Why You Should Never Rescue Stray Demons Chapter 29

**KACIA**

Am I?” Oz says mildly, sounding completely unconcerned. He glances down at himself like he’s checking to see if there’s dust on his shirt or something. I don’t see anything wrong either. But Tracey, ever the bloodhound, is not one to be mistaken. He continues to insist. 

“Oh. I WAS injured before I dropped my glamour. I must have hidden it when I put the glamour back on. One moment.” Oz says, piecing it together. He focuses for a second, and sure enough, as the illusion fades slightly around his arm, a dark smear of dried blood appears. The remnants of some kind of injury from the basilisk fight. It’s not fresh anymore, probably scabbed over long ago, but Tracey looks at it smugly, his face screams ‘I told you so.’

“You’re right. The blood you smell is definitely mine.” Oz says, patting himself down like he’s searching for spare change. 

“Don’t worry, I don’t plan on dying about it. It’s just a scratch.” He says easily. A scratch. I narrow my eyes. That basilisk clawed him. I saw it. I push myself to my feet, probably against better judgement, and shuffle around the table, leaning on it like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. I reach out and tug up Oz’s sleeve. Yep. Not ‘just a scratch.’ A long, angry gash runs nearly four inches up his bicep. IIt’s not actually bleeding anymore, but it’s still deep, still raw, and definitely not something you ignore.

“Oz! Why didn’t you say something?” I snap. He shrugs, infuriatingly casual. Before I can even get my breath back to lecture him, I start to wobble. I should sit down. My body agrees. So does Oz, except instead of helping me back into my seat like a normal person, he loops one arm around my waist and pulls me straight into his lap. I make a very undignified noise. My glare does nothing to dissuade him. I glance at Tracey to see his reaction, expecting maybe some raised eyebrows, but nope. He’s too focused on the blood. 

“You’re dripping on the floor.” Tracey sniffs, scandalised. He’s wrong, Oz isn’t dripping anything, but Tracey doesn’t care about reality. He cares about drama. And also, apparently, hygiene.

“This is a shared space, you know. It’s unhygienic to be openly bleeding like that. Some of us have sensitive noses. You’re making me hungry.” He complains. Oz tilts his head, completely unfazed. 

“Do you want a napkin? Or a straw?” Oz sasses. I nearly choke on a laugh. Tracey doesn’t even blink. 

“Are you offering?” He asks, his expression brightening. Oz flashes a lazy smirk. 

“Nah, I’ve reluctantly donated enough blood recently. I’d like to keep the rest.” He responds. Honestly, I’m only half listening. Oz’s hand is resting lightly on my waist, his fingers tracing slow, absent circles against my shirt. His tail has somehow curled itself around my leg and ankle, it’s soft and warm and kind of feels like it belongs there. Tracey exhales the world’s most theatrical sigh and flicks invisible lint from his lapel. 

“Fine. But if you’re not going to share, clean yourself up. There’s a first aid kit behind the info desk. Clarence hates bodily fluids.” He lectures. 

“Right, wouldn’t want to get hexed for an unsanctioned injury.” Oz mutters. Tracey doesn’t respond. He just turns on his heel and glides toward the door, coat flaring like he’s storming the stage in a vampire opera. Oz turns back to me, one brow raised. 

“That guy is a friend of yours?” He asks. 

“Unfortunately.” I mutter. He’s weird, but he does mean well. I think.

“Mostly harmless?” Oz confirms. 

“Mostly. Just… Don’t make any jokes about his name unless you want a tetanus shot. He bites.” I warn. Oz winces. 

“Noted.”

I insist on going to the information desk to clean Oz’s injury, even though he keeps brushing it off like it’s no big deal. I remind him that he has no idea where that basilisk woman’s claws have been, or what kind of magical cooties she might be carrying. Now that I’ve got some food in me, I’m fairly sure I can make it there with help. Oz offers to carry me again, but I refuse. Absolutely not. I am walking. Or, well… Something vaguely resembling walking. So I stagger forward, draped over his arm like the world’s most stubborn fashion accessory. When we finally reach the desk, Oz doesn’t even give me time to argue before grabbing me gently by the waist and lifting me onto the counter like I weigh nothing.

“I’m pretty sure I’ll get in trouble for sitting here.” I mutter. He shrugs, entirely unbothered. 

“I could sit you in a chair, but there’s no way you’d be able to help with my arm from down there, angel. At least here you’re tall enough to reach me.” He points out. Ugh. He has a point.

“Fine. Go find the first aid kit.” I huff. Oz turns to search, but before he takes a step, Tracey materialises from the shadows like a dramatic little bat. 

“Took you long enough.” He drawls. 

“Kaci, you should know you don’t need to pretend to be weak to impress a guy.” He lectures me teasingly. I roll my eyes so hard it’s a miracle I don’t fall off the desk. 

“As if I’d EVER do that. I was literally paralysed, Tracey. I’m still recovering.” I inform him. He raises a blond brow. 

“Paralysed, huh? Now that’s a talent I wouldn’t mind borrowing. Feeding would be so much easier if people would just sit still.” He says thoughtfully. I frown at him. 

“Don’t you mostly drink from willing donors? It’s not like they’re trying to run away.” I point out. 

“No.” He agrees, with the world’s most dramatic sigh.

“But they DO wriggle. It’s undignified.” He complains. 

“Yeah, and then you’d have to babysit them for hours because they wouldn’t be able to get up and leave afterward.” I counter. He pouts. 

“Ugh. True. Still, a little paralysis might be worth the peace and quiet.” He sighs again, then, perking up, he turns to Oz with that glint in his eye. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to share? Just a sip? I’d be very neat.” He asks. Before Oz can answer, a sudden thud echoes through the space as a magical smack whacks Tracey clean in the back of the head. His head jerks forward and his expression twists into indignation.

“No eating in the library outside of the designated area!” A cranky voice booms. Ah. Clarence. The elderly witch hobbles toward us with menace, his walking stick raised like a weapon. I’m fairly certain he doesn’t need it to walk, it’s a prop for intimidation. A magical smiting stick. Tracey sputters, glaring at Clarence like a cat caught mid pounce.

“I wasn’t even eating!” He protests, rubbing at the back of his skull and pouting at the accusation. Clarence narrows his eyes, which are barely visible beneath his bushy white brows. 

“And I wasn’t born yesterday, young man. You were practically salivating over that poor boy’s open wound.” He insists.

“I don’t salivate, I appreciate.” Tracey retorts primly. 

“It’s called aesthetic admiration. There’s nothing wrong with admiring a good meal. Maybe if you stopped waving that stick around and actually moisturised once in a while, you’d be worth admiring too.” Tracey declares. Clarence gasps, scandalised, like Tracey just insulted his herb garden.

“I’ll have you know this cane was carved from the ancient ash tree of Thistlebrook by my great-uncle and blessed by a convent of nuns. You’ll respect its authority in this house, thank you very much.” He says primly. Oz, to his credit, is keeping an admirably straight face.

“I’m not even bleeding anymore.” He mutters.

“That’s beside the point!” Clarence and Tracey shout in unison, then blink at each other like they’re mortified to have been in agreement. Clarence, now in full curmudgeonly form, turns to fully square off with Tracey. He is the living embodiment of every storybook depiction of an old witch. Tall and rail thin, with a crooked spine that somehow makes him seem taller rather than shorter. His robes are a patchwork of faded dark fabrics stitched together with silvery thread and covered with what looks suspiciously like cat fur. His wrinkled hands are covered in ink stains, and his long white beard trails down to the middle of his chest, currently tangled in two safety pins and what looks like a button from a child’s coat. A giant black brooch shaped like a raven’s skull is pinned to his chest, and his battered, wide brimmed hat is so stuffed with talismans, feathers, and charms that it jingles when he moves. The cane he brandishes is twisted and knotted like it grew from the roots of a haunted tree. 

“Respectable witches do not tolerate unsanctioned bloodletting in shared spaces!” Clarence continues, jabbing his cane at Tracey’s boots. 

“You think you’re the only supernatural in this place with a bloodlust problem? Just last week I had to mop up after a minor shapeshifter tantrum. You don’t see me turning a blind eye to that, do you?” He grumbles. 

“I’m not throwing a tantrum, I’m simply underfed and underappreciated! Tracey huffs. 

“You’re over dramatic and over accessorised.” Clarence snaps back.

“I bite people when I’m upset, Clarence.” Tracey threatens. 

“And I hex people when I’m tired, Tracey. Do you really want to see who hits first?” Clarence says, his eyes narrowed. My money is on Clarence. They glare at each other for a tense moment. Then, thankfully, Tracey mutters something under his breath and flounces off with a swish of his coat and one last wishful look toward Oz’s arm. Clarence sniffs and turns to me. I brace for impact. But instead of yelling, he just levels me with a sharp, appraising look.

“You… Kacia, right?” He asks. 

“…Yes?” I answer cautiously.

“I have a job for you.” He declares, in the exact same tone someone might use to announce a magical quest or assign someone to unclog a very haunted toilet. Ah damn it.