by Ivy Asher
He scoffs. “Next time? There won’t be a next time for either of us if we don’t fix this. I don’t know everything there is to know about tethering—other than there are several pages warning against it in my line’s grimoire—but it’s bad, really fucking bad. What the hell were you thinking?” he demands, reaching down and plucking me from the floor like my mass is completely inconsequential to him. He sets me on my feet, and I’m annoyingly too wobbly to immediately shove him away like I want to.
“Me? Are you kidding? This is your fault. Nobody ever teach you not to take things that don’t belong to you? What were you thinking?” I defend on a yell.
“I didn’t think you’d do this,” he shouts back. “Ruby was powerful from what I understand, maybe even one of the most gifted Osteomancers left. I figured her heir would be even stronger, or at least that’s how it’s supposed to work. I didn’t know you were worse than useless.”
Wrapping my fists in his T-shirt, I release a threatening growl. “Worse than useless?” I repeat, hating that this conversation has me sounding like a drunk parrot that’s only capable of regurgitating the insults he keeps flinging my way.
Is this asshole serious?
Menacingly, I use his shirt to pull him closer. It’s a weird move to make, it feels very wild-west-saloon-fight—which isn’t my usual style of aggression—but it serves to help me stay on my feet while yanking him around like he’s the puppet and I’m the master. Or at least it would if he weren’t so damn tall.
“Ruby was powerful, and like it or not, I’m the bloodline’s next Osteomancer. I will get the hang of things, and when I do, do you really think it wise to fuck with me, Rogan Kendrick?” My voice is even, and I have to school my features so as not to show the raw astonishment I feel over the power that saturates my every word.
A knowing runs through my bones, and my statement rings with just as much prophecy as threat. Goosebumps kiss a trail up Rogan’s arms, and a visible shiver licks up his spine. His pupils dilate, the black overtaking the green, and we both stare at each other for a moment, the bottom of his pecs skimming the tops of my breasts with each heavy, traded breath we pull in and then release.
I’m not sure what’s happening right now, but I’m not going to abandon the indignation and outrage I’ve wrapped around me like a comfy fall sweater to explore the intrigue that’s scratching at the back of my mind—no matter how persistent it might be. No. This witch needs a reality check, we both do. I may have been doing this for less than a day, but I am the next Osseous heir, and none of my ancestors would stand for this shit.
“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” Rogan tells me, his husky voice breaking the silence, his eyes searching my face, a hint of contrition in his studying stare.
“You think?” I deadpan, unfisting my hands from his shirt, the soft charcoal-colored fabric now scrunched and creased as though I’ve left my fury stamped all over it.
He doesn’t move away, and his features soften ever so slightly. His shoulders drop almost imperceptibly as though a burden was just heaved squarely on them, and I feel more than see a heaviness settle in his countenance.
“I came here because I needed your grandmother’s help finding my brother. She was my last hope.” His gaze is earnest, and his tone is softly pleading. “Lennox, will you please help me? I’m running out of time.”
His stare is intense, and I suddenly feel like he’s too close. His presence is sucking up all the oxygen, and it feels as though this is more of an illusion of choice that’s being offered than an actual choice. His long black lashes and green eyes do their best to hypnotize me, but I trace the scar that cuts down part of his face from brow to cheekbone to keep from falling into them.
I need to go through the guidebook I have somewhere in my apartment, and then I need to find the Osseous grimoire and see what it says about tethering. Fixing whatever happened here today is the priority, and then I need to stake my claim on this shop and get established in the magical community. The last thing I need is to get caught up in whatever is haunting this man and his family. Maybe that’s callous, but his attempts to force me into helping him haven’t earned him any of my sympathy.
I’m about to open my mouth and tell him no, but something happens that has me pausing. A stinging current strikes through my limbs. With a sigh, I’m reminded of the fourth task I was sworn to uphold: take over the shop and guide anyone the magic chooses. As much as I want to deny it, I know that I can’t. The zap I just felt was inarguably the magic choosing him.
I have to help.
It’s written in the stars with the blood of my ancestors.
And I fucking hate it.
5
Resolve leaks out of me like I’m a sieve. It’s as though someone has come along and poked enough holes in my determination that not even my stubbornness can keep the purpose from spilling out. I have to help this self-righteous prick, and it’s honestly the last thing I want to do.
Out of nowhere, Mary Poppins’s “A Spoonful of Sugar” starts in my mind, but I mentally flip off the perky anthem and press the off switch to my subconscious’s efforts to cheer me on. Dancing cartoon penguins and Julie Andrews’s silvery voice aren’t going to make this fucked up pill any easier to swallow.
I step away from Rogan, my teeth gritted against the capitulation in the move, and run my fingers through my dark-chocolate and cinnamon swirled curls. He watches me carefully like my surrender is suspicious and he’s not quite buying it yet. Good. I may have to help him, but I don’t have to be nice about it.
“Fix what you did to my magic, and I’ll help you,” I offer, deciding that he doesn’t need to know that my assistance is already, so to speak, a done deal.
“I told you, I don’t know how to reverse it, but I know who does. If you help me find my brother, I’ll make sure to set things right. I vow it.”
I study him for a beat and then nod. “So vow it,” I agree, wondering what a vow looks like to a Blood Witch. It better not be that blood brother kind of crap, because science has come too far and taught us too much to go mixing our lifeblood all willy-nilly.
Osteomancers in my line will give away a bone. Usually something small from an animal, but the bone will be infused with the magic of that Osteomancer’s promise. When the vow is complete, the bone disintegrates to dust. I hope this doesn’t go in the direction of Angelina and Billy Bob. I really don’t want to wear a vial of anyone’s blood around my neck.
A switchblade once again appears in Rogan’s hand. Now that I’m closer, I can see it’s not just your run-of-the-mill pocketknife either. It’s gold and it appears to have Rogan’s family sigil in rubies on the handle. He better be careful flashing that thing around; we’re not in a bad part of town, but people have been mugged for less.
Rogan pricks his finger and then draws a line of blood down the front of his throat. He whispers an incantation so quickly I can’t make it out, and the next thing I know there’s a tickling sensation on my wrist. I look down to see a delicate, ruby-red, lace-like circle with a swooping and elaborate K in the center. I stare at the magical tattoo for a moment, sifting through the surprise I feel over having it there.
It’s like a demon mark, only demons mark a person’s feet when they give or take a vow. I don’t know what their obsession is with feet, but I remember my father talking about it when I was younger. I didn’t know that some witches could mark others in a similar way.
I look up at Rogan, who watches me as he slips his knife back into his pocket. His green eyes drop to the mark on the inside of my wrist and then rise to meet my gaze again. I nod at the question I see in his eyes. “Let’s get on with it then.”
A relieved sigh pours from his lips, and he reaches into his other pocket and pulls out that mysterious plastic sandwich bag again. “Can you read these?” he asks, holding the baggie out to me, his question hopeful and his movements hurried.
I take it from his hands, and the contents look like ash. I look up, perplexed.
“They were in my brother Elon’s apartment. They were encircled in a ring of crushed rowanberries, and I think they’re what’s left of his familiar.”
My eyes widen with this information. I know rowanberries have medicinal purposes, but I can’t think off the top of my head what ceremonial value they might have. Anger and sadness simmer in my gut at the thought of a familiar being killed in such a brutal way. Maybe it was to weaken the witch, but it seems especially cruel and unusual. I was always told that familiars were off-limits. Then again, a stranger off the street just turned me into one, so what the hell do I even know?
I cradle the bag of ash in my hand and, with heavy, tired limbs, turn and walk through the rubble of the shop in the direction of the reading room. Glass skitters and tinkles across the floor when I accidentally kick it, and I can hear Rogan crunching behind me in my wake. My shop is a mess, and I wonder if he’ll help me clean everything up after we discover whatever there is to discover from his brother’s familiar’s remains.
I sit down in a chair, my legs grateful for the reprieve, and take a deep breath. I’ve seen my Grammy do this before. I’ve watched her hold a bone and read it, gleaning whatever she can from its cells. I, on the other hand, have never attempted it. I can only hope it’s as easy as it looks.
Rogan sits down next to me, and I can feel the tension pouring off of him and settling into the air all around me. Pressure pecks my skin, and it doesn’t take the High Council to tell that there’s a lot riding on this for him.
I steel myself, pulling in a fortifying breath, and then I open the bag.
Here goes nothing.
I dump some of the contents into my cupped palm, and my hand starts to warm. I close my eyes and feel the sensation, willing the remains to tell me their secrets. A flash of worry strikes through me as I realize that maybe the remains will have me watch their death. My stomach roils at the thought, and I try not to panic. I don’t want to watch someone burning a witch’s familiar alive or, worse, experience the sensations the animal did as it perished, but I might not have much choice in the matter.
I’m reminded of all the things I wish I had asked my grandmother when she was alive. I had a well of knowledge and experience at the ready, and I never bothered to tap into it. I know I thought Gwen was a shoo-in for this power, but I suddenly wonder if it made my Grammy sad that I never took more of an interest in her life simply because it was her life.
I try to compartmentalize the guilt and sadness that settles on me like frost on unexpectant spring leaves, and focus on the remains cupped in my palms. Nothing happens. I pour more of the ash into my hand and once again wait for magic to somehow show me the way.
Except it doesn’t.
I give things a couple more minutes before opening my eyes and releasing a defeated sigh. Frustration immediately taints Rogan’s demeanor. “Are you even doing it right?” he demands, pushing out of his chair and beginning to pace again. I’ve never seen anyone actually do that when they’re frustrated, and it could be oddly soothing if he weren’t so damn annoying.
I try not to get defensive over the accusation, because, real talk, maybe I’m not doing this right, but I’m not sure what else there is to do. Grammy Ruby would only ever hold the object she was reading. I never saw her mumble an incantation or add an elixir or powder to aid her. She just held the bones and spoke their secrets.
I shrug. “I’m pretty sure reading something just involves tactile connection and then interpreting the things that come to you. Maybe I’m wrong, or maybe these ashes don’t have enough bone matter in them for my abilities to work. Did you try your magic on them?”
Rogan shoots me a withering look that makes it clear what he thinks about that question. “Of course I did,” he snaps.
“And…”
“And nothing, I couldn’t get anything. Maybe they’re spelled somehow.”
I tip my palm over the opening of the bag and spill the ashes back into the plastic receptacle. He could be right, but I don’t sense any traces of magic on the remnants. “Are you sure these belonged to his familiar?” I question, trying to think through why there’s no residual information on or in the substance.
Rogan runs his fingers through his luscious and annoyingly healthy looking hair and turns to pace back in my direction. “I can’t be sure. Part of her collar and tag were sitting in the pile. It could be her, or it could be some kind of plant or decoy, it’s hard to say,” he admits, starting another round around the room.
“Okay, so start at the beginning and tell me what makes you think he was taken and that the same thing happened to the others.”
“I will explain, but first is there anything else you can do, any other means to test what that is if it’s not the ashes of my brother’s cat?”
Out of habit, I wipe the grit from my hand onto my pants and then immediately cringe when I realize what I just did. Disgusted, I hold my hand away from me as though it’s contaminated. I just wiped mystery dead crap on my favorite boyfriend jeans. Nice one, Lennox. Ew.
“Um, again I’m new at this. I can read dead things but not do a reading for them, so that rules out tossing the magicked bones on their behalf. Maybe there’s something in the grimoire that could work,” I propose, pushing out of my chair and trying not to touch myself or anything else with my ash-coated hand. I leave the bag of remains on the black table and fish keys from my pocket.
Rogan stops his pacing to follow me, and I’m tempted to tell him to wait down here while I go up into my grandmother’s former home alone. If I thought for two seconds that he’d listen, I would, but I get the distinct impression that he’s used to being the one in charge. I don’t really want him up there, a stranger in her space, or maybe I just don’t want him up there to see how much her absence affects me. I’m already tethered to him magically; he doesn’t need access to my vulnerabilities and what makes me tick too.
Looking back at him, I pause with the key in the lock. The determination in his gaze has me swallowing down my argument. His face reads like it or not, I’m coming, and I just don’t have the energy required to knock him out to ensure my privacy. With a resigned exhale, I unlock the door. It swings open to reveal a set of golden oak stairs, and I tamp down the loss that rears up inside of me as I begin to climb them. I get about halfway up and realize that my presence never tripped the ward I know my Grammy had on the doorway.
She had residual magic encasing the entrance that would make you feel scared and have you either backing away or running up the flight to avoid the monster that you just knew was right on your heels. Maybe I’m immune to it now that the same magic runs through my veins. But when I look back at Rogan, there’s no hint of panic, no sweat on his brow that would indicate he’s fighting the terror he should be fighting by tripping that ward. He just looks at me curiously.
Maybe the necros cleared it when they came to smudge and retrieve Grammy’s body? Cautiously, I turn forward and continue slowly up the stairs. I crest the landing that leads into the large studio-style apartment, and inhale the scents of my childhood. An updated kitchen sits in the right-hand corner with a large eat-in island and stools.
To the left is the wall-less bedroom. She put waist-high open-backed bookshelves around it to delineate the space, and a queen bed is set in the middle of it all, the white painted brick of the apartment serving as a headboard. Hanging plants above the overflowing bookshelves contain her favorite potions ingredients. And the table next to the bed is overflowing with candles, wax drippings covering the shafts and pooling on the cedarwood finish.
I expect to see the bed mussed from use, but instead I’m greeted by a smooth quilt, throw pillows, and extra blanket folded at the foot of the bed. I move in that direction, my Converse thumping against the wood floor, the noise matching the speed of my heart, beat for beat. Yesterday, my grandmother lay down for a nap, never to wake up again. I blink back the emotion that wells in my eyes and try to breathe through my sorrow.
The faint hint
of necromancer herbs tickles my nose, and I wonder how many of them came to retrieve the body and how long the ceremonies they do to cleanse and honor it will take.
Should we have a funeral? What rituals would she want at a burial? Or would she rather be cremated and ride the winds for the rest of time? I’ll have to call Aunt Hillen and see what she thinks.
Rogan is silent behind me. I get the impression that he’s trying to be as unimposing as possible, and as much as I don’t like him, I appreciate the reverence with which he moves through my grandmother’s home.
It’s my home now, but I can’t quite wrap my mind around that. I’m also still not comfortable with living where my grandmother just died. The family will tell me to gut it, redo the entire inside so that it doesn’t feel like the same space or carry any remnants of death and sadness, but I’m not there yet. The shop makes sense, because it’s what we’re destined to do, sell our wares and offer readings and guidance as needed, but living in this apartment is a choice, and I’m not ready to commit to it yet.
I search for the small skeleton key that I know fits into the lock of the drawer on the bedside table. With a click, I pull it open, holding my breath as I wait for the grimoire to come into view. Puzzlement flashes through me as I fully open the drawer.
“It’s not here,” I mutter, shocked, turning to Rogan. “The grimoire isn’t here.”
His steps clomp closer to me as he moves to survey the empty velvet-lined drawer that I’m gesturing to like some vacant-eyed game show model.
“Are you sure it should be here? Is there somewhere else she would have put it?”
“No, she was always very careful with it.” I look around the room as though the answers to the missing magical book will be there. My gaze stops on the made bed, just as Rogan holds up a long strand of red hair. I narrow my eyes at the sight and let out an irritated growl. “I know who took it,” I announce, and then I stomp out of the room and head right for the stairs.
