Page 30 of Hopelessly Teavoted

Two months was definitely enough time to fix this.

The drive home gave Azrael time to think. He would give Vickie some space. Spend a weekend stroking himself in the shower to get the image of her squirming in his lap out of his brain, if such a thing was even possible.

Get his shit together. Focus on the start of the school year.

Az pulled up to Hart Manor glad, for once, that Prissy wasn’t home, though he’d realized after moving back that he was glad to live with his adult sister in a creepy old mansion, even if people thought that was weird.

The house welcomed him home as it always did, the haunted knocker moaning at him pleasantly, the door swinging open to Emily Lickinson, who yowled around his feet, hungry as always, and left a puff of little white hairs in her wake.

He fed her, and sat down to put the polishing touches on his syllabus before passing out, exhausted, in his four-poster bed, the curtains drawing around him, and the comforting weight of the cat at his feet.

The worst of the gravedirt wore down somewhat after the first day, but still left him emotional and moody. He spent all of Saturday bingeing a steamy regency romance show to avoid his sister’s interrogations and distract himself from thoughts of Vickie.

By Sunday, he was going out of his mind with longing, but he had promised himself he would focus on work.

Azrael: School starts tomorrow for students, so I might be a little scarce for a bit. Maybe we can have dinner on a Tuesday in a few weeks, once things slow down? At my place? Since you’re closed Wednesdays?

Azrael: If you want. Goddess, I hope I don’t make a fool of myself in front of 200 10th graders with my lingering honesty.

Vickie: Kids love honesty. You’re going to be great. And no worries, I’ll be scarce too. I’m backed up on Hopelessly stuff for this week already.

It was brief enough that he threw the phone onto his bed, and snapped to change into workout clothes, storming downstairs to the gym.

Thwap. The pain of his fist against a punching bag radiated outward. He was hitting too hard, and he didn’t care.

Thwap. Thwap. He one-two punched, moving to double time like the old Billy Blanks Tae Bo videos his dad used to tease his mom about loving in the early aughts.

Thwap. For his parents dying and not being around to help him untangle his shit.

Thwap. Thwap. For his asshole boss, who rubbed him the wrong way.

Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. For the curse that kept him from touching Vickie, and threatened to do worse.

Thwap. For stupid early August Azrael, who squandered the chance to fuck her senseless immediately, while he still could.

“Hullo, Azrael? Are you well?”

It was Evelyn, clad in exercise gear so fancy that he doubted she’d be too out of place if she stepped onto the Council floor like that.

It was long enough after the gravedirt that he might have been able to at least obfuscate, but emotions always made him more susceptible to magic, and here he was, traces of the gravedirt still in his system, caught unawares, and unable to answer falsely.

“No. I’m the least well I have ever been. The furthest possible from wellness.”

He sat down on the mat, and leaned his head into his knees, crying softly.

Evelyn patted him gingerly on the back—a commitment, given the sheen of perspiration leaking through his shirt. It calmed him down a little. She must not hate him, or she must really love his sister; he was disgustingly sweaty.

“Here,” she said, voice gentle. She handed him a very nice moisture-wicking towel, which he took gratefully and used to dry his eyes.

“Thanks.”

“Hey, Ev, do you want to spot me…” His sister stopped short, seeing her girlfriend crouched next to him, trying to console him. He must have looked completely wrecked, because the next thing he knew, his sister was by his side, wrapping an arm around him.

“Azrael, you smell so bad . What’s going on? How long have you been in here?”

His eyes flickered to the wall. Too long. He needed to get his things together for the week. For his first day.

And yet, he also really, really needed his sister.

Before he could stop himself, the words slipped out like smooth shards of glass.

“My heart is broken, my soul is crushed, and I doubt if I can ever be happy and whole again.”

“All right,” said Priscilla, frowning. “All right. Start at the beginning.”

“We talked to Mom and Dad. Again. Because that insufferable Olexandre object transfer cursed me.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t follow,” said Priscilla.

“I think he means that the devil transferred the essence of an object to him, thus rendering him subject to Vickie’s gift,” Evelyn explained.

Prissy’s eyes widened. “Sweet baby Beelzebub. Do you mean that if she touches you—”

“I burn,” he said miserably.

“Shit,” said Priscilla. She snapped.

“What did you just do?” He eyed her with suspicion.

“What did I undo, you mean. It was a prank that even I am not mean enough to spring on you in your condition.” Priscilla traced a hand down her braid.

He smiled weakly. “It gets worse.”

“Go on.”

“We still haven’t checked in on Madam Cleopatra, or made any progress on the church situation. Mom and Dad are still dead, and my boss is an ass. And Vickie wants space to think about what will happen when our time runs out.”

“Ah,” said Evelyn. “Of course. A curse with fine print. Go on, then, out with it. You might feel better.”

“Let us carry some of the weight, Az.” Prissy snapped her fingers again, looking sheepish. “Sorry. Forgot about the guillotine.”

“She has until Halloween to pay the devil her debt.” He cracked his knuckles, but it did little to relieve the stress.

“And?”

“And if she doesn’t, she can’t behold me without immolating me.”

“Clever magic,” mused Evelyn. Priscilla elbowed her, which knocked her off the mat she had been perched on the corner of. She caught herself on the floor, wrist behind her.

“Ouch. Awful, but also awfully clever.” Suddenly, Evelyn smiled, which was an odd reaction to being sprawled across the exercise room floor. “There is a solution, you know. A work-around that would prohibit her from reaping your soul, and yours alone.”

“Is there?” Priscilla’s eyebrows wrinkled and shot up. “Oh! That would be very, very serious, though. Permanent. The soul tattoo of magic, really.”

“What?” Azrael frowned. What would be the most permanent magic between two powerful creatures?

Then the answer hit him like a punching bag.

“A soul binding. You want me to magically marry my childhood sweetheart, the same girl whose heart I accidentally broke in college, who I have only just barely reestablished a friendship with for a month. Prissy, no. That’s insane.

We did talk about having feelings for each other, big feelings, even, but under the duress of gravedirt, not, like, naturally in the course of a relationship.

She wants to still pretend the feelings between us aren’t real.

You’re suggesting an unbreakable, undoable thing that most witch couples don’t even do. ”

“Well,” began Priscilla. “I’m not saying to do it, just that it’s an option. Mom and Dad did.”

He grimaced. “Would you soul-bind with Evelyn?”

Both women stiffened.

“No,” said Prissy softly. “I would not. I’m not opposed to marriage, mundane or even witch, but I don’t ever want to be bound. I don’t need to tattoo my soul onto someone else’s on top of it. I don’t think I’d like to bind myself to anyone like that. Ever.”

Evelyn looked sad but not surprised.

“As for the other things. Mom and Dad are dead, but we also can keep their memories alive. Like, do you remember the time we came home early from school and caught them tangoing in the hall?”

He smiled. “In formal wear and all, every sconce in the place lit, and a full orchestra of instruments enchanted to play for them. Yeah, I do.”

His heart still felt heavy, but the telling of the story felt right.

Like sitting shiva, which he had missed in lockdown.

He thought about what he would have wanted to share, had he been there.

“Uncle Larry once told me that in college, they were rivals. That one time, Mom hexed Dad’s hair short and he hexed her nails and lipstick pink for an entire month. ”

“Mom with pink lipstick?” Priscilla laughed.

“It must have been something,” he said.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “They really were.”

“Thanks, Priscilla.”

“You’re welcome. And I tell you what. Out of courtesy, I won’t prank you at all this week.”

“Thanks for that,” he said darkly. “Maybe you could extend that no-prank rule for a few weeks? I invited Vickie over for dinner some Tuesday. In a few weeks, when I’ve got a good rhythm going with school.”

Priscilla’s eyes lit up. “Hart family dinner! I’ll cook, and I’ll refrain from pranking for it and all, I swear.” She winced a little at the thought of it. “But after that, all bets are off.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

“Hey, Az?”

“Yeah?”

“Take a shower. You smell like self-pity and ass.”

He sighed. There was the sister he knew and loved.

By the time he climbed the stairs, the banister rising to meet his hand like a dog leaning in to be petted, his thoughts had drifted to Victoria.

The house must have known; it drew the curtains and ran a shower that smelled like the lemon soap he favored and steamed the mirror up immediately, stopping him from having to stare down the echoes of his own lust.

He showered, trying not to think about the way Vickie had tasted on his fingers what felt like lifetimes ago, and the soft sounds she had made.

The other sounds he had wanted her to make.

He knew how to kill the thoughts, though.

All he had to do was shut his eyes and picture his mother’s ring turning to ash.

And the realization that both his parents were gone, out of his reach to talk to, and that he could never touch Vickie again.

He snapped his fingers and the water turned cold, which also helped.