The Bone Witch (The Osseous Chronicles Book 1)

by Ivy Asher

  “Breathe,” Rogan orders, as though his biggest concern is my potential hyperventilation and not the mess he’s dragged me into.

  “You breathe,” I growl back, internally facepalming at the weak comeback. Is it possible to be so mad that you can’t string words together anymore?

  “Yes, Elon and I are the reason my uncle is dead, but it’s not what you think. You can’t believe the narrative of the High Priestess or her Council.”

  “Okay, mommy is a liar, got it. Is that supposed to change anything for me, Rogan?” I demand incredulously. “Are you suddenly not renounced? I’d love for you to explain it to me, because right now all I can see is a man who showed up in my shop, enslaved me, lied to me, and has now condemned me to a seriously fucked up future.”

  Betrayal settles in my chest as I stare at him, at the thin circle of gold around his pupil. I take in the scar running down one side of his face and tell myself there’s more to this. There has to be. Something doesn’t add up here, or maybe I’m just hoping that’s the case, because as much as I want to punch myself for it, I feel something for him.

  Despite my efforts not to...I care.

  Rogan huffs out a resigned sigh, pushing up from the stool and raking his fingers through his hair. His gaze floats around the room for a moment before it settles back on me. He studies me for a beat, and then he squares his shoulders.

  “Elon and I were born with the spark. We were tested. It was found, and that’s how our predecessors knew who the next in line would be,” he starts, stepping away from me and leaning against the counter.

  “When we were old enough to walk and talk, we were handed off to the person who controlled the branch of magic that we held the spark for. For me, that was my Uncle Kavon, and for Elon, it was our Uncle Oront.”

  Upon hearing his uncles’ names, I try to recall which one ends up murdered in this story, but I can’t seem to remember it.

  “I saw my parents every couple of months,” Rogan goes on. “But other than that, Kavon was all I knew. I was raised in his house, with his family. He wasn’t overly warm or paternal, but I wasn’t treated badly. It wasn’t until Elon was accepted into the Order and assigned to the same division as I was that we were able to spend quality time together. And that’s when I discovered how different his childhood was from mine.

  “I went to my mother. I told her about Elon’s brutal and violent upbringing. I demanded that something be done to Oront and that Elon be kept as far away from him as possible. But she wouldn’t listen. Elon’s spark meant that Oront was the final authority over him. She wouldn’t go against the way things had always been, and because she was weak, Elon continued to suffer. I tried to stop it, but the more I attempted to intervene, the worse it got for my brother.”

  “Hold on, I’m confused,” I interject, swallowing down the sick feeling I have in the pit of my stomach over what happened to his brother. “I don’t want to dismiss how fucked up that situation is for you and for Elon, but there’s something I don’t understand. How are you in the Order if you aren’t full witches? I mean, your uncles are still alive at this point in the story, so you and Elon don’t have any powers yet, right?” I ask, completely perplexed.

  “Death isn’t the only way to transfer magic in a line,” he tells me simply.

  I stare at him for a beat, not registering how that could be true. “Ummm...pardon?” I ask, needing to hear it again.

  “Death is one way to transfer to the next in line, but it’s not the only way,” he repeats.

  “Is this one of those things that’s common knowledge to the witching community, but I ditched the day that lesson was taught and now I’m out of the loop?” I ask, feeling stupid as hell right now.

  Rogan cracks a smile, but it’s gone just as fast as it came. “No, it’s a closely kept secret only certain families know. It’s how those families hang onto power generation after generation. Certain families pass magic along to the next in line when they’re young and strong and at their peak.”

  “But what happens to the witch that came before you? Don’t people notice that they didn’t kick the bucket like they were supposed to?” I question, not seeing how this demon of a secret hasn’t gotten out of its salt circle yet.

  “They leave,” he replies, as if it’s all that simple. “They live the rest of their lives as Lessers. They’re set up for the rest of their days to revel in the lap of luxury.”

  “And they’re just okay with that?” I press.

  “Your potion is starting to dry out,” Rogan warns.

  I look over at the stone bowl absently and then remember I was supposed to be brewing and spelling while I was listening. Rogan’s renounced bomb completely threw me off my game. I reach for the mortar and give everything a good stir. Then I drop the ring and chain that I picked out earlier into the mixture. With what Rogan is saying, we’re going to need these now more than ever.

  I lean down and whisper my incantation over the stone bowl. “Protoro ylius arum forinat cesfrunatice shara vir onyliog ra.”

  With a flash and a pulse of magic, the contents of the mortar weave themselves onto the jewelry. A wide satisfied smile splits my lips as everything works exactly as I’d hoped it would. I did it. I just made my first protection amulets. I pluck the ring from the bowl and slip it onto the middle finger of my right hand. A wave of warmth moves over me, hardening like a candy shell as the spell imprints on me and locks into place. Relief radiates through me, and I already feel a little less fragile or vulnerable to magical attack.

  I pull a long chain from the bowl and hand it to Rogan. His eyes widen with surprise.

  “You made one for me?” he questions, as though he doesn’t understand what I’m doing.

  “It was before I knew you’d completely fucked me over,” I snark, the sting of truth in my words making him wince. He doesn’t move to take the chain from my hands, and I roll my eyes and shake the chain in invitation.

  “Just take it, Rogan. I thought a buffer for potential attacks would be a wise idea. That’s still true even if you’re the reason we’re getting attacked.”

  Instead of taking the long delicate chain from my hands and slipping it on over his head, he leans down so that I can do it. I don’t move for a beat, surprised by his actions. Indecision battles in me for a moment, but after a beat, I step closer to him, slipping the links over his silky coffee bean-colored hair and settling them around his neck. He straightens up as soon as the amulet is in place, his eyes closed as though he’s relishing in the wash of magic that I know is moving through him as the spell imprints.

  I watch as my amulet’s magic settles all around him. My thoughts and emotions are tangled and conflicted, and I’m not sure what to think about anything. It sounds like there were some seriously fucked up extenuating circumstances surrounding his uncle’s death. But even if that’s the case, he’s still renounced. I sigh and internally shake my head at myself. I’ve never been into the whole witch thing, so part of me wants to say who cares. I never let my dad dictate who I could be friends with, so why should this be any different, but I know this isn’t that simple. I may not care about witch politics, but they now affect me whether I like it or not. I have to live and thrive in this community, and associating with a magical pariah blows a huge hole in my ability to do that.

  Even if what Rogan did is justified, I don’t know that it changes anything. I stare at his closed eyes, the look on his face serene and at odds with the conversation we’re having. I can feel the magic of the amulet locking into place, and out of nowhere, I lift my hand, intent on tracing the scar that I’ve been so curious about since I first laid eyes on him. I have no idea what’s come over me, but I can’t seem to stop myself regardless of the fact that my internal monologue right now is just an alarm going off in my head, followed by a steady shout of we’ve lost thrusters, captain.

  Rogan’s breath hitches as my fingers softly touch his face, but he doesn’t stop me or ask me what the hell I’m doing. That’s pr
obably a good thing, because I don’t have the foggiest clue. We both seem to hold our breath as I run my finger through his eyebrow and gently down his lid, his long lashes tickling my finger. I trace the line under his eye, stopping just past his cheekbone.

  “How did this happen?” I ask quietly, allowing my thumb the liberty to brush across his cheek just once before I pull my hand away and get a hold of myself.

  I’m mad, I remind myself as I step back. I should be kicking his ass, or running, and yet it’s the instinct to touch him that overpowers everything else. I’m pretty sure my instincts are bipolar. Rogan’s eyes open as I move away. He watches me for a moment and then moves toward me before suddenly stopping himself. Maybe his instincts are bipolar too.

  “Anyway, you were saying,” I start, bringing the focus back to where it should be.

  He clears his throat and nods. “Right,” he agrees, pausing for a second to trace back to where he left off. “Elon and I think it was my transference ceremony that set Oront off,” he starts, and for some reason it’s as though all the air in the room was just sucked away.

  “I’d just come into my full powers, and Elon’s transference ceremony was a handful of weeks away. Finally, he was going to be free, and Oront would be exiled. We were supposed to become Coven Lieutenants, work our way up the ranks. Get married, breed the next generation, and then one day, one of us just might become High Priest of the Witches. That was the plan anyway. But Oront had other ideas.”

  Rogan reaches out and plucks one of my curls between his fingers. He rubs the strand, his eyes far away, lost to the memories swirling around in his mind. I’m not even sure if he’s aware he’s doing it, but I don’t say a word or move to reclaim the curl from him.

  “Oront tried to kill Elon,” he tells me robotically, no emotion in his inflection even though I see it etched in his face. My stomach drops. I saw something like this coming, but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear it confirmed. “He was deranged. He had convinced himself that his power wasn’t meant to pass on ever. He thought he found a way, some Druid ritual that would seal the magic to him forever and extend his life indefinitely.

  “I wouldn’t have known until it was too late, but one of the first things I made when I first received my full power was a thread of protection. Elon had tied it around his wrist, and I vowed that I would stop Oront if he tried to beat him again. Oront was so out of his mind when he attacked Elon that night that he cut the thread of protection, and it pulled me right to them.” Rogan pauses, taking a moment to collect himself. When he looks up, I’m hammered by the raw emotion I see in his face.

  “There was blood everywhere,” he tells me, just above a whisper. “Elon was tied to some altar Oront had created, and he had cuts and brands all over him. I thought for sure he was dead. I didn’t see how he could have survived what was being done to him. Oront was chanting frantically. He didn’t even notice I was there.

  “I couldn’t move at first. I was too shocked and confused, and then Elon’s hand twitched, and it snapped me out of my horror. I shoved as much magic as I could into him to stop the bleeding. I ran for him, but I was only able to cut one arm free before Oront attacked me.”

  Rogan starts to pace, anger coming off him in waves, and I push myself up to sit on the counter so that he has all the room he needs.

  “I was at a massive disadvantage. I didn’t have a weapon, and I knew my magic wasn’t enough of a defense against my uncle for both me and Elon. I was beyond enraged at what this monster had been doing to Elon practically his whole life. The beatings. The torture. The cruelty. And now, after all my brother had survived, Oront was killing him. I lost it. I went for him with all that I had. I didn’t care where his knife landed. I didn’t count the stab wounds. All I knew was if I was going to die, I was taking him with me.”

  A tear slips out of his eye. His pain, the agony of living through something so horrible, but also having such evil memories seared into your soul, it calls to me. I can see in his every feature how much this terrorizes him, how much it has scarred him. Agony rips through him as he recalls what happened, and there’s no doubt in my mind that what he’s saying is true.

  “I don’t know what I was chanting as I fought to get the knife out of his hands. The words and the magic just flowed out of me as we battled to destroy one another. I should have known the coward would’ve had backup. But I didn’t see his mistress, or the knife coming, until she was slashing at my face,” he explains, gesturing to the scar I just asked about.

  “I didn’t factor her in, but it was probably what saved Elon’s and my life. When she attacked me, Oront abandoned our fight and turned back to finish the ritual with Elon. I managed to get the upper hand over Kyat—his mistress—and knocked her out. It was her knife that I used to kill Oront.”

  I shake my head and stare at him, completely at a loss for what to say. “Your mother renounced you for simply defending yourself and your brother?” I ask, completely revolted by the thought that any mother could do that to them after what they had been through. She failed her sons and then threw them away; I can’t even wrap my mind around it.

  Rogan releases a weak, humorless chuckle and shakes his head. “No, in the end, Oront’s death was an unremarkable blip compared to what happened next,” Rogan recounts cryptically, and alarm hammers through me with those words. How the hell does this get worse?

  “You see, whatever Oront was trying to do worked,” he states hollowly, as though he himself still can’t believe it.

  “That motherfucker is alive? Your bitch of a mom set you up for a murder you didn’t even commit?” I shout, suddenly so pissed that I couldn’t stop myself even if I tried. Rogan’s eyes snap to mine, and I cover my mouth as though that will help me take shit down a notch and hear what he’s trying to say.

  Rogan’s stare traps me in its intense beam, the gold ring around his pupil more prevalent than it was before. “No, I killed him, and I’d do it again. His attempts backfired. They didn’t work for him...but somehow, it worked for Elon and me,” he explains quietly, evenly, his eyes searching mine as though he expects disbelief or accusation to immediately float to the surface of my gaze.

  Bewilderment rockets through me, but I don’t say anything as I try to absorb what the hell that means.

  “Kyat woke up,” he goes on. “I was in and out of consciousness at that point. I didn’t realize what was happening until it was over. Elon and I were both spell weaving, just trying to stay alive, to heal as best we could. Oront was dead, and that meant Elon was hit with the transference. It gave him the extra boost he needed to battle the injuries he’d sustained, but we were both dangerously weak. Kyat had the blade in Elon’s throat before either of us could so much as lift a hand to stop her.”

  I gasp in shock. It wasn’t Oront who popped back up like the serial killer in every mainstream horror film, it was his fucked up mistress who survived to wreak havoc.

  “Elon pulled the knife out on instinct,” Rogan continues, his voice cracking with emotion. “I couldn’t work fast enough. He was too hurt, and my magic was fucking useless.” He trails off for a beat, his eyes suddenly lost before they refocus on me. “She laughed as he died. I can still hear her deranged cackle as I pulled Elon to me and tried to stop the inevitable. And then she came for me.”

  I stare at Rogan, heartbroken for him, dumbfounded by what he’s saying. He watched his brother die? But then, who the hell did I watch walk off with a hiking pack and Elon’s familiar, Tilda? I can feel the truth in Rogan’s words, but I can’t help the doubt that starts to spread through my chest as I try to make sense of it all. He watches me, and I can see that he’s reading the skepticism and uncertainty in my eyes.

  I believe him in my heart, but my mind is arguing that I just got epically ghost-storied. It’s as though my rational brain was right there along for the ride, enraged, devastated, shocked, and then the story comes to an end, and it’s realized that this is all bullshit. Impossible. The storyteller got us
. My heart argues to look past what we think we know and see the truth, but I can’t deny that I feel torn and suddenly very lost.

  “I woke up in a private room three days later,” Rogan continues. “Elon was in a bed next to me, which made no sense because I’d watched him die. I thought maybe I imagined it, that my injuries were so severe that it all caused me to hallucinate. It wasn’t until my mother, father, and two other High Council members dropped by that I realized what I saw and felt actually happened.”

  “How?” I ask, stunned disbelief spilling out of the simple word.

  “Help apparently arrived just after Kyat shoved her knife through my heart. They were able to detain her, but Elon and I were gone. Everything was kept quiet as they tried to piece together what had happened, to make sense of why Oront was dead and what he had been doing. But then everything changed. A day or so later, out of nowhere in the witchery morgue, Elon’s heart started to beat. Then mine followed suit. Our injuries began to heal, and no one could make sense of any of it. It should have been impossible, and the High Priestess demanded to know how the hell we had come back.

  “Kyat had been questioned while we were out. My mother and her trusted inner circle were able to put together what Oront had been up to. The Druid ritual that Oront was using was known, it had been attempted before and was always documented as a failure. But Elon and I were proof that somehow something we had done made it work. They couldn’t suss out what it was though that activated magic long thought dead.”

  “You’re not fucking with me, are you,” I realize, my tone hollow and distant. I can see it in his face, feel it in my gut. My head wants to argue, but it’ll catch up eventually.

  “No,” he answers evenly. “Elon and I weren’t renounced because we defended ourselves against my unhinged uncle. My mother and the High Council renounced Elon and me because we wouldn’t tell them how we did it. We wouldn’t tell them the details and sequences of actions that somehow allowed us to cheat death,” he growls, his eyes filled with conviction and veracity.