Ever After (Rachel Morgan)

dubious attempt at best.
    “Here,” I said brusquely, feeling dizzy as I held out my hand across the space between us. “I didn’t want to risk making a charm tailored to you specifically in case the identifying factor could be used against you, so I need to touch you to focus the curse.”
    “Does it have to be my right hand?” he asked, and I blinked, trying to focus on him. I felt half drunk—without the mild euphoria.
    “It can be your foot, for all that it matters,” I said, and he scooted forward, slipping his left hand into mine. It was cold, and I gripped it tighter. “ Non sum qualis eram, ” I said to access the proper curse, one hand in his, the other on the mirror.
    I stiffened as the energy spilled up through me, shaking off the smut of the curses around it and shining with a dull gleam in my mind. I pay the cost for this, I thought, wondering how I got to this point: willingly taking the smut for a curse to help Trent. Warm and chattering through my synapses like water around rocks, the curse sped from my mind to my chi, pulling energy along behind it until it dove through my hand and into Trent.
    His hand spasmed, clenching hard enough on mine to hurt.
    “It’s done,” I said, and he let go, holding his right hand up to the flickering firelight. My shoulders eased as I saw five fingers there, five perfect fingers. Exhaling, I flopped back into my chair, relieved. I’d used a modified healing curse to set his body back to the DNA sample stored in the collective, a memento of his time as a familiar. It would have all the tweaking that his father had done, not only preserving his life but extending it.
    As well as fixing his hand, I thought, pleased that I could do this one thing. It was good to be whole and unscarred.
    And then I looked up at him and paled. Oh no.
    The pleasure in Trent’s expression hesitated as he saw my face. “What?”
    My mouth opened as I stared at his ears, but I didn’t quite know how to tell him, and my face warmed. His ears were pointed, just like Lucy’s and Ray’s. Shit, I thought that his dad had fixed them by tinkering with his DNA, not cropping them like a Doberman.
    “Um . . .” I started, then jumped when the silver bell hanging suspended above the fireplace made a single beautiful peal of sound.
    Trent looked up, startled, and then we both flung ourselves backward from the heavy burst of burnt-amber-tainted air that exploded on the hearth. I gasped as Al popped into the room. Shrinking backward, I pulled my legs up onto the chair. Trent had stood, shoving his chair back nearly three feet as the demon in his crushed green velvet coat all but rolled into the fire, arms and legs askew.
    “Al!” I shouted when he came to a grunting halt. Then I cried, “Al!” in a panic. “You’re on fire!”
    His sleeve flaming, he sat up, blinking from behind his blue-tinted glasses sitting halfway off his face. “Oh, look at that,” he slurred as he set a black bottle down to pat at his arm. “I am on fire.”
    “Get him out of here, Rachel,” Trent said in a bad temper as he stood to the side, his expression lost in the shadows. “This is intolerable.”
    I winced, glancing at Al when he began to giggle at the flames he was making dance on his fingertips. “I’m sorry,” I said as I unfolded myself from the chair, really meaning it. “There’s no reason for him to show up.” I turned to Al. “Al, you need to leave. Now.”
    But the damage had already been done. And it wasn’t like I had a say in the matter.
    “Don’t want to go . . .” the demon slurred as he took a swig from the bottle and scooted to lean against the rock next to the firebox, his knees pulled up and his head thrown back. “I heard you tap a line, and I came for a visit. It’s so quiet. There’s no one about, no parties, no one to flay, to torture.” He blinked, as if seeing the ceiling for the first time. “Where am I?”
    I glanced at Trent now moving quietly through the room, gathering things up and shoving them into drawers. The candle at the shrine was out. “Oh my God,” I said, peering closer at Al. “You’re drunk!”
    Trent shoved a tiny window open in anger, and Al raised his bottle in salute. “No, I’m not,” he protested. Then . . . “Wait, I am. Yes. I am drunk. You have no idea how hard it was to get to this mar-r-rvelous state of disconnection.” Wavering, he looked past me to an open cupboard. “Oh, look, there’s more.”
    As I watched