by Ivy Asher
Maybe I’m in shock or suffering from some kind of traumatic brain injury. Or maybe I’ve just had enough of other magic users thinking they can do whatever they want to me with no repercussions. Whatever it is, I’m far past the point of caring.
“Leni, Love, what are you doing?” a luscious and silky voice coos at me.
I pull my gaze from the lines of blood paving their way down Prek’s face and look over to find Marx. Surprise flashes through me, quickly replaced by suspicion. What is he doing here? As though he can read the question in my eyes, his lips tilt up in a carefree smile, but it doesn’t match the worry in his espresso-colored eyes.
“Rogan called me, beautiful, told me that a coven from the Order was out here messing with him.”
I look from Marx to Rogan, who’s struggling to get on his feet. Marx quickly moves to help him.
“I sent him a message just after I healed myself,” Rogan confirms, his voice pure gravel, and he reaches into his pocket and produces his phone as if I need the extra proof.
“Lennox, you have to stop,” Rogan orders once again, but it’s as though there’s nowhere for his words to settle in my swirling mind.
“Stop?” I ask, confused by the vehemence in his order.
Marx steps in front of Rogan. “You’re killing them, Leni, and I promise you that’s not a road you want to go down,” Marx tells me, his comforting voice warm and cozy. I swallow his words down like I just took a bite from a chocolate chip cookie fresh out of the oven. They feel gooey and delicious, and all I suddenly want is another bite.
I look over at Prek, whose arms are now limp by his sides. Small twitches work their way through his failing body, and all I can suddenly feel is a cold and hollow anger. My eyes find Marx’s again, and I feel a tear fall down my cheek.
“They were going to kill us,” I tell him in defense, my mind now feeling clouded with wrath and Marx’s tempting magic. There’s something else there too, something terrifyingly strong and overwhelming, but Marx’s warm cookie voice pulls my attention away.
“Let me take care of them, Leni,” Marx purrs, imbuing his words with even more power.
I close my eyes and float in it for a moment.
“Lennox,” Rogan starts, but Marx cuts him off.
“I think you’ll set her off again, Ro, just let me,” Marx tells him, and my brow furrows in question.
Does Rogan set me off?
“Leni, please,” Marx pleads, and I open my eyes and take him in, the appeal breaking through whatever is going on with me and resonating to the core of who I am.
“Okay,” I concede, my voice breaking a little. I release my hold on the Order’s Circummancers all around me, suddenly feeling spent and exhausted.
Coughs and labored gasps fill the night all around me, and in two steps, Rogan has me wrapped up in his strong hold as though he knows I’m completely depleted.
“Is the Order allowing unsanctioned attacks on innocent witches now?” Rogan growls, but all I want to do is curl up and go to sleep. I don’t have enough energy to feel angry anymore. Maybe in the morning.
“It wasn’t unsanctioned, Rogan,” Marx clips back as he bends to check on a yellow-robed witch who’s not moving. Relief fills his face when he finds a pulse and moves on to check on the next.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Rogan snarls.
“You need to go,” Marx interjects, cutting Rogan off when he opens his mouth to argue. “I’ll come by and explain after I get this shit show cleaned up, but you two need to get out of here now! Take my car,” he instructs, tossing Rogan a set of keys, his tone brooking no argument.
Rogan smoothly plucks the keys from the air and, surprisingly without another word, turns and moves us away from the downed Order witches and his friend, who frantically flits from witch to witch and pulls out his phone to make a call. I get lost in the steady sure movement of Rogan as he holds me to him, silently and effortlessly climbing up the steep embankment to the road where a sleek sports car is parked.
I say nothing as he buckles me into the seat, a weird sense of déjà vu running through me. Fear sends my heart galloping, and I suddenly come to the conclusion that I’m not ready to be in a car again. Not after what just happened in the last one.
“It’s okay, Lennox. I won’t let anything like that happen again. I need to get us home as quickly as possible; we’ll be safe there. I wish we had a ley line closer, but this will do,” he tells me, motioning to the car, with reassurance bleeding out of his gaze.
Emotions flood me, and it’s as though everything I should have been feeling during the near-death encounter comes surging in at me. My breaths get shorter and more panicked, and Rogan’s face moves closer until it’s a hair’s breadth away.
“You’re safe now. I’ve got you. You’re drained, and this is your body reacting to that vulnerability. This is normal. You just need to rest,” he reassures me, brushing matted curls back from my face.
I absorb his words, comparing them to the trepidation that I feel as though I just might drown in, and recognize that he’s right. I feel empty, like I can’t protect myself, and it’s feeding the anxiety that I can feel crashing through me right now.
“Do you want me to help you rest?” Rogan asks after a beat.
I focus back on his moss-green gaze and nod my head. I don’t know if I can calm myself down on my own. Understanding alights in his soothing stare, and the back of his fingers gently stroke my cheek. I don’t miss the small warm streak left in their wake. I don’t know how I know, but I’m certain it’s blood, and for some reason it doesn’t bother me.
“Thank you, Lennox,” he whispers, his eyes brimming with appreciation and respect as his breath teases my lips, his mouth so incredibly close to mine. “Thank you for saving my life,” he adds, the tip of his nose skimming mine intimately.
Heat unfurls deep in my core, my body responding to his closeness like some sun-starved plant. I breathe him in, desire pooling between my thighs as he gently runs his thumb across my bottom lip. A gasp of exquisite anticipation almost escapes me as his mouth just barely skims mine, our eyes locked on each other and brimming with complicated layers of emotion. But instead of closing the distance between our lips and stoking the flickering need now blazing to life inside of me, he whispers Seno against my parted mouth. Then all at once, I collapse against him as everything in and around me bleeds black.
18
A loud snore wakes me up with a start, and I open my eyes and stare at the unfamiliar ceiling for a moment. Another snore fills the stillness of the room, and I’m not sure if it was my snore or Hoot’s that woke me up. It takes me a moment to get my bearings, but as I sit up, I recognize the guest room that Rogan assigned me. He’s not in here, not that I would expect him to be, but disappointment flashes through me, and I give it the side-eye for a moment until another jarring snore has me looking around the room for Hoot.
I find him conked out on the bench that sits at the foot of the bed, snuggled up on the extra blanket I draped there. It takes me a moment to blink him into focus in the dark of the room, but as I do, I realize that Hoot’s shacked up with a fluffy black and white cat. This must be Rogan’s familiar.
I run my fingers through my hair, but they get stuck in the nest of tangles I’m sporting, so I leave Hoot to his cuddle party of two and make my way to the bathroom so I can get cleaned up. My phone is still MIA, and there’s not a clock anywhere in the room or attached bathroom, so I have no idea what time it is. It’s still dark though, and when I peek out the bathroom window, the moon is on the descending side of its apex, so I can’t have been asleep for that long.
I find my wide-toothed comb and start working on my mane as I turn on the water to the shower, waiting for it to heat up. Flashes of what happened the night before strobe through my mind, and I have a hard time figuring out how I feel about everything. The lycans, the Order, Rogan, Marx, it’s all so convoluted and overwhelming. I’m not sure what to think about any of it. I h
ave so many questions, but the leading one at the moment has me looking in the mirror for answers.
I almost killed people yesterday.
Witches, I correct myself, as though that changes things. But the who of it isn’t really the issue I’m trying to sort through as I stare into my tired toffee-hued eyes. No, the who of it almost feels inconsequential, what’s really fucking with me right now is that I was ready to end them all. I almost killed them.
I look for the guilt that should be bubbling up in my chest at that thought. I try to find the sick feeling that should accompany the realization that I almost ended someone’s life, multiple someones, but it’s not there. That almost concerns me more than my actions do. Not only did I almost kill over a dozen Order members, but I don’t even feel bad about it.
That can’t be normal, can it?
I abandon my remorseless eyes in the mirror and step under the spray of the shower. What is happening to me? I feel like I’m losing who I am, but as I think that, it doesn’t resonate in my soul as being true. The thought that maybe I’m finally finding who I really am pops into my mind, and with it comes a feeling of validation, of knowing that this is the heart of it. I don’t feel like some hardened killer, I just feel like someone who’s done taking shit. I feel like someone who operates by the code that you give what you get.
I wash my hair thoroughly, plucking pieces of windshield from my curls and letting my thoughts wander to Rogan as I finger comb half a bottle of conditioner through the rest of my tangles. How he looked when he was unconscious and vulnerable in the car. The relief I felt when I discovered he was still alive. The way he stepped in front of me against the Order. His lips almost against mine.
Excitement flutters through me, but it can’t breach the confusion I feel about it all. Why am I going full middle-school-girl-crush on him? Yes, he’s gorgeous, but he’s also arrogant, cagey, myopic when it comes to his brother, and selfish. These are not qualities that I look for in a man. So what is it about him that’s encouraging me to ignore good sense? Is it the dark mysterious vibe? The take control attitude? His body?
I snort out a laugh at that thought. Maybe I have to admit that I’m shallower than I thought, and this simply comes down to the physical side of things, but that feels like bullshit too. I wash my body, taking note that there isn’t a bruise or a mark on me. Other than the occasional pieces of glass washing down the shower drain, it’s almost as though the accident was just a dream. I know Rogan and I didn’t exactly escape injury, but thanks to our magic, we walked away from all of this without a scratch.
Bowing my head in awe of that fact, I send out a quiet thank you to my ancestors. So far, this whole magic thing hasn’t proven to be without its issues, but there’s no ignoring how grateful I now feel to have it, to be alive and injury-free now because of it.
I rinse off and dry my hair, my thoughts wandering to the Order and what they could possibly want with me. I wrap a towel around my body and head back into the room to track down some clothes. Hoot looks up as a sliver of light from the bathroom cuts through the dark and falls on his snuggle session. His cat friend looks over at me with a yawn, but the two white stripes painted down its back give me pause.
I tilt my head as I take the little guy in. Its markings are strange for a cat, and yet I can’t help feeling like I recognize them from somewhere. It flicks its fluffy tail once as it settles in once more against Hoot, and that’s when it clicks. That isn’t a cat, it’s a damn skunk. Panic shoots through me, but I’m frozen in the bathroom doorway, not sure what to do. Did Hoot somehow invite the walking stink bomb into the house?
Shit. Rogan is going to kill me. He seems anal about his house being clean, and now my deficient ex-familiar has gone and booed up with this foul-smelling vermin.
“Hoot, come,” I call out, snapping my fingers and pointing to the ground next to me as though I expect the little rebel to actually listen to anything I tell him to do. He, of course, does nothing. “Hoot, come here right now!” I whisper growl, not wanting the skunk to get any negative vibes that may make it want to pick out fun things to spray.
Hoot just blinks at me.
“You know what? You’re ungrateful. Anyone ever tell you that?” I lob at him as I inch away from the bathroom doorway, deciding he can fend for himself.
Like some overprotective girlfriend, the skunk lifts its head and, I swear, shoots an unappreciative look my way. Immediately I freeze, throwing my hands up like the skunk just barked, you’re under arrest. I watch petrified as it gets up, arches its back with a stretch, and then levels a cold obsidian stare on me. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was offended on behalf of Hoot. It watches me, and I watch it right back for what seems like forever. I feel like an ant under a magnifying lens just waiting for it to find the right angle and singe my ass with the sun’s brutal rays.
I gather up my courage and move to the side slowly, non-threateningly, and then stop in my tracks when the skunk’s tail twitches in response.
“You’re okay,” I coo silkily at it. “I’m just trying to leave so you and Hoot can get back to your cuddle party,” I add, trying for another step.
The skunk’s weaponized ass starts to angle in my direction. I look at Hoot, stupidly expecting him to tell his little friend to simmer the fuck down and behave, but he just yawns. Yep, it’s official, it’s every man for himself up in this bitch.
“You don’t want to do that,” I declare confidently to the skunk as it turns even more. But apparently it really does, because it’s armed and loaded butt is pointed at me before I can even finish my sentence. “Mother fuck—” I scream and dive to try and get out of the way of any noxious projectiles the little beast can send my way.
A loud thump fills the room as I land hard. It knocks my grimoire off the dresser, and next thing I know, it’s plummeting down toward me. Unable to roll away in time, I take a book spine to the ribs. I swallow down a yelp that could very well give my position away to the enemy, and start to army crawl toward the window. That bastard skunk probably thinks I’ll make a run for the door, but I’m one step ahead. Unagi all the way.
Ross would be so proud.
The door to my room slams open with a loud boom like it was just kicked in by SWAT. My head snaps toward it just in time to see Rogan stomp in, his green eyes furious and searching.
Fuck, he’s directly in the line of fire!
I push off from the ground, my towel abandoning me in my haste. My head is on a swivel as I look from the skunk to Rogan, who’s just standing in prime spraying range. I leap for him, screaming for him to get down like some crazed banshee. Rogan’s eyes widen as I tackle him, his arms wrapping around me as we both go down like felled trees.
He hits the ground first with an oomph, and I bounce against him from the impact. I squeeze my eyes shut, knowing that the skunk is going to release its deluge at any moment. Hopefully, I get the worst of it and Rogan is somewhat spared.
“What is going on?” he growls, making my eyes pop open to find his green gaze going from me to the room as though he’s still searching for the threat.
“Hoot let a skunk in the house. Close your mouth, we’re going to be sprayed any second now,” I bark at him, once again squeezing my eyes shut and taking my own advice and clamping my mouth closed too.
Rogan doesn’t say anything, proving his self-preservation instincts are firing on all cylinders. I wait, every muscle tense, for a malodorous mist to cascade down upon me, but nothing happens. I wait a little longer and then a little more. Nothing. I risk cracking one eye open to take in what’s happening. Maybe the skunk wanted a better angle.
I look over to find the little menace just sitting and watching us, Hoot right at its side, like Rogan and I are their entertainment for the evening. I turn my perplexed gaze to Rogan, who doesn’t look nearly as worried or pissed as I thought he would, and the gears in my head start turning.
“You know this skunk, don’t you?” I ask on a whisper, just in case my voic
e sets the little striped demon into a spraying frenzy.
“Lennox, meet Gibson. He was my familiar before…”
I let out a huff and try not to roll my eyes. Of course he had a skunk for a familiar, why wouldn’t that be completely normal? And here I was thinking a ferret would have been bad.
“Um, he won’t hurt you,” Rogan supplies, like it should be obvious and he’s trying to figure out why I’m acting like a mental case. “He was de-scented as a baby,” he adds casually, and I feel a blush crawling up my neck and into my cheeks.
“He can’t spray?” I ask warily, because that skunk was ass out and ready, which makes no sense if it can’t actually use said ass as a weapon.
“Not at all,” Rogan confirms.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me you had a skunk for a familiar?” I demand, pushing up from his chest so I can stare down at him annoyed.
He ignores the weight of my irritated glare and moves into a sitting position, which has me straddling his lap, and us chest to chest. I’m painfully aware that I’m naked, but I’m hoping if I don’t draw attention to it that he won’t notice. This plan is getting less and less feasible as I feel my skin morph into a lovely shade of scarlet, but it’s all I have to work with at the moment.
“There’s been a lot going on. I guess I forgot,” he offers lamely, but I don’t know that I’m buying it one bit. Maybe he didn’t anticipate a naked tackle, but I could totally see him getting a rise out of freaking people out.
“Oh, you simply forgot,” I snark, my tone making it clear just how much I believe that crap.
“Why on earth did you tackle me?” he defends, turning this around on me. Typical.
“I was saving you,” I point out incredulously.
