Page 37 of Wicked Ends

She stares at her hand, flexes it. The skin is bloody, but the injury is gone.

At first, I think she’s going to say thank you. For a half a second. Then I see her eyes narrow.

She rips her hand away, face twisted in disgust. “You just can’t help yourself, can you? Always playing the main fucking character. Always pretending you’re better than everyone here.”

I blink. “You’re welcome?”

She wipes her nose with her good hand, then spits the words out like she just drank a mouthful of gasoline. “Fuck off, Charity Case. You’re the one who really needs help.”

She awkwardly drags herself to her feet, clutching her arm, and limps away.

I sit there for a second, feeling like an idiot.

So much for good deeds.

I brush my hands off and stand. “Hank,” I whisper as I duck behind the nearest pillar. “Now would be a great time to show up.”

There’s a soft pop, and then Hank is there. “Ribbit,” he says, hopping onto my shoulder.

I scratch under his chin because he likes that. “You know, Hank, you’re better than people.” Hank moves his little feet up and down in a little happy dance, clearly pleased.

We head for the library, cutting through the side corridors to avoid running into anyone. Inside, it’s quiet, seems nobody’s in the mood for studying when their classmates are getting turned into mincemeat on the quad.

Hank hops down from my shoulder to a table, then the floor, and takes off. For a frog, he’s got speed. I follow as he hops down the aisle, past rows of grimoires and spellbooks, all the way to the very back where the light from the windows doesn’t reach.

He pauses in front of a shelf, then hops up three times until he’s eye level with a thick, battered book.

Spectral Tethers and Soul Anchors

I stare at Hank. “For me?”

He blinks both eyes at me. “Ribbit.”

I pull the book down. It’s heavy, and as soon as I open it, the pages ripple with a weird energy that makes my mark tingle.

The table of contents is handwritten in ink that is now faded to a sepia color. I skim it until I see something that makes my breath catch.

‘Anchoring a Fading Spirit. Rebuilding Lost Connections. Rituals for Terminal Drifting.’

Oh, hell yes.

I glance at Hank. “You’re the best familiar a witch could ever ask for.”

“Ribbit,” he agrees, smug.

I clutch the book to my chest, and I’m filled with hope for the first time in days. Maybe I can actually help Drake. Maybe all this isn’t for nothing.

I hurry back to my room.

Nineteen

Drake

I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, hovering with nowhere else to go. Time loses its meaning when you’re half-in, half-out of the world. Rose’s room is empty, and the whole building is quiet but for an almost imperceptible croak of a frog somewhere in the hall. I look down at my hands. They’re barely there. I can see the pattern of the rug right through my them.

It’s getting harder and harder to be here.

The door slams open hard enough to shake the hinges. Rose explodes into the room like a force of nature, hair coming undone, cheeks flushed, arms full of books. She’s so alive it hurts to see her, and yet it also makes me more determined to stay. For her.