The Bound Witch

by Ivy Asher

  “Diem, is that you?” he asks, but he’s facing the wrong side. He looks at me, desperation in his countenance now, and it makes me want to step back from him. “What does your ghost look like?”

  “Uh...she’s tall, blue eyes, long blonde hair...beautiful,” I describe.

  Cohen closes his eyes, and the quiet anger that was just etched into his features gives way to pain.

  “Diem Wembly?” he asks, and Diem smiles next to him.

  Well, shit. Diem isn’t here about Colby, she’s here about Cohen.

  “Shit, I’m sorry, Cohen, I didn’t realize that you knew her,” I explain, my heart aching for him. I don’t know if that strange tingle that happened when we met was because Diem was here or if it somehow called her here. Either way, I’m relieved that I’m not being haunted, while also feeling bad because it’s clear this whole encounter is digging up some painful shit for Cohen.

  “How do you know her...Diem, I mean,” I ask, trying to piece together the purpose in all of this. Am I supposed to give Cohen a reading? I don’t feel the draw to do that, but Diem’s most certainly here for a reason.

  “We grew up together. Diem wasn’t blood, but she was like a sister,” he tells me, and I nod. “Is she really here? Can she hear me?” he looks around frantically, and I place my hand where Diem’s face is. His eyes study the space, like he’s looking for any sign of her. “I miss you,” he tells her, his voice suddenly strangled with emotion. “I’m so sorry about what happened.” His eyes grow wide, and his head snaps back in my direction. “Do you know what happened to her? Can she tell me who killed her?” he demands, stepping closer to me, like he’s ready to wring it out of me if he has to.

  “It doesn’t work that way. I don’t hear her like I hear you; she spoke to me through the bones when I was reading Colby. But I learned then that she doesn’t know who killed her. It was fast and painless though. Her best friend worried about that and asked me to ask her.”

  “Her best friend?” Cohen asks, like that term being applied to someone else hurts him.

  “Uh...yeah...Colby. She’s looking into what happened to Diem.”

  As the words leave my mouth, a knowing suddenly hits me. I haven’t read Cohen, and I don’t think I’m supposed to either, but I feel strangely certain that he’ll play an important role in solving what happened to Diem.

  “What’s her name again?” Cohen asks, walking back to the kitchen table where he has a laptop that looks similar to Elon’s and an open notebook. He picks up the notebook, flips it to a clean page and looks up at me expectantly.

  I look over to Diem, seeking her approval. She nods once, and then the white light that comprises her visage and allows me to see her promptly disappears.

  “What the hell, she just left,” I tell him as I spin just to be sure she’s not flashed herself somewhere else in the room.

  “What? No. I had questions,” Cohen barks out, as though I just opened the door and let the ghost escape on purpose.

  “I’m sorry,” I offer, but I don’t know what he wants me to do.

  “Diem!” Cohen calls out. “Diem!” he demands a second time after nothing happens.

  He sighs, looking around the kitchen, his eyes suddenly so lost and sad.

  “Her name is Colby,” I tell him, hoping it can be the lifeline he’s clearly in desperate need of. “Colby Trapetti,” I repeat, and he starts writing the name down. “I’m not sure where she’s living right now. The last I saw her, she was working for the Order in Chicago. However, I wouldn’t be surprised if she quit the day I spoke to her,” I add. “Oh, and she sometimes shortens her last name to Trapet,” I tell him, and his pen stills on the paper.

  “Trapetti as in the Trapetti Coven?” he asks, his voice suddenly dark and filled with all kinds of preconceived notions.

  I narrow my gaze at him, suddenly feeling very defensive on Colby’s behalf. “Yes, but before you go jumping off the deep end into your judgmental thoughts, Colby doesn’t have fuck all to do with her family, and their sins are not hers. Make sure you understand that before you go looking her up. You of all people should know that you can’t pick your family,” I tell him, offering him a pointed look.

  I don’t know much about this guy other than he’s Rogan and Elon’s cousin, he made Tad feel damsely, and that he’s the older version of the boy I saw in a vision. The vision was of him and Rogan sneaking out of the house to go fishing when they were kids, then I saw them getting in a fist fight when they were older. I don’t know why I saw any of these things. It happened when Rogan and I first used our magic together, so I blame that. I debate giving Cohen the you will rue the day speech to really hammer the don’t fuck with Colby point home, but decide against it.

  Footsteps making their way down the stairs reach me, and I turn to find Rogan is up and striding toward me. The steel in my eyes softens as I take him in, and he gives me a slow sensual smile.

  “Hey,” he offers me in greeting before dropping a soft kiss to my lips.

  “Hey,” I tell him back, stealing another peck before he pulls away.

  “Everything okay?” he asks, looking from me to Cohen and back again.

  “Totally,” I chirp. “We’re just talking about ghosts and how it’s bad to judge a book by its cover,” I tell him cryptically.

  Rogan snorts. “I never got that saying, everyone judges a book by its cover. It’s normal.”

  “Agreed,” Cohen adds, shooting me a pointed look.

  “Fine, that’s not the right comparison anyway. Don’t judge a book by its title is probably more accurate. You may think you know what you’re going to get with a certain title, but you’d be wrong,” I announce, throwing that pointed look Cohen just gave me right back at him.

  “It sounds like you’ve been spending too much time at the bookstore,” Rogan teases, and I scoff in dramatic outrage.

  “There is no such thing as spending too much time at a bookstore. How dare you, sir!”

  Rogan laughs and looks from me to the empty cup in my hand. “Ah, I know what’s going on here: you haven’t been properly caffeinated this morning,” he declares as though he’s figured out a great mystery. “The coffee maker giving you trouble?”

  “Bitches, man,” I declare on a huff, and he chuckles and takes the mug from me.

  “I got it,” he reassures me with a wink that threatens to make my panties melt right then and there.

  “And this is why I love you,” I coo, which earns me a deeper laugh.

  “The only reason?” he challenges with a raised brow.

  “That thing you do with your tongue is cool too, I guess,” I counter casually, punctuating it with a disinterested shrug.

  Rogan shakes his head, and I hear Cohen snort before he sits back down at the table and starts typing away on his computer.

  “Just cool, I guess,” Rogan grumbles quietly, and then out of nowhere my clit, nipples, vagina, and asshole, all heat up.

  They get so hot that I actually think they might melt my underwear. I squeal and start to wiggle, shooting a glare at Rogan, who’s now got a shit-eating grin on his face.

  Motherfucking blood magic!

  My privates suddenly cool, and I run a finger across my neck in the universal motion of “I’m going to kill you.” Rogan just smiles wider and holds up the empty coffee mug.

  Crap.

  Well played, Kendrick, well played.

  “Turn on the TV,” Prek barks as he comes stomping down the stairs like his private parts are on fire too.

  We all turn to him as he streaks past, headed for the living room and the humongous TV mounted above the large stone fireplace. He searches for a remote but the TV comes to life, and Prek starts watching it like the meaning of life is written across the screen. I look over to find Elon sitting on the arm of the couch with the remote in his hand. I didn’t even see him walk in here.

  They must have been watching a witch news channel last night, because that’s what pops back up on the screen, and there�
�s a man in a suit and tie cheerily announcing the seven day forecast. Rogan sidles up next to me and hands me a full cup of coffee exactly how I like it, and I promptly pay him for his barista skill with a kiss.

  “Thank you, Dave, for that fine weather update,” a quaffed woman declares in her best news anchor voice. “In other news, the manhunt is still on for former Order Captain Prek Orson. Captain Orson is accused of murdering two other Order members, Private Rick Alvarez and Special Agent Marx Bevit.” Marx’s picture pops up on the screen next to Alvarez’s and Prek’s, and I see red.

  “Orsin is considered armed and extremely dangerous. If you see him, you are advised to call the local authorities immediately.” The woman shifts to a new camera angle and starts in on another story, and the living room is completely silent.

  What in the actual fuck.

  “Loose ends, that’s what you told me, right, Lennox? That the High Council was good at tying up loose ends?” he demands, thrusting his hand toward the TV like I don’t already see what’s on it. “Is my family in danger?” he asks, as though he didn’t ever consider it until now.

  “No, they’ll run your name through the mud, make it so your own family wouldn’t help you if you turned to them,” Rogan tells him evenly.

  I set my coffee down, unable to enjoy even one sip, and start to pace. Prek takes the remote from Elon and changes the channel to another witch news show. Within five minutes, they’re sharing the same bullshit report about Prek being a cold-blooded murderer.

  “It’s everywhere. My cousin messaged me to ask me what’s going on. That’s how I fucking found out that the High Council just framed me for not one but two murders. How do they even know Alvarez is dead?” Prek asks, his voice strangled with anger and outrage.

  I feel like shit, like I pulled him into all of this, but what choice did I have? He wanted the truth, and this is the truth. This is a perfect example of the fucked up shit that the High Council has been pulling for entirely too long. I look over at Rogan, hoping he can do or say something that will help, but instead I catch the tail end of a look he’s giving Elon and Cohen. He shakes his head as though he’s answering a question.

  “It’s the perfect nail in the coffin, Rogan, not to mention I literally died to catch the footage. People are pissed. Our other video campaigns are working, but if we show them this video, it could tip things in our favor,” Elon argues.

  “What video?” Prek and I both ask at the same time.

  I step closer to Rogan as he runs his fingers through his hair frustratedly. “Elon took video of what happened yesterday,” he tells me, and it takes me a minute to realize what he’s saying.

  “You have a video of the Order attacking us?” I ask, turning to Rogan’s brother, completely shocked.

  “Better,” he counters. “I have video of the Order murdering Marx and of High Council member Bordow commanding soldiers to fire on other living and wounded soldiers.

  “Holy shit,” I mumble, completely taken aback.

  “You have to post that, and not just to clear my name, but because it’s the most damning piece of evidence anyone has ever gotten on the Order. People deserve to know the truth,” Prek growls, and as much as I agree with him, I also feel torn. I don’t want to see a non-stop loop of Marx being killed. It was bad enough the first time.

  “It could blow up in our faces though,” Rogan argues. “You know how they work,” he tells Elon and Cohen. “They might have footage of the fact that they were fighting us, and they could flip this on us somehow. Paint us to be the aggressors, and then instead of people being against the High Council, they could turn on us,” Rogan counters.

  “Maybe before, yeah, but they jumped the gun by trying to tie up loose ends with Prek. His face is on every news channel being cycled through every five minutes. They’re building a story to make him the bad guy, and we know it will get more and more convoluted as time goes on. But we have video evidence showing he’s not the killer at all,” Cohen points out.

  “With the other videos circulating, Marx’s death would be one more push of proof that people are looking for. Plus, this just happened. The High Council can’t sweep it under the rug like some of the older claims. This shows that they’re still doing everything they’re denying. Prek is right, people need to see that,” Elon adds.

  Rogan huffs out a sigh, and I rub his back. “I get that, I’m not disagreeing with you, I’m just trying to plan for all the contingencies. They will find a way to make this our fault, and we need to be prepared before they do.”

  “Not if we take them out before they can counterstrike. And this could make the people mad enough that they’d actually help us do it. I can cut the stuff with Marx out if it’s too much, but they need to see all the other times Bordow ordered soldiers to shoot into the battle,” Elon tells his brother emphatically.

  Tad comes stumbling into the living room, looking worse for wear and not expecting to see the whole group gathered here. “What happened?” he grunts, looking around confused.

  The news anchor on the TV starts reporting about Prek again, and Tad goes still watching it. Rogan looks at Prek for a moment, clearly debating what the right move is.

  “No,” he states warily. “Don’t cut the stuff with Marx out. Prek deserves to have his name cleared, and Marx would want what happened to him to count for something. Fuck the High Council, and fuck their constant stream of lies,” Rogan growls and then gives Cohen and Elon the nod of approval they’re looking for.

  They quickly jump up, ready for action.

  “We should wait to post though,” I call after them as they hurry back toward the kitchen. Elon turns back to me, his eyebrow raised in question. “Let them spend most of the day digging a hole for themselves. Like Cohen said, they’ll start adding details and making themselves look worse. Once they do, that’s when we should post the truth,” I tell him, and he nods in agreement and hurries off to get to work.

  “Are you going to be okay?” I ask Prek, knowing that this has to feel awful.

  Prek turns off the TV and chucks the remote at the couch hard. With a growl, he strides over to the front door, throws it open and stomps out. I debate going after him to make sure he’s okay, but Tad shoots up off the couch.

  “I got him,” he calls over his shoulder, and then he heads out, shutting the door behind him.

  I sigh and rub at my face with my hands. There’s just never an end to the bullshit. Rogan pulls me back against him, and I go willingly.

  “I know it’s hard, but Elon’s right,” I tell Rogan as he wraps his arms around me. “This might be the thing that tips the scales, and we need that now more than ever,” I admit, hating how true it is. I know that video footage is going to be brutal for Rogan, for all of us, but we need all the help we can get. “Is it too late to go back to bed?” I ask, and his deep chuckle vibrates through me.

  “If only there wasn’t a war to fight,” Rogan declares, but it makes my face fall.

  “I don’t want to be the Debbie Downer here, I really don’t, but how the hell are we going to win a war when we couldn’t even win the battle?” I point out to Rogan.

  He turns me in his arms, his eyes soft and his touch gentle. “We just have to figure out how to outsmart them, out fight them, out manipulate them, and hit ’em where it hurts,” he tells me confidently.

  I shake my head, but I can’t fight the smile that sneaks across my face. “Oh, is that all?” I tease, and he nods as though it’s that easy.

  The doorbell rings and we both look over at the front door.

  “But...” Rogan starts as he moves to answer it. “First, we have to fix our magic.”

  19

  I stir the coffee in my cup, the spoon obnoxiously loud in the quiet room, and I barely stop myself from shushing it. Alora, Rogan’s aunt, looks at me, her smile polite, but there’s a tightness to her gaze that wasn’t there the first time I met her. She’s still immaculately put together and would give any old Hollywood leading lady a run f
or their money. Today, she’s draped in a deep royal blue sweater with a long cowl neck, and her leather pants fit like a second skin. She has boots on with a vicious-looking spiked heel, and finger waves in her raven black hair.

  Alora’s husband, Dave, looks happy and carefree to her right, and her wife, Harmony, has a contemplative gaze that bounces around the long table we’re sitting at in the formal living room. Harmony runs a hand over her light blonde, slicked back, ballerina bun. It’s the second time she’s done it, and I categorize it as a nervous gesture. I want to offer her some reassurance, but I have no idea what’s made her uneasy in the first place, so I’m pretty much shit out of luck until someone starts talking.

  Alora, however, doesn’t seem to be in any rush. Her dark gray eyes track Rogan in the kitchen as he fills three tea cups with water straight from a whistling kettle. He sets them carefully on a tray with a plate of cookies and any other tea-making necessities his three guests may require. He starts to carry the tray over to where we’re seated, and I return my gaze to the three witches sitting on the other side of the table.

  When Rogan told me that he had contacted his aunt about our tether, I had assumed we’d get a phone call or perhaps an email. I didn’t expect that they’d drop everything to come here and speak to us in person. The fact that they did makes me even more nervous for whatever is going on with the tether—that and there’s a palpable strain at this table, and it’s making me fidgety as hell.

  Rogan doles out teacups and saucers and then sits next to me as his aunts and uncle make themselves the perfect cuppa. He drops a hand to my thigh and gives it a little squeeze. Unfortunately because our tether is broken and we’ve never been in a position like this before, I can’t tell if the thigh squeeze is an attempt at reassurance or a signal to buckle up because shit’s going to get bumpy.

  A smile ticks at Dave’s mouth across from me, and I once again debate whether or not he can read my mind. I’m tempted to think about a bunch of obscure amusing crap and then gauge his response to it in order to see if I can test this mind reader theory once and for all. But this conversation is important, so I probably shouldn’t be reciting Ali Wong bits in my mind while it’s happening, just to see if he’ll laugh.