Page 45 of Will It Hurt?

Jinn

The gloom of this city worked in my favor. In the middle of winter, Edinburgh was steeped in a permanent murky grey, and I had no doubt the locals joked that the sun was more myth than memory.

Thick clouds loomed low over the skyline, a smothering curtain that never truly lifted. The tenements, squat and brown, wore the grime of endless rain and snow. Puddles pooled in cracked cobblestone, their surfaces rippling as another drizzle began, soft but unrelenting.

A neon sign for a bar blinked across the street, its cheery cough-syrup pink not bright enough to cut through the gloom.

Behind the tinted windows of the northern nest, I watched as the pathways teemed with humans hurrying across junctions or rushing for their commute.

Ah, how simple their lives were. Perhaps they worried about a cheating spouse or credit card debt. But they never had to grapple with the debilitating, crushing weight of immortality or the abject loneliness that twined with it.

Our prolonged existence wasn’t a gift. It never was. I thought of it as a slow erosion, a wearing down of the soul until all that was left was longing—for an end, for a release, for something we were never meant to have.

Did Belle have that now? Or was she merely stuck in-between, waiting for rescue ?

I had done all I could—laid everything out before the wytch, stripped myself of pride, of pretense.

And now… everything came down to her.

Would she help me? Or would she turn me away, leaving me to face this alone?

Time was not my friend. I didn’t have days to wait around for an answer. Every fiber of my being wanted to move, to do something instead of stand here and wait. Find another wytch, perhaps, or beg Indira with favors she wouldn’t accept.

Belle would have been gone six days today. Six days in the other world—alone, afraid…

Irritation spurred in my veins as the buzz of a phone call interrupted my thoughts. Although I had warned Nathaniel not to call me during my rest hours, the dhampir was sometimes… Overenthusiastic.

But it wasn’t Nat. It was an unknown number—a landline with the Edinburgh area code.

I pressed accept .

“It’s me.” It was strange how familiar her voice had become. “Aisla. The wytch you tried to kill?”

“I know who you are.”

How could I not? Everything rested in her hands.

A large part of me still couldn’t believe I had asked her for help—after everything. It was ridiculous. Worse than ridiculous. It was desperate.

I had no right to expect anything from her, no right to even hope. And yet, here I was, waiting, tension spinning through my limbs as I waited for any telling noises that might indicate what she was about to say.

I had half-expected her to laugh at me—to tell me to fuck off. Or perhaps I had waited for the reproach to tumble from her lips—any other rational person would take such an opportunity to destroy me as I had once tried to destroy her .

“Great.” I heard a shuffling in the background, as though she was rifling through a sheaf of papers. “I’ve given your proposal some thought.”

“And?”

There was a crackle in the line, and I wondered if she was using a phone as ancient as the large, crumbling house she called home.

“And…” She paused, as though she knew just how badly the silence would twist in my hollow chest.

I’d spent hours convincing myself that if she refused me, I wouldn’t care. That I would find another way because I always did. But I was lying to myself.

The truth was, I needed her. And needing someone—truly needing them—was the most dangerous thing of all.

“How much money are you offering exactly?” she asked, each word more hesitant than the last.

“However much you want.”

“Is that right?”

A beat passed as though she was weighing her options, then she spat out a number. I knew she assumed she was asking for something wild and well beyond my means, but she didn’t know the lengths I’d go to for the only child I’d ever turned.

“I can work with that,” I said. “Half now, and half after I get Belle back.”

“Just like that?” she demanded. “Do you know how long I’d have to work to earn that money?”

“I’m aware of how limited humans are when it comes to accumulating wealth, but trust that this is something I’m willing to invest in.”

“Well,” she began, then quieted for a moment. “Fine. But… if I cast this spell, there is no guarantee that it would work. You need to understand that. And even if it does work, the possibility of finding Belle is… ”

“Slim,” I said. “I know. Even for seasoned wytches, this spell is difficult.”

She let out what sounded like a shaky breath.

“So what happens if I’m unsuccessful?”

“You’ll get to keep half the payment for trying.”

“And how would you know that I’ve tried? There is no benchmark for trying.”

“I assume you have to practice this spell?”

There was a brief rustle against the phone, as though her curls had gotten caught on the receiver.

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll watch as you do. I’ll make sure you live up to your end of the bargain.”

“Oh.” A rush of breath trembled through the connection. “Great. I love when people test my barely-there abilities.”

The honesty behind people’s words was strange to me.

Not too long ago, the term suffer in silence was the motto of the human race.

Fear and doubt were swallowed down, hidden behind polite smiles and stiff postures, not blurted out mid-conversation.

I wondered how people could stomach spilling their emotions like open wounds, bleeding their anxieties into the world with no thought of who might be listening.

Aisla had essentially revealed how nervous and unqualified she was for a job she had agreed to do. This kind of candor would have once been frowned upon. Nerves and anxiety were better kept to oneself. But I appreciated her honesty, even if it may lead to her downfall.

“We have to act quickly,” I said, changing the subject.

“Yes,” she agreed. “We do. But how did you know that?”

“The person who told me about the spell mentioned that spirits don’t linger in the in-between for long. He retrieved his partner a week after he was vanquished and advises that I don’t wait any longer than that.”

“That makes sense. There are many beliefs about when a soul actually leaves the earth. Growing up, my mother believed in the thirteen-day process. We were raised with a confusing blend of Hinduism and Moon Magick, and she always performed a host of rituals for thirteen days after someone passed away. She believed it helped the soul find peace and transition to the other side. Athma shanthi .”

I cleared my throat. “But Belle doesn’t have a soul.”

“True,” she said, considering her options.

“Based on what you’ve said about your acquaintance’s experience, I would assume we’re operating on similar parameters.

If that’s the case, then we have some time to perform the spell.

And well, this might be your lucky day, because the solstice is three nights away and it coincides with the Cold Moon. ”

“The Moonrising will bring your power to its peak.”

“What?” she said quickly. “How do you know about that? The Moonrising?”

“I do know other wytches,” I quipped. “Well, one other wytch.”

“Then…” Confusion seeped through the connection. “Then why didn’t you ask this other wytch for help?”

I watched my murky reflection grow sour in the tinted glass.

“I did. She wasn’t interested.”

There was a long, drawn-out pause.

“I see. So you’re scraping the bottom of the barrel with me.”

“I choose to think of it as making the best out of a bad situation.”

“That makes me feel wonderful. Say more things like that, please. A girl needs to be complimented now and again.”

I could almost see her eyes rolling .

How was it possible that even though my stomach was lined with lead, her comment made my lips curl upward?

It wasn’t even that funny—just a dry, sarcastic remark tossed carelessly into the conversation, aimed more at the situation than at me.

And yet, something about it cracked through the weight pressing against my ribs.

“Fine, we have a deal,” Aisla confirmed. “And just so we’re clear, I’m not doing this to help you. I’m doing this to help myself.”

I wondered if she knew how hollow her words sounded.

Over the many years of existence, I had come to understand people very well—at least, better than the average person.

And from my limited interactions with this wytch, I could easily deduce that her motivations could never solely be money-motivated.

Yet I kept that deduction to myself.

“Duly noted.”

She made a little humming noise.

“Meet me tonight at ten at the Hall of Surgeons,” she said. “Don’t be late.”

“Hall of Surgeons,” I repeated. “The tourist trap?”

“It’s not as touristy as you might think,” she quipped. “And dress warmly. It’ll be cold.”

I gave her a minute to think about her words in silence.

“Oh. Right.” She cleared her throat. “You can dress however you want cause you’re always cold… And dead.”

Her throat clicked as she swallowed.

“I’m going to stop talking now. Bye.”

As her voice faded, I slid the phone back into my pocket and continued my perusal of the street. But this time, the fist lodged in my chest eased slightly, the vise-like grip loosening.

Hope .

It was a powerful feeling with roots and claws, sinking into my skin wherever it touched. Because the truth—the one I couldn’t admit even to myself—was that if Aisla had turned me away, if she had decided to let me drown in the consequences of my own actions…

I wasn’t sure I would survive it.

An eternity alone. An eternity without the daughter I had built a life with—the daughter I had saved from a wasteful death…

It was untenable.

Belle, I thought, wondering if she could still hear me from the other side. I’ll save you, sweetheart. Just… Wait for me.