Black Magic

Epilogue

Stiff, plasticky leather presses hard and uncomfortable against my back. My fingernails tap against the metal arm of the chair, a repetitive tic that only makes the baby blue walls more aggravating. Aside from the tapping the room is silent, still, empty; through the frosted pane of glass set into the door I can occasionally see movement beyond this room, but even that is infrequent.

Four days. It's been four days and Sixten still hasn't woken up. The witch who tended to him told me he's probably in a sort of stasis, staying unconscious as his body heals itself. That's their best guess, at least. Nobody really knows what to do with a witchborn-vampire hybrid.

I turn in the chair, bringing my legs up and leaning against the back of it. My eyes can't help but trace over Sixten's body, still laying there so silently. He . . . looks better, at least. The bags under his eyes have all but faded and the bruises and bitemarks littering his pale arms are nothing but scars.

Still. He hasn't woken up. And I just—I can't help but be worried. Because he was thrown around a lot, what if there's something vampire hybrid healing can't fix?

Almost of its own accord my hand stretches out, fingers brushing against Sixten's knuckles. But I pull my hand back in, curling my arms around my knees. He's married. He's married, and I told them to call his wife, to tell her he'd been hurt. She should—she should know.

God, but my chest hurts just looking. And I can't even blame it on the darkness anymore. That's . . . gone, in a way, except not at all. It's just not a separate entity anymore. Or—it's everywhere, everything.

At least . . . at least he looks peaceful. I've been—I haven't slept without having—without nightmares. Not since I got back. Here just feels—safer. Still.

The silence is broken by the door swinging open, loud and dramatic. My gaze flickers over to see a woman standing in the doorway, hand on her hip. She's—she's beautiful, tiny waist and hourglass curves, full lips and honey-blonde hair. Shrewd hazel eyes stare out at me from a gorgeous face. She looks every bit a blonde Swedish bombshell, and I just know.

The door swings closed behind her as she steps a few feet into the room, heels clicking on the linoleum. Hazel eyes narrow at me, assessing me. "Who are you?" Her voice is cinnamon-sweet, pouty lips pursed as she looks me up and down.

Something about the way she's looking at me has my hackles raising immediately. But—but I'll be polite. "I'm Desdemona Nightingale—"

"No-no," she says, flicking a hand up to silence me, perfectly manicured fingernails curling the same as her lip. "That isn't what I asked."

Oh. "I'm one of his students." Her eyes only narrow. "I'm—I'm a friend."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah, we—I was the one who got him out of there."

Whatever I was expecting her reaction to be, it certainly wasn't this; her lip curling in distaste, her chin pointed up, hands landing on her tiny waist. "Yes. Well, from my understanding, you were also the reason he was in trouble in the first place."

That stings, but—it's fair. "Yeah, I guess I was."

"Hm." She looks away from me, keen eyes flickering over Sixten—I can't read anything in her expression. Nothing but lingering disdain. Anger flares in my chest but I stuff it down. I can't really afford big displays of emotion right now. "You can leave. I would like a moment alone with my husband."

Oh, God. She knows. Does she know? I don't—I don't want to be the girl someone cheated on their wife with! I scramble out of the chair, smoothing down the rumpled lines of my skirt. "Yeah. Sorry."