The Bone Witch (The Osseous Chronicles Book 1)

by Ivy Asher

  I move from the bone that has the symbol for hospital on it to the one that represents family and a gathering. All around that bone are bones that represent decision and pain. I look to the right of that grouping and gasp, pulling my hand to my mouth.

  “You have a child. A little boy.”

  Tears breach my lids and spill down my cheeks at the thought of what that little boy will be left to deal with if his father continues down this path. I can’t stop myself when the question why spills from my lips, and Paul shatters in front of me.

  He drops his face into his hands and begins to cry. Loss and agony pour out of him with each sob, his pain so brutal and palpable. I want to reach out and hug him, but I get the distinct impression that if I do, he’ll shut down, and he needs to purge as much hopelessness as he can if things for him are going to change. So instead, I helplessly watch and I cry with him.

  “She was everything,” he keens into his hands, his chest shaking with the sobs wracking through him. “She was the softness, and the compassion, the love, and the gentleness; I’m none of it. How am I going to keep going without her? How will I ever be anything for our son without her?” he begs, shaking his head in his palms. “Everything was better because she was here, and now she’s not, and I don’t want this world without her. I don’t want anything if I can’t share it with her,” he wails, and I pull up the neck of my shirt and use it to wipe my face.

  “But how will he know?” I ask, and after a minute, Paul’s red and broken gaze meets mine. “How will your son know all these amazing things about his mother if you’re not here to teach him? He’s young, I can see that, and his memories of everything she was, of the special things she did, will fade. I see that you have family and that you think they’ll do a better job than you will raising him, but, Paul, that’s not true,” I plead with him.

  “You were Phoebe’s everything.” I point down to the bones that surround Phoebe’s rings. “I can see that you met young, and from that moment until long after this one, you were the world, you hung the fucking moon for her. She was special, you’re absolutely right about that, and that special creature chose you, Paul. You,” I tell him assertively. “Who knew her better than you?” I ask, and I wait for him to answer.

  “No one,” he says on a sob, and he fishes a handkerchief from his back pocket and wipes at his face and his nose.

  “Exactly! No one knew her better than you, and that means no one will be able to tell your son, to show him, the kind of woman she was. All that beautiful compassion and kindness, all the ways she cared for those around her, that’s now your legacy to pass down. Only yours.”

  I watch as he considers my words. I can sense as the truth of what I’m saying dawns on him.

  “I know you think he’ll be better off without you, but he won’t, Paul. Because if you go, he’ll never know his mother the way he should, and Phoebe deserves better than that. Your son deserves better than that.”

  “But how? I work long days. I’d barely be home. How can I be enough for Jackson?”

  “She had life insurance,” I tell him as I trace the symbols her ring is leaning against. “It looks like she took it out a long time ago when she was working for a bank,” I explain, the words sounding more like a question than a statement, but the symbol on one of the bones is very faded.

  “She kept paying on it after she stopped working, before Jackson came. She didn’t think she’d ever need to tell you about it, and soon it just became a bill that got paid every month without more thought than that.”

  “What?” he asks, his sniffles slowing and growing quieter.

  “She had life insurance,” I repeat. “I bet if you called the bank, they could tell you what provider they used when she worked there. Or maybe you have a statement somewhere in the house that will give you the details.”

  “She did everything electronically. I can’t figure out the passwords into the accounts. She changed them all the time because she was worried about hackers and all the big companies that are having issues with data breaches. She was fanatical about it,” he tells me with a small sad smile.

  “Call the bank she used to work for, they should be able to help you,” I encourage.

  “How do you know this?” he asks as he wipes again at his cheeks, his eyes looking less desolate and more stunned.

  “The bones,” I tell him, gesturing down at them.

  Moisture fills his eyes again, and he silently nods his head. “Every morning when I’d leave for work, she’d always call out that she was sending her guardian angels with me. She’d say she didn’t need ’em and she’d rather I have the extra protection.” His blue eyes settle on mine, and his gaze grows intense. “It’s like she’s still looking out for me,” he tells me, his voice cracking as more tears spill down his cheeks.

  “She always will be, Paul. I know it’s not the same, but she will always watch over you and Jackson, never doubt that.”

  “Thank you,” Paul chokes out, and then he scoots to the end of the booth. I pluck his wedding ring, Phoebe’s wedding rings, and the penny from the bones and hand them to him. He slips his ring back on his finger, loops the chain back through her wedding set and places it around his neck. The penny goes back in his pocket.

  He reaches out a hand, and I place mine in his. He holds it for a moment, overcome with a wave of new emotion. “I owe you,” he tells me as he shakes my hand.

  “No, you don’t. Now go home to Jackson, wake him up and hold him, and then start living the legacy that Phoebe deserves to have,” I order.

  He nods, wiping fresh tears from his cheeks, and then he gets up and walks out of the bar.

  I don’t tell him about the bones his penny landed on, about the woman he’ll meet that will help him find love again. About the way she’ll care for him and his son, or about the daughter she’ll give him. I don’t explain how his new wife will ask to call their little girl Phoebe, and how they’ll all live beautiful lives honoring all the incredible things that made his late wife the best of souls.

  I can feel that he’s not ready for that, so I keep it to myself as I bless the bones with my gratitude and, one by one, place them back in the pouch. I used to only see the bad parts of Grammy Ruby being pulled away all the time. I thought being summoned here and there could only ever be something inconvenient, but as I put the bones away and hear a truck firing up in the parking lot, I know I’ll never see things the same. This...this is beautiful, and for the first time, I can’t wait to see what’s next.

  12

  “That was pretty incredible, what you did back there,” Rogan tells me, his compliment breaking the silence we’ve been driving in for the last thirty minutes.

  I look over at him, the shadows in the car caressing his face and darkening his features. “I don’t know what future readings will be like, but for a first one, that was a game-changer,” I admit. “Do Hemamancers do readings?” I ask, curious. “I know your magic works differently, but I don’t know how it all works.”

  “Blood Witches don’t have any relics like your bones, it’s just the blood itself for us. We do have a kind of reading that we perform, but the information we get from the blood is very different from how your bones work.”

  “How so?” I query.

  “Well, for starters, it’s a lot less detailed. I can tell from someone’s blood that they’re depressed or that they’re suffering from other physical ailments from exhaustion to disease, but the why isn’t prevalent in the blood itself. If I had read that man, I would have sensed the depression and known it was at an alarming level, but I wouldn’t have been able to discern the cause without him telling me,” he explains.

  “Does your brother get summoned a lot? Do you go with him when he does?” I ask, wondering what the other Bone Witch’s life is like. I suspect it would be fun to have a partner in crime, so to speak. To have someone who knows what you’re dealing with when it comes to magic and being a witch. My grandfather knew what Grammy Ruby was, but it never soun
ded like he fully got what it meant or how it felt.

  “It happens now and again, but not often. I’ve never seen him do a reading; he doesn’t talk about them much.”

  “Wait,” I exclaim, turning in my seat so I can get a good look at Rogan. “You’ve never seen your brother do a reading? Like, ever?” I clarify.

  “No,” he responds with a dismissive shrug.

  “But I thought you said that the two of you worked with the same clients. He doesn’t do readings for them?”

  “He does, sometimes, but I’m never in the room for that. We make potions together, and things like that work for some of the same clients in different capacities, but, yeah, no readings.”

  “Hasn’t he ever done a reading for you?” I ask, completely astonished by this news.

  My grandmother did a reading for everyone in the family when they turned sixteen. After that, she’d do them if we asked or if she sensed we were really struggling with something. It seems weird to me that two brothers would keep their abilities so separate.

  “We tried to read each other when we were younger, but it never worked. We asked our uncle about it, and he said it didn’t always work for people close to you.”

  “Huh,” I mumble, making a note to read Tad when I get back so I can test that theory. “Did your uncle ever read for you?” I ask, assuming that his uncle was the former Osteomancer in the family.

  “No, he always said it would be a waste of his magic. He knew where Elon and I would end up, just like him and his brother.”

  “Well, it sounds like he was the life of the party,” I snark.

  Rogan gives an amused snort. “That would be a massive understatement.”

  There it is, I think to myself as I catch the slightest tightening around his eyes when he mentions his family. It doesn’t take the bones to tell me that there is something there, something massive and painful. The car grows quiet again, and I find myself studying Rogan’s face. I’m sure he can feel that I’m just sitting here staring at him, but he lets me do it without saying a word.

  He’s hurting. I picked up on that almost as soon as I met him, but I figured it had to do with his brother. But there’s more there.

  “Would you like me to read you?” I ask randomly as I study the angles of his face. I blink and then try to shake some sense into me when I realize I’m perving out a little too much.

  Rogan’s brow dips, but in the dark, I can’t quite make out if it’s confusion or concern that’s etched into his features.

  “Um, sure, I guess, but it’ll have to be some other time, because we’re here,” he declares, and I pivot to face forward as we pull through the trees into a clearing that displays a large well-lit house. I lean forward so I can take it all in. His house is modern, the structure more windows than anything else. There’s a dark gray paneling on the parts that aren’t glass, and beautiful cedar accents frame the doors and line the underside of the roof.

  Soft golden spotlights light up the property from the outside, and there’s a similar-colored glow coming from rooms inside that give the appearance that someone is home. It dawns on me then that I have no idea if Rogan is married or lives with a girlfriend or boyfriend. He made it seem like it was just him and his brother, but I never really asked.

  He pulls up to a four-car garage, and the frosted-glass door begins to open. There are other cars parked inside, but it’s impossible to tell if they belong to Rogan or someone else.

  “Your house is beautiful,” I declare, still looking around at the details as though I don’t know which stunning thing to really focus on first. “Is it just you in this massive place?” I inquire, not at all smoothly.

  “Thank you,” he replies as he pulls his sleek car into its spot. He looks over at me curiously as he puts it in park. “And yes, it’s just me out here,” he supplies.

  Relief slams through me, and I take a second to side-eye that. Why do I care?

  “Do you get lonely in a huge place like this?” I ask, and the rude question is out of my mouth before I can stop it.

  “Sometimes,” he answers evenly, his eyes studying me intensely.

  “Sorry, I don’t know why I asked that. I get lonely in my little ass apartment all the time. Size doesn’t matter,” I blurt and then immediately want to facepalm again.

  “Good to know,” Rogan states, a small smile twitching at the edges of his mouth.

  “Not like that, pervert,” I accuse.

  “Like what?” he asks with faux innocence.

  “I’m not talking about your dick.”

  “I...didn’t think you were,” he defends.

  “Because size is important; it’s not everything,” I correct in case he has a little dick and I’m insulting him. “But it’s important,” I finish, and I can feel the blush creeping into my cheeks.

  Do not look at his lap, Lennox.

  “Again, good to know where you stand on dick size.”

  “But I’m not talking about your dick,” I hurriedly state.

  “Got it,” he chirps, and I can see the mirth gleaming in his eyes.

  “Well, now that I’ve made this awkward, I’m just going to get out of the car and stand around until you tell me where to go,” I announce, and then I do just that.

  Rogan’s rich chuckle echoes off the walls of the garage as he climbs out of the car and moves to retrieve a still sleeping Hoot from the back. I grab my duffel bag and then shuffle behind him as he leads the way into his house.

  He flips on lights as he goes, and unsurprisingly the inside of his house is just as stunning as the outside is. The floors are a light-blond wood, the banisters are black metal, and the walls are stark and white. The furniture is minimal, but what’s there is cozy and inviting. I can only catch hints of dark trees through the massive walls of windows all around me, but I imagine the view in the morning will be mind-blowing.

  “Are you hungry or anything?” Rogan asks, gesturing in the direction of a dimly lit kitchen.

  “Maybe later, but I have a lot of reading to do, and I’d kill for a shower,” I declare, and he nods and guides me toward the stairs. He puts Hoot down on a blanket on his sofa, and the little bugger doesn’t even stir. If it weren’t for the constant snoring reverberating out of him indicating that he’s alive and well, I might be concerned over what that ley line did to him.

  I follow Rogan up his floating staircase, looking everywhere but at his ass in his nicely fitting jeans. Nope, definitely not interested in that.

  “You can stay here, there’s an attached bathroom and a balcony that leads down to the main level if you like morning walks or whatever.”

  I chuckle a little and step into the room Rogan is gesturing toward. He flips the light on, and I’m met with a huge bed, simple but masculine decor, and another wall of windows. It looks comfy enough, but I never sleep well in unfamiliar places. Good thing I have a magic cram session planned.

  “My room is down the hall, so if you need anything…” He pauses for a moment as though he wants to say something else, but instead of voicing whatever is on the tip of his tongue, he steps out of the room and closes the door behind him.

  With a sigh, I drop my duffel on the trim wood bench at the foot of the bed and thread my hands through my curls as I look around. It’s hard to imagine that I’ve only been a witch for like a day. So much has happened, and I don’t even know how to start processing it all.

  I dig my phone out of my bag and head into the bathroom. It takes me a minute to figure out how to turn the water on in the shower, and I do a little celebratory dance when I finally figure it out. Steam starts to fill the room, and I quickly strip out of my clothes and then open my phone. I open my contacts and click the call button; it’s probably too late to call, but I did say I would when I got here.

  “Leonardo DiCaprio, long time no talk!” Tad answers excitedly.

  “You’re up,” I greet back, half surprised and half happy that he answered.

  “Well, yeah. I couldn’t go to bed w
ithout making sure you were okay.”

  I chuckle, click the speaker button, set the phone on the counter, and then step into the hot spray of the shower. “Oh please. Who are you really waiting up for?”

  “Pierre,” he admits without missing a beat. “He’s supposed to call me when he gets off work, we have big sexting plans.”

  “TMI, dude, way too much TMI.”

  “What are you up to? Did you get where you were going safe and sound?” he asks.

  “I’m taking a quick shower, and yep, I’m in Blackbriar, Tennessee, or at least I think I am, I never really confirmed that, now that I think of it.”

  “Are you showering alone?”

  I snort incredulously. “Of course I am, why the hell would I call you if I was with someone?”

  “I don’t know, because you’re a fucking weirdo? I don’t question these things about you, Lennon.”

  I shake my head and pour shampoo into my hands. It smells very manly. “How are you doing? Still feeling okay?” I ask him, a pang of worry settling in my stomach as I start to wash my hair.

  “Yeah, I’m good. I ate like the biggest steak ever when I got home and then went back for seconds three times, but other than being bloated, I’m right as rain.”

  “Is your mom ever going to let you near me again?” I ask, trying to be funny, but it falls flat.

  “I mean, I’m pretty sure she’s never going to let me out of her sight again, so as long as you’re cool with her tagging along to the bars and shit, we should be good,” he teases, and I smile, feeling a little lighter.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Worse. I tried to go out tonight, just to make sure my gaydar is fully operational, and the woman almost had a conniption. She practically turned purple with outrage. I tried to take a picture, but she attacked too fast. Hey, speaking of pictures, Ma wants to know if you want a calendar, coasters, or just a hoodie of Magda and Gwen getting their comeuppance?”