Page 101 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

“You have to,” she says, her face stern. “What do you think happens if you don’t, Lillith? Hmn? Do you really think it’s wise to sever the generational wards here? Do you think that every single predecessor’s sacrifice and pain should be wasted because you couldn’t buck up and do what everyone else did?”

My stomach drops and guilt squeezes it. “N-Nan—”

“Do it, Lillith. Goddamnit. Do not make me ask you again.”

Nan gets like this sometimes. She did it when the whole situation happened with Whitman, too. Somehow it always hurts, always makes me feel like I’m disappointing her. And there is little in the world that I hate more than disappointing Nan.

All the same. This is... It’s barbaric. Even for baneful workings, I’ve never done something so violent as this. I don’t do blood sacrifices. The most I’ve done as an act of devotional pain is a slice to my finger.

“You need to cut my chest open and snap off my floating rib.”

I lurch into the present with a gasp as Bastion releases my hand, as if my skin has burned his. There’s a spike of awful nausea, a swoon of an epileptic aura, and then I force my eyes to focus and meet Bastion’s.

“Hells, Lillith,” he hisses. “And you did it?”

I know he knows the answer to that, but I nod anyway, tears flooding my eyes.

“Bastion... I... It was fucking awful.” My voice cracks while I say it. “And... and it was so fucking traumatic that when it was over I... I did some illusory magic so the checkup I got done at the gyno qualified me for a partial hysterectomy. It was so abhorrent. I just wanted to cleave the barbarism away at the source.”

Bastion stares at me blankly for a few long moments. Long enough that I start to squirm in my chair. I think I’ll get some relief when he speaks—I almost beg him to say something, but then he does.

“You... ended the Nightingale bloodline,” he says.

His voice carries a flat affect. Almost devoid of feeling. But his face betrays him, softening with feeling. It’s beyond crestfallen—it’s downright abysmal.

I drop my eyes from his. Shame sluices through me, colder than night.

“Lillith. I’m sorry. I—I know you have every right to make whatever choice you want with your body. But... Th—the magic. I know you know how The Buried City works. I know you know that even though you’re not an active participant in the magic that keeps it tucked away, the magic has to exist for The Buried City to continue.”

“I know,” I say.

“The Nightingale line is one of the foundational threads in the web—without it the pocket realm will fold.”

I bite down onto my lower lip and nod.

Bastion leans back in his chair, a short exhale leaving him. I look up at him just in time to see him look out the window, his gaze far away. It’s almost worse that he’s not furious. It’s almost worse that he’s just... shocked and resigned.

“Lilipad, I’m sorry. Can we pick back up on this work tomorrow?” he asks. “I fear I won’t be very useful to you today.”

I nod. “Of course,” I say. “Bastion, I’m... I’m sorry.”

“I know,” he says. “I know.”

He doesn’t even look at me as he rises from his chair and leaves.

ㅤ

Satoshi is super fucking ugly when he’s smitten.

Well—okay, he might not be. Because Wren is smiling blissfully at him as he props his elbow up on the back of her chair, in the little diner we’ve stopped at to get dinner before the show. He’s got one of her curls wrapped around his finger, and he keeps pressing it to his lips when he listens to her talk.

Wren is beautiful, sure. Though she doesn’t hold a light to Lillith’s beauty. I guess I just don’t know when they got close enough to each other to start making goo-goo eyes and speaking in warm, hushed tones.

I guess I have been spending a lot of my free time away from them. It’s possible that I’ve missed integral character development moments while focused on texting and calling Lillith. And thinking about her. And jerking off to the photo she sent me of herself in her full-length mirror.

Pathetic is the word that comes to mind when I think about it. Maybe I shouldn’t be dogging on Satoshi so much for how smitten he is when I’m just as bad, or possibly worse.

She’s not even showing any real nudity in the photo she sent me a day ago. I open the photo app on my phone as subtly as I can manage in the middle of a diner. I bite down on the inside of my lower lip to keep myself from showing the tells of my arousal on my face, because every time I look at this damned photo I get hard.