by Ivy Asher
“Have they assigned a team to the case now?” Rogan asks, and Marx nods.
“Yeah, after the ransom note appeared, they opened a full investigation. When Osteomancer Osseous’s report was flagged as potentially useful, they brought me in for questioning.”
Rogan stiffens beside him, and Marx looks over at him apologetically. “I had to tell them what you and I had been looking into. You know I can’t exactly keep that to myself. It would have only been a matter of time before they questioned someone we already had and knew anyway,” Marx defends. “I didn’t say anything about Lennox or our insurance policy, but other than that, they now know what we know.”
“So is that what they want to talk to me about? My grandmother’s dream?” I query, completely confused. I suppose I can chalk up the level of aggression to Prek and Rogan’s history, but why the hell not just tell me that? And why not question Rogan too, if they know Elon’s missing and Rogan’s been looking into everything in hopes of finding him?
Marx’s eyes seem to darken infinitesimally, and he clenches his jaw at my question. “I’m sure they’ll ask you about it when they question you, but no, you’re on the Order’s radar for another reason,” he replies cryptically.
A chill runs down my spine as the High Priestess’s face pops up in my mind. I saw her on the cover of a magazine once, looking cold and formidable, and from what Rogan’s had to say about her, that’s not just an image she portrays. I refuse to look at Rogan, not wanting to risk that it would give anything away, and knots of worry start to form in my stomach.
“Do you know what that reason is?” Rogan presses, a menacing bite to his tone that I wish made me feel better.
Marx releases a weary exhale and levels his gaze on me. “The note that Nikki Smelser sent to the Order. The one saying that she’d trade all the missing witches. Well, you’re the trade she wants. The note says you for them.”
I flinch back at his words as though I’ve just been slapped. Stupefaction swirls in my mind, and my stomach drops out the bottoms of my feet. “Why?” I demand impotently, not understanding what I could possibly have to do with any of this.
“All we have is speculation right now,” Marx answers. “We don’t know for sure. But that’s why the Order summoned you, because we need to find out.”
“Are they wanting to simply question me, or are they actually considering handing me over?” I demand, not liking that this is even a question, or the look on Marx’s face.
“I can’t say definitively one way or the other, but I can say that trading you is not off the table.”
I shoot off the couch onto my feet, and both Rogan and Marx do the same. “Leni, you have to understand how the Order works,” Marx defends.
“Oh, I think I understand plenty,” I argue. “It’s not difficult to see that it’s an organization that ultimately will do what’s best for them,” I add.
“Maybe so, but what’s best for them doesn’t mean it will be what’s worst for you. The Order isn’t considering a trade because it personally doesn’t see your value, they’re considering it because that’s what the Order does. They create contingencies for every possible thing,” he defends.
I scoff at him in disgust.
“Leni, the Order isn’t operating with a lot of information right now. We know there are missing witches, but we don’t know why. We have a dream, a ransom note, and you. That’s it. But right now you are their best lead. You’ve been summoned, and even though I won’t force you to go in, someone at some point is going to.”
Worry courses through me, and I look over at Rogan as I try to swallow back my panic. It hasn’t been lost on me that he hasn’t said a word since Marx dropped the trade bomb.
“Penny for your thoughts,” I snark, and it seems to snap him out of whatever’s going on inside his head. He focuses back on me and then looks at Marx as though he’s getting his bearings.
“Do they know how the note got to the Order? There’s not a lead there?” Rogan asks, and I can hear the desperation in his voice.
“There’s a team looking into it, but they haven’t found anything substantial yet,” Marx replies, and his phone chirps a notification.
“Fuck!” Rogan snarls, starting to pace.
I jump at the sudden outburst, my heart aching for what he must be going through. “Do you think you and Elon know her, ran into her somewhere?” I ask him, trying to pull at the threads we have before us.
“I don’t know, I’d have to see a picture, but the name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“I can get a picture emailed over to you,” Marx assures him, sighing as he takes in his pacing friend. “The bones didn’t say anything else?” he asks me, and I open my mouth to say no before it dawns on me that’s not true.
“They said run,” I tell him, baffled by why I hadn’t thought of that until now.
“What?” Rogan and Marx both ask simultaneously.
“I was scrying, I got the name, then it told me to run. When I looked up, I saw you in the backyard,” I tell them, gesturing to Marx. “I assumed you were the reason for the warning. I just didn’t think about it after that,” I admit, feeling a little dumb now. “Everything happened so fast. Marx wasn’t a threat, but then I was dealing with what I saw from Tilda and the bones. It just got lost in the mix, I guess.”
“Why would they tell you to run?” Rogan questions, but it seems like it’s aimed more at himself than at me.
“I have no idea,” I confess, trying to think back to that day. “I shoved magic through Elon’s whole property. I didn’t pick up on anything else there other than Marx lurking in the backyard.”
I study Marx for a beat and notice that Rogan does the same thing.
“Do you have anything to do with the disappearances?” Rogan asks his friend.
“What? Of course I don’t. How could you even think that?” he sputters, shocked.
“I’m not accusing you of anything; I had to ask,” Rogan defends and then returns to his pacing.
I move closer to Marx and poke at his cheek. He slaps my hand away and levels an irritated glare at me until I back away.
“Just making sure we don’t have some Scooby Doo shit on our hands,” I tell him. “No bad guy wearing a good guy mask is getting past me.”
Marx just shakes his head and shoos me away even more.
“This doesn’t add up. Why would a kidnapper out themselves to authorities and then expect said authorities to help them?” Rogan questions, his eyes far away in thought. “How does that make sense?”
“Does it need to make sense?” I counter. “Nikki Smelser, or whoever is behind this, obviously has issues. There isn’t a thing about any of it that makes sense. I don’t know that we’ll get anywhere other than pissed off and frustrated by trying to make sense of why anything is happening the way that it is.”
Rogan sighs and runs a hand down his face. “So what do we do now?” he asks Marx, whose phone goes off again.
“We keep doing what we’ve been doing,” Marx reassures. “We look into what leads we can and keep fitting things together until the puzzle is complete. Are you still wanting to get into the other missing Osteomancers’ houses?”
“Yes, I want to get a feel for them, see if the bones can tell me anything,” I confirm.
“Okay, I can try and sneak you into a couple tomorrow night. They are all being warded and guarded right now, but a couple people on the team owe me a favor,” Marx reassures.
“Okay, good, because the last place I want to be is anywhere near the Order,” I admit, flashes of the accident and subsequent attack coaxing a shiver to crawl up my back.
“Yeah, I think that’s a wise idea. Prek and his team have been assigned to the case, and there’s obviously no love lost there,” Marx informs us. “I’m sorry to just drop all of this and run, but I’ve got to go,” he announces moving toward the door. “I’ll send over a picture of Nikki when I get back to the office, and I’ll confirm we’re good to go for tomorrow night.”<
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“Thank you,” Rogan tells him, grasping his forearm for a quick shake before seeing him out. Marx shoots me a wave and an apologetic look, and then he’s gone.
Rogan and I release a tired sigh at the same time. It would be funny in other circumstances, but right now it feels like we might be taking the last gasp of air before we’re pulled under by everything we just found out. I want to comfort Rogan, but experience has taught me that sometimes there isn’t anything that can be said or done to make something stop hurting. So I just stand there, silently supportive, so that he knows he’s not alone in this.
“I’m going to check the wards around the property and then get cleaned up. We’ll leave in an hour,” Rogan tells me, moving for the door.
“Leaving?” I ask, confused.
“We have that meeting with the coven today, you know, to figure out this whole tethering thing,” he reminds me, and it’s all I can do not to facepalm.
“Right,” I declare, trying not to look like an idiot.
How the hell did that slip my mind? He just told me about it.
“Can we stop by that diner on our way so I can drop off the tea?” I ask. “You know, if it’s on the way,” I add, realizing I have no idea where it is in relation to where we are now or where we’re going.
“Yeah, that works, let’s leave in thirty then, cool?”
Rogan disappears out the door before I can so much as offer my cool in agreement, and despair settles around me in his wake. I can’t really blame him; I’d probably need a moment to myself too if I thought my parents were plotting against me.
I look over at my bag of bones and send out a plea to them for help. I feel at a complete loss for what to do. Clearly, the Order thinks the solution is obvious, but the one interaction I’ve had with them could have killed me. They play too fast and loose to be trusted with something I value above all things, my life.
I sense the hot breath of some unknown danger as it breathes threateningly down my back. I worry I won’t be smart enough, fast enough, or powerful enough to keep from getting swallowed up by it. I have so many questions and so few answers. It’s beyond frustrating and disheartening.
I fluff my curls and make my way upstairs to get my shoes. Hopefully, after meeting with this coven, I can check worries about tethering off my list. If Rogan and I can fix our magic without any long-term damage, then I’ll count that as the win. And one thing I know for sure is that right now, we could desperately use one.
Sleigh bells jingle as I pull the door to the diner open, a box of homemade pain-relieving tea bags tucked under my arm. I realized as we parked outside that I didn’t get the waitress’s name, and I’m not sure if she’ll be working today.
I scan the mostly empty diner. There’s a younger raven-haired waitress refilling the drinks of a middle-aged couple sitting side by side in a booth. And at the counter, a woman with curly dark brown hair sits on a stool, casually sipping a cup of coffee. Disappointment drops like a marble in my gut when I don’t see the waitress with the kind blue eyes roaming around.
I approach the counter and set the box on top of the clean surface, waiting for the raven-haired waitress to finish up with the couple. Hopefully, she’ll either be willing to pass along the tea or tell me when I can stop back by to drop it off myself. The lady with the curly dark hair looks over at me, and I offer her a warm smile.
She gives me an uncertain half-grin and then drops her gaze back down to her cup of coffee. The door to the back swings open, and to my relief, the waitress with the salt-and-pepper hair and warm blue eyes walks out.
“Hello, honey,” she greets me warmly. “What can I get started for you?” she adds as she settles in front of me.
“I’m so glad you’re here. I brought that tea that I mentioned when I was here before,” I tell her, and then I see a flash of confusion streak through her gaze. She takes me in, I’m sure searching her memory banks, and I know she’s found our exchange when her eyes light up. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to drop it off yesterday, but as promised, there’s nothing bad or illegal, and it won’t make you sick,” I reassure her.
“Oh don’t be sorry, honey. Truth be told, I completely forgot, so this is a welcome surprise.”
I chuckle and hand the box over. “I hope it helps—my grandmother swore by it—and I put my card in the box in case you ever want more.”
“That’s kind of you, dear, are you sure I don’t owe you anything?” she asks, taking the box. I can feel her genuine curiosity and excitement.
“Not a thing, it’s my pleasure to help,” I tell her, pushing away from the counter.
She graces me with a beautiful smile. “Well, I think I’ll brew a cup right now. I’m just starting my shift, so this will be a good test,” she declares cheerily.
I wave goodbye, and she darts back through the door to the back. I turn to leave, and that’s when it hits me. That uncomfortable feeling scratching just under my skin. The need to help someone in whatever way I can. I turn around, taking in the restaurant with new purpose. I put a hand behind my back and discreetly conjure my bag of bones.
I told Rogan I would just be a minute. Hopefully, he won’t be too pissed if this takes a bit. Memories of my last reading float to the surface of my mind, and a distinct buzz of excitement-laced curiosity moves through me like a current.
Who will it be, and what will the bones have to say to them?
I look over at the couple, but this feeling isn’t for them. I search for the waitress, finding her behind the counter, refilling the other patron’s coffee cup. The urgency spikes in me, and I move back toward the counter, to where the bones are calling me. As I close the distance, I realize that the feeling isn’t for the waitress either, but for the woman with the curly dark hair and uncertain smile.
“I’ll be with you in a second if that’s okay; I just need to get another pot going,” the waitress tells me in greeting.
I wave her off. “You’re fine, I don’t need anything right now, but thank you,” I declare, and she shoots me a grateful smile and then disappears to the back with the coffee pot.
I take a deep breath and pull out the stool directly next to the woman who I can feel is summoning me for help. I wait for her to look over at me in either a friendly you’re sitting too close kind of way or to shoot me a look of discomfort, but she seems intent on staring at the counter while taking occasional sips from her bowl-sized mug.
“I’m really sorry,” I start, a wide disarming smile on my face. “I promise I’m not trying to be a creeper or to interrupt your alone time, but I just got the distinct impression that you might need someone to talk to,” I start, trying not to look overeager.
A thrill works its way through me, and I can’t wait to find out how the bones and I can help this woman.
She turns to me, taking me in, and I notice that her eyes are more dark olive-green than the brown I thought they were from afar.
“I like men,” she replies simply.
My brow dips with uncertainty. Well, I didn’t see that coming, but I know the bones and I can handle anything. “Is that a problem for you, is that what you want to talk about?” I question, and she looks at me like I’m a little off my rocker.
“No, I’m just telling you that I’m not interested. You’re barking up the wrong tree,” she explains, and understanding flares through me.
I laugh and shake my head. “I’m not hitting on you, I swear. I legitimately felt like you needed someone to talk to,” I defend kindly, but she doesn’t seem as amused or disarmed by my declaration as I thought she would be.
I clear my throat and try again. Maybe I need to be more direct.
“Sorry, it’s just a thing that happens to me sometimes. I get impressions about people and feel the need to try to help if I can. I usually do a reading, one that costs you nothing other than a little bit of time and a listening ear,” I explain tenderly, internally fist bumping myself, because who could say no to that?
“If you’d
like a reading, I would be happy to do one,” I add when she just stares at me blankly.
“I don’t,” she answers tersely, her olive green stare returning to the black smooth surface floating inside her mug.
I stare at her for a moment, taken aback by the refusal. I’m about to open my mouth to try and approach this a different way, but the urgent buzzing crawling under my skin stops. One minute it’s driving me hard to take action, and the next all that’s left of the summoning is the echo of it, and even that’s fading with each passing millisecond.
I reach for my phone to grab a card so I can leave it with her in case she changes her mind, but when I only feel ass cheek filling my back pocket, I remember that I lost my phone in the accident. I debate for a moment whether or not I should write my number on a napkin, but doing so makes my I’m not hitting on you claim seem like it’s pure crap.
So instead, I shrug and turn to step off the stool. Before I can, the woman huffs and turns to me with a glare. The vitriol in her eyes makes me stop in my tracks.
“I just wanted a little quiet,” she snaps, getting up and yanking a coat and scarf off the stool on her other side. “I have three boys getting out of school in twenty minutes, and two more waiting for me at home with my mother-in-law, who moved in two months ago. Two. Months. Ago!” she barks as she shoves her hands angrily into the arms of her coat before continuing.
“The thirty minutes I sit here to drink two cups of coffee is the only peace I get these days, and now I can’t even have that, because some beautiful woman with too much time on her hands and skin that is too smooth to be real can’t mind her own business or pick up on the social cues screaming that I just want to be left alone!”
She wraps the scarf around her neck and shakes her head at me furiously. “How do you keep your curls from getting frizzy?” she shouts at me drill-sergeant-style, and I jump and stammer, shocked and a little afraid.
