by Ivy Asher
“I don’t know who it is or if they’re even involved, but it’s the name the bones gave me when I was scrying.”
Rogan’s head snaps to Marx, who is already writing the name down.
“Did you get anything else?” Marx asks, his dark brown eyes rising from the small magicked notepad in his hands and settling on me.
“No,” I declare, deciding to keep the flash I saw when I connected to all the bones on the property to myself. I’m not sure what it means yet, and these guys aren’t the only ones who can hold out until they know more.
“That’s a lie,” Marx declares, with a cocked brow, his tone a dead ringer for Maury Povich’s.
Shit.
I forgot Vox Witches could hear that. Stupid walking, talking lie detectors. Rookie move, Lennox. Rogan’s face clouds with anger, and for some reason that makes me feel better.
“Don’t look at me like that. If I’m holding back, you only have your own omissions and cagey behavior to blame,” I defend and release a resigned exhale. “I’m not sure what it means yet. If I decide it’s pertinent, I’ll tell you. That’s how you two like to roll, isn’t it?”
I turn and stride back into the house, dodging Rogan’s effort to grab me again and stop me. I duck out the door leading to the garage but get boxed in by the two of them before I can go any further.
“This isn’t a game,” Rogan growls as he lords over me, backing me into Marx until I’m pinned between them.
“I’m not playing one. This isn’t tit for tat. I need to see the other Osteomancers’ houses before I know if this is even relevant,” I defend.
“Fine, I’ll take you to them, but keeping anything to yourself right now is a stupid move. It could mean life or death in the end if it was pertinent,” he grumbles, his stare both angry and desperate.
I give a derisive snort, hating that he’s right. I take a deep breath and slowly let it out. “The pile of ashes inside the rowanberries are from the grill outside. I don’t know what purpose the presence of the smashed berry circle serves, but I think its only purpose is to throw anyone looking for Elon off.”
“How do you know this?” Marx questions, and I shoot him a glare. He holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m not saying you’re lying, it’s just a side effect of what I do, I question everything.”
“Because when I went into defensive mode, I tapped into every bone that exists on the property. I wasn’t picking up on anything unusual inside the house because the bones that had this information aren’t inside the house,” I explain.
“Your brother’s familiar is a corgi right?” I ask Rogan.
“Yeah, her name is Tilda,” he confirms.
I nod and continue. “Well, Tilda was chewing on a venison rib bone when she watched the ashes being moved into the house and the berry circle drawn around them. You’ll find a different piece of her burnt collar on the ground around the grill.”
“Did she see who did it?” Rogan asks, grabbing my arms as though he’s ready to shake the answer out of me at the first sign of resistance.
“That’s the thing,” I hedge as anxious butterflies riot in my stomach. “It was your brother.”
15
“Tell me again what you saw,” Rogan grumbles, the engine of his SUV growling ferociously as he stomps on the accelerator.
I try not to roll my eyes at the request or the maniacal driving, but I lose the battle. “I saw your brother dump the ashes from the grill into his living room. I mean, I saw it through Tilda’s eyes, but you know what I mean.”
Rogan’s hands clench around the steering wheel, his knuckles going white, and I grab onto the armrest on the door when he takes a turn a little too fast. Good thing we left Hoot at the house earlier. That furball would be a windshield pancake otherwise.
“Then I saw Elon hooking a halter around Tilda and leading her out the front door. She stopped to drop some deuces on the lawn, and because your brother doesn’t pick up after his familiar, I saw in the bone matter she left behind, that he had on a big pack, the kind you use for camping. That’s all I got,” I repeat...for the third time.
“It just doesn’t make sense,” he whispers angrily for the thousandth time, and I swallow down an exasperated sigh that wants to punctuate my annoyance.
I should feel bad for Rogan. I know he’s going mad worrying about his brother and what happened to him, but I’m finding it hard to reach my soft empathetic side through all the hurt and bitter anger I feel surrounding it.
“Then who the hell is Nik Smelser?” Rogan questions...again.
“Like I said before, I don’t know. I don’t even know if he’s relevant to anything. It’s just the name the bones gave.”
“Fuck!” Rogan snarls, slamming a hand down against the steering wheel. I jump at the unexpected outburst, and my fight or flight instincts get ready to take over the show.
“I get that you’re pissed, Rogan, but I don’t want to die. So slow down and chill out or pull over so I can safely get us somewhere where you can execute the epic tantrum that’s clearly crawling under your skin.”
He doesn’t say anything, but the car gradually starts to decelerate, and I inhale and then slowly release a relieved breath.
“As I said back at Elon’s house, there’s no point jumping to any conclusions until we have more information. Marx is looking into things now, and he said he would let us know when it’s clear to go look at the other Osteomancers’ houses.”
“But why would he willingly leave?” Rogan argues, and I run my fingers through my curls in frustration, pleading with my ancestors for patience.
“Dude. Pay. Attention!” I growl, clapping three times to punctuate each word. “We don’t know that he did. It’s hard as hell to interpret the world through a dog’s eyes. I’m literally reading information from bone matter in shit. Maybe Elon left on his own. Maybe he was spelled. Maybe he was coerced some other way. There could be a logical explanation for all of this. Or maybe the Osteomancers are all working together to bring out the cult in occult. We just don’t know yet.”
A yawn forces me to pause. I need to up my caffeine intake, or I’m about to pass out.
“I need coffee and a massive grilled cheese, oh and pie, or something pumpkiny. But not pumpkin coffee, that shit just tastes like burnt Thanksgiving. If you can get me somewhere that has grilled cheese and tomato soup in the next ten minutes, maybe I’ll stop being as pissed as I am with you...maybe.”
The car accelerates again, but this time, my stomach and I welcome it. I’ve definitely entered the hangry phase of my exhaustion cycle, and it’s not being helped by everything that Rogan and Marx revealed back at Elon’s house. I replay the conversation, picking apart things that I feel like I still need answers to. I lean back in my chair and turn to face Rogan as he races to make things up to me.
It dawns on me that I should probably appreciate that he’s trying, that he cares enough to attempt to make things right in some small way, but we’ll see how I feel after I get done grilling him.
“Why did you and Marx suspect my grandmother?” I ask, ticking off my first question on the list I made in my head.
“What?” Rogan asks, looking over at me for a moment before focusing back on the road.
“You said that when you found out that my grandmother was gone, you thought maybe I had something to do with the disappearances, and that was why Ruby couldn’t read or sense anything. But after that, you said that you suspected her too. I want to know why.”
“Suspected is probably the wrong word. Marx and I were just trying to look at things from all angles. Ruby was the strongest Osteomancer alive. So it could be argued that if someone was trying to meld the branches, she’d be the only one powerful enough to do it.”
“So when you came to see her, if she had been the one in the shop that day, you would have made her your familiar, wouldn’t you? It wasn’t a last minute Hail Mary decision, it wasn’t an insurance plan that kicked in because of me,” I clarify.
Rogan studies me fo
r a moment, but I see the answer in his eyes before he voices it.
“Yes. Marx and I thought it was the best and fastest way to gain control over the situation.”
I shake my head and turn away from him. “You’re lucky it was me that day. She would have ripped you apart,” I tell him quietly, hating how alone I suddenly feel.
“Very lucky,” he repeats just as softly, but I don’t bother trying to interpret what that could mean.
With squealing tires, Rogan slides us into a parking spot dead center in front of a diner. “Seven minutes and counting,” he announces with a small hesitant smile.
I unbuckle my seat belt and reach for the door handle. “Impressive,” I admit as I climb out of the SUV. “Now I’ll daydream about breaking two hundred five of your bones and not the full two hundred six that you actually have,” I tell him as I stride for the front door.
He beats me to it and pulls it open, sleigh bells tinkling and announcing our arrival to a waitress. I shake my head at him. “I’m still not buying it,” I censure.
“Buying what?” he queries.
“That you’re a gentleman. So no need to keep up the act on my account.”
He doesn’t say anything as we’re led to a booth and handed menus. I slide into my seat, and I’m reminded of doing the same thing just yesterday, when I sat down to talk to Paul. His face flashes in my mind, and I wonder how he and Jackson are doing today. I close my eyes for a moment and send them warm, hopeful thoughts.
“What can I get you to drink?” the waitress with short salt-and-pepper hair and amiable blue eyes asks.
“May I please have some coffee? And do you have tomato soup here?”
“Yes, and yes,” she tells me warmly.
“Two hundred and four bones now,” I correct, looking over at Rogan.
I order my wish list, completely over the moon when they have everything I’ve been craving. Rogan gets some kind of melt and blueberry crumble for dessert, and as soon as he orders it, I start debating if I can be pissed at him but still ask for a bite? I’m thinking yes.
“So how did you and Marx become such good friends?” I ask as the waitress brings over two bowl-sized mugs and pours almost a full carafe of coffee into them.
I start doctoring mine up, waiting for Rogan to answer the question. I can feel his hesitancy, like I can feel the waitress’s sore bones as she moves gingerly from table to table, refilling the other patrons’ drinks.
“We used to work together,” Rogan finally tells me as he shakes a few packets of sugar, tearing them all open at once and dumping them into his mug.
I ponder that answer for a moment, mostly because I practically chug my cup of coffee down, but surprise zings through me when I put things together. “You used to work for the Order?”
He nods solemnly and then demurely samples his brew. “We were on a team together. We were who the Order called when they needed elite magic to deal with something.”
“Oh, the best of the best,” I mock, and he sighs and fixes me with an unamused stare.
“Anyway, I know about the Order and the rampant corruption firsthand. Elon and I almost didn’t make it out of their ranks alive.”
A chill runs up my spine at that revelation, and I randomly have the urge to reach out and offer a comforting touch. I look down at my hands—which are cradling my coffee—and glare at them as though they’ve betrayed me.
“What’s wrong?” Rogan asks, studying me.
“Nothing,” I answer a little too quickly. With a swift shake of my head, I dispel the uninvited urge and focus back on what we were discussing. “So that’s what’s up with all the protective measures?” I ask, placing another vital piece of understanding in the puzzle that is Rogan Kendrick.
“It’s good to have protections in place with any home, but yes, Elon and I are overly cautious. We have good reason to be.”
“So all the blood protecting your house, is that yours?”
“No, I’d never be able to build up the quantities I needed if I used only my own. Certain wards or blessings required my blood, but the rest was from the blood bank. I take the units that are not transfusion quality and use them for what I need.”
“That’s smart,” I blurt and then wish I could take the compliment back when he gets a cocky grin on his face. “I mean, they probably think you’re a vampire or something, but you and the Order are already at odds, so good for you, live your best life.”
Rogan chuckles. “There’s no exposure risk there for our kind. They think I work for a contracted quality control company. They get a discount on my rate if they allow me to deal with the unusable blood.”
“For real? They pay you?” I laugh, unable to deny how sneaky and well played that is. It makes me wonder what other witches do to source ingredients and all the witchy things they need.
Our food arrives and we fall into companionable silence as we stuff our faces. I dip my sandwich into my soup and practically orgasm with the first bite. Rogan just shakes his head and tries to fight a smile as I make sweet, sweet love to my lunch without a single ounce of shame.
“Crap, now I have to figure out how to steal your coffee machine and make it like me, while also relocating this diner across the street from my house. That was so good,” I purr as I sit back and pat my happy food baby.
“It was just a grilled cheese,” Rogan points out with a judgmental chuckle.
“Just? Just he says. Dude, that was exquisite, that’s what that was.”
The waitress drops the check off in front of us with a wide smile. She’s been sneaking peeks at Rogan the whole time, and she gets this adorable blush when he catches her and gives her a toothy grin. It’s a sweet thing to do, but I’m still not falling for his act.
“You know,” I start, catching the waitress’s attention. “There’s an herbal tea that really helps with muscle and joint pain. It’s pretty much just willow bark, turmeric, ginger, and some eucalyptus, but I could bring you some if you’re interested,” I offer. “I can’t imagine it feels good to be on your feet for so many hours out of the day,” I add so I don’t make her feel self-conscious about picking up on her pain.
“It does get harder every year. I’ll try anything as long as it’s legal, doesn’t give me the runs, and keeps my head clear,” she announces, and I crack up at her candor.
“Yep, it’s all legal herbs, with no fuzzy-head side effects or the Hershey squirts,” I reassure her. I don’t mention the bone powder that’s also in it. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, in fact, it’ll have her feeling like she’s twenty again. “I can bring some by for you tomorrow if that’s okay. No charge of course.”
“Well, aren’t you just the sweetest. I’ll take all the help I can get at my age,” she teases, patting me on the arm gently before going to tend to another table.
I turn to Rogan, a satisfied smile on my face. His gaze drops to my lips for a fraction of a second before they bounce back up to my eyes.
“Is there anything else we need to do today while we’re waiting to hear back from Marx?”
“No, but as soon as he gives us the green light to check things out, we’ll be headed for a ley line,” he tells me.
My stomach sinks a little at the thought of dissolving into molecules and snapping back together so hard that I pass out. What if I don’t pass out this time, but actually feel it? A shudder runs through me, and I push those thoughts far...far away.
“Fair enough,” I concede with an audible swallow. “In the meantime then, is there anywhere around here that I can get bones? I have a tea to make.”
My knee bounces with excitement and nervous anticipation as we fly down a winding hilly road.
“So, is there anything I need to know about meeting a lycan clan?” I ask, lifting my thumb to my mouth so I can anxiously bite my nail. Rogan looks over, his eyes dipping to my lips again, and I drop my hand and scold myself for the nervous habit.
“Um, they’re pretty much just like you and me, only their ma
gic gives them four legs and the ability to lick their own balls.”
I almost choke on a laugh, not expecting that answer, and shoot Rogan a sympathetic look. “Are you jealous?” I coo at him. He shakes his head and tries to fight the smile twitching at his lips.
“There’s no rules about eye contact or anything like that?” I question, not wanting to do anything that will cause any trouble.
“I mean, I wouldn’t go challenging anyone to a staring contest or sniff anyone’s ass in greeting. Just be normal, you’ll be fine.”
“No ass sniffing, got it.”
“Elon and I’ve worked with this clan as far back as I can remember. Our uncles procured through them too. A lot of witches around the country hire them to source things; they won’t think anything of us stopping by for some bones. In fact, we’ve picked a good day to drop in; tomorrow is Fall Equinox, and the full moon isn’t too far away. They’re probably celebrating already,” he tells me with a conspiratorial wag of his eyebrows.
I pull in a deep breath. I don’t know which is more concerning, meeting lycans in general or drunk lycans. Guess I’m about to find out.
Rogan slows as he approaches a large iron-barred gate. There’s a house-sized security lodge to the right of us, and he maneuvers the car toward it and rolls the window down. A guard inside walks toward the glass slider separating us. He opens it and proceeds to stare into the car.
“Rogan Kendrick and Lennox Osseous to see Riggs and Viv,” he states to the guard.
“Do you have an appointment?” the guard asks, his nostrils flaring as though he’s scenting us.
“Yes, I called and made one just over an hour ago.”
Another guard walks over and hands the first a tablet. The lycan at the window looks it over and then nods at Rogan once. “Please exit your vehicle so it, and you, can be searched,” the guard declares, and then he shuts the slider and walks away.
“Well, that’s new,” Rogan mumbles as he puts his car in park and unbuckles himself. I do the same, stepping out of the car and onto the damp bracken of the forest floor. I’m surrounded by trees taller than buildings. There’s the smell of rain on the air, and I suspect we must have just missed the storm. I look around at the endless expanse of forest, and it’s exactly what I pictured when Rogan told me where we’d be getting bones.