by Ivy Asher
“Close your eyes?” he instructs me, his tone assured.
“Why?” I argue as I tell myself to step away from him and whatever the hell he’s doing, but my feet stay planted right where they are.
“So I can explain to you how to feel them,” he tells me. I feel even more befuddled as my eyes automatically shoot to his pecs, and my fingers twitch with anticipation. “The ley lines, I’m going to teach you how to feel them so that you can use them.”
Understanding pours over me like a bucket of ice water, and my eyes bounce up to Rogan’s lips for a fraction of a second before settling back on his potent stare. “Right. The ley lines. Gotcha.” I internally facepalm, but externally I close my eyes. Mortification curdles in my stomach, and heat moves up my neck and into my cheeks. I would laugh at myself right now if I could feel anything outside of undiluted embarrassment.
I seriously need to get a grip. Yes, it’s been a while since a good-looking man got all up in my business, but the fact that my brain just jettisoned off into oh, you know what would be fun? An orgasm! territory is just plain pathetic.
“Okay, you should be feeling the different frequencies that the individual lines give off,” he explains, and with a deep breath, I focus on what he’s saying. “It’s almost like you’re listening to several radio stations at once, some louder than others, and you want to pick the loudest out of all of them.”
Using my other senses, I study the different energy sources all around me until I can pinpoint the one that feels the most dominant. Rogan is quiet, patiently giving me time to work through what he’s telling me to do.
“I think I’ve got it.”
“Good. Now observe it for a moment. You should be able to instinctually sense it’s frequency, and when you do, you should also feel your magic almost responding to it.”
I concentrate on the buzz of the ley line and try to recognize a similar hum running through me. It takes me a moment, but I start to feel a vibration moving through me, like I’m a tuning fork or something. I smile but bite back the giggle that annoyingly bubbles up in my throat. I can hear the different pitches, mine versus the ley lines’. Awe settles in me. I concentrate harder on the threads, the pitches clashing and making me want to match them. Offhandedly I wonder what happens if I make my pitch sound exactly like the line’s, is that even a thing?
“Shit! No you don’t,” Rogan exclaims, and strong arms clamp around me, shattering my focus. With a squeal, I’m yanked away from where I was just standing, and my eyes fly open to find Rogan whisking me away from whatever he just perceived as a threat.
“What happened?” I ask confused, my eyes darting around, certain there must be something dangerous headed right for us. Magic swells in my chest, responding to my duress, ready to be called on.
“You almost rode the line. I didn’t think you’d catch on that fast,” he announces, his tone sounding half surprised and half shaken.
“Isn’t that a good thing?” I query, perplexed by the panic I see in his features.
“No. I mean, yes, it will be at some point, but if you don’t have a destination, you can trap yourself in the line or apparate somewhere dangerous.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh,” he agrees as he releases a relieved breath. “I feel like my heart just tried to crawl out of my throat,” he confesses, pressing a palm to his chest.
I should probably feel bad, but it’s not like he told me to be careful or warned me at all that I could get myself sucked into a ley line forever. This is probably why I was under the impression that they were too dangerous to use anymore.
“So how do you figure out where you’re going and tell the ley line that?” I query.
“You have to know the frequency of the line you want to travel to, you have to know exactly where you want to stop on that line. Once you connect and are pulled into the ley line, you shift your magic to the frequency of your destination, and abracadabra, you’re there.”
“Abracadabra? Really?” I tease.
“What would you rather I say? Shazam? Boom shaka laka? Voilà?”
“I mean, a simple yeet would have sufficed, but boom shaka laka is a solid choice as well.”
“Noted,” he deadpans, and I fight a smile.
“So, if I don’t know the frequency of where I want to go, I’m screwed. Is that the gist of it?” I reiterate, making sure I understand everything correctly.
“Yep, you got it. You may think you can wing it and just create any frequency to see where it will lead you and learn that way, but if you drop yourself in the middle of the ocean, you’re screwed. A current could pull you away from the line...like that.” He snaps his fingers, and I blanch. “You wouldn’t be able to get back on it, and that’s only one of the many bad things that could happen. You could apparate to freezing temperatures in the Himalayas or a volcano. The middle of a board meeting, exposing us to Lessers.”
“I hear you loud and clear. Don’t be stupid and play around,” I tell him.
I sigh. So much for the Bahamas.
“So how do you learn the frequencies of where to go, if you’re not allowed to figure things out via trial and error?”
“There are recordings you can get. They’re like a ley line map. You study them, and then practice with someone who’s experienced until you’ve got it down safely. Once you’ve got it, there’s an app you can download that’s a ley line directory.”
“Seriously?” I ask, shocked.
“What? Witches can’t be technologically savvy?” he teases, a glint of amusement in his eyes.
I realize then that he’s still holding me against him, and my heart rate responds to the sudden awareness. My fingertips lightly skim the soft fabric of his shirt, and I can feel his unyielding muscles as they press against me. I have the uninvited urge to reach up and trace the scar that cuts down his one eye with my fingers, finding myself abruptly curious about how he got it. Rogan pushes a wayward curl out of my face, and then it’s as though whatever spell we’re under bursts. He clears his throat and releases me, stepping back to put space between us.
“We should go,” he announces, and I blink myself back into the here and now, nodding my agreement.
“Right, yes. Blackbriar, Tennessee, here we come,” I declare awkwardly, feeling the need to run off into the surrounding trees and hide. What the hell is wrong with me? It’s as though my hormones are going haywire and misinterpreting everything around me.
Rogan releases a chirpy little whistle, and Hoot comes trotting over. I stare at the little furball, slightly offended that he listens so well to a man who should practically be my enemy. Traitor. Hoot is scooped up, and then next thing I know, Rogan is wrapping his arm around me again.
Right on cue, my insides revert into teenage lust mode, and just when I’m about to scold the shit out of them, Rogan tells me to hold on. Reluctantly I wrap my arms around his waist. I stare off into the trees, trying to think about things like calculus and paying bills so my inner fiend can get the hint and fuck off.
My eyes zero in on a strange movement in the shadows, and trepidation creeps through me. I can barely make out the black silhouette of a person, and they appear to be watching us. But before I can open my mouth to say anything, I’m dissolving into an infinite number of pieces and being siphoned out into the universe. It’s as though I’m grains of sand being sucked up into a vacuum. One minute I’m whole, standing in the middle of a park, and the next, I’m nothing, and everything around me is gone.
10
The steady hum of tires against a smoothly paved road serenades me as I languidly rise to the surface of consciousness. My face breaches the dark pool of oblivion as though I’m lazily coming up for air, and I’m all at once aware that I’m strapped in a car with my face pressed against a cool window. There’s a seat belt cutting across my chest, and a trickle of drool making its way from the corner of my mouth down my chin.
I sit up, wiping at the evidence of the deep sleep state I was just in, and tr
y to get my bearings. I’m in a car, a nice car if the leather front console and fancy dim lighting are anything to go by. I look to my left. And yep, Rogan’s driving. Snoring rises up from the back, and I look behind me to find Hoot, who has made himself at home and is out for the count.
“What happened?” I ask groggily, looking around outside of the sleek car, but it’s too dark to really make out much. “Did you knock me out again?” I accuse, my tone too sleepy to communicate the annoyance I feel at that possibility.
“No, you and Hoot passed out when I pulled us out of the line. It’s normal. It can take time to get used to fragmenting and coming back together.”
My stomach roils at that thought, and I try not to picture my parts scattering to the wind and then getting sucked back together. There are just some things that a person doesn’t need to imagine, and this is going on that list. I pat myself just to be sure everything ended up back where it’s supposed to be, and breathe out a relieved exhale when it feels like I’m just as I was before. My chest constricts in an uncomfortable way for a moment, and I observe the feeling, dismissing it when nothing worse happens. It’ll probably take time to feel all the way normal again.
“Where are we?” I question as we pass a streetlight that’s illuminating wild grass and some mystery expanse of land that stretches past the light, far out into the darkness.
“We’re about forty minutes from my home,” he tells me, and I nod even though I’m unsure how I feel about that. He buckled my unconscious body into his car, and we’ve been driving for who knows how long. Seems like a weird thing to do. Then again, he’s a witch, and I’m discovering that weird is just part and parcel.
“The biggest ley line near me is two hours away in Gallywough. I would have waited for you to wake up, but it was getting late and we would have been vulnerable just sitting there so close to a line,” he offers, obviously picking up on my discomfort.
My chest tightens again, and I’m not sure if it’s a warning of something or some residual effect of what my body just went through. I rub at my sternum and wince at the strange sensation.
“Do you need some water or something? I have a couple bottles stashed behind the seat.”
“No, I’m…” I trail off as we pass another streetlight that’s illuminating a sign for an exit that’s forty miles away. “I’m fine, I think, I just feel...off,” I explain, not sure how to put into words what’s happening with me.
“That’s normal,” Rogan explains as he shoots me a sympathetic look. “Ley lines can act like chargers; you might feel like every cell in your body is lit up with a shit ton of magic for a while.”
I take stock of myself. Is that what I’m feeling? Is it adrenaline and a surplus of magic and energy that’s creating this anxious undercurrent that’s running just below my skin? It’s hard to say since I’ve never ridden a ley line before, and I’m not sure what recovery is supposed to be like, but whatever is happening, I’m not a fan. I feel almost itchy with anticipation, and it sucks.
“So I’m strung out on magic, no biggie,” I announce with a shrug, but my voice is pitched higher than normal, meaning this is absolutely a biggie, and I just might be starting to freak out about it.
“Breathe, Lennox,” Rogan commands as he shoots me concerned looks while still trying to pay attention to the road.
I can feel panic scratching through my body like it’s some terrifying monster that’s ready to rip me to shreds. “Distract me,” I pant out as I try not to claw at my throat and the seat belt that suddenly seems too tight against my chest. The window next to me rolls down a little, and cool, moisture-heavy air caresses my face and tries to calm me. “Just talk, tell me what a day in the life of a Blood Witch looks like. Or...whatever...just tell me something,” I plead, desperate to think about anything else other than how I feel and all of the crazy things that have happened in the last twenty-four hours.
Concern laces his green gaze, but he listens. “Uh, well, my day varies, depending on what clients I have scheduled,” he starts, his deep voice filling the car. “Some are sick and need weekly healings or potions delivered regularly to help with various things from ailments to beauty treatments to health regimens.
“I work monthly with a blood donation center to weed out possible issues with donations and apply blessings on what they’re delivering. Some doctors refer patients to me if there’s a struggle to pinpoint an issue. I also work with a local coven here and there. We like to combine our resources and create more potent brews and talismans.
“It all really just depends. Elon and I work together for some clients, but he runs a separate business as well. We try to do Tincture Tuesday where we get together and sort out what we need to make for the following week,” he explains with a quiet chuckle that morphs into a sad sigh, his voice and this information exactly the distraction I needed.
“Hmmm, what else?” he hums, checking on me out of the corner of his eye as the road curves to the right. I lay my head back against the headrest, closing my eyes and reveling in the feel of the cool air from the window. The weird feeling is there still, but it’s not nearly as overwhelming as it was.
“There’s also clients who hire me specifically for the other side of our abilities...” he goes on, the change in direction intriguing. “You know, curses and things of that nature, or maybe you don’t know,” he corrects himself.
“I know that magic and what we do as witches isn’t all sunshine and rainbows,” I tell him as I settle into the steady rhythm of the moving car. “I did just watch my cousin get hexed,” I remind him, and he nods in understanding.
“I work by referral only, so new clients have to be vetted, especially if they’re requesting help like that. I don’t take any of it lightly, so a lot goes into making sure that the darker side of things is done correctly and only on the deserving.”
“You talk like you’re worried you’re going to scare me away,” I point out. “Dark magic is just as important as the light. I at least paid attention to that lesson as a kid.”
“So then your grandmother did try to teach you?” he presses.
“Of course she did. Like you said, she was one of the best. She would get all of us together for lessons. I bought into all of it until I was eighteen, and then I…” I pause as that constricting feeling in my chest tightens even more. I sit up, opening my eyes, and look around me.
“And you what?” Rogan presses.
An off-ramp is coming up, and an exit sign indicates that we’re approaching Sweet Lips, Tennessee. I chuckle at the town’s name, but my chest gets even tighter, and I practically choke on it.
“What’s wrong?” Rogan asks, reaching out to push curls out of my face.
“I don’t know, can you pull off here? I need to get out,” I instruct as I clutch at my chest. Am I having a heart attack? It doesn’t hurt so much as it’s just uncomfortable as hell.
He turns his blinker on and pulls off at the exit, his flashy car slowing smoothly and feeling more like a spaceship than an automobile.
“Go right at the stop sign,” I tell him, something inside forcing me to go all backseat driver.
Rogan thankfully doesn’t argue, and when he turns right, the vise in my chest loosens just slightly. I pull in a deep breath and call out a series of directions, like Sweet Lips and I go way back. I have no idea how I know where to go, but I do put together what all of this means as the velvet pouch of bones that I tied to my belt loop, the ones now resting against my hip, begin to grow warmer and warmer. It’s like some fucked up version of hot and cold bones-style, and I have no doubt that I’m going to find someone who needs my help at the end of this skeletal rainbow.
“So this is what it feels like,” I state absently. “This is the urge my grandmother was talking about that could hit at any time.”
“Are you being summoned?” Rogan asks.
“Yeah, it’s so weird.” I look down at my arms as though the anticipation crawling under my skin will be visible, but they look th
e same as they always do. I rub at my chest, wondering how many times this happened to her. Was it like this every time, this physical need to take action, or was it more of how I felt when I knew I needed to help Rogan? That was more of an instinctual feel, this...well, this feels so much more urgent.
We round a corner onto a well-lit street, passing closed shops, a few open restaurants, and a smattering of people walking around. My heart hammers in my chest as I spot a bar with a few trucks and motorcycles parked outside.
“Here,” I point out, and Rogan pulls his too-fancy, out-of-place car into an open parking spot.
“The Eagle Fang?” he questions, reading the lit sign hung above the peeling stucco of the building.
“Actually, I think it’s called the Beagle Fang,” I point out, gesturing to the rusty-looking unlit B.
“Yeah, that doesn’t sound any better,” he deadpans as he scans our surroundings, looking like he’s been asked to touch something he finds gross. “This doesn’t look very safe,” he observes, and I just breathe and stare blankly at the front door.
“Would you say the same thing to your brother if he were the one who was summoned here?” I ask, unable to really disagree with his assessment. It looks like some run-down biker bar, not a place strangers would stop in to check out as they passed by, but what can I do? The bones are most definitely calling me here.
“I would,” Rogan answers as he looks off into the surrounding shadows as though he can see into their depths.
“Well, better get on with it,” I declare on a sigh, reaching for the door handle and stepping out of the car.
Rogan gets out on the other side. “What are you doing?” I ask, confused as to why he’s following me. His brother is an Osteomancer, he knows the deal. It’s the Bone Witches and Corium Witches that I learned about when I was younger who have to deal with this whole magical call to aid those around us. I heard my grandmother talk about it many times. Some call it a gift, others a curse, but either way, there’s no getting around it.