She drags me into the cramped hallway, and I allow her, despite the fact that I’m almost half a foot taller than her. But she could probably break me like a twig if she tried, and I learnt long ago that it’s easier to go along with Fadwa. Her soft edges and round face are misleading.

“Are you alright?” she whispers, and I shrug. Fadwa loves to ask questions, but I dislike talking about these things. It’s only ever her who I talk about it with these days, but it feels uncomfortable. Like the truth of it itches underneath my skin.

“I’m fine,” I lie. “Really, I’m fine, don’t worry about me. You’re too busy for all that.”

She gives me a look that makes me wonder if she’s about to pull a skull from her purse and beat me with it.

“Aye, right. I’m not too busy to help you,” she says, but we both know she’s lying as well. Between raising her sisters, helping her father, and researching for her magical thesis on Seelies, Fadwa barely has time to breathe. Her busyness is half the reason I tutor the twins; I’m knowledgeable at folk magic and remedies, but not enough to justify being a teacher. I just do it to lighten her load.

“I’m fine,” I say again, softer. “The visions are getting worse, but I have a good feeling about this soul eater bloke or whatever he is. I think this could really be what I’m looking for.”

I don’t think that. I don’t think some weirdo living in the woods and eating evil is going to cure me. I’ve been halfway round the world to try to fix it, and nothing has stuck. Not potions or exorcisms or even psychiatry.

Last year I tried to manage them through therapy, and all I succeeded in doing was discovering that I apparently have trust issues, a cynical defence mechanism, and anxiety.

“Are you sure you wanny go through with this? No one will judge you for staying back.” Fadwa looks up at me through her large glasses. She has beautiful eyes, and she uses them like a guilt weapon.

“America was your idea,” I say with a sigh, leaning back against the wall that leads to my bedroom. It’s the only room in this flat that actually has a door. Not even the bathroom has a door, because housing in Glasgow is its own kind of fucking nightmare.

“We could revisit the idea of a blood curse. You don’t know anything about your mum’s family, not really,” she says, her words coming fast. I have to cut in soon if I want any hope of heading off a tangent. “You may be better off going to Hungary to track them down. I was just reading about these stories of Hungarian creatures who—”