by Ivy Asher
We stare at each other in silence, the word impossible teetering on the tips of my lips despite my heart clapping at my mind that it needs to get with the program. Rogan’s stare burns into me. And he steps forward until he has me pinned between him and the counter, corded arms boxing me in from the sides.
“I know this sounds crazy. That it shouldn’t be possible, but would that be more impossible than the existence of magic and witches in the first place?” he asks me softly. “How about lycans and vampires? Humans say that the Druids we come from were nothing more than make-believe, but tell me Osteomancer,” he practically purrs, “are they right?”
I think through his questions, unable to argue with the logic.
“Don’t cast the truth aside just because you don’t understand how it works,” he tells me, as though he can read my mind and the struggle I’m having putting both feet firmly on belief. “Fuck, Lennox, Elon and I don’t even understand how it works. But I swear it’s the truth.”
We stare at each other for a long weighted moment. And I feel everything settle into place in me as one resounding question flashes to the forefront of my mind. If Rogan can’t die, and I’m tethered to him, what the hell does that mean for me?
“So where does Prek fit into all of this?” I ask, hoping the answer is something easier to swallow. I need a life preserver of some kind, or I’m going to drown in everything that Rogan just sloshed on top of me.
“His aunt was Kyat.”
“Does he—”
“No,” Rogan interrupts. “He suspects there’s more to the story, but he runs into nothing but walls when he tries to look into it. Kyat was purged at the end of her inquisition. Her family were told that she was murdered along with Oront. It didn’t matter that Elon’s transference ceremony was weeks away and that things didn’t really add up; people believed what they were told. The High Priestess said that’s what happened, and that was that. All loose ends were dealt with, and Elon and I are renounced until we come to our senses and help our parents and their friends achieve what we did.”
“Does this factor into why Elon is missing? Does it have to do with what happened?” I press, finally able to see the picture more clearly.
“I don’t know,” Rogan answers, dropping his head as though he’s too tired to hold it up any longer. “I’ve asked myself that, but I don’t see how anyone would know or why the other Osteomancers would be missing too. There would be no need for that, which makes me think it has more to do with your grandmother’s vision or some other unrelated motive that we don’t know about yet.”
“What am I supposed to do about the Order? Are they coming for me because of my connection to you?”
Rogan looks up at me and shakes his head. “Right now, what happened to us is information less than a handful of witches know. I don’t see my mother risking the secret getting out to anyone else in order to ask you outright. If you didn’t know but figured it out because of something she said or hinted at...I just don’t see her being that messy about it. It’s possible that something’s changed, that they’re now more desperate for answers. Or it’s possible that whatever the Order wants from you has nothing to do with me or Elon. As annoying as it is, we just have to wait on Marx for answers to that.”
“Would they hurt me?” I question, needing to know what I’m up against when it comes to his mother and just how badly she wants answers from her sons. I mean, obviously bad enough to ruin their lives, but does that vitriol extend to the people around them, to the people who dare to get close?
“I’m not going to let them get near you, Lennox, you have nothing to worry about there.”
“That isn’t exactly an answer to my question,” I point out.
His eyes drop from mine. “I want to say no, but I don’t know. It’s been ten years since she renounced us. The High Council has left us alone for the most part, but I don’t know if their tactics are changing,” he admits, and I nod in understanding, my accompanying sigh filled with anxiety and sudden exhaustion.
“So what now?” I press, needing some kind of plan or way to prepare for what might be coming our way. “Elon is missing, which may or may not have to do with the fact that he’s now magically immortal. The Order wants something from me, which may or may not have to do with my connection to an immortal. I mean, I’m only a couple of days into this whole Osteomancer thing, but I think it’s safe to say that I am killing it,” I declare on a laugh that sounds hollower than I intended.
“Technically, the jury is still out on the whole immortal thing,” Rogan interjects, a teasing gleam in his eye and a smile tempting the corner of his lips.
I stare up at him, confused. And then look around as though I’m searching for a witness that can confirm everything he just told me.
“Ummm...did you not just tell me about the time you and your brother died and came back to life?” I hedge, pointing around me to remind him that it all happened in this very kitchen mere minutes ago.
“Yes. I did tell you about the one time we came back. But we haven’t gone around testing the live forever theory since then. There are other factors at play that could explain what happened. There’s no guarantee that if we die again, we’ll just bounce right back, and we’re not willing to risk it at this point.”
“Soooo you’re not immortal then? You might just be some kind of fluke? Like you used your get out of jail free card and now you’re good to go?”
He snorts out a laugh and rolls his eyes, but his shoulders lift up in a shrug nonetheless.
“Well, that’s anticlimactic as shit,” I observe. “Here I was trying to find the bright side to being tethered to a possible immortal. But really you might be the immortal equivalent of premature ejaculation. That’s disappointing.”
Rogan’s eyes widen with indignation. “You did not just call me that,” he challenges, and I bite back the laugh that wants to bubble out of me at the look on his face.
The oven timer dings, and it pulls my attention away. “My tea is done,” I announce, but Rogan doesn’t move from where he’s pinned me to the counter. I look up at him and notice that his stare has grown intense again.
“It feels weird telling you all of this,” he admits. “I didn’t realize how much I needed to until now. I forgot what hope felt like,” he confesses, and I feel my heart shatter for him.
It dawns on me how hard all of this must have been. Not just the horror of what happened to him and his brother, but what was done to them afterward by people who should have cared more and known better. I can only imagine how lonely it would have all felt, and now to have the one person who truly got it...gone without a trace.
“Thank you, Rogan,” I offer and watch as uncertainty bleeds into his gaze. “Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me the truth. I want you to know that I’ll never speak a word of it.”
Relief seeps into his stare, but still he doesn’t move.
“Also for what it’s worth, I’m sorry that any of this happened to you and to Elon. You didn’t deserve any of it. If I ever meet your mother, I promise to deck her,” I add, hating the ache I still see floating in his eyes.
He chuckles, and the sound makes me smile. The oven dings again, and I swear it sounds irritated. I push away from the counter, rise up on my tiptoes, and peck Rogan on the lips before tapping his arm so that he’ll let me out of his cage.
He freezes, and then suddenly I freeze.
What the hell did I just do?
“Oh, shit, I am so sorry,” I stammer, embarrassment crashing through me like an avalanche. “I don’t know why I did that. You were just there”—I gesture at his close proximity—“and it was like some weird reflex,” I defend as he blinks down at me in stupefied astonishment.
“I blame the kitchen!” I declare as though it makes perfect sense and isn’t completely ridiculous. “We just had this deep conversation, and the setting is kind of intimate. You’re all leaning in. It’s like it flipped some relationship switch in my head, and my body react
ed accordingly,” I explain, sounding more and more crazy by the moment. “I take it by the look on your face that this has never happened to you, but rest assured, it has happened to me. You don’t need to read anything into it,” I offer. “I mean, I think we’ve already established that I have a tendency to casually kiss and run,” I point out, motioning to the note that Saxon sent, now tossed aside dismissively on the far counter.
My face is on fire with mortification. I just want to get my herbs out of the oven and then find a comfy hole to crawl into and live in for a solid twenty years. That feels like the statute of limitations on embarrassment from accidentally kissing someone and making shit awkward.
I open my mouth to apologize again when Rogan is still just staring at me, not saying a word. But out of nowhere, his body pins mine, his hands are cradling my face, and his lips are pressed against my lips in a searing kiss.
Surprise ricochets through me, but the next thing I know, I’m melting against him, my fingers threading through his hair as his mouth sends me reeling. His lips are soft and gentle at first. I can practically taste his hesitancy as he gives me a moment to decide how I feel about this. In response, I open up to him, and he wastes no time in showing me that there’s nothing accidental about this.
He kisses me reverently, unhurriedly, like we have all the time in the world to get it right. His fingers dip back into my hair, eliciting a small moan that he greedily swallows down. I pull him closer, each nip and suck sending a blaze of want through my entire being. His tongue teases and then moves in to dance with mine when I welcome it. I feel like I fall into him in all the best ways, completely losing myself in the taste and feel of him. He gives me no choice, because this is the kind of kiss that changes everything. It’s deep and hungry, but not rushed or frenzied. He’s not just exploring, he’s not testing the waters, he’s staking a damn claim.
The oven timer goes off again, and I pull away for a moment as though the sound has broken some kind of spell. “Fuck off,” I growl at the beeping menace, and Rogan’s rumbling chuckle vibrates against me.
I stare up at him a little stunned. I was not expecting that at all. I mean, I’ve been kissed in my day, but that was something else entirely. He crushes his fingers through my curls, and I try to keep things civilized and not to close my eyes and moan.
“If you keep that up, we’re going to need a safe word,” I blurt.
That’s it, brain, you are in time out!
He laughs and then pushes away from me, moving to pull the pans out of the oven and turn the timer off. An odd sense of loss trickles through me as he does, but I do my best to ignore it. So that was the best kiss I’ve ever had—it doesn’t mean anything. I’m not going to go full needy-Nancy and ask for a play-by-play of what the hell it all means.
Nope. It’s fine.
Casual. Just like I like it.
“What about moonstone?” he asks as he turns back to me.
I look from him to the tea ingredients spread out on the pans. “Why would I put moonstone in it?” I ask, perplexed.
“No,” he chuckles. “For a safe word. I was going to go with immortal, but it feels too on the nose and cocky,” he adds, a teasing smile on his face.
“I thought we established that you can’t exactly tick the immortal box on your census form, because it’s yet to be proven,” I counter, mouthing premature ejaculation at him. “Oh I know,” I volunteer excitedly. “The safe word could be I swear that’s never happened before...no, that’s too long,” I note cheekily.
His eyes narrow, a playful glint alight in them as he slowly stalks toward me. Just watching him floods my lady basement, and I have to actively tell myself to keep my head in the game. As though the world decided to second that thought, the doorbell rings, and Hoot starts barking like a maniac. I swear he sounds like a dying goat, his bark caught somewhere between a donkey bray and a cat howl.
Rogan stops hunting me and straightens, his serious side shuttering down over him in the blink of an eye. I want to tell him not to answer it, not to break the moment of whatever is happening between us, but that’s selfish and stupid. I’m here because people are missing. And Rogan just placed a fuck ton of other reasons at my feet as to why it’s dumb to get caught up in our feels right now. He looks down at me, and it’s as though I can see the same argument going off in his mind that’s going off in mine.
“I think it might be Marx,” he declares, as though I need a reason to be okay with popping the bubble that was just around us and letting reality snake its way in.
“We should answer it then,” I encourage.
He watches me for a beat and then leans down and kisses me quickly. “I blame the kitchen too,” he tells me quietly against my lips, and then he leaves to answer the door.
I chuckle softly and touch my hand to my mouth, a mantra of holy fucking shit repeating in my head. I take a deep breath and try to clear my mind. “Well, that sure as fuck was informative while also being confusing as hell,” I mumble to myself and then chuckle. I guess that’s the story of my life these days though.
I hear Marx and Rogan exchanging greetings in the living room. With a silly smile and the warm and fuzzies making their way through my body, I move to go join them. Here’s to hoping that Marx has good news and somewhere pressing to be. Now to come up with that safe word.
20
I lean back against the corner cushion of Rogan’s modern yet buttery soft sectional. The large lounge room is taupes and grays, and with the large windows surrounding us, I practically feel like I’m sitting in nature’s fancy-schmancy living room.
I refocus on what Marx and Rogan are talking about, having been momentarily distracted by the couch that cupped my ass better than my best pair of jeans. I don’t know if that’s a compliment to the couch or a call to replace my wardrobe, but either way, I put this couch on the list of things I need to figure out how to take with me when I go.
“I couldn’t find a registration for a witch named Nik Smelser,” Marx is telling Rogan as I tune back in. “I checked the human databases as well as what we have for other supes, but nothing was coming up. I asked the desk clerk if she had any other suggestions for places I could look, and when she was showing me how to navigate some archives, that’s when we got a break,” he explains, a small smile sneaking across his face.
“I had been ticking the male box on all of my searches, but she didn’t specify gender at all, and up popped the registry for Nik Smelser. I felt like such an idiot. I almost kissed her, I was so excited, and the woman is a bog troll,” Marx admits as Rogan cringes.
“Hold up,” I interrupt, lifting a finger in the universal sign that I need a minute. “Nik Smelser is a woman?” I ask, completely floored. I did not see that coming.
“Yep, I guess Nik is short for Nikki,” Marx offers with a small shrug, like this detail isn’t really worth fixating on.
The sun is just starting to peek over the tops of the trees surrounding Rogan’s house, and I take in the light pinks and purples that are streaking the sky as I conjure my bag of bones. I immediately open the top and look down critically at the contents inside.
“Really?” I ask the bones, judgment dripping from my tone. “Couldn’t just tack on two more letters?” I scold irritably.
Rogan smiles and shakes his head.
“To be fair, maybe she just goes by Nik, and that’s what your bones were tapping into,” Marx offers unhelpfully.
I level him with a warning look. “Don’t defend them, Marx, they know what they’ve done,” I tell him like some disappointed parent who doesn’t want to hear the excuses for bad behavior.
Rogan chuckles, and Marx’s attention snaps from me to him. He studies Rogan for a beat, like he’s trying to puzzle something out.
“You okay?” he finally asks. “You seem...different,” he points out suspiciously.
Rogan’s brow lifts with surprise. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Marx continues to look at him as though he’s not buying it. H
is gaze flits to me for a fraction of a second and then settles back on Rogan. “Cough twice if you’re in danger,” he prompts out of nowhere.
“What?” Rogan and I both ask at the same time.
“Cough twice if you need help,” Marx clarifies, like it makes perfect sense.
“First of all, if I was in trouble, you would have just blown it, and second of all, I’m fine. What’s wrong with you?” Rogan demands, now looking at his friend with concern.
“There’s not a damn thing wrong with me; you’re the one over here laughing like that’s a normal thing you do,” Marx accuses, and Rogan throws his hands up in exasperation.
“I laugh,” he argues.
“You sure as hell do not,” Marx counters.
I chuckle, completely amused by the ridiculous back and forth. Rogan fixes me with a stare.
“I laugh,” he defends again.
My hands go up, palms out in a gesture of innocence. “I didn’t say anything.”
“I totally laugh,” Rogan grumbles, looking back toward Marx and shaking his head.
My heart warms as I wait patiently for Marx to get back to his story. He’s quiet for a moment like he’s still not sure if he believes Rogan is fine, but eventually he just shrugs and gets back to it.
“Anyway, like I was saying, we found Nikki Smelser. Her neighbors said they haven’t seen her for about a month, and her apartment looked like no one had been there in a while. We put wards all over it, so if she shows up there, we’ll be on her. But I’m not holding my breath.”
“Why?” I question, surprised by the conviction in that statement.
“Because someone sent a note to the Order saying that they’d trade the missing Osteomancers, and after magical analysis, the handwriting on the note belongs to one Nikki Smelser.”
“She’s the witch-napper?” I query, surprised.
“That’s the theory the Order is working off of for now,” Marx states.
I look over at my bones, feeling a little bad. Okay, maybe they could have given me a heads-up about the whole guy-girl thing, but technically they did help us find the bad guy—or girl in this case. That’s certainly nothing to turn my nose up at. I reach over and pat the purple velvet bag affectionately.
