The Bone Witch (The Osseous Chronicles Book 1)

by Ivy Asher

  I crack up. Just the image of Tad trying to take a picture of a pissed off Aunt Hillen and then her finding all the swag to put Magda’s picture on is enough to chase my worries away.

  “Probably just some coasters, oh and maybe a fridge magnet or, like, a keychain if she can find them,” I tell him through a fit of giggles. “Any word about Magda?”

  “Only that she was going into surgery, and the rest of the family is dead to her. Pretty sure there was something about her not having earthquake coverage and expensive repairs too, but Ma stopped listening to the voicemail about a minute in, and I have no idea what any of that means. Magda’s probably drugged out of her gourd.”

  I snicker and rinse the suds from my hair. “Probably.”

  “So, how’s your Death Eater?” Tad asks, king of the nonsensical segue.

  “First of all, there’s no my anything, and second of all, that’s not happening,” I inform him as I start to work conditioner through my hair.

  “You’re a disgrace, Lennox! You have to ride that for posterity’s sake. I mean, even if you don’t end up happily ever after, you’ll be able to look back on those orgasms with fondness. Treat yo self, Leni!”

  I shake my head, but I can’t help but laugh at his antics. “I admit that he’s hot, fuck, even Helen Keller could see that much. And yes, he’s probably packin’, not that I’ve looked,” I quickly insert. “But you know how weird I am about trust and intimacy. Like, I at least have to know someone and think they’re a good person before I get all up on that dick,” I remind him.

  “I am aware of your deficiencies,” Tad states sweetly.

  “So that’s where we run into an issue. I don’t know if I can trust this guy. And it’s not just because he walked into the shop and made me his familiar, there’s something else there. I know I need to help him, so I am, but really trust him...yeah, I don’t see that happening.”

  “Wait. He what?” Tad practically shouts into the phone. I stop finger-combing my snarls and look over at the phone on the counter. Shit. I forgot I hadn’t told him that part yet.

  “Yeah, he made me his familiar,” I hurriedly repeat. “Don’t worry, I did it back to him too, so we’re kinda even, but needless to say, we didn’t exactly get off on the right foot.”

  “You two are fucking tethered?” Tad screeches out, and my mouth drops open in shock.

  “How the hell do you even know what that is?” I demand.

  “Fuck, Lennox, how do you not know...never mind, I know how you don’t know, but like, this is really messed up, Leni. That’s some serious level shit, and you two need to undo that right the fuck now.”

  “We are. We’re supposed to go get it sorted tomorrow after we check out his brother’s house. But tell me what you know and how the hell you know it. I didn’t find anything about this in the book Grammy gave us growing up.”

  “It’s not in the books. You might find stuff about it in the grimoire, I don’t know, but I didn’t learn this from Grammy, I learned it in Magics Anonymous.”

  “Are you for real right now? There’s a Magics Anonymous?” I question, completely flabbergasted.

  “It has a nerdier name than that, that’s just what I call it, but it’s for people who know about the magical community but aren’t really a part of it. People who are magical adjacent if you will,” he declares with a posh English accent for emphasis.

  “Anyway, there’s this girl in there, and she was talking about how her bloodline used to have magic until it got fucked up. Apparently, some distant relatives tethered their magic because of true love or some bullshit. Everything was fine until the missus discovered that her mister had a wandering cock, and she immediately severed the bond.

  “Now before you go rooting for her and screaming fuck the patriarchy, here’s where shit got fucked up. Because their magic was tethered for a really long time, it became dependent on the other person’s branch in order to work properly. They no longer had two separate branches of magic, now they had one, and it would only work if they were together.”

  “Holy shit,” I whisper as I stare through the glass doors of the shower at the phone, as though I can stem the flow of words coming out of it and make them untrue.

  “Exactly,” Tad agrees. “This girl’s ancestor refused to tether the magic again, and it destroyed the line. Each generation since has a small amount of ability, but not enough to make them a full-blown witch.”

  “Rogan and I have only been linked for less than a day, though. That couple was married for a while, right?” I ask him, my tone practically pleading for some sign of hope.

  “Right, so I think you should be fine, but the sooner you separate, the better it will be for the both of you.”

  “Fuck, I’m an idiot,” I grumble as I wipe water from my face.

  “No, you’re not, Len. You didn’t know. I don’t think a lot of witches do. Everyone in the group that day was stunned. He’s the idiot for putting you in a position where something like this could even happen. That’s on him.”

  I sigh and press the buttons that make the shower hotter. I hear a chime ring, and I know it means Tad just got a message. “Pierre?” I ask.

  “Yeah, but I can talk to him later, don’t worry about it.”

  “No, it’s fine, Tad, I have a bunch of reading and catching up to do tonight anyway. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “You sure?” he asks, and I can hear the worry in his tone.

  “Of course, go chase that O-face,” I cheer and then cringe. “That felt wrong.”

  “Yeah, never say something like that again,” he teasingly agrees.

  “Love ya, talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Love ya, Lennard,” he coos back, and then the line disconnects.

  Quickly, I wash the conditioner from my hair and scrub my body clean. I stare down at my wrist, at the swooping K and the lacy circle surrounding it. Tracing the lines of Rogan’s vow with my eyes, I once again wonder what the hell I’ve gotten myself into. I take my time drying my hair and pulling my pajamas on, and then I crawl into the bed and pull the grimoire into my lap. Guess it’s high time I find out.

  13

  “Listen, coffee maker, I know you think you’re the shit because you’re bougie as hell, but let’s keep it real. You have one job—to make coffee—and, bitch, right now you’re sucking at it. You should be ashamed. What would all the other coffee makers have to say about your attitude?” I growl as I try for the hundredth time to make this damn machine work.

  It once again gives me a bunch of lip and then does fuck all. I stare at the bag of coffee beans, debating the merit of skipping the middleman and just eating them. That’ll show this snooty bitch of an espresso maker what’s up. She doesn’t own me. I will prevail.

  “Oh hey, you’re up,” Rogan greets from somewhere behind me.

  I quickly drop my hands from the triumphant pose I was just making and do my best to look normal.

  “Morning,” I sing-song, retreating from my battle with the maker of lifeblood and casually taking a seat at the island.

  “Did you make some coffee?” he asks, taking in the mug cradled in my palms.

  “No, because your machine is evil,” I tell him plainly.

  He chuckles and plays with the fickle bitch for a moment. Sure enough, he has her singing a different tune in no time. In just a few minutes, where I discover that Rogan has some very attractive barista skills, a latte is slid in front of me. I add some of the fancy vanilla syrup I found in the pantry and take a loud sip from the oversized mug.

  “Fuck me, that’s good,” I moan.

  Rogan chokes on the sip of coffee he just took. He coughs and hits his chest with a closed fist, and I swirl my java around in the cup in solidarity.

  “I thoroughly get why people dog on Starbucks all the time now,” I announce when he finally gets a grip. “How am I ever going to leave, knowing that I can’t reproduce such greatness? It’s not right. I’d take your coffee machine as a parting gift for all the shit
you’ve put me through, but she hates me already,” I mock whine, silencing my rant with another blissful sip of heaven.

  Rogan shakes his head and looks at me curiously as he once again lifts his mug to his lips. “How’d you sleep?” he asks, and then he takes a quiet, demure sip that I have no respect for.

  “Didn’t,” I reply as I practically unhinge my jaw and swallow my cup of coffee whole.

  “You...didn’t sleep at all?”

  “Nope, but I did get a fuck ton of reading done. Cover to cover. And I would just like to point out that my ancestors were fucking genius. Ask me why,” I encourage, with a wide, excited smile.

  I know I have exhaustion to blame for the manic gleam in my eye and the weird golden retriever mode I’m stuck in right now, but I’ve been dying to talk to someone, and the espresso machine is shit at conversation.

  Rogan looks hesitant, but he plays along like the nice guy he might be...maybe...the jury is still out on that one. “Why?” he asks.

  “Because they wrote the grimoire in ink that had bone matter in it, and that means that as I read each word in there, the spells, incantations, recipes, and lessons all got carved into here.” I point to my brain. “Permanently. Genius!” I declare, giving a chef’s kiss of approval.

  Rogan chuckles into his mug.

  “What? You don’t think it’s genius? Don’t tell me your grimoire is written in blood and you already know this trick?” I plead, disheartened.

  “No, it’s genius,” he concedes, and a smile once again brightens my features. “So, just out of curiosity, when you don’t get a lot of sleep, what’s your cycle? Obviously, slap-happy is cycle one,” he points out, circling his finger in my direction as if that’s all the proof he needs.

  I think about the question.

  “Slap-happy, hangry, impatient, and then cuddle slut is a solid pattern for me,” I reply candidly.

  “Good to know,” he quips on another chuckle, and then he places his now empty cup in the sink. “So, I can see you’re dressed and ready to go. We can head out to Elon’s place, then feed you and, depending on what we find, go from there?” he asks.

  “We need to go see whoever you know that can untether us,” I add to today’s agenda.

  “They don’t gather on Mondays, but we can go at dusk tomorrow when they’ll be there.”

  I study him suspiciously for a moment, and he sighs like he’s tired of my mistrust.

  “I told you I would undo everything just as soon as we found my brother. I won’t betray that promise, Lennox,” he tells me, gesturing to his vow mark on my wrist.

  I let out a sigh of my own. “Fine, but I’d feel a lot better knowing that you actually knew how to do it. I didn’t find anything in the grimoire about tethering, but my cousin knows a bit about it, and we shouldn’t fuck around with this. I will help you find your brother, but we shouldn’t risk damaging our magic over mistrust. I’ll vow to help if that’s what you need.”

  “I don’t mistrust you, and I’m not lying when I say that the coven we need to speak with doesn’t gather on Mondays. Tomorrow evening will be the first chance we get to speak with them.”

  “Okay, then tomorrow it is,” I relent, finishing my cup and pushing up from my stool. I walk over to the sink and place my own mug next to his. I fill them both with water and turn to find Rogan watching me intently.

  “Well, let’s go then, before my hangry mode kicks in.”

  “After you,” he gallantly offers, and all I can do is roll my eyes.

  Yeah right, Rogan Kendrick, you’re not fooling me.

  Rogan’s brother lives about twenty minutes away. From what I can see, Blackbriar is a very rural town with houses spread far apart and plenty of trees and land between them. I’m surprised by how green Tennessee is. I don’t really know what I expected, but it’s beautiful here and peaceful. I can see the draw of escaping the big cities and living a quiet life in a place like this.

  The long driveway that leads to Elon’s home isn’t paved like Rogan’s is, and I get a sense that it’s like that on purpose. There’s an unwelcome vibe to the property, and I suspect that it’s the result of a ward placed around the property. I didn’t feel anything like this at Rogan’s house, but all I can conclude about that is that it’s possible I might not feel any protections he set because our magic is tied together at the moment. His wards might not see me as separate from him, so they’re not being triggered like they are here. Images of when he broke through my protective circle at my shop keep popping up in my head, and although I haven’t discussed it with him, I think I’m right.

  I can feel the house before I ever even see it, feel the booby traps he has placed all around his property. I would be wary if I weren’t in such awe. We crest a hill, and there in the middle of a glade, is a two-story house that would be any Queen Anne architecture aficionado’s wet dream. The house is a rich navy blue with crisp white trim and gold accents on the gables, turned posts, and spindle work. But as stunning and impressive as the details and size of the house are, it’s the bones I feel in the foundation and surrounding every entrance that have me gobsmacked.

  This house is a fortress for an Osteomancer. The care and intricacies of the magic and osseous materials woven into the very fabric of the home and the surrounding property are things I would have never thought possible. I’m almost overwhelmed by the feel of this place, which is funny because it truly is a Bone Witch’s safe haven.

  “What do you think?” Rogan asks me, a sly smile stretched across his too pretty face.

  “I think you know what I think,” I whisper reverently, turning my attention back to the house as we get closer.

  “I thought you might like it,” he declares, pride saturating the statement.

  “Is your house like this too?” I ask in complete awe. I don’t know why I just assumed witches fit into human society, buying human homes and making do with them as best they could. But no, what’s in front of me was built by a witch, for a witch, and I’m envious as fuck.

  “It is,” he confirms. “There’s blood soaked into the land itself. Every material in the home is painted with blood blessings and wards of protection. There’s no safer place in the world for me. And the same should have been the case for Elon too.”

  The SUV that Rogan chose to drive comes to a stop just outside of the three-car garage, and all I can think is how much did this place cost? It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask, but my manners kick in, and I bite it back. I know that all the Bone Witches before me in my line left me with a sizable nest egg, but even with that, a house like this might very well be out of my league.

  “Yeah, I don’t see anyone getting through here unless they were allowed,” I agree, gesturing toward the surrounding land and distant tree line. “So that begs the question, who did he let in, and why did he keep it from you?” I ask, turning to take in Rogan’s expression.

  He stares up at the house, the bay windows gleaming in the morning light, and shrugs. “I wish I knew.”

  I open the car door and step out into the cool morning air. There’s not a hint of big city laced in the molecules I inhale, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear I could taste a hint of acorn squash and apples in the wind as it whips my hair around.

  Rogan’s car door closes, the sound bouncing off the distant trees, and he walks up to the garage and enters a code that makes the door slowly begin to rise. A smaller white SUV sits dormant, and Rogan leads me past it and into the house. A light wood, herringbone-patterned floor guides us into the kitchen. I can see that the interior is updated but still has all the charm and character of the outside.

  There’s a loaf of opened white bread on the island, next to a plate and a can of soda.

  I recall Rogan saying that his brother didn’t eat or drink any of these things, so I go meander by them to see if there’s anything I might pick up that Rogan didn’t. I get nothing.

  Rogan doesn’t say much, just waits until I’m done perusing his brother’s space
, and then leads me to the next living area. I walk through the living room, giving the pile of whatever it is that’s surrounded by crushed rowanberries a wide berth. I meander through Elon’s office, observing the pictures on his desk and bookshelves. All of them are of him and Rogan.

  Elon is shorter, and his green eyes are darker, but there’s no mistaking the family resemblance. “Are you two twins?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure the answer is no. I feel like that would have been an important thing to mention before now if it were the case.

  “No, he’s older by almost a year,” he tells me from where he’s leaning against the door that has beautiful stained glass inlays with bone borders.

  “So Irish twins then,” I observe as I pull a book out that was sticking out more than the others on the shelf, almost like someone put it back in a hurry. The spine and contents are in a language I don’t know, but I flip through it just in case something pops out at me. Nothing does.

  We do a quick tour of the upstairs, where I discover that Elon sleeps on a bed frame made of bones, and that’s where I draw the line with my envy, because that’s just weird. I could feel extra protections in his bedroom, including bones under the floorboards, almost like this room could serve as some kind of panic room, or if there was a last stand to be made, this was the place to do it. It was all a bit too much.

  Rogan’s phone chirps, and he brings it up to his ear and answers it. I debate spying on him for a couple of seconds, but when it seems like the call is businessy and boring, I see myself downstairs. I stand in the middle of Elon’s living room and ask the bones to help me figure out what happened in here, but I feel nothing from them. There’s no residual panic or pain that they’re hanging onto, there’s not even a trace of fear, which there most definitely would be if Elon’s familiar was burned in here.

  I walk over to the kitchen counter and untie my bones from my hip. I grab the plastic pincher thing that’s supposed to keep the twisted opening of the bread closed, and then rip the metal tab off the soda can. I drop both items into the purple pouch, close the top, and shake the bones. I ask them to help me read the person who bought these things, and I shake until the bones let me know that they’re ready.