The Bound Witch

by Ivy Asher

  Will he try to play me, or will Prek finally reveal who he is at the sum of all of those parts?

  He pulls a deep breath in, studying me like the answers might just be written in the planes of my face, and then he exhales, and it’s clear in his eyes that a decision has been made. I don’t say a word, the need to rush not riding me even though maybe it should.

  “Contrary to what Hemamancer Kendrick believes, my world does not revolve around him,” Prek declares, and then he sags ever so slightly in the chair. “I wasn’t following Rogan, I was following Alvarez.”

  The name sparks recognition, and I try to put a face to it.

  “The Filipino guy on my team who likes to play cards,” Prek supplies, and I immediately make the connection.

  My brow furrows, and I try to figure out why he would have been here. He was quiet but friendly. He made me tea once. It was amazing, and then he showed me how to shuffle a deck like a pro. He laughed and gave up pretty quickly when I proved to have shitty dexterity. I kicked his ass at Go fish after that though, so I considered us even.

  “A couple hours ago, Alvarez got a call and then asked to leave. I don’t know why that sequence bothered me, but it did. Maybe it’s because the team was under investigation and I was looking for anything and everything that could be a red flag, but I decided to follow him. “I discreetly slipped a tracker on him in case he slipped into a line, and then I grabbed a tranq gun for back up.”

  Prek’s explanation washes over me, and I sort through it for any hint of lies or missing key pieces. “And Alvarez led you here?”

  “He did. He sat at the bus stop on the other side of the street and just watched this building. I didn’t know what to make of it, and then out of nowhere, you pulled up. Alvarez left after about ten minutes, but when Kendrick started carrying boxes to the car, I decided it was time for answers. Either he was stealing or some other fucked up thing was going down, so I stopped him. I thought you were some kind of reflection spell, which is illegal by the way, but now I’m starting to think I’m wrong. How the fuck are you here?” he demands, anger simmering in his words and a hint of hurt ringing in his tone.

  This time, the debate goes on in my head. Will I lose or gain by telling him the truth? Is it worth the risk?

  “How did I not even notice you?” I ask as I think back to pulling up to the shop. There were two Order members right on top of us, and neither Rogan nor I had any idea.

  Prek smirks, his arrogant side shining through. “I’m good at what I do, Osteomancer,” he tells me silkily.

  I raise an eyebrow at that. “I mean, not that good, you are tied to a chair right now,” I point out, and he snorts an incredulous laugh.

  “Will you tell me what’s going on?” he presses, aware of my internal debate.

  “Depends,” I answer evenly.

  “On?”

  “If you’re in or out?” I provide cryptically, and he huffs out another incredulous laugh. “You have to decide, Prek, because the fact of the matter is, knowing the truth is dangerous. You even seeing me right now puts you on a list of loose ends, and I think we both know that you answer to higher-ups who aren’t too fond of loose ends,” I tell him, trying to open his eyes without spilling secrets that aren’t mine to spill. “If you want answers, decide which side of the fight you’re on, because everything is about to come crashing down, and it’s them or us, Prek.”

  I leave him to stew on my ambiguous non-answers and stride to the yellow curtain that separates us from the main part of the shop. I pull it back sharply and find Rogan sitting on the ground with his head in his hands.

  “How’s it going?” I ask Marx.

  “He sang me a rather lovely song, and now I’m pretty sure he’s coming down.”

  I bite back a smile. “Cool, can you get him buckled up in the car, we gotta go now...like, now.”

  “On it,” Marx asserts, and then I shut the curtain and look at Prek expectantly.

  He studies me for a beat and then nods once. “I’m in.”

  I stride toward him and lift a hand. The chair beneath him poofs into a cloud of dust, and he falls hard on his ass. He glares at me but pushes the thin rope Marx used to tie him up off his wrists and ankles. Prek stands up, and I will the bone that makes up my Grammy’s favorite chair to resume its previous shape.

  “Could have warned me?” he grumps, rubbing his ass.

  I shoot him a saccharine smile. “Could have not tranqed my boyfriend,” I lob back.

  As soon as the word boyfriend leaves my mouth, it feels wrong. He’s more than that, but I doubt Prek cares to understand the nuances of my relationship. He offers a conciliatory nod and then follows me as I quickly move into the main part of the shop.

  “Go get in the car, I’ll be right there,” I order as I move behind the front counter.

  I grab a cloth bag and feel for the bone locks that open up the false wall. The smell of patchouli, singed cedar, and warm sugar cookies greets me as my magic connects with the hidden locks, and the wall slides open, like the pocket door it really is. I step into my Grammy’s store room, breathing in the remnants of her scent that still fills the stone walls.

  Racks and shelves line the walls, filled to the brim with ingredients, old bones, aged potion books, stoppered bottles and sealed jars of anything and probably everything an Osteomancer could ever need.

  I infuse magic with what I need and then push that magic out into the cellar-like space, urging it to find what I require. Jars and bottles begin to rotate on shelves like they’re being spun on lazy Susans. Bones rumble from the bottom of piles and then climb to the top, and I walk through the room plucking things from their homes and placing them in my bag. I hurry, and when it feels like the room has offered up all the useful contents it contains, I back out of the space.

  “Thank you,” I whisper to the magic and to my ancestors for good measure.

  I guide the door closed, reactivating the magic bones that only my line can sense and unlock, and then I steal one more glance at the shop. I have the strange sense that I’m saying goodbye to it, and as odd as that sensation is, there’s a warm peace that washes over me at the same time. I breathe in one last deep inhale of my Grammy, and then I tuck away all the dreams and plans I had for this space, hoping that my instincts are wrong and one day I’ll be able to call this magical place home.

  “Miss you, Grammy,” I murmur. “Pretty sure shit’s about to get crazy, so wake up whoever you need to on that side, because I have a feeling I’m going to need all of you watching my back.”

  I stand as my words ripple away from me, sinking into the ether and, I hope, going to work. I tighten my hold on my bag, and as I stride toward the door, a warm caress of confirmation brushes across my cheek. I close my eyes at the sensation, and I can picture my grandmother next to me, pride shining in her eyes and a stalwart set to her shoulders.

  I can feel the we’ve got you in her presence, and emotion wells in my eyes. I swallow it down, nodding gratefully to her, and then without another word or spilled tear, I push out of the door to the shop, lock it, and then dash to the car.

  Rogan watches me as I climb in, and I feel support and strength flow from him to me.

  “How are you doing?” I enquire cheekily, and he groans slightly, his eyes begging that I take pity on him. Mine glimmer back playfully not a chance.

  He laugh-grunts and then grabs for the oh shit handle as I peel out of my parking space and then race down the avenue. I roll my eyes before looking into the back seat view in my rearview mirror.

  “You better be buckled up, boys,” I warn, and Prek chuckles as Marx scurries to find his seat belt.

  “Why is he here?” Rogan grumbles, nodding to the back seat but refusing to actually make eye contact with Prek.

  “He’s choosing a side, that’s what he’s doing,” I announce, my eyes finding a pair of russet ones brimming with curiosity in my mirror.

  “Lennox,” Rogan warns.

  “Rogan,” I mock-wa
rn back. “I trusted you about Marx, trust me about Prek. If I’m wrong...I’m wrong. I don’t see how we’d be any worse off if I am. The High Council already knows, so they’re already looking for us, and if he turns out to be a snake, we’ll kill him.”

  “Hey,” Prek objects, and Marx chuckles.

  I shrug, not sorry at all.

  “Watch the road,” Rogan grumps as I stare into his eyes and try to get him to see what I see.

  I shove reassurance and a whole lot of trust me at him through our tether, and a weary sigh greets my ears. A small smile ticks at the corners of my mouth, and I try to tame it before amusement leaks through our connection.

  Is it wrong to find joy in his annoyance?

  Na.

  I take a sharp right without signaling and press on the gas so I can barrel down the empty side road.

  “What are you doing?” Rogan demands, his knuckles white and his faith in my driving skills dry as a bone.

  “Losing any tails we might have...obviously. If there’s one thing I’m learning in this second life, it’s that you can never be too careful,” I offer matter-of-factly.

  Rogan’s eyes narrow in warning at my declaration of second life, and I huff out an annoyed sigh.

  “I don’t know if you remember this, but I’m pretty sure you let the cat out of the bag when you announced I was part of some I can’t die club,” I point out, and he promptly finds something really interesting just outside of his window.

  Yeah, that’s what I thought.

  Chagrin trickles through the tether to me, and this time I don’t even crack the smile that’s tickling my lips.

  I’m getting so good at this.

  I take another series of crazy too fast right turns, making sure I complete a circle before moving erratically in another direction and watching for followers in my rearview mirror the whole time.

  “Alright, Prek, you’re with us now, so let’s get it all out there,” I announce, and then everyone in the car is slammed to the left as I jump a curb and turn on squealing tires into a neighborhood. I drop my speed as houses start to flash by, but I’ve still got my eye out for potential tails.

  “It’s all fun and games until the human police put you in jail for reckless driving,” Rogan mumbles quietly under his breath.

  I roll my eyes, but the grump does have a point, so I start scanning my surroundings for followers and cops.

  “Prek, do you hate Rogan?” I ask bluntly, hoping we can get to the bottom of their issues quickly and then over them just as quickly.

  He takes a minute to answer, and I can feel the animosity brewing in Rogan.

  “No, I don’t hate him...I don’t trust him. We used to be friendly, respectful, and then the next thing I know, my aunt’s dead and so is his uncle. My family wasn’t allowed to question it, the Kendrick heirs were renounced, and we were all just supposed to be okay with that and move on.”

  “And you weren’t okay with that?” I dig, still feeling like we’re not at the bottom of things yet.

  “No, because things didn’t make sense. The way all of it was handled screamed that there was more going on here, I just don’t know what,” Prek admits, and I consider what he’s saying.

  “It would be very easy for your imagination to run wild, I bet,” I tell him, empathy coloring my tone. “I could see a million worst case scenarios that might run through your head. Especially with your profession being what it is. You probably see the worst of witchkind on a regular basis; I can only imagine what you thought might have happened to your aunt. What Rogan and his family were hiding from you.”

  I’m talking to Prek, but my gaze lands on Rogan. What I’m saying is just as important for him to hear and understand. What happened to Prek’s aunt wasn’t Rogan or Elon’s fault, but Prek doesn’t know that. He was fed some bullshit story that never made sense to him and then expected to get over it. That’s a solid recipe for resentment if I’ve ever seen one. It also confirms what I suspected. Prek isn’t an angry Order member out for revenge, he’s a man who lost someone and would simply like some answers.

  Apprehension amps up inside of the car as I loop around to another neighborhood. I feel like I’m walking on a tightrope of tension. If I reveal what really happened and Prek doesn’t take it well or believe me, we’ll have a serious situation on our hands. Plus, the next time I ask Rogan to trust my instincts might not go over so well. I’m risking a lot here for someone I don’t really know. I look over at Rogan for a moment. Then again, maybe risking a lot for someone I don’t really know is what I’m all about now. I mean, it’s worked out well so far.

  I take a deep breath and fortify my resolve. “Your aunt Kyat, she was hooking up with Rogan’s uncle Oront, right?” I ask.

  “Right,” Prek answers, a hint of exasperation in his tone, like he can already guess where I’m going with this.

  Pshhh, try again, buddy.

  “Oront tried to kill Elon. He didn’t want to pass his powers down, so he found some ancient ritual that convinced him that he wouldn’t have to if he used it. Rogan tried to stop Oront, but your aunt had to get herself involved and attacked Rogan. Rogan fought Oront off, killing him to protect his brother, but he was hurt badly. He and Elon tried to save themselves using their magic, but in the end, they both died. Rogan didn’t murder Kyat, she murdered him. Elon died from the wounds Oront carved into him, and then somehow the magic that was at play that night said syke and it brought both Rogan and Elon back from the dead.”

  I look back at Prek to see if he’s getting all of this, and he just looks perplexed. His eyes dart to Rogan as though he’s expecting him to start laughing or something, but Rogan is stoic and quiet, and Prek has no choice but to see that I mean every word of what I just said.

  “I gotta be honest, you tell that story way better than Rogan does,” Marx teases in an effort to lighten the mood, and I shoot him a grateful smile.

  “Right,” I agree. “Rogan’s so doom-and-gloom about it; he wants to draw it out and make you guess. I say it’s better to just lay it all out there and hope for the best. Rip off the immortal Band-Aid, so to speak.”

  I slam on my brakes when I look up and find I’m about to drive through a red light. Rogan grunts as he jerks forward, his hold on the oh shit handle so tight that I suspect the handle is coming with us the next time we get out of the car.

  “My bad,” I declare to the guys. “That one was totally on me.”

  A bunch of man grumbling fills the car, and I swear I hear Marx mumble something about fighting me in the future for my keys.

  Such bitchy little witches.

  “Anyway,” I sing-song. “Back to what I was saying. The Order found your aunt and three dead bodies. They made her tell them what happened, and then the High Council tied up that loose end by killing her. When Rogan and Elon came back, I’m sure you can only imagine what those power-hungry psychos wanted. It wasn’t enough that they rule over and control everything; Rogan and Elon had a shiny new ability, and they wanted it.

  “When Rogan and Elon wouldn’t give it up, they were punished. Now, I know this all seems like a lot, I get it, but before you go trying to poke holes in the truth or convincing yourself that none of what I’m saying is possible, just remember that you saw me dead in that med tent with your own eyes. And now you’re riding in the car and talking with a very alive me.”

  I zoom into the lot of the park I rode my first solo ley line into this morning. The yellow slide practically waves hello as the setting sun paints the sky in pinks, purples, and oranges that somehow feel like the perfect farewell. I even park in the same empty spot I did before.

  The car is quiet as I slip out, the others seemingly content to follow my lead, which is interesting because I have no idea what I’m doing. My back door squeals in protest as I open it and reach for my bag of supplies. Rogan grabs the box of clothes he deposited in here earlier, and then we all trek toward the line.

  “Where are we headed?” Marx finally asks when we’re c
lose enough that the power is buzzing expectantly all around us. “First, we’re going to Rogan’s house to rest a little and get cleaned up. Then we’re going to use the tracker that Prek put on that dude Alvarez.”

  Three sets of brows dip with confusion as questions filter into all of the guys’ gazes.

  “Hear me out,” I request, preparing to lay out why I think that’s the best plan of action. “The High Council has spies everywhere, but especially in the Order. Alvarez is in the Order. He also got a call and then ended up on a bus stop bench, watching my shop. When he saw us, he probably went to report back. It’s probably a safe bet that he’s on the High Council’s payroll,” I explain as my eyes drift over to the spot where I remember someone stood and watched from the first time Rogan and I used this ley line.

  “Here’s the other part though. Someone put an owl skull in my room that portaled me to a church where Elon and I, as well as a ton of other witches, were murdered. More than likely, it was a member of Prek’s team who snuck the skull into my room. They were the only ones besides you, me, and the Major who had access,” I declare, my eyes fixed on Rogan’s. “Maybe I’m wrong, maybe they’re not connected, but Alvarez’s split loyalties seem suspicious to me. And if I’m right, it means that psycho bitch Jamie wasn’t just working with a demon. It means she was working with the High Council too.”

  10

  The Tennessee sun creeps slowly to bed, and the exit for Sweet Lips is only miles away. From the passenger seat, I stare at the sign announcing the upcoming exit, my head tilted back with exhaustion as Rogan drives us to his place. I’m tempted to check in on Paul and his son. I felt in my bones that he was going to be okay after the reading I gave him, but it might not be bad to stop by and see if there’s anything else he needs. I dismiss the curiosity, knowing that my magic isn’t being called to do that. Plus, the last thing I want to do is drop any of my trouble at his door, so I don’t say anything as the arguing in the car ratchets up a notch.