Page 172 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

“So much for being a gentleman,” I say, rolling onto my back, too. Waiting for the discomfort of another aura to hopefully pass without another seizure. That’s the last thing I need right now.

“Don’t remind me,” she mumbles as I close my eyes and practice slow, steady breathing. “I’m so pissed off at him right now. What a chickenshit.”

“He’s had a lot of practice at being a selfish prick,” I mumble.

“Yeeeep,” she says, really popping the ‘P’.

“At least you have a verifiable type,” I say as the aura fades.

“You’re such an asshole,” she says.

We’re covered in dirt and smell like soil. My eyes are still shut when she snaps her fingers, and the filth miraculously vanishes. I lift a brow at her as I open my eyes, wondering if that was the wisest use of her magic when we have a lot of healing to do.

“If we walk into an ICU covered in dirt like that, they’re going to try to commit us,” she says.

Despite everything, I laugh.

It’s a hysterical, reedy sound. The comment wasn’t even that funny. But we must both be delirious with the anxiety over The Aberrant and the relief of breathing fresh air after going through the world’s most horrific underground waterslide that Wren starts to laughing too.

As the giggle fit subsides, I take in our surroundings and register that we’re next to a small pond on the opposite side of a parking garage. The night is quiet except for the sound of the crickets chirping and the fireflies buzzing overhead.

I heave out a soft breath. “I’ve never seen them before,” I say.

“Fireflies?” she asks.

I nod. “Yeah. They’re beautiful. And god, it’s so...wet here. I feel like I’m in a steam room.”

She laughs. “Humidity,” she says as she stands up and offers me her hand. I take it and stand up with her. “Let’s go save your boyfriend’s ass,” she says.

“Maybe some of his other parts, too,” I agree.

While we speed walk to the hospital, I call Oren again for Damien’s room number and directions for getting there. The less we ask for help getting to Damien, the easier it will be to get into his room without having to kick a fuss with Hospital staff.

It takes way too long to get to the elevator we need, but as I press the button to take us to Damien’s floor, my heart hammers in my chest.

Now that the initial adrenaline is wearing off, it’s starting to land that I have left Del Lune. Hell, I’ve left California—the west coast, even. It’s strangely thrilling. Everything smells different. The air feels different. The landscape outside of the windows is so verdant that, even in the pale silver moonlight, it feels like a fae realm.

When we arrive to the ICU, I’m relieved to find the nurse’s station empty. Less to worry about, less chance for interception. We take the turns Oren detailed in his text and before long, at the end of a dimly lit corridor, we find Satoshi and Roxie sitting on the floor, facing each other from either side of the hallway.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Roxie says breathlessly, as they stand up and pull me into a tight hug. “Thank god you’re here.”

Satoshi doesn’t say anything, and at first, I think it’s because he’s being sullen and pissy with me for taking so long. But when I glance at him, his eyes are closed. He’s sleeping, fitfully it seems. And his forearms have been covered in thick layers of gauze.

“He got the worst of it out of all of us aside from Damien,” Roxie says. “They wanted to admit him, but he discharged himself against their recommendations.”

Wren shakes her head. “Stubborn idiot,” she says.

“He’s in a lot of pain. I gave him about twenty gummies to ride it out,” Roxie says.

“I’ll get everyone healed if I can,” I say. I look at Roxie’s hands. “How are you?”

“Nothing major. I was in the sound booth, so by the time I got down to help, most of the fire had burned out.” They show me their hands, and there are just a few angry looking blisters, but nothing that looks worse than second degree. “Definitely keep that energy for Dame and Tosh if you can.”

I swallow tightly. “H-how does he look?”

Roxie purses their lips and looks down at their shoes.

“It’s bad,” they say. “But not as bad as they first thought. Originally, they were saying third degree over seventy percent of his body; now it’s looking like it’s more like fifty, with the rest being second degree. It’s worst where the curtain landed on him. His hair is almost gone. His face is super fucked up, and his left side. He’s really swollen, too, so don’t be shocked. The inflammation is bad. They have him in a coma to keep him from moving, and they’re supposed to take him in for a skin graft soon.”