Page 17 of The Royal Street Witch
“It took a minute…to register. It was a crazy night, that night was.” His eyes leave mine, going somewhere solemn.
“He threatened to kill himself that night, didn’t he?”
“Yes.” He wipes a hand over his mouth and looks to the ceiling. “He pulled out a stake.” He eyes me, electric and sharp as though he’s confessed one of his own sins.
I sprinkle Mugwort in my cauldron because his eyes are too intense, and he’s just told me a secret I’m sure I shouldn’t have been told. Bastian’s words from when he first visited my shop resurface,he misses being alive.And it all makes sense, my last trip to Nightwalkers, Cassius with a stake in his hand, Nicola crying in front of him, Bastian taking charge.
“You know, in the human world if someone is threatening suicide, we get them professional help, not a potion. You really think this will make a difference?”
A face, so beautifully cut, so full of emotion, full of hope and heartbreak. “Yes. It’s all I want in this world, for this potion to work for him. I can’t lose him…” His head turns to the floor. “He’s all I have.”
How can I respond to that? Whether this potion works or not sits in my hands.
Bastian must sense my hesitation because he reaches for my arm and laughs quietly. “But no pressure.”
I shoot out a muffled breath. “Oh yeah, none at all. What if he tries before I finish?”
“He’s promised me, promised to give me time to figure something out, something to make life worth living for him. I’ll do everything I can to stop him.”
He wants to sound nonchalant, trying to lift some of the pressure, but the truth is, he would have never come to me if Cassius wasn’t serious.
“What if I create this potion and Cassius refuses to drink it? Or worse, he opens his mouth and tells on us?”
“Cassius would never betray me like that, but also, he will take it. Who would pass up the opportunity to walk in daylight after a couple of hundred years? Not Cassius, no. He needs this and he will want it.”
“And if it works, then what’s your plan? You can’t walk in the day in New Orleans.”
“No, I thought about that. We’ll leave. Travel the world. Cassius adores South America. We’ll go far away and no one will know.”
With my hands in my lap, a sudden weight making it hard to work overcomes me.
“Luck, love, and lust are such easy spells. This is so much more than I realized it would be. I feel like I’m getting nowhere.” A sigh leaves my lips and Bastian looks at my hands.
“Those hands do remarkable things. I know you can do this.”
I stare at him, half wanting to kick him out, half wanting to hug him for the words of encouragement. It’s not often I hear words like that. But we don’t know each other that way. Giving compliments and encouragement. We are supposed to be sworn enemies and what the fuck is going on?
“You look like I just slapped you across your face,” he says, resting his knuckle under his nose. And after a few more moments of silence, he looks at the ceiling. “Oh she’s spiraling, okay. I’ll just take a step back.” He gets up like he just read my thoughts, hands up as if he’s under arrest. “Do you want me to leave? I’ll leave.”
“Yeah, probably for the best. But I’m not spiraling. I just need to concentrate.” And I rub my temples. I need something for a headache that just hit, and I need Bastian to just go.
“I’ll keep any positive thoughts to myself from now on,” he says once I’ve gotten him outside. He saunters down the street, turns, and places his hand over his heart. “Just this last one. Believing in you has been one of the easiest decisions I’ve had to make in the past seventy years. And I’ve made a lot of decisions.”
“That doesn’t help,” I mutter to myself and wonder why he has so much faith in me and what I’m going to do about it.
HAIR. A PROTEIN COMPRISED OFkeratin that grows inside the follicles of the skin. Historically and presently, hair is a key ingredient in much spell work, and it dawns on me that I need some of Bastian’s for my latest idea.
After I freaked out on Bastian, I came up with my first potion. A generic one I knew wouldn’t work but I had to start with the basics. Two early mornings ago, I watched smoke rise from Bastian’s fingertips as we placed his hand in the rising sun, and it was deemed a failure. I prepared him for the worst, so it wasn’t a great surprise, but the poor guy still had to hide in my bathroom until nightfall. The bright side is that I finally feel the creative juices flowing, and I need a lock of his hair.
You up? In the Garden District and have an idea I want to work on today. I just need something from you.
The text bubble appears immediately, and relief hits that he’s still awake being that it’s early morning—just the time he’s usually settling into sleep.
Just getting ready to lie down. Come on by. 2362 Camp St.
Bastian’s house sits on a corner, his front yard so large, it splays along two streets. The iron gate keeps passersby out, elegant and tall, and I stand in front of it, my finger hovering over his name on my phone. And just as I’m about to tap it, my phone rings, his name in white letters flashes across my screen, and goddammit—I jump.
“I’m here,” I stammer, as if I’m in a confessional, needing a reason to be at his front gate.
