The Bone Witch (The Osseous Chronicles Book 1)

by Ivy Asher

  “She was,” he defends. “And when your mother is the swearword-police, sometimes you need to get creative with shit.”

  “Language!” Hillen snaps.

  Exasperated, Tad gestures to his mother while staring at me, his movements declaring, See! I rest my case.

  I crack up and, with an amused head shake, move to my car. “Don’t worry, I got some pictures. Meet at my house, and we can all laugh about them until our faces and stomachs hurt. I promise to tell you every single detail.”

  Tad presses his palms together and tilts his head back to declare thank you to the heavens. “Good, and when we’re done laughing at their expense, you can tell me who the hell tall, dark, and dreamy is and why he’s out here instead of chained to your bed.”

  I can’t even get a word in before he’s closing his door and quietly starting his car.

  Rogan shakes his head, but there’s a hint of a smile on his face, and it’s clear he’s not opposed to a good compliment being thrown his way. With a roll of my eyes, I round my car, placing the grimoire and the other items that Theresa rescued in the back seat, then I jump into my rust bucket of a vehicle and fire her up. Rogan and Hoot slide in next to me, and Hoot’s peeing on the boxwood gives me an idea. While Rogan buckles up and gets Hoot situated on his lap, I reach out with my newfound ability and see if there’s enough ancestor essence in the hedges and trees around here to do what I’m hoping I can do. Sure enough, I find what I need, and with a snap, I add a little magical cherry on today’s sundae of events.

  Sirens sound in the distance, and adrenaline spikes through me as I hit the gas a little too hard and pull away. I giggle, and Rogan looks over, his brow crinkling with puzzlement for a moment before he finally sees my handiwork. “Did you just make all her hedges look like dicks?” Rogan asks me, and I can’t tell if he’s judging me or impressed.

  I shrug. “Just a little something to remember me by.”

  He barks out a laugh, and Hoot lies down across his thighs. Instead of perving out over how muscular they look in the jeans he’s wearing, I focus my thoughts on what the heck I’m going to do with Hoot.

  He’s not my familiar anymore, but I can’t just take him back to the shelter. He was on death row there. Aside from the ass napalm, he’s not so bad. I know I can’t keep him right now, not when we’re about to go searching for missing witches and the people or person who’s taking them. It’s not like I can strap him into a baby carrier and take him along for the ride, even if his gas can be weaponized. When things settle down, he’s got a home with me, but what am I going to do with him for now?

  A horn blares, making me jump. My thoughts are yanked from Hoot’s plight to Tad’s tan Prius as he pulls alongside me. He rolls down his passenger window, and I’m forced to crank the old handle that allows my window to descend.

  “Last one there is a rotten egg!” Tad yells, and then the engine on his Prius whirrs as he pulls in front of me and begins the race.

  “You ninny!” I shout at him, a wide smile on my face, and then I press the pedal to the metal.

  “So I see maniac runs in the family,” Rogan observes dryly, giving the oh shit handle on his side of the car more action than it’s ever seen in its life.

  “Well, if you can’t handle it, Mr. Kendrick, you’re more than welcome to just undo everything you’ve done to insert yourself in my life and be on your way,” I tell him, my tone saccharine.

  “Tell me something,” Rogan starts, the look on his face assessing. “I thought you were new to this whole magic thing—”

  “I am,” I interrupt, not sure where he’s going with this.

  “Then how did you manage all that back there? No incantations, no herbs, no magnifiers or anything else that I could see helping you manage your newfound magic with such finesse. You didn’t even need to tap into my magic to make it all happen.”

  I look over at him, a flicker of surprise moving through me. I could almost take that as a compliment. Almost.

  “So if you’re so new and underprepared like you said, how did all of that just happen back at your aunt’s house?”

  There’s a hint of mistrust in his tone that I don’t like, but instead of addressing that, I decide instead to answer his question, mostly because I think if I do, I might get answers to some of my own queries too.

  “I’m not sure how selection works for Hemamancers,” I start, pulling my eyes away from him so I can weave my way through this gated community and beat Tad’s ass home. “But when I sealed myself to the bones, it felt like it unlocked this vault inside of my head. Suddenly I just knew things, knew I now had power, but not exactly how it would manifest.

  “When I walked into Magda’s house, I just felt so mad. It was like my emotions opened that same vault again, and suddenly I had options for how I wanted to use that power. I could have cursed them, tortured them, destroyed everything they had quickly or slowly. There were so many choices, so many different things my magic could do in that moment, all laid out before me like a catalog. I could sense the osteo matter in the ground, and that’s just what I went for. It was as though I put it in my shopping cart and checked out. Then the next thing I know, it was happening. Was it not like that for you? For your brother?”

  “No,” he answers simply.

  I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. Uneasiness seeps into my thoughts, and I’m not sure what to think of that. Is what happened to me not normal? Is it different for each family or each stream of magic?

  I commit right then and there to spend the rest of the night reading and studying. Grammy tried to teach us about our line and some general witch info, but there’s clearly a lot that I missed. I knew there was magic, a little about how it worked and the things that my grandmother did. But my disinterest in knowing more beyond that has clearly crippled me here and I need to rectify that as soon as possible.

  “So how did it work for you then?” I press, having no intention of letting this go. I assumed how things worked in my family was how it would work for any selection in any family, but Rogan’s resounding no has me second-guessing and extremely curious.

  “The magic in my line works like it used to when magic first joined with mortals and the first witches were born.”

  I raise my eyebrows at the very once upon a time vibe to his tale, but I keep quiet because it feels like I’m just starting a Lord of the Rings book or something.

  “We’re not selected later in life by chance, we’re born with a spark of magic that identifies us as heirs. When we were old enough, Elon and I were sent off to study with the Hemamancer and Osteomancer of our line. We grew up with them, in this world, practicing everything we would need to know for when it was our time.”

  He explains all of this in a very matter-of-fact way, but I can’t help but feel like the way he grew up must have been very cold and lonely. “How did your parents feel about having to send you away?” I ask. Even though I know I’m prying and it’s none of my business, I just can’t seem to help myself.

  Rogan shrugs and runs his hand from the crown of Hoot’s head to his rump, the motion steady and I suspect comforting. “My parents were matched because it was magically advantageous. That’s how things work with the House of Kendrick. It all comes down to being the best, the strongest, the most powerful. My parents knew what would be expected of them if their children were heirs.”

  “Are there a lot of families that do things like yours?” I ask, surprised by what seems like an archaic set of traditions.

  “Not as many as there used to be, but many founding magical houses are still there, and this is how they’ve always done things.

  “It all seems so stuffy compared to how I grew up, so stifling. Are you sure your brother wasn’t running from that?”

  Rogan studies me for a moment, and I can’t tell if he’s thinking about the questions or looking for something in the planes of my face. “Maybe,” he finally answers. “I don’t think so, but I’d be dumb not to consider every possibility.
But even if that’s the case, how do you explain the other disappearances?”

  “Are the other witches also from founding houses?” I ask in my best aristocratic voice as I mime holding a teacup, pinky out, of course. I honk at some asshole who cuts me off going half the speed limit, and angrily change lanes to speed past them. “Learn how to merge, you numpty!” I shout out my still open window, and then I feel like a prick when they give an apology wave. Oops, guess I’ll just reel my road rage right back in. I return the wave as though we’re now road besties and promptly putter away.

  “One is,” Rogan answers, ignoring my driving faux pas. “But the others are from newer lines.”

  I grew up in Massachusetts, so the whole Old Money versus New Money thing isn’t new to me, but I’m a little shocked to see it’s like that with magic too. I probably shouldn’t be; I know enough history to see a pattern of this when it comes to most things. Religion, land, money, magic, politics, the list really is endless, and regardless of which option, there’s always a group that wants to be on top, with people at the bottom hoping someday their lot in life will change.

  “So what about you?” Rogan asks me as I take a sharp right and barrel down the street that leads to my apartment complex.

  “What about me? You know how I got my magic.”

  “No, what’s your sad childhood story?”

  “Sad, what makes you think it was sad?”

  “Everyone has a sad childhood story,” he answers simply, and it makes me pause.

  Maybe he’s right. Mine’s not ideal. I never really thought of it as sad, but an outsider could.

  “My mother died giving birth to me,” I offer. “It devastated a lot of people. She was pretty incredible, but it left me and my dad to pick up the pieces. My Aunt Hillen helped, and Tad is more brother than cousin, but as sad stories go, mine’s a little lame,” I joke as I tear into my parking lot and gun it for my building at the back of the complex.

  What I don’t tell Rogan is that growing up in my family was pretty great until I hit about sixteen. That’s when my dad got cancer. I had the typical bad moments as a kid, getting teased for living in a trailer or not wearing the newest clothes and trends, but it wasn’t until my dad got sick that I really learned what hurt felt like. And when he died, that’s when I felt my first sting of betrayal.

  I squeal into my assigned parking spot as though I’m a professional stunt car driver. I activate the e-brake and get ready to celebrate my victory, but when I look up, I see Tad and Hillen in all their gloaty glory standing just outside my apartment door.

  My jaw drops in surprise, and Tad’s smile grows even wider. I look over at the visitor parking spot to check that his Prius hasn’t somehow morphed into a time bending DeLorean or one of those rocket cars designed to break land speed records, but it’s still just a Prius.

  “How in the hell…” I ask as I climb out of my car. I had almost a perfect run over here, minus the road rage incident.

  Tad reaches up and searches for the hide-a-key that I don’t keep hidden very well at the top of the trim around my door.

  A loud, mean dog bark sounds off next to me, and I turn to see who let a hellhound run loose in the complex. All I find is Hoot once again wiggling in Rogan’s arms. Maybe he’s not the cuddler that Rogan seems to want him to be. The bark sounds off again, and I’m stunned to hear that the menacing sound is coming from the tater tot. Shockingly, this pint-sized pup has a Michael Clarke Duncan kind of bark. If James Earl Jones were a dog, his bark wouldn’t even be as deep or scary sounding as Hoot’s.

  Rogan struggles to keep Hoot in his arms, and he quickly bends to put him down.

  “He probably just has to crap again. It’s a good thing we’re outside, but I’m going to go stand upwind until he’s done,” I announce.

  But as soon as Hoot’s paws touch the pavement, he takes off in the direction of my apartment. Someone’s excited to be home, or at least one would think that if it weren’t for the angry barking and snarling he’s doing.

  “What the hell?” I ask as I take off after him. Hillen will kill me if my former familiar takes a chunk out of her or Tad. Luckily, they seem to be oblivious to what’s happening right now as Tad pulls my key down and goes to fit it in the lock.

  “Stop!” Rogan shouts, and I snort in annoyance. Does he really think that’s going to work on Hoot?

  “Don’t touch it!” he bellows again, and this time I’m confused by the instruction and the panic in his voice.

  Hoot starts to scramble up the stairs like a pocket-sized Cujo, and I turn to ask Rogan what the hell is going on. Tad turns the key in my lock while simultaneously looking back to see what all the commotion is about. And that’s when I see what the hell has Rogan so freaked out.

  A white charge of power explodes out from my apartment door. It’s like a magical bomb just went off, but instead of sending debris and missiles out into the air, the force of the explosion slams directly into Tad. His hand is frozen on the key he’s holding in the doorknob as his body bends backward from the impact of the explosion. Tad’s face and mouth are contorted in a silent scream that I know will haunt my nightmares for the rest of my life.

  Horror jackhammers through me as, helplessly, I watch it all happen entirely too fast for me to stop. I scream and pump my legs even harder. Hillen’s face collapses in confusion, and she turns to see the source of the terror written all over my face. I’m halfway up the stairs, practically climbing over Rogan when my aunt’s keening wail slams into me like a nuclear pulse. The horrible sound sears my insides, promising that it will be a sound that I never forget.

  Hoot reaches the top of the landing first, but instead of going for Hillen or Tad like I originally thought he was trying to do, he charges the front door and starts biting and pulling at something that looks oddly like a shadow. It’s like there’s a film on the door, and I didn’t notice it until Hoot tried to peel it away.

  “Oh god, what’s happening to him?” Hillen shrieks, the raw pain in her voice like daggers to my heart. Rogan gets to them first, and he quickly pulls Hillen back from the door. Thankfully, she doesn’t fight him but allows him to move her so we have the space that we need.

  A horrible gurgling is coming from Tad, and there’s no question that whatever is happening is fucking painful. My catalog of magical options pops up in my head just like it did at Magda’s house, but before I can put anything in my cart and check out, Rogan has his knife in one hand and a deep slice down the palm of his other.

  Expertly, he uses his blood to draw symbols against the film that’s torturing my cousin. I recognize symbols for protection and banishment, and what he’s doing sinks in. An image of a knife pops into my head, and immediately I know it belongs to my ancestors and is made from dragon bone. Need strikes through me, and out of thin air, the purple pouch of bones appears in my hand. I stare at them for a moment, not sure how they got into my palm or why, but I get the distinct feeling that I need to reach inside the bag.

  Not willing to waste time questioning that driving instinct, I loosen the top of the bag, reach into it, and pull a hand-sized knife out. Shock rockets through me when I look down to discover that the dragon bone knife I was just imagining is now clutched in my hand. As mysteriously as it appeared, the velvet pouch disappears, and I’m left reeling and stunned.

  My Aunt Hillen’s crying pulls me from my stupefied inaction, and I shake away my bewilderment. I step up on Tad’s other side, ready to get to work, but I don’t cut my hand and bleed onto the attacking magic like Rogan does. Instead, I once again trust the push of my magic and use the bone knife to start directly carving my own symbols into the attacking magic itself. Image after image pops into my mind, and I trace each line with the blade into the hex that’s been placed on my apartment. The shadow looks soft and malleable from the way Hoot is biting at it, but for me, it feels like I’m trying to cut through a diamond.

  The muscles in my arm are screaming by the time I finish three symbols, but I can
feel that what we’re doing is working. Rogan is repeating an incantation quietly, but it’s barely even a whisper, and I can’t make out what it is. No incantation comes to me, so instead I lace each slice of the bone knife into the hex with my demand that it leaves, with my plea that Tad won’t be hurt, and with my promise to fuck up whoever did this.

  Tad’s eyes are panicked and terrified as he struggles against the magical force slamming into him. His body is bent back unnaturally, his hand still clutching the key in the knob like it’s some kind of lifeline. Pain radiates from every tense muscle in his body, and I want to scream in frustration at the torture I can see he’s going through. I channel my aggravation into moving faster and working harder to free him.

  Rogan has to slice into his hand three more times before I feel the hex start to really weaken. I’ve never dealt with a hex before, so I don’t know if this is normal, but this fucker feels insanely strong. I call on all my strength and renew my efforts, slamming my blade into the vile magic.

  I feel it sink through.

  “Got it,” I shout out, not sure what I’ve even got, but my body and the knife seem to be moving of their own accord, and Rogan backs up while I cut my cousin away from the harmful magic. I hear glass break behind me, and Rogan consoling Hillen, explaining that whatever potion he just broke will keep us hidden from anyone who might be watching.

  Stupidly, I want to demand where the hell he’s keeping all these potions, because with the way his jeans fit, I just don’t see where they’re coming from. But I’ve almost got Tad free, and once again the fiend in my brain is being annoyingly inappropriate given what we’re dealing with.

  Tad gasps as he falls away from the door and is finally able to release the key in the lock. I hold on to him, expecting him to stumble and groan until he’s back with us, but instead, he collapses on the concrete, and it’s all I can do to keep him from smashing his head as he does.

  Rogan dives to help me, and we get Tad turned on his back, where I can see he’s gasping for air. “He’s choking!” I shout, but Rogan stops me when I move to try and clear Tad’s airway.