The Bone Witch (The Osseous Chronicles Book 1)

by Ivy Asher

  The Bone Witch

  Ivy Asher

  Copyright © 2020 Ivy Asher

  All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author, except in cases of a reviewer quoting brief passages in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Edited by Polished Perfection

  Cover by Book Covers by Seventhstar

  Chapter Heading by Ricky Gunawan

  For Helayna, because it wouldn’t be possible without you.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Also by Ivy Asher

  About the Author

  1

  My feet ache as I plod up the cement stairs that guide the way to my third floor apartment. Each step saps the last vestiges of my energy, and I’m ready to call it quits halfway up the concrete flight. Step number seven is starting to look awfully cozy, I tell myself, and I would be saving the food delivery guy from having to trek up this Everest to deliver the shrimp scampi I just ordered.

  I chant a steady stream of I think I can, while promising my tired muscles and barking feet a warm bath and a soft bed just as soon as they get us through the front door. I groan and make a note to find a ground floor apartment before accepting any more double shifts.

  I am bone tired.

  I had three cancellations today, which means I had to take walk-ins. This would normally be fine, except Leann called out sick, and her appointments were divided up between the masseuses that were there. I, of course, got stuck massaging the woman who smelled like garlic and the dude who kept fishing for whether or not I was going to give him the happy ending he was hoping for.

  Ugh.

  I need to find a new job. Or better yet, I need to open up my own place instead of working for an evil massage chain. Too bad rent is exorbitant, and trying to run an I’ll come to you massage business is just asking to be seen and treated like a sex worker.

  Finally, I crest the top of the stairs, but my arms hurt too much to raise them in triumph. With a tired huff, I shove my key into the lock and shoulder my front door open. I’m so ready for a glass of wine, my just big enough tub, and some Witcher. Lord knows I need a healthy dose of Henry Cavill in my life to remind me why I shouldn’t look into becoming a lesbian.

  My purse slides down my arm like it too is exhausted and can’t wait to veg out. A clang fills the quiet of my apartment as I drop everything onto the black entry table and pull in a deep inhale of home. The scent of wisteria and lemongrass settles in my lungs, and the stress of work starts to sluff off my shoulders. A twinge of pain shoots through my back as I step deeper into the comforting smells of my cozy apartment. I snort at the irony of needing a massage to help combat all the aches and pains I have from giving massages for a living.

  Today’s need for Tylenol is to be blamed on Mr. Nobo. He was my last massage of the day and the one who pushed my aching back over the edge. I mean, good for him for being so fit at his age. If silver fox was my thing, I’d be all over that and then some, but I hate massaging ripped guys. Don’t get me wrong, I love muscles. Nice body definitely ticks off a big box for me when I’m on the prowl and hunting for a bed buddy for the night. But getting knots out and relaxing all that muscle, it’s like the worst kind of hardcore workout, and Jillian Michaels I am not.

  Thoughts of shrimp scampi float through my tired mind as I head toward my room. I should be able to fill up the tub and get Netflix streaming on my tablet just before dinner is delivered to my doorstep. Eagerly I start to strip down. I pass the espresso-colored table nestled in my dining room when out of the corner of my eye, I spot something that was not there when I left this morning.

  Perched dead center in the middle of the dark wood is a deep purple velvet pouch. I freeze at the sight of it, and my blood runs cold. Dread floods me as questions try to burst through my mind like faulty fireworks. My head shakes back and forth like the simple no motion will undo what I know in my gut has already been done. I retreat away from the table, putting as much distance between me and the curse that’s just sitting casually, uninvited, in my dining room.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” I screech, like some sailor-blessed exclamation will scare the bag away, erasing this moment and everything I know is about to happen.

  But how?

  Why?

  Did they get lost on the way to their true home, stop to take a nap or something?

  I mean, I get it, I’ve had a long day too, but as much as I want to think that there’s been some kind of a mistake, deep down I know that’s not how this works.

  I scramble for my purse. Phone. I need my fucking phone. The trill of my ringtone suddenly fills the panic-laced air all around me, the sound like a cannon going off in the eerie quiet of my apartment. With shaky hands, I scramble to open my bag. I finally find my still ringing phone but drop it in the process of trying to accept the incoming call. The phone goes quiet as it clangs against the floor, ominous silence once again filling my apartment like a dense fog. I clamber to pick it up. Adrenaline slams into me like a sumo wrestler, and with a trembling grip, I open up my recent calls and click my cousin’s number.

  My alarmed gaze lands back on the velvet pouch. I pinch myself and blink profusely, testing that I’m not currently hallucinating or somehow passed out and experiencing a fucking nightmare. My call barely makes it a full ring before a silvery tenor voice answers.

  “Leni? Did you hear?” Tad demands, out of breath and in place of the friendly hey you that he usually greets me with.

  “They’re here,” I choke out, cutting off whatever he’s about to say. “They’re fucking here!” I shout into the phone, you know, just in case he didn’t hear me the first time.

  Tad goes silent, stunned by my panicked revelation as much as I am.

  “Holy shit,” he whispers reverently, and I nod in agreement regardless of the fact that he can’t see me. We’re both silent for a beat. “Gwen is going to shit kittens,” he finally blurts, and I begin to massage my temples.

  Shit. I didn’t even think about that.

  I shove that thought in a drawer and close it. One messed up thing at a time. “How is this happening?” I whisper, awe slowly filtering in and filling up the cracks in my soul not currently cemented by shocked dread.

  “Ma just got the call ten minutes ago.”

  “How?” I ask as comprehension shoves through my surprise and worry. The dots start to connect, and reality walks up to me and cracks me one right in the nose.

  “They said she died in her sleep.”

  “Did the necros smudge?”

  “Yeah, no traces of outside magic. It was definitely natural causes,” he reassures me.

  “Fuck,” I concede, closing my eyes and dropping my head back in defeat.r />
  “Lennox Marai Osseous, you watch your language,” Aunt Hillen orders, and with an exasperated growl, I pull my phone away from my ear and make a strangling motion at it.

  “Why am I on speaker?” I demand of my cousin, but he ignores the question, instead whisper-shouting, “She has them,” to his mother.

  “Well, fuck,” Aunt Hillen exclaims with a shocked gasp, and I immediately choke on an astonished laugh. I hear Tad coughing with his own amusement. I don’t think either of us have ever heard her swear before. If shit wasn’t currently hitting the fan and spraying all over the place, I’d be pressing the record button and trying to get her to say it again.

  “I have to call Magda!” she declares excitedly, shock still evident in her tone. “I bet she and Gwen are searching every nook and cranny right now, looking for the pouch.”

  Smug satisfaction rings in my aunt’s tone, and I know the rest of the family is going to love that Magda and her prissy little shit of a daughter aren’t going to get their hands on the bones and subsequently the power that comes with them. I suppose that should be some small consolation, but internally, I’m begging the gods to choose anyone else but me.

  I catch a hurried, “Congrats, Leni,” before my aunt disappears, off to become the bearer of bad news that she’s always wanted to be to the snooty side of the family.

  Tad chuckles at his mother’s hypocrisy, and even I crack a small smile despite the clusterfuck I now find myself square in the middle of.

  “I think you just made my mother’s decade, Leni. Shit, I guess I now have to call you Lennox, or would you prefer Oh Powerful One instead?” Tad teases.

  “Supreme Being will do,” I deadpan as I try to fight off a new wave of bewilderment and vexation. “Crap, everyone is going to get all formal with me, aren’t they?”

  “Well, being that you were just chosen as the next Supreme Boner, oops, I mean Supreme Osteomancer, I’m going to go with yes.”

  Hearing him call me that is beyond weird, and what’s scarier to me is that there’s something inside of me, something I’ve never looked at before and don’t want to acknowledge now, that feels right. I’m the next Bone Witch.

  A frustrated groan climbs up my throat, and I drag my palm down my face. “What the hell am I going to do? Can I ask for a revote or something?” I query, not even caring about the whine dripping thickly off of every word like cold molasses. I sigh and ask what everyone else will be thinking when they find out what’s happened. “Why in all the universes would the bones choose me?”

  I slide down the wall next to my entry table until my ass meets the floor; it’s as though I’m being pulled down by the weight of all of this as it settles heavy like sandbags on my shoulders.

  “You know how this works, Lennox. We all do. You knew someday Grammy Ruby would pass away and the bones would choose one of us to take her place,” Tad reminds me, his tone tutorial before it dissolves into sympathy.

  “Yeah, but we all thought it would be Gwen. Magda’s been going on and on about how she’s been a gazer since she was seven.”

  I rest my elbows on my knees and press my head against my forearm, cocooning myself in defeat and mourning all the plans I had for my life.

  “All that bitch can gaze is the inheritance that comes with that purple pouch of bones, the rest is smoke and mirrors. Leni, the bones wanted you. They wouldn’t be there if you weren’t the one.” He pauses, and I hear what sounds like a stifled chuckle.

  “This isn’t funny,” I argue.

  “Well, that’s not exactly true, Mighty Bone Whisperer, but I’m laughing because I went all spirit guide on you, not because you’re the chosen one. I’m like the Hagrid, Obi-Wan, Haymitch, and Khloe of your story, and that is hilarious.”

  “Khloe?”

  “Damn right. She’s the most logical and badass of the Kardashian clan. She’d totally be a spirit guide if given the opportunity,” Tad defends as though any of that makes sense.

  “I’m like a hot Yoda! And trust me, Leni, if the bones want you, then you they shall have. There’s no fighting this,” he declares with an adenoidal voice that sounds more Kermit than Yoda.

  “Isn’t there?” I plead.

  “Remember all the stories about great-great-great-grandpa Lown and how he tried to avoid his duty? It gets you in the end no matter what you do.”

  Thoughts of the ancestors who tried to shirk their selections flash through my mind. Lown choked on a rib bone one night in his bed. Weird thing was, he was asleep when it happened. That, and the fact that the man was a vegetarian, amped up the mystery to outsiders. But the family knew that either you honor the bones or they’ll find the next in line who will.

  I pick up my head so I can stare at the underside of my dining room table. At where I know a bag filled with blessed bones sits just on the other side. Their presence marks my selection as one of the few remaining Osteomancers in the world. It decimates all the hopes and dreams I had for my future. One purple pouch, and life as I know it is fucking over.

  Desolation and worry roost in my chest. What the hell am I going to do? Tad is talking, but I can’t tune into what he is saying. All I can do is slowly get up and reluctantly close the distance between myself and the unwanted bones that are encased in purple velvet on my table. The bag looks so unassuming. So faultless. But I know nothing could be further from the truth. The bony contents will awaken the dormant abilities in my marrow and unlock a world of secrets, the likes of which I can’t even begin to fathom.

  It’s not the letter to Hogwarts I spent my middle school years hoping would drop down my chimney though. This bag of bones leads only to a life of servitude, suffering, and societal rejection.

  The aroma of patchouli, singed cedar, and sugar cookies fresh out of the oven waft out to me as I reach for the bag. All at once, it’s as if my grandmother is here, lending me her strength and encouragement. Warmth envelops me, and I’m reminded that the presence of these bones means that she’s gone now.

  A hollow ache starts in my chest, the reality of her death trumped by the appearance of the velvet pouch on my table. Shame fills me, and I pull in a sharp breath, emotion stinging my eyes. It doesn’t feel real.

  My grandmother’s face pops up in my mind. Her lined tan skin and thick gray hair, cut short because who can bother to try and tame curls in their old age, she would complain. Her hazel eyes and the way they would flicker from stern seriousness to mischievous to kind glimmer in my memories, her time-thinned lips tilting up in a sassy smile.

  I’ll never again walk into her incense-soaked shop to be greeted by her sharp wit and knowing way. Her slender and sinuous arms won’t wrap me up in a strong hug that squeezes all of my problems into nothing. Her sure, comforting voice will never call me on the phone to check in or to ask for help with sourcing ingredients because technology just wasn’t in her bones. Her gumption, her light, her give no fucks way, all...gone.

  My Grammy Ruby is no longer in this world, and I’m not sure how to navigate that loss let alone the looming legacy I’ve been bestowed because of it.

  Tad’s voice pulls me from my thoughts, and I look down to see the phone still clutched in my palm. I pull it back to my ear, sadness settling like hardening cement in my chest.

  “I can’t believe she’s gone,” I whisper hollowly, the truth of it taking root and changing everything. Whatever Tad was rambling about immediately comes to a stop, and he’s quiet for several beats.

  “I know. It’s weird to think of a world without her grumpy ass in it.”

  I snort out a laugh, not able to help myself. Amusement trickles in to mix with the sorrow I’m wading through, and I cling to it like it’s a life preserver. “I probably shouldn’t be so shocked, she’s been telling us to fuck off and let her die for at least ten years,” I recall with a despondent chuckle.

  “The old bat is probably laughing her ass off right now,” Tad teases, but I hear the melancholy saturating his tone.

  “Do you think she knew?” I as
k him after a weighted moment of silence.

  I find myself looking back at all of my interactions with my grandma and analyzing them with a new lens. Every time she smiled at me with an interested glint in her eye or deposited a curious bit of random wisdom, did she know the bones would end up on my dining room table one day?

  “Lennox!” Tad shouts at me, his demanding tone pulling me from my thoughts. “Did you hear me?”

  “Huh?” I ask, the single syllabic sound requesting he repeat whatever it was that I missed.

  “Have you sealed yourself to them yet?”

  “The bones?”

  “No, to Stephen James,” he snarks, pausing for dramatic emphasis. “Of course the bones!”

  I reluctantly swat away visions of the tattooed model my cousin and I both spend many an hour on Insta drooling over, and focus on his point.

  “No. I spotted the pouch, freaked out, watched my life crash and burn like a downed plane, and then called you.”

  “Lennox, what the fuck?” he chastises. “Ma, don’t start with that shit,” he defends against my aunt’s squawking in the background. “Leni has unsealed bones sitting in her house,” he rats.

  There’s a scuffle on the other end of the phone before my Aunt Hillen’s voice comes screeching through the line. “Lennox Marai Osseous, what in the name of goat balls do you think you’re doing?” she mom-yells at me.

  I flinch. She pauses like she actually wants an explanation.

  “Um, waiting to see if the bones will choose someone else?” I respond, only half joking.

  Aunt Hillen gasps, and I cringe against the sound.

  “Leni, it’s you. You’re the next Osteomancer. Stop messing around and take it seriously just like you’ve been taught your whole life to do.” With that, she hangs up on me.