I’m up and my feet slide, the blood on the ground, congealing, turning almost brown as it dries. I run to the nightstand and grab my phone, but it slips out of my hands and falls onto the bed. I look at my bloody hands, rub my palms along my leggings, and pick up my phone again, feverishly typing in the security code. Cassius is the only one I can tell, the only one who knows about what I’ve created. I have to call Cassius. But I don’t even have his phone number. I stomp my foot and curse the entire world, shoot out my arm and yell, “Come!” to Bastian’s phone, and it flies to my hand and the screensaver about kills me. It’s the picture he took of me at the beach. A wave of nausea hits me so hard I cover my mouth to keep from being sick.
I have to save him, I have to get my shit together. I unlock his phone and scroll through his contacts until Cassius’s name appears, and I stare at it for a moment before tapping his name with my finger.
“Baz?” Cassius asks, as if he can sense something is wrong.
How can I say it out loud? How can I tell Cassius what I’ve done? “No, it—it’s Aster.” I pause, gathering every ounce of strength in my body. “He’s bleeding out, Cassius. He’s filled a bathtub with blood and—”
“What are you talking about?” he roars. “You have to stop it! He’ll die if he keeps bleeding out!”
