23: do witches demand rent?

Other people's showers are perplexing enough. The Osbornes' shower is the most convoluted thing I've ever seen. There's a knob for hot and cold, sure, but there's all these other ones for "de-stress," "intelligence boost," and even one with a question mark, labeled "surprise." I don't touch them. Witches, man. They just can't be trusted. I'm in here to clean all this grime and ash off me from my dragon-destroyed apartment, not to accidentally dye my insides purple.

The soaps are weird, too. The one I'm using smells like birthday cake, but the more I lather with it, the more I taste it in my mouth. Trust me, I'm not eating the soap. It's just messing with my senses.

It's the shortest shower I've ever taken, promise you that.

The thing is, Midge doesn't have room for two new people in her little townhouse, but she's just too nice to say no. I mean, what else am I supposed to do? Sharing Safiya's apartment would be suicide, and though my dad and Sybil care about me and what not, they don't like me to hang around there for more than a weekend or so. Midge is my only option, even it does mean I have to share a room with a bunch of plants.

When I step out of the hall bathroom, Jamie's already sprawled on the floor, looking the most comfortable I've ever seen him. Now, I'm not a jerk. I offered him the sofa, of course, but the kid said he liked the floor better. I don't even know why. I've just stopped questioning him at this point.

I pad barefoot across the rug, speckles of water on the shoulders of my old t-shirt because I was too lazy to dry my hair. My tail swings about behind me. Don't judge; Midge told me to make myself at home, so I'm going to.

Honestly, I'm a little nostalgic about the days before Sybil got me in the habit of tucking my tail. I used to walk around without a care, because, you know, it's Atlanta and we've been living here with humans for centuries, but then some dumb grade school kids made fun of my tail and all of a sudden I've got to have it hidden down my pant leg twenty-four seven. Don't even get me started about wearing shorts. Then I have to twine it around my stomach, and that's about twice as uncomfortable.

Maybe I haven't told her this yet, but the fact Midge finds my tail cute is as much comforting as it is annoying.

"You awake there, Jamie?" I ask, carefully sidestepping a bonsai tree on my way to the couch. Jamie's mismatched eyes trace me as I collapse onto the cushions, kicking my feet up.

"Not for much longer," he replies with a yawn.

"Yeah, me neither," I mutter, sitting up to look at him. It's almost irritating, how graceful he looks down there, his eyes half-shut, pale arms stretched up over his head, starry hair pillowed underneath his head like white silk. He's model status and he's not even trying. When I'm half-asleep, I look like I'm half-asleep, not like I'm posing for a magazine cover.

I hate the kid. I swear, I do.

"Hey," I say, and his eyes spring wide open. "I wanted to thank you, by the way. For trying to save Rocco. I don't even care that you didn't, it's just—you fought, so thanks for that."

Jamie's eyebrows flicker towards each other; there's genuine confusion written all over his face. "What else was I supposed to do? I fight. That's what I do."

I can't stifle a chuckle. "Okay, sure. But you barely knew—you barely know Rocco. So why does it even matter to you?"

Jamie presses his lips together, making a short humming noise before answering, "Ah, I know. Because he's your friend. So he's my friend, too."

"Jesus, Jamie," I mutter, laying back down again. "Do you even know how to be mean? I need to teach you. Your rudeness levels are unhealthily low."

If I know Jamie at all, he's probably about to ask what I mean by that, but he doesn't get the chance. Just then, Midge comes down the hallway, pausing abruptly at the living room's mouth. The only light I see her by is the lamp beside my head, but it's more than enough. Her coral hair is up in a bun that's, like, beyond messy, and an old sweatshirt, Eeyore-patterned shorts, and fuzzy socks serve as her pajamas. The only makeup on her face is a smear of mascara. And I still can't really look at anything else but her.

She's staring at me, and I'm staring at her, and there's a faint snore coming from Jamie's direction.

Thank God, she speaks first, because I have no idea what to say. We live in the same house now. I actually feel like I'm in hell. "Your hair's wet," Midge observes.

Hesitantly, I lift a hand, rubbing a damp strand of it between my fingers. "That's true."

"I've never seen your hair wet before."

"Okay?"

"It's just—" She exhales heavily and looks away, towards the floor. "Damn."

I'm not sure I know what the meaning of that damn is, or if I want to know. I don't ask, just prop myself up against the pillows, my arms folded across my chest. "Is there a reason you're in here? You know, besides ogling my hair?"

Midge rolls her eyes, leaning one shoulder against the wall. "Yes," she answers a bit too defensively. "I came to see if you two needed anything. Like a blanket, or whatever."

"Sure you did."

"Grey," she warns.

"Midge," I reply, "if you want to come sit, why don't you? You don't have to stay so far away. It's your couch, anyway."

Her brown eyes go slim. "You're trying to tempt me."

"Am I succeeding?"

Her eyes go slimmer still, until finally she just grunts and steps cautiously over a dozing Jamie on her way to the couch. She settles onto the cushion beside me, her arms folded and her eyes watching the floor. "Just because the prophecy said—"

"I know, I know," I offered, crossing my legs underneath me. "But you have to admit that it's been kinda right about everything else."

Midge chews her lip. "You have other things to worry about. Like dragons, and Rocco."

"Dragons," I repeat thoughtfully. "And Rocco."

"Yeah."

"You're right," I allow, and Midge's eyes meet mine, round as discs. I'm not sure where the surprise is stemming from. As much as Midge is horribly, horribly wrong, she's also quite a good person to listen to sometimes. The way she's looking at me now, she clearly doesn't know it. "I should worry about him. But I'm just...tired. Rocco's strong, and he'll hold on. Tomorrow, when I've got a clear head, I'll go about looking for him. But right now I just—I can't."

Midge opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again. "He's your best friend."

"Yes."

"Since you were kids, right?"

"Also yes."

"How are you okay with this?"

I catch her wrist in my hand, and hear her take in a little startled breath. It's cute. I mean, Jesus, like everything else about her is. It's the most annoying and alluring thing at the same time: how she can still be so bashful after she's told me everything...after...you know, that. Midge is an enigma, honestly, and no matter how much I don't want to admit it, it's a blessing that I'm the one who gets to figure it all out.

"Trust me, I'm not okay with it, Midge," I answer her, my eyes trailing her skin inch by inch: the curve of her wrist, the slope of her arm, the valley of her collarbone. Finally, her face. Her face. Have you ever seen such a face? No. The answer's no. It's like a landscape, really, all hills and plains and skies, and I want to study it and map it and show it to everyone else. Look. Look at this thing. This thing is so wonderful and I want you to see it.

I'm getting ahead of myself. "I'm just trying to think how Rocco would. He's a levelheaded guy, sometimes. He would give himself time to think, because going rashly into decisions is how you make things worse. Right?"

Midge's eyebrows twitch towards each other, but she nods. "Right. I'll...leave you, then. Good—"

I don't mean to, but I cringe. My voice comes out more pleading than intended. "Don't say that."

"Say what?"

"Good night," I mutter, clenching my hand around her wrist tighter, just a little tighter. "It means you'll go upstairs and go to sleep and leave me here."

A smirk plays at her lips. Her lips—it's like I'm addicted. Now that I've kissed them once, I'm just waiting for the next time, the next swift moment where it's just nothing but skin against skin. I know that sounds stupid, but Midge does that. Makes me more of an idiot than I already am. Dangerous, that one.

"Yeah," Midge replies to me. "That's the plan."

I frown. "I'm not ready for that yet."

"Goodness, Grey, you're like a toddler, you know that?" she taunts, drawing her hand back too sharply for me to stop it. "What do you need me to do? Read you a bedtime story?"

I shrug, then lay back against the couch, stretching my feet. Midge lets out a playful yip as my toes nudge her thighs, and then she just glares at me, but it's the type of glare that's not really a glare at all. I lift my arm, gesturing for her to come nearer.

Midge gets the memo. "No, Grey."

I wave my arm again. "You know you want to. I bet you've been thinking about it this whole time. Oh, I wonder what he smells like; oh, I bet his arms are so toned and muscular—"

"Oh my God, fine! Anything for you to just shut up," snaps Midge, before resting herself in the crook of my arm, her head against my chest. She's tense for a while, but then she settles, and I settle, and it's weird at the same time that it's not. I'm cuddling with a witch. Guess the apple never falls far from the tree.

Anyway, I'm starting to think maybe this wasn't the best idea, because neither of us are saying anything. We're just lying here, listening to Jamie snore, and I'm trying not to think about how close I am to her and she's probably thinking that I smell like birthday cake and I don't really know what I'm supposed to do.

And then Midge does the simplest thing anyone could do, ever, and shifts positions, rolling onto her shoulder so that she's facing me. Her hair splays beneath her ear, making a little pink nest for her jaw. My nose brushes hers, and I fight the urge to curse. She knows she's killing me and she's enjoying it.

"I really am sorry, Grey," she murmurs, like she's innocent.

My eyebrows furrow. I'm trying to be chill, but chances are I'm nowhere near it. My face is an open flame. Goddammit. I'm half demon. I'm supposed to be all cool and shadowy, not a bumbling mess.

I manage to calm myself down enough to say, "About?"

"Rocco," answers Midge. "I know how much he means to you, and I just—maybe if he'd gone with us, then...I don't know—"

I move before I know what I'm doing. I move before I have to think about what I'm doing. My finger's against Midge's mouth, and she's kind of blinking at me in surprise, and I'm as surprised as she is. Up close, I can see just how much her pupils have broadened, almost swallowing the warm chestnut of her irises.

Exhaling shakily, I bring my finger down. Midge watches it go. "Can we not talk about Rocco?"

"Fine," Midge agrees. "Let's not talk at all, then."

And I'm not exactly sure what she means, until she scoots forward an inch, raking a hand up into the still-damp strands of my hair and brushing her lips against mine. It's brisk, a haze of heat, and then she pulls back again, staring at me.

I've barely murmured her name before she comes back, this time more forcefully, almost knocking the breath from my chest. Her hands hold my jaw and mine are nudging hair behind her ear, and we're close enough that I can feel the hammer of her heart against me. Unless it's my heart. Who even knows anymore.

I open my mouth, breathe her in. She makes a soft noise, her tongue grazing my bottom lip in a final embrace before she comes up for air again.

And, you know, I'm thinking right now that maybe it's not so bad that a dragon burned down my apartment.

Midge's eyes are alive with the subtlest of twinkles, and holy hell, I'm the one that put it there.

I look at her, trying to calm the breath in my chest.

"Grey?" she says.

I close my eyes, still savoring her. "Damn."