by Ivy Asher
The tic in Rogan’s jaw pulses as he considers my threat. The car slows as the gate to leave the lycan's property rolls open. We rush through it just as soon as there’s enough clearance to do so, and I have to fight the desire to turn and see if the guard from earlier is still there. Nope. I can come play catch the lycan with my vagina some other time. Right now I need to focus on the Blood Witch, who has a nasty habit of act now, explain later.
“You can’t pull shit like that with lycans, Lennox,” Rogan rumbles, pissed off, his eyes fixed on the road in front of us.
“Shit like what? I was just trying to win,” I defend.
“I know, but you can’t do it like that,” he snaps back, not offering any additional clarification.
“Did I break a rule?” I press, getting even more frustrated by his clipped responses that are still all too vague.
“No. But lycans are territorial. They can get fixated on things they feel like they have a claim to.”
“It was a kiss, Rogan, not a proposal. Did you forget what century we’re in or something? No one’s freaking out over a woman showing her ankle anymore. An affectionate act isn’t a profession of undying love and devotion,” I snark, but Rogan just shakes his head and tightens his grip on the steering wheel.
“Maybe not in the human world, Lennox, but you’re treading in territory you know nothing about,” he clips.
“I asked you if there was anything I needed to know when it came to interacting with the lycans. You told me to just be normal,” I shout, my threshold for frustration beyond full and now spilling over.
“Exactly! What’s normal about kissing strangers for a toy-sized antler? How was I supposed to anticipate you’d do something like that?” Rogan shouts back. “What’s normal about anything you did?”
“What’s normal about any of this to begin with?” I counter, exasperated. “We’re witches hanging out with a bunch of handsy lycans. Who really gives a shit? They didn’t stop us from leaving. Saxon didn’t drop trou and try to piss a circle around me, staking his claim. So what’s the real issue here?” I demand with flailing angry hands and narrowed eyes.
The car is silent other than the hum of tires on pavement and the sound of the wind moaning an ominous tune outside the confines of the car. The sun is setting, and in its multi-hued light, I study Rogan’s face, the tic in his jaw, the glare he’s wearing, the vexation etched in his masculine features. The longer he says nothing, the more it speaks to me.
Is the witch emergency that he’s jealous? Is that really what this comes down to?
A jolt of shock slams through me as that conclusion forms in my mind. I watch his profile intently as though the denial of my thoughts will be evident in his frown or the agitated blink of an eye, but it’s not there. I don’t know why this potential discovery surprises me so much; it’s not like I’m hideous or repellant in any way, I just didn’t know Rogan had the depth. If he saw me as anything, I’d have thought it was simply as some kind of stepping stone in the path to finding his brother and nothing more.
I open my mouth to say something, to demand to know if envy is really the foundation of his irritation and what that means. But before I say a word, the wind releases a furious howl, and the next thing I know, something slams into the side of us, and we go spinning out of control.
17
It all happens so fast I don’t even have time to scream. One second I’m debating if Rogan might like me and how I feel about that, and then suddenly everything is spinning, and squealing, and terrifying.
Rogan shouts, but it’s lost to the sound and feel of airbags exploding all around me. We’re shoved off the road with what feels like hurricane levels of force. It’s as though Mother Nature just lost her shit and swatted us away like some pesky fly. I’m scared and disoriented as the car tilts precariously, and then all at once, we’re flipping down an embankment toward a steep line of large trees.
I feel like I’m stuck in some amusement ride from hell, my stomach turning in time with the car as I’m jerked and jostled mercilessly. Glass shatters and falls all over me, and I try to shield my face as I catch a glimpse of the dusk-kissed sky only for it to be ripped away as we continue to tumble, dirt and debris exploding all around me.
Odd keening-like grunts escape my mouth with each terrible revolution of the car. It’s as if we’re spinning so fast that it’s trapped a scream in my throat and won’t let it out. Black dances in the corners of my vision, but just as it dares to come closer, we slam—with a sickening thud and the squeals of bending metal—against something and jerk to a stop.
My bones crack and splinter from the impact as the car quivers and settles against what I suspect is a tree trunk or maybe a rock. Pain explodes through me, dulling my senses, and I blink sluggishly, as I slowly realize that I’m hanging upside down. Curls fall all around my face, and warmth trickles from the side of my head, spreading slowly up into my hair. Finally, the torque of our brutal spin releases its hold on my throat, but the scream that was held hostage there dies, and a muddled moan crawls out of my lips in its place.
Ticks and pops sound off all around me as what’s left of the car settles. All I can do is breathe.
In and out.
In and out.
I pull air into my chest, ignoring the bite in my ribs, and release it as I try to clear my mind enough to come up with a now what. Questions flash through my mind, demanding to know what could have done this and how, but I push them back and focus on what needs immediate attention.
“Rogan?” I squeak pitifully as I reach out and work to clear my line of sight of airbag fabric, hair, and dirt.
My own pained moan accompanies my efforts as I struggle to move, and panic starts to race inside of me when he doesn’t answer. It takes me a moment to get my bearings. I feel like I’m in the back seat somehow, but I know I’m still buckled in the passenger seat like I was before what felt like Mother Nature’s beatdown.
The dashboard in front of me is a crumpled mess. Soil and grass now press in where the windshield used to be. I turn to look for Rogan, my head pounding furiously in objection as I do. My vision blurs, and I work to blink it back into focus. I bring a hand to my head and feel the telltale warm wetness of blood.
“Rogan?” I call out again, my tone pleading.
I try to shake the fogginess from my head, which only brings more pain. The blur in my vision sharpens with the hurt though, and I’m able to focus on the unmoving form of Rogan hanging from his seat, tethered only by his seat belt. I call out to him again, but he doesn’t even so much as flinch.
“Be alive,” I start to frantically chant as I try to free myself from the confines of my own constricting seat belt so that I can check on him.
I press with all my waning might against the button that should release me, and with a pop and a surprised squeak, I fall to the ground. It can’t be more than a foot from where I was hanging to where I collapse, but it feels like I just survived a fall from a cliff. I breathe through the agony that radiates through me, begging it to subside. A faint vibrating sensation moves like a wave through the dirt and grass where the windshield used to be, and the hair on my arms stands up in warning. I’m not sure what is going on, but my gut is screaming that the worst might not be behind me, or maybe that’s just what internal bleeding feels like.
Magic pools inside of my chest of its own accord as though it feels some kind of threat too. I breathe a sigh of relief as I shove it through me and try to repair what I can of the damage that’s been done. I bite back a scream as I feel a rib fuse back together inch by splintered inch. Tears stream down my face as it—in what feels like forever—finally fits seamlessly back together. One down, three to go. The thought of having to endure even more anguish as I knit myself back together makes me want to figure out the fastest way to pass out, but I know I can’t do that. I have to endure this. I have to be ready for whatever might still be coming.
My head is fuzzy with adrenaline, and my mouth salty with the thr
eat of vomit as I finish the last of my broken ribs. This time, I don’t let myself take a break as I move onto healing my fractured metacarpals and then the tibia in my right leg. My skin is clammy from the agony weeping out from my pores.
“Almost done,” I growl to myself, partly as a pep talk and partly as a warning that it’s not over yet.
There’s no biting back the cry that rips out of my throat when my leg bone pops out of the weird angle it’s in and straightens. But thankfully, that seems to be the worst of it. Relief floods me when my vertebrae pop happily like they just had a visit to their favorite chiropractor. My headache subsides slightly and my vision clears up, and the steady ache radiating throughout me starts to dull. I’m still bruised badly all over and I’m pretty sure concussed, but I can make do with that until we can get some help.
I shove magic out of me into Rogan, tears stinging my eyes when I feel that he’s still alive. Breath rushes out of me in a relieved exhale as I magically fix the things in him that have fractured and fragmented. I pull a broken rib from his lung and coax it back into place, but I can’t help the alarm that blares through me at the injuries I subtly feel that I know I can’t fix. I won’t be able to make his lung reinflate, or stop the bleeding I feel in his chest and stomach. But if I can get him out and awake, maybe he can tackle the internal injuries.
Reluctantly I pull my power back into myself and start scanning this destroyed car for a way to get out. I search for my phone, but I don’t see it anywhere. I debate for a moment if I should try to get Rogan down, but I’m worried his dead weight might pin me down and make it harder to get out. The feeling that we’re still in danger is hammering through me, and I don’t know if that’s because it is or if my adrenaline is spazzing out because we were just in an accident. I’ve never been in one before, and I have no idea what to expect.
I curse myself as I leave Rogan where he unconsciously hangs. I wiggle between our seats toward the shattered rear passenger window behind the driver’s seat. Glass cuts into my arms and hands as I go, but it’s unavoidable. I can still hear the eerie cry of the wind as I crawl out of the broken back window, and it feels even more like a warning, one I have no idea how to interpret.
I pull my legs free from the car, the night air cooling the blood still spilling from the head wound I have. The sky is a dusky blue now, with the horizon lit up with oranges, yellows, and reds. The sun is almost gone, but there’s enough light to see that the car somehow rolled through the trees before slamming to a stop against a large unforgiving trunk.
I can see the tree line and the base of the embankment that I know leads up the road about twenty feet away. If I can’t flag down a passing car, maybe I can try to get back to the lycan compound. I don’t think we’re too far from them. Or maybe I should try to find my phone first and call for help, that’ll probably be faster.
I file my options away and focus on Rogan. Surprisingly, the window on his side is still intact, and I consider breaking it, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to pull Rogan’s massive muscled frame through the too small opening. The smell of gas and hot rubber permeates the air around me. Nothing is flaming or smoking right now, but a sense of urgency pulses through me impatiently.
I reach up and pull the handle to his door, but the dented and damaged panel doesn’t open. Blood slicks my hands from the cuts I acquired while trying to crawl out, and I search the battered remains of the upside-down SUV for some other way to get Rogan out. There isn’t one. My side of the car is practically wrapped around a tree. A shiver runs up my spine as I take in the damage, and I’m stunned that I’m not hurt worse than I am as I take it in. Rogan is still out cold, and I look all around me for anything that can help me get him out.
I spot a pair of horns resting on a mound of dirt that the rolling car must have upturned. I call to them, and with the help of my magic, the large attached skull exhumes itself from the soil and slides over to me. It’s the bison skull I ordered from Riggs. It must have flown out of the car during the accident. I call all osteo matter in the area to me, and in a snap, the contents of the order I placed at the lycan compound are piled next to me.
I take in the collection of bones for a moment, sorting through how I might use them to help me. A lightbulb practically goes off in my mind. I instruct the caribou leg bones I planned on using for the waitress’s tea, to break into a different more useful shape. The radius and ulna bones do as my magic commands and separate so that one end has a sharp, smooth angle. I order that end of the bone into the seam of the car door, forcing them to wedge themselves and help me leverage the door open.
I grab the handle, and on the count of three, as though I’m instructing a team of helpers instead of just me and my magic, I pull the door with all my might and simultaneously force as much magic as I can into the wedged leg bones. With an angry metallic groan, the door starts to give. I shove every ounce of strength that I have into my arms and hands, and into my magic. A determined and labored screech pours out from my clenched teeth as I fight with the door, refusing to let it win.
I think I hear the sound of dirt trickling down the hill behind me, but I ignore it, focusing all my efforts on creating an opening that I can get Rogan out through. My arms and hands burn from my exertions, and the headache I thought I had dispelled comes back with a vengeance, but I push through, pulling at the smashed door with all my physical and magical might. Pops and the tearing and scraping of metal on metal fill the air all around me, and all at once the door wrenches open.
I fall back, losing my balance as it tears open, but a bruised ass is the least of my worries right now. I get to my hands and knees and quickly scramble into the car as much as I can to try and get Rogan free. Immediately I press my fingers against his neck, checking for a pulse to make sure he’s still with me. An unexpected sob almost chokes me when I feel the steady beat of his heart against the pads of my fingers. Tears start to drip steadily down my cheeks as I reach for the buckle to his seat belt, and I think it’s safe to say that the shock and numbness I’ve been feeling are starting to wear off.
That uncomfortable sense of urgency is breathing heavy down the back of my neck, and I snarl a frustrated growl when his buckle doesn’t release easily like mine did. I pull at the seat belt locking Rogan in place, but it holds tight, refusing to release him from its protective clutches. I call the polar bear jaw bone to me that I ordered, and try to saw at the seat belt with the teeth that are still intact and attached to the bone. It doesn’t work.
I need to move fast, I can feel it in my bones. I stop yanking at the seat belt and start searching Rogan. I pat his pockets and whimper in relief when I feel what I’m looking for. I have to shoulder him back a little so I can get my hand into the front pocket of his jeans.
“Stupid tight ass pants,” I grumble as I struggle to get a hand in. “Stupid big ass muscles and too tight pants,” I add as I work the bejeweled knife I’ve seen him use before up his thigh, with one hand, and shove my other deeper into the pocket.
“What are you doing?” Rogan murmurs groggily as I press in harder against him, trying to hurriedly coax the knife out of his pocket.
I gasp and flinch, startled and not at all prepared for him to suddenly be awake. “What does it look like I’m doing?” I huff, and I can just feel the cold metal of the closed knife against my outstretched fingertips.
Just a little more.
“It feels like you’re trying to get your hand down my pants,” Rogan observes, his statement a little slurred and worrisome.
I snort. “Yep, you caught me, I thought this would be the perfect moment to dazzle you with my hand job skills,” I snark. “Got it!” I announce excitedly, wrapping my fingers around the knife and pulling it free.
“What happened?” Rogan asks, his voice gravelly and his confusion feeding into the panic racing through me.
“We wrecked,” I tell him, my eyes meeting his. “I fixed what bones I could, but—”
“You’re bleeding,” he annou
nces, reaching a hand out to my face and wiping at the steady slow trickle I’ve had since I woke up. His green eyes flash from perplexed to confused and then to angry.
“We both are,” I explain, and then I pull my face away from his hand and get back to work.
The blade of the knife pops out with a shick sound, and I waste no time positioning it against his lap belt. “Hold on,” I instruct as I prepare to saw away at the webbed polyester, but the knife is sharp as hell and cuts through the belt like butter. Rogan half tumbles on top of me before he seems to catch his weight against the frame of the destroyed car.
I crawl back and out of the tight space, pulling him along with me. I try to ignore the winces and grunts of discomfort as I go, but that same strange rumble moves through the ground I’m kneeling on, and it feels like it’s screaming you’re out of time at me. Just as the sensation passes, Rogan’s gaze snaps up and searches all around us. His face fills with anger, but that emotion is quickly replaced by pain. An agonized groan pours from his mouth when I try to help him get all the way free of the car.
“Lennox, run,” Rogan grunts out. He suddenly starts to push me away from him.
“What the—” I object as I pull on him even harder, confused.
“Run,” he orders more adamantly. “They’re trying to surround us.”
Panicked, my head snaps up, and I look all around us. “Who is?” I demand when I don’t see anything there.
“Circummancers!” he snaps, the word filled with fury and alarm.
Vicinal Witches, my mind supplies, pulling the name from lessons I didn’t think mattered as a kid. And then it all dawns on me. The freak wind that shoved us off the road, the strange current I can feel vibrating in the ground, the sense that I’m running out of time. We’re being attacked by elemental magic users, and they’re about to lock us into a grid.
