by Ivy Asher
“Fucking hell!” I grunt, yanking hard on Rogan and freeing him from the car the rest of the way.
The lesson from my early teenage years comes rushing back. I can hear my Grammy’s voice explaining to us the history of witch battles and how they were fought. I remember pretending to be as into it as Tad was as she detailed how groups of witches liked to fight.
“One on one, the odds are more even,” Grammy agreed when Tad asked why witches didn’t duel like they did back in the olden days. “But no one likes to lose, Tadpole, which is why magic users prefer strength in numbers,” she explained, as if it were the most riveting story she ever told.
“Witches like to surround and attack, creating a force, a grid, where magic bounces off of other witches. That way the magic becomes stronger and more lethal,” she declares as she mimes a sword fight. “In a grid, it doesn’t matter if your magical blow or attack misses its mark. The magic bounces around inside the circle until it hits someone, or a partner-witch takes it and combines the force with their attack, until BOOM!” she shouts, and it makes me and all of my cousins jump in surprise.
Her voice fades as our childish giggles fill my mind, and loss constricts around me, so tight that it all at once makes it hard to breathe. I recall her telling us that normally witches can’t feed off of each other like that. That our magic is usually only our magic, but witches and covens have found ways around that. I learned that day that amulets that protect and temporarily link witches to a partner in a group have been a game-changer when it comes to fighting, and now Rogan and I are about to experience firsthand why you never want to be in the center of a grid.
Fear rushes through me. I feel like cornered prey that needs to frantically look for a way out. Rogan and I aren’t completely defenseless, but in order to even the odds and level the playing field, we have to destroy the protective amulets the witches are wearing before our magic will have any kind of impact. When you’re being attacked from all sides, shit gets complicated and deadly, fast.
I want to ask who they are and why they’re doing this to us, but it doesn’t matter right now. Whether they’re linked to the kidnappings or a rogue coven that we just happened upon, who and why will be left to sort out after we survive.
Now, to keep them from getting into formation.
The starting beats of Beyonce’s “Formation” sound off in my mind, but I don’t have enough time to high-five my weird sense of humor; I need to come up with some kind of plan.
Rogan reaches over from where we’re both sitting in the dirt just outside of the mangled car. His breathing is labored as he places a warm hand on my forearm, and I know that his lung is messed up from the rib bone I pulled out and fixed before he woke up. The distinct tingling sensation of magic being pushed into me spreads throughout my body.
The blood magic seeps into my veins, swirls through my stomach, and clears my head. The throbbing in my temple and behind my eyes disappears, and I pull in a deep, grateful, pain-free breath. The bruises that peppered my body vanish, taking with them even more hurt and stiffness. The slow steady flow of blood that’s been trickling down the side of my face ceases. My cheek cools, and it’s as though I can feel Rogan putting a stopper in the drain I’ve been feeling on my energy.
He pulls his magic back when there’s nothing more it can do for me right now, our eyes trained on one another intensely as the weight of the situation we now find ourselves in settles heavy in the air all around us. I can practically smell the tang of angry foreign magic on the innocent breeze that’s now moving through the trees. I reach up and push some of Rogan’s black hair out of his face, reveling in the feel of its softness for a beat, before I push back and stand up.
“Fix yourself up,” I instruct, suddenly feeling numb. It’s as though I’ve activated some kind of battle mode I didn’t know I had. I assess what I have around me to work with, and try to feel for the attacking witches’ positions. They move silently. I can feel at least a dozen of them, and over half are in place, waiting for the others to close the circle around us.
“I’ll hold them off until you can help and we can figure out what the hell they want,” I whisper confidently.
Rogan studies me for a beat, his green gaze taking me in like he’s all at once seeing me differently. He blinks and just like that, the look is gone. Nodding his agreement to my plan, he then closes his eyes and gets to work healing what injuries on himself he can. I’m not sure if he can combat all the damage inside. I know between the two of us, our powers have pretty solid dominion over the inner workings of the body, but we’re not immortal or infinite. Things happen. Witches die. In the end, it doesn’t matter what kind of magic you have or just how powerful you are, there’s no stopping Death when it comes for you.
Trepidation taints my focus, and I do my best to shove it away. He’ll be fine, I reassure myself sternly. We’ll make it out of this. We’re going to be just fine.
A twig snaps in the distance, and the sound works to cement my resolve and stoke my outrage. I don’t know who these witches are, but it’s time to do everything I can to make them regret picking this fight.
I call the pointed pieces of caribou leg bones I used to wedge the car door open to me. They come flying into my palms, ready and waiting to be used as weapons. I splinter the wild boar bones I ordered into small sharp toothpick-like pieces and scatter them all around Rogan and me. Skeletons of squirrels, rabbits, and other forest creatures speckle the woods all around me, and I command them to crumble into powder.
The last of the witches are moving into place, and I need to act fast but discreetly. I know they’ll have protections on them, but they can’t protect themselves from all forms of magic in their entirety. Amulets have a tendency to weaken other amulets, and the more you wear, the weaker they all become. Maybe I can work around the outer protections though and buy us a little more time.
I carefully move the bone powder from the skeletons of long dead forest creatures and create a circular border about ten feet out from where Rogan and I are. When the witches try to close in on us, they’ll have to walk through the powder. I know there’s at least one powerful wind Circummancer, and if they do their thing like I’m hoping they will, I’ll make it work to my advantage.
I search my memory banks for any other details about this branch of magic in hopes that it helps to come up with some backup plans, just in case things don’t go exactly as I hope. I know that Vicinal Witches are the most common of the magical community. Many have diluted abilities and can barely grasp one element let alone more. That definitely works in our favor. Then again, judging by the force of the wind that tried to take Rogan and me out, we’re not dealing with an entire untrained coven of Circummancers.
I put out my magical feelers to ensure there aren’t any more incoming surprises, but I don’t sense any varying tones of magic moving to surround us other than the power the Vicinal Witches are exuding. We’ll be up against the elements, which is bad enough, but it won’t be a magically multilayered attack. Thank fuck for that at least.
Subtle movement comes from behind me, and I spin ready to magically cut a bitch. Adrenaline hammers through my veins, but when I turn, I only find Rogan. He looks a million times better, but now I want to punch him for scaring the shit out of me. He steps up next to me, not an ounce of apology in his hard moss-green stare for practically sneaking up on a girl.
“You are in violation of the Engagement Act of 1847,” Rogan bellows out into the dark, and I jump, not at all prepared for his voice to rip through the stillness of the night. “You’ve attacked us without provocation or warning, which is a contravention of witch law and a punishable offense.”
I scan our surroundings watchfully as Rogan goes full lawyer and vocally objects to what’s happening. I’m not sure what good it’s going to do since we’re now officially surrounded and they obviously mean us harm, but what do I know? I personally thought guerrilla warfare was our best bet, but maybe we can talk this out. I roll my eyes a
t that thought. These people just shoved us off a road and down an embankment at sixty miles an hour. What is he expecting them to do, shout my bad and be on their way?
“If you go straight up Karen and ask to speak to a manager, you’re on your own,” I irritably whisper to him as I wait for our attackers to ignore his efforts to shame them into giving up, and attack us already.
Surprisingly, nothing happens.
The night quiets once again, the crickets not even brave enough to send their song out into the tense silence. Anticipation thrums through my chest, each rapid beat of my heart like a war drum in my head. I hold my breath, the inhale and exhale feeling too loud and disruptive as I wait for what will come next.
“Punishable offense?” a smooth, confident voice calls back, and then all at once, a ring of witches in golden-yellow hooded cloaks steps out from the obscurity of the dark and into the dim light of the rising crescent moon. “Maybe, but I doubt anyone would really take issue with the removal of the Kendrick stain from the fabric of the magical community,” the witch declares matter-of-factly.
With a twitch of my hand, the splinters of bones I spread around us earlier slowly rise. I don’t attack, knowing that the small projectiles likely won’t make it past any protective amulets, but I have other plans for them. A robed figure lifts his hands and pushes back the hood obscuring his face.
Smooth dark skin, a shaved head, and a short tidy black beard dust the witch’s square jaw. His full lips tilt up in a taunting smile, his russet-brown eyes fixed on Rogan in a way that immediately tells me they know each other. It also tells me this is not a good thing. He reaches out and lazily swipes at nothing with his hand—a gust of powerful wind surges in around Rogan and me, sending my bone splinters crashing back down to the ground. It’s less a defensive move and more of a you don’t want to fuck with us effort at intimidation.
Arrogance wafts off the Circummancer, his cold stare never leaving Rogan’s. With zero hesitation, I take advantage of the witch’s preoccupation and send a fine, almost imperceptible, mist of bone powder up into the air to join the dust, leaves, and evergreen needles that have been kicked up by the threatening breeze. None of the other surrounding witches speak up or do anything to stop me, and I revel silently in the success of my actions. That couldn’t have gone any better than I had hoped, but I don’t let the satisfaction or eagerness I feel show anywhere on my face or defensive stance.
“Prek,” Rogan grumbles out, and the hoodless Circummancer’s smile grows even wider. “When did they make your sniveling ass a commander?” he questions, and a spark of anger flashes in Prek’s steely gaze.
“It’s been a while, old friend,” Prek points out, but the bite in his tone and ice in his gaze betray the sentiment of his words.
“I think we both know who the stain truly is,” Rogan states pointedly. “Still holding onto unfounded grudges, I see,” he adds with a dismissive wave, the tension in his body immediately dropping away as though this situation is no longer threatening and he can relax.
I, however, am not so convinced.
Prek chuckles, but there’s not an ounce of genuine humor in it. “Typical Rogan,” he purrs, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Always thinking he’s the star the rest of us simply orbit around.”
I try not to snort out a laugh of agreement. Nope. This prick could have killed us; I will not find him amusing or his assessment mildly accurate.
“Believe it or not, this visit isn’t about you,” Prek states, his tone suddenly bored as his dark gaze turns to me.
His sharp stare takes me in. His eyes drop to the pointed bone shards gripped in each of my hands and languidly make their way back up to mine. Curiosity flashes in his gaze for a brief moment, but it’s quickly replaced by jaded resignation.
“Lennox Osseous, you’ve been summoned to appear before the Order of Magic. This is not a request, but an order. You are to be taken into custody immediately and brought before the High Council.”
“Taken into custody?” I ask, bewildered, at the same time Rogan steps forward menacingly and growls, “For what?”
“Rogan Kendrick, this matter doesn’t concern you. You will back off and not interfere with the Order’s business,” Prek warns, but the light in his brown eyes screams that he hopes Rogan will do the exact opposite.
“Am I being arrested?” I demand, ignoring the higher pitch of the question and telling myself there’s no need to panic. I haven’t done anything arrest worthy, except maybe threaten Marx, but that was before I knew who he was, and Rogan cleared the whole misunderstanding up.
Prek doesn’t clarify, he just repeats, “Lennox Osseous, you’ve been summoned to appear before the Order of Magic. This is not a request, but an order. You are to be taken into custody immediately and brought before the High Council.”
Prek’s robot mode stops, and I look to Rogan, confused. Is this normal? If I’m simply supposed to go with them for some welcome to the magical community get-together, then why not just say that? Why attack us first? That doesn’t seem like something you’d do to facilitate an innocent introduction. It’s very possible shoving us off the road was less about me and more about whatever history is between Rogan and this prick, but being deemed sacrificial collateral damage doesn’t exactly make me feel any better about the situation.
Rogan turns and takes me in for a moment, as though he too is trying to work out what’s going on. It makes my stomach drop even more to see evidence in his gaze that what’s happening isn’t normal. I shake my head no ever so slightly. I don’t want to start shit with the Order, but everything inside of me is screaming not to go with them.
“Lennox Osseous, approach any member of my team so that you can be taken into custody,” Prek commands coldly.
Rogan steps protectively in front of me. “Yeah, that’s not going to happen,” he states evenly as though he hadn’t a care in the world and the Order doesn’t have us trapped in a grid.
Prek’s smile brightens, and for the first time since he’s revealed himself, he looks genuinely pleased. Alarm bells ring in my mind as the chuckle that bubbles out of him is tinged with pure delight. “Oh, Kendrick, I was really hoping you’d say that.”
With a movement so fast I don’t even have time to register it, all hell breaks loose around us. The earth beneath our feet begins to undulate as though it’s really the sea and had us fooled the whole time. I start to fall back, but Rogan pulls me to him, slamming me into his unforgiving chest so hard that it knocks the wind out of me. Air leaves my lungs in a rush, and then it betrays me even more by turning and trying to pull me from Rogan’s hold.
Wind assaults me from every angle, and for something that technically isn’t tangible, it feels like a giant fist wrapping around me while bellowing fee fi fo fum and promising to crush my bones into paste. I scream, but it’s torn away from me by the attacking gale. I hang onto Rogan for all that I’m worth, but suddenly he’s choking and coughing up water, desperately working to dispel the liquid from his lungs.
Terror seizes me. I know I have fractions of a second before I’m torn away and might very likely be forced to watch Rogan die. Part of me wants to argue that this isn’t right, the Order can’t just go around doing this to innocent witches, but I’m not that naive.
Fear swirls in Rogan’s eyes as he clutches onto me in a bruising hold with one hand and claws at his throat with the other. Heaves and wet coughs wrack his body, as once again everything goes so wrong so fast. Rage explodes through me, my blood heating with the potent and punishing need for vengeance.
In a flash, I lash out with my magic and snap my tethers to the bone matter all around me taut. Bone matter that this coven of witches has been breathing in while they waited for Prek’s next orders. I bypass any protection amulets they might have leaving their bones alone and only calling to the particles of powder I sneakily introduced to their systems. I wrap the tethers of magic connecting me to each of the Vicinal Witches surrounding me, around my fist, and all at once shut
each of them down.
Thoughts of mercy flee my mind as I direct the bone powder to close their airways. The assaulting wind around me stops, and Rogan falls to his knees, coughing, and finally able to try and breathe. Witches around me wheeze and choke, their gurgles slowly growing silent as their wide panicked eyes turn terrified.
I should feel bad as I pull air deep into my lungs and watch unconsciousness—and I know eventually death—creep into the visages of the witches all around me. But my compassion and sympathy have fled. There’s no doubt in my mind that each and every one of them would gladly kill Rogan, kill me, and I’ve done nothing to deserve it.
Fury scalds me as one witch drops to her knees, her hood flung back to reveal carrot-orange hair and a purple hue to her oxygen-starved skin. Her eyes plead for me to stop, but where was her mercy, her pardon, when I was in a car flipping down the embankment, or when Rogan was being drowned from the inside out?
Other witches fall to their knees, weak and clasping at their impotent throats, but I ignore them and move closer to Prek. I want to see his face as karma bitch-slaps him across it. I want him to look into my eyes as his vision speckles with blackness, so that he knows without a shadow of doubt that his vicious actions are what sealed not only his fate, but the fate of everyone on his team.
Fear swims in his gaze as he looks up at me from where he’s fallen to the now still ground. He blinks, and then something weird happens. A trail of crimson trickles out of the corner of his eyes. I watch it move down his cheeks slowly, and then see another line of blood drip down from his nose. He’s bleeding.
“Leni, stop!” Rogan croaks, and then he’s overcome with coughs, the sound of them thankfully dry, indicating that he’s dispelled all the water from the abused organs.
I ignore him, too captivated by the trail of blood now seeping out of Prek’s ears. I’ve never watched anyone being strangled to death; maybe the blood is normal. Something niggles at the back of my mind, screaming at me that this isn’t normal. That I shouldn’t be so calm about something so wrong, so utterly horrifying like watching someone die. But it’s as if any ability to care was stripped from me.
