by Ivy Asher
“I use a mousse called Cork My Screw and a little bit of coconut oil on my ends,” I answer hurriedly, but she just glares at me.
“Thank you,” she yells angrily back and then storms out of the diner.
I watch her leave, completely dumbfounded and floundering. I look over to find the two waitresses staring out after the poor, clearly exhausted mother, with sympathy in their eyes.
“Don’t take that personal, hon, she’s got a lot on her plate.”
I nod and close my open, flabbergasted mouth. “Well, on that note, I think I’ll just go,” I announce sheepishly, and then I tuck tail and practically speed walk to the door. The sleigh bells sound oddly more ominous when they jingle as I leave, and I swear it sounds like they’re laughing at me. I hurry to Rogan’s car and practically dive in.
“Omg, go, go, go!” I shout out, ducking my head like I’m some celebrity who’s trying not to get their picture taken. I’m completely mortified and feel so bad about setting a tired mom off.
“What? Why, did you just rob the place?” he asks as he slowly puts his car in gear and pulls out at a safe and calm rate of speed.
“No, worse! I poked a mama bear on accident, and I’m lucky I got out of there alive. Now go before she changes her mind and makes the bear attack in that Leonardo DiCaprio movie look like the Care Bear cuddles,” I yell, officially hitting the freak the fuck out stage of my flight response.
A low rumbling fills the interior of the car, and at first I think it’s some kind of attack—until I look over at Rogan.
“This is not funny!” I yell as I try to duck down lower in the front seat.
Rogan pulls out onto the road and stops at the red light, the car now shaking from the force of his laughter. I punch him in the shoulder, hard, implementing every lesson Tad ever taught me growing up about how to give the deadest of dead arms, but that just makes him laugh harder.
The light turns green, but before we start moving again, a charcoal gray minivan lays on its horn as it drives by. I look over in time to see the lady from the diner flipping me off as she streaks by.
“Oh fuck, she’s found us! Evasive maneuvers! Evasive maneuvers!” I order, pointing in the opposite direction of the van.
Tears drip down Rogan’s face as he guffaws and revels in my misery. I fold my arms over my chest and shake my head at his insensitive, immature ways.
What an asshole.
After about five minutes and another dead arm, he starts to calm down. He releases a satisfied high-pitched sigh to signal the conclusion of his laughing fit, wiping at his eyes and opening and closing the hand of the arm that I punched twice.
“Oh fuck, I needed that,” he coos, another fit threatening to sweep him away. Thankfully, he keeps it together, but the wide smile on his face is annoying as hell.
“You want to tell me what happened?” he asks in an effort to be kind, but each word gets higher and higher in pitch, and I can tell he’s on the cusp of another cackling sesh.
“No, I don’t. Needless to say, I think my ancestors set me up for the scolding they got earlier,” I clip haughtily.
For some reason, this just sets Rogan off again. I sigh and try not to succumb to the contagiousness of his laughter. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of laughing too. But man is it hard. He has an epic laugh. I don’t think I’ve ever heard happiness sound so good on someone. I take some consolation in the fact that he really did need this. With everything that’s happened to him, he deserves all the laughing fits he can get, and as much as I want to, I can’t begrudge him that.
Two dead arms are adequate punishment.
“Does Marx know what’s up with you and Elon?” I ask when he starts to come down from his laugh high again.
“We’ve never talked to him about it, but I think he suspects there’s more to the story. Elon and I always say it’s a matter of time before his need to question everything has him straight up asking us. But so far, he keeps his suspicions to himself.”
I nod and watch the trees streak by the window as we turn down a two-lane road, and the car picks up speed. I wondered why Rogan seemed to live out in the middle of nowhere, but it makes sense now.
“Do you run into trouble with people in the magical community? Like, this coven we’re going to, or Riggs, do they not care about your status?”
“Not everybody knows who I am on sight, so I have that working in my favor in some cases,” he explains. “Riggs and the lycans don’t seem bothered by it. Maybe that has to do with the fact that they were outcasts for a long time in magical society, so they’re more forgiving of that title or status. Or it could just be that Riggs measures people by who they are and nothing else, so if he’s cool with me, most of the others are too,” he goes on, and I smile. I could see that about Riggs.
“The coven we’re going to today is my aunt’s coven. My father’s sister,” he clarifies, when I shoot him a surprised look.
“Does she know?”
“She knows the kind of people my parents are. She doesn’t know details about anything. In fact, she tells us she doesn’t want to know, but Alora knew Elon and me well enough not to buy what was being said about us.”
“Does she know why we’re coming?”
Rogan shoots me a look like he’s questioning how I’ll react to whatever it is that he’s going to say. “She knows we’re coming, but she doesn’t like to talk about details when it comes to anything. She’s a very hippie, let-the-magic-guide-her kind of person.”
“What kind of witch is she?” I ask, trying to picture which of the branches could lean more toward free love and hippie.
“My father and Alora are twins. She happens to be a Soul Witch too,” he tells me, and I’m taken aback by that.
I know Rogan said that lots of older families have more than one branch of magic in their line, but it’s still weird to hear about as it’s so different from how I thought it all worked.
“And what about her coven, are they all Animamancers too?”
“There’s a couple others. The rest are Corium Witches,” he reveals.
“Well, this should be interesting then,” I mumble more to myself than to him.
“It’s no being hunted by a PTA mom, but it most definitely will be interesting,” he teases with a wag of his eyebrows, cracking himself up.
Nope, I was wrong. Three dead arms is adequate punishment.
21
We pull up to a stone house that looks as though it’s been plucked directly from the English countryside. There’s a waist-high wrought iron fence that’s wrapped around the perimeter of the home, and inside the decorative iron bars is the most beautiful garden I’ve ever seen. It’s like every witch’s paradise, with planter boxes teeming with herbs, vined plants overtaking trellises, and flowers and trees dotting every inch in between. It’s exactly the hippie vibe I suspected I’d find when Rogan was describing his aunt.
The sun is high in the sky and doing its best to warm the somewhat chilly day, and my stomach tightens with nerves as we pull to a stop in a little clearing to the left of the property. I take it all in and once again marvel at witches living their best life. It seems, out here in some of the less populated parts of the state and country, there’s less hiding, and witches are freer to live how they want with no questions asked.
I wonder if the locals have their stories and suspicions about the people living amongst them in these parts. Although I suppose it’s just as likely that they’re oblivious. I find myself suddenly wanting to sit and talk with the people who live around here and see if they’ll spill the tea.
I get out of the car when Rogan does, following behind him like some lamb to the slaughter as he makes his way to the gate. It opens without so much as a squeak, which I find oddly impressive. I add it to the list of weird things that excite me now that I’m a witch. It’s written just under jackalope antlers and above the moon.
“Are you nervous?” I ask as Rogan leads me down a cobblestone path to the front door. I
whisper the question as though the plants are spying on us, so I need to keep it down.
“Will you think of me as less of a man if I admit yes?” he asks me over his shoulder, also with a whisper.
“Obviously,” I tease.
“Then no, I’m not nervous in the slightest,” he replies, and I chuckle.
My laugh is a little too loud, and I almost shush myself and apologize to the plants for disturbing them, but then I realize that’s crazy and stop myself.
“Um, this place is having a weird effect on me,” I half warn, half observe.
“Yeah, it’s the plants, they have wards and other protections woven into them. It’ll get better once we’re in the house,” Rogan explains, but that doesn’t exactly make me feel better.
He turns to look at me, amusement tilting up the corners of his lips. “Depending on what’s in bloom in the garden, the effects change,” he informs me. “I once found Elon laughing his ass off in a patch of pineapple weed. He said he’d been there for hours,” he goes on, a full grin now stretched across his gorgeous face.
I start to giggle as I picture Rogan finding Elon like that, but then immediately slam my mouth shut. Nope. I’ve been ridiculed enough for one day; I don’t care what happens, I’m going to keep my head on my shoulders.
I almost release a sigh of relief when we get to the door and Rogan opens it and invites himself in, but right now I’m too afraid to breathe, so I just push in after him and pull in a large inhale as soon as the door is shut.
“Ro! How are you?” a kind voice sing-songs in greeting, and before I can track where the voice is coming from, Rogan is wrapped up in a big hug from a small Asian man.
“I’m good, Dave, how are you?” Rogan volleys as he man-pats the gentleman on the back a few times before pulling away.
“I should be offended by that lie, Ro, but since Alora called all of us in today, I know you’re here for something serious, so I’ll let it pass.”
Rogan’s smile drops, and it’s as though I see some of the stress and worry melt away with it. It’s as if he just dropped a mask, and I can see how relieved he is not to have to hold it up anymore.
I’m not sure what to think about that. Part of me is glad that he’s in a place so comfortable that he can be authentic in whatever he’s feeling. But another part wonders if he’s had his mask on or off for me. Uncertainty trickles into my mind, and I know it will have me examining our interactions in search of answers.
“I think the answer is a little of both, dear,” Dave declares as he extends a hand in greeting. “Hi there, I’m Dave, Alora’s husband,” he announces.
I take his hand, not sure if he was answering the thoughts in my head, or some question Rogan asked that I missed because I was wrapped up in the thoughts in my head.
“Hi, I’m Lennox,” I answer, trying and failing not to eye him suspiciously.
“Did you just read my mind?” I ask, only in my head, but Dave doesn’t respond. There is something cheeky about his smile though that makes me wonder.
“Come with me, you two. Alora will be excited. She wasn’t expecting to meet the new Osseous Osteomancer so soon.”
Dave moves quickly down the hall, leading us into the main part of the house. My mind is reeling with questions, and I have a hard time tracking where we’re going. If Alora didn’t know I was coming, how does Dave know who I am? And why didn’t Rogan tell anyone that I would be with him? I know he said his aunt wasn’t big on the details, but does no one know why we’re here and that we’re hoping to undo a tether?
Dave winds us around the house, which strangely seems much bigger inside than it did outside. Eventually, we reach a large wooden door, and Dave proceeds to knock on it three times and then wait. When two resounding knocks answer from the other side, the door opens, seemingly of its own accord, and Rogan and I are ushered in.
I step into the room and freeze. It’s sensory overload in all the best ways, and I’m not sure where to rest my eyes first. The walls are the same gray stone as the outside of the house, but the floors and ceiling are a pure black wood. Constellations and planets are delicately painted on every surface with gorgeous gold leaf. The front of the room is framed by large gothic-style windows, and just in front of the wall of natural light sits an exquisite gold crescent table. I count six witches sitting on the convex side of the gilded crescent, seven when Dave walks over and sits to the left of the woman sitting regally in the center.
“Alora.” Rogan nods in greeting, and the woman Dave just sat next to brightens with excitement and nods affectionately back.
My mouth almost drops to the floor as I take her in. I was expecting long gray and white hair, loose flowy clothing, and lined tanned skin from tending to the garden. But what I find couldn’t be further from that.
Alora is what Dita Von Teese will look like when she’s eighty. Alabaster skin, almost the color of cream, with just the faintest signs of age brushing over her features. She has dark gray eyes and black hair that’s side-swept and styled with finger waves that remind me of old Hollywood. She’s dressed in a champagne-colored cashmere sweater that looks baby bunny soft, and I realize that I’ve been staring at her for too long now, and I’m pretty sure she said something to me.
Crap.
I look to Rogan, hoping he’ll help me recover, but he’s just staring at me too. Panic claws its way up my throat, and I can feel myself reddening with each passing second.
“I’m sorry,” I start sheepishly. “I wasn’t expecting you to be so beautiful. I was momentarily caught up in it, and I missed either your hello or whatever question you might have asked me,” I confess.
The seven witches all start to laugh, and a stunning blonde woman to Alora’s right reaches out and takes her hand. “I felt the same way the first time I saw her,” she confides with a kind smile and a squeeze of Rogan’s aunt’s hand. Then Alora looks over at the blonde woman, her gray eyes filled with love and affection, and she squeezes right back.
I’m getting a definite vibe from the two of them, and I sneak a look at Dave, who said he was Alora’s husband, to see what he thinks of the display.
Surprisingly, he’s looking at his wife with such pure adoration that it makes my heart ache a little with envy. Dave’s smile grows even wider, and before I can look away, his gaze flits to mine and he gives me a quick wink.
Shock trickles through me, and I once again question whether this man can read what’s in my head like it’s his favorite book. When Alora looks like she’s about to say something, my attention immediately snaps back to her. There’s no way I’m missing whatever it is she’s saying again.
“I was just welcoming you, Lennox. We’re honored to have you in our home.”
I smile, willing the blush that’s settling in my cheeks to calm the fuck down. “Thank you. I’m honored to meet all of you and grateful for any help you can offer,” I declare, feeling proud when my voice doesn’t wobble with nerves.
“Have a seat,” Alora commands, and with a snap, two chairs rise up out of the wood of the floor directly behind us.
As soon as they stop growing in size, Rogan sits in one. I plop my gobsmacked ass in the other, painfully aware of just how out of my league I am when it comes to this crew of magic users.
The coven quickly introduces themselves, but the only names my mind can seem to hold onto are Dave, Alora, and Harmony, the overly-affectionate blonde woman to Alora’s right.
“How can I help you, nephew?” Alora asks when the introductions are over and everyone settles into their curiosity.
Rogan clears his throat, and I don’t miss the blush that crawls into his cheeks as he looks from Alora to the other coven members and declares, “We need information about tethering and how to sever it.”
I’m surprised when no one in the room gasps or shows any outward signs of surprise. So far, anytime anyone hears the term, they freak out, which makes the silence in the room all the more unsettling.
“And you both wish to sever t
hat which you bound?” Harmony asks.
Rogan and I both quickly answer yes in unison, and she nods.
“It is not an easy thing to do or a pain-free process. We can facilitate it, but the success depends on many factors,” she tells us matter-of-factly.
“Like what?” I ask, not liking the sound of that.
“It depends firstly on whether or not your magics are better off together. Or if you’ve already been tapping into the other’s abilities, thus forging a more impenetrable connection. Each time you activate the familiar bond with the other, it strengthens it, and that can be difficult to disconnect without damage,” a male witch with red hair, who I think is called Worin, explains.
“Have the two of you entertained at all the pros behind staying tethered?” Alora asks sweetly, and an alarm goes off inside my head. “You may chalk what happened up to chance, but often the threads of life weave patterns we cannot see until much later as we look back on the tapestry of our lives,” she adds.
I try not to do anything that might be considered disrespectful, like laugh or scream are you nuts? but I’m not on board with the old school matchmaker vibe that I’m suddenly getting from her. I fidget in my chair in an effort to keep quiet, and then I give up, deciding that what I have to say matters whether they want to hear it or not.
“Please know that I’m not trying to offend you or dismiss your point,” I interject, and all eyes turn to me. “But I feel like it needs to be said that this is not the era of arranged marriages and making do. Rogan and I don’t know each other well enough to tie ourselves together forever. The magic in my line has always been its own entity. I’m not willing to mess with that because Rogan is a good kisser and I’d be down to play hide the wand a few dozen times before it’s time for me to go home and honor the legacy bestowed upon me by my ancestors.”
I feel my face turn crimson as the accidental overshare comes pouring out of my mouth. I immediately want to find a dark corner and hit my head against a wall over and over again until my brain realizes that telling a person’s family that you want to do dirty things to them is weird and gross on so many levels. But instead, I just keep on going like there’s no shame in my game. Even though I can practically feel the creepy nun from that show ringing a bell behind me and barking out shame over and over again.