Page 38 of Wicked Ends

She doesn’t notice me at first. Too busy talking rapid-fire to the frog, who, for the record, is perched on her shoulder like a parrot.

“Hank, you sweet, sweet boy,” she’s saying. “If this works, I’m conjuring you a year’s supply of crickets.”

“Ribbit,” says Hank, so smug I can almost hear the frog’s self-satisfaction.

Rose drops her haul on the desk, flipping the biggest volume open with one hand. She’s practically vibrating, she’s so excited. Then she turns, and her eyes find me.

And her face lights up like the sun.

I try for a smile.

She crosses the room. “You’re back!”

“I am,” I say. “But I don’t know for how long.”

Tears well in her eyes and my heart cracks a little. “I’m sorry, I should’ve been here sooner. I’ve been digging in the library for hours, I lost track.”

Her hands are shaking as she drags the heavy, battered book across the desk and opens it to a dog-eared page. “Look. Hank found this. It’s about anchoring spirits. This is real magic. Bloodline magic.”

She scans the page, mouth moving as she reads. “It says that spectral entities are tethered by unfinished business or emotional connections, which, obviously. But if the connection weakens, the spirit fades, blah blah, we know that. But here.” She jabs at a paragraph with her finger. “It also says ‘the living can reinforce the connection, through magical resonance or intense focus of emotion. The stronger the tie, the more anchored the ghost.’ That’s you, Drake. That’s us.”

I stare at the words. I want to believe them, I really do. But I know how this story usually ends.

“Rose,” I say. “That kind of magic, that kind of emotional anchoring? It’s dangerous. For you. You shouldn’t burn yourself out trying to keep me around.”

She crosses her arms. “Are you seriously pulling the ‘it’s not safe for you’ card right now? After everything we’ve been through?”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” She slams the book shut. “You think I’m going to just sit here and watch you vanish, minute by minute, when I could do something about it? No. Not happening.”

“Rose—”

“No.” She cuts me off, voice sharp. “Don’t you dare go all noble-ghost-martyr on me. You’re not protecting me by giving up.”

I open my mouth, but she’s already barreling ahead.

“You’re afraid,” she says. “You’re scared that if you let yourself hope, and it doesn’t work, you’ll have nothing left. I get it. I do. But I’m not giving up on you, so you don’t get to give up on yourself, either. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not like other witches.” She laughs at herself. “There has to be some kind of upside to everyone else wanting my power.”

My edges flicker, my voice is barely more than a whisper. “It’s not that I don’t want to stay.”

She takes a step closer. “Try,” she says. “Just try. Focus on me, on our connection.”

I do. I focus on her, on the way her hair is falling out of the messy top knot on her head, on the way she looks at me, on how much being near her makes me want to be alive . I reach for her hand, expecting my fingers to pass through since I haven’t been ableto hold myself together enough to physically touch anything, including her, lately.

Except they don’t.

For a second, my hand is solid. Bone, muscle, skin. I can feel the pulse in her wrist, the heat of her palm pressed against mine.

I pull back, and just like that, the sensation is gone. My hand goes transparent again, the connection lost.

“How?”

“I just wanted you to stay. I felt it, and my magic responded. And you snapped back into place.”

I try again, slower this time. I reach for her cheek, willing my hand to be real. I focus on her face.

It works. My fingers brush her cheek. She leans into it, her eyes closing for a heartbeat.