Page 68 of The Royal Street Witch
“You’ve got five minutes!” Cassius yells.
“I can do it,” I say, so much joy swelling inside me that he’s awake.
“Good,” he says almost tenderly. “Aster, he’s not out of the woods, far from it. Please hurry.” And that’s when I want to cry the hardest.
“Okay. Cassius…thank you.” The line goes dead and I run to the bathroom.
It takes six minutes to cast the spell, the blood being wiped away by magic, as if the last horrific thirty minutes never happened. I leave the room, a suitcase rolling in each hand, and walk with a speed I didn’t know I was capable of. It feels like hours to get outside, the mechanical doors opening from my proximity, walking to a black Mercedes SUV with Curtis propped on the outside, arms crossed. He looks worried and frustrated until I approach.
Grabbing my bags, he orders me to get in the back with great relief in his voice.
I see Bastian, eyes closed, leaning against the window behind the driver’s seat, the hood still pulled over his head. I open the door, a treacherous feeling surrounding me because I was expecting him to be awake, sitting up, showing signs that he was improving. But he’s slumped over just as he left me, and I feel my hopes deflating.
I fixate on his eyes and they slowly open, so sunken in, so sick, and he licks his dry lips and my heart stops right then.
“Get in,” Curtis orders just as Bastian’s hand rises, reaching for me.
“You heard the guy,” he says, words slurring like he’s drunk, and I grab his hand and slide in next to him. With his hand in both of mine, I press it to my lips and look at him, my breath so loud between us it’s borderline embarrassing. But this is what dreams are made of and it wasn’t for nothing. This hope rising inside of me, this is what makes life worth living, and I kiss his fingers and run my hand along his sunken cheek, and with tears streaming down my face I look up at him.
“She cries,” he whispers.
“You are in so much trouble.” And his mouth curls into a smile and his head rests on top of mine and I can finally fucking breathe.
A redeye flight on a private jet gets us back to New Orleans right before daybreak. We quietly get in the car that awaits us at Louis Armstrong Airport. Bastian resembles a zombie more than a vampire but sleeps the entire trip except for the times he must transfer from seat to wheelchair.
The gate opening to his home causes my stomach to churn, because I know what lies behind that gate.
Cassius. Cassius, and if he wants to play nice, I can play nice. But if he’s settled in anguish and condescension then I don’t have the patience for any of that shit right now.
And there he is, standing in front of the house, hands clasped at his groin like he’s The Godfather, wearing only a black leather vest and slacks like a male stripper.
“Hurry, hurry.” He waves to the car as the first glow of the sun breaks through the air. I jump out, grab the wheelchair, and assist the driver in sliding Bastian’s sleeping body into it, then run him to the opening where Cassius awaits.
“Jesus, fucking Christ,” he says, eyeing his brother’s limp body. “Well done, you.” And there it is. Anguish and condescension.
“Don’t fuck with me right now,” I warn and turn back to the wheelchair, noticing Bastian’s grin.
“You think that’s funny?” I say and his head falls back, looking up at me as I push him into the house.
“You know what your anger does to me.” He smiles and I pull the sunglasses off his face. Green eyes so dim, almost death-like, setting my heart in flames. “I love her so much, Cassius.”
“Oh, she’s something special,” Cassius says, gliding next to us. I park Bastian in the parlor once we are safe from the light of day.
His fingers snap, nails sharpened almost to a point, as he calls out for Jerimiah, and a man is instantly near us, walking straight to Bastian and raising his wrist to Cassius’s mouth. His fangs slide out and nick into the tender flesh of Jerimiah’s wrist. Jerimiah winces as Cassius places his wrist to Bastian’s lips, leaning down for Bastian to get a better angle. I watch as Bastian drinks from the human that’s embedded himself into the vampire lifestyle.
Mother told me of these types of rare humans because the vampires are so distrustful of humans. But occasionally they need hosts for such purposes, and the humans are paid handsomely for their silence.
Bastian weakly suckles, consuming the sustenance he so badly needs, gripping Jerimiah’s wrist tighter with each passing second, and it’s the first time I’ve seen him drink from a human.
“All right,” Cassius says, pulling the wrist from Bastian’s lips, his eyes still closed, blood drunk. “I’ll take care of it in a moment,” Cassius tells Jerimiah, and Jerimiah places a cloth over his wrist and disappears into the bathroom.
Cassius produces a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes at his brother’s mouth in a most tender way. Bastian reaches an arm out to his brother and Cassius grabs it, falling on bended knee to meet his brother’s eyes, and I swallow a nest of spiders. This is the most Bastian has said or moved since I slid in the car next to him—he’s happy to be home, and there’s hope quaking through my body.
“I hope you realize you’re done with this daywalking business, Baz. I know you’re still very ill and now’s not the time to discuss, but you must never take it again.” Cassius’s fingers dig into Bastian’s hand, both their eyes rimmed with blood for different reasons.
Cassius takes a brief physical inventory of Bastian, looks in his eyes, pulls up his shirt, placing his hand over Bastian’s heart.
“There’s much to discuss, but right now I need to sleep.” Bastian’s words are strained again as if the small sentences he’s said have taken the life out of him. “Thank you, brother, for getting us home. I love you.”
