Better Luck Next Time

Quentin's bedroom insisted on spinning like a cheap carnival ride. Only the naked bodies of his friends, Margo and Eliot, held him in place, their limbs pretzeled around his. His mouth tasted like wolf dung; the light coming through the shutters was an affront. The spines of his five volumes of Fillory and Further stacked on the nightstand faced away from the spectacle in shame.

Quentin moaned as he willed the room to cease its antics. "Did we ... have sex?"

Margo's eyes flicked open on their shared pillow. "You forgot? Poor Quentin," she purred. "I was the best you'll ever have, and you don't remember."

"I believe I was the best," said Eliot.

"You wish!"

An image of kissing Eliot slashed across Quentin's addled brain. "What was in those drinks?"

Eliot smirked. "Hmmm ... absinthe ... dried unicorn testicles ... maybe a soupçon of minotaur semen. Honestly, can't remember ..."

"What?" Quentin bolted up. The room tilted.

Eliot and Margot laughed.

"What's this?" Eliot picked up a sheaf of papers from the foot of the bed and read "Fillory and Further Book Six, The Magicians."

"Give me that," Quentin said, snatching the manuscript from Eliot. An envelope addressed to Quentin in a sloppy version of Julia's flowery handwriting slipped out. Quentin's heart pounded. "Where was it all this time?"

"Why don't you read the note?" Eliot suggested.

Quentin extracted it and read silently.

Dear Q,

Last night I found Book Six in Penny's room. Sorry, he spilled beer on it when he passed out. Q, it's the key to everything. This isn't the first time we've battled the Beast. We've done it dozens of times. We all die. Repeatedly. Horrible things will happen. Some people die because of me. But now I know how to kill him and prevent it. No matter what, realize I had to do this alone, not to hurt you but because I love you, my friend. Sometimes one's own life is a worthy sacrifice.

Love, Julia

P.S. Don't be jealous of Penny.

What did Julia mean? One's own life is a worthy sacrifice. He flipped through the stale-beer scented pages which were plastered with Post-its covered in Julia's notes.

"Holy crap!"

Eliot sipped on the dregs of last night's idiocy. "What?"

"She's right," said Quentin. "We can kill the Beast. We do kill the Beast. Just not this time. We've battled him dozens of times ... and we always die."

"I solemnly swear never to give you another cocktail," said Eliot.

"Shit." Quentin rolled out of bed, knocking over a martini glass, and threw on a grey waffle Henley and black jeans-yesterday's clothes. "She's planning on doing it herself."

"Doing what?" said Margo.

"Killing the Beast-in the clock tower! The way to kill the Beast is for a powerful magician to turn niffin."

Eliot choked on his drink.

"Oh my god. Please don't let me be too late."

"Hey, we're coming," said Eliot, scrambling out of bed. "Where are my clothes?"

"See you there," Quentin said. Clutching the manuscript, he sprinted from the room.

***

Quentin ascended the final step of the clock tower. He paused to catch his breath, hand gripping the low railing that circumscribed the cramped roof, pushing down nausea as he peered over the edge. Sunlight burst through the back of the clock face. Julia's earthy magic lay heavy on his chest like a lead apron.