His stare is intense, and I suddenly feel like he’s too close. His presence is sucking up all the oxygen, and it feels as though this is more of an illusion of choice that’s being offered than an actual choice. His long black lashes and green eyes do their best to hypnotize me, but I trace the scar that cuts down part of his face from brow to cheekbone to keep from falling into them.
I need to go through the guidebook I have somewhere in my apartment, and then I need to find the Osseous grimoire and see what it says about tethering. Fixing whatever happened here today is the priority, and then I need to stake my claim on this shop and get established in the magical community. The last thing I need is to get caught up in whatever is haunting this man and his family. Maybe that’s callus, but his attempts to force me into helping him haven’t earned him any of my sympathy.
I’m about to open my mouth and tell him no, but something happens that has me pausing. A stinging current strikes through my limbs. With a sigh, I’m reminded of the fourth task I was sworn to uphold: take over the shop and guide anyone the magic chooses. As much as I want to deny it, I know that I can’t. The zap I just felt was inarguably the magic choosing him.
I have to help.
It’s written in the stars with the blood of my ancestors.
And I fucking hate it.
5
Resolve leaks out of me like I’m a sieve. It’s as though someone has come along and poked enough holes in my determination that not even my stubbornness can keep the purpose from spilling out. I have to help this self-righteous prick, and it’s honestly the last thing I want to do.
Out of nowhere, Mary Poppins’s “A Spoonful of Sugar” starts in my mind, but I mentally flip off the perky anthem and press the off switch to my subconscious’s efforts to cheer me on. Dancing cartoon penguins and Julie Andrews’s silvery voice aren’t going to make this fucked up pill any easier to swallow.
I step away from Rogan, my teeth gritted against the capitulation in the move, and run my fingers through my dark-chocolate and cinnamon swirled curls. He watches me carefully like my surrender is suspicious and he’s not quite buying it yet. Good. I may have to help him, but I don’t have to be nice about it.
“Fix what you did to my magic, and I’ll help you,” I offer, deciding that he doesn’t need to know that my assistance is already, so to speak, a done deal.
“I told you, I don’t know how to reverse it, but I know who does. If you help me find my brother, I’ll make sure to set things right. I vow it.”
I study him for a beat and then nod. “So vow it,” I agree, wondering what a vow looks like to a Blood Witch. It better not be that blood brother kind of crap, because science has come too far and taught us too much to go mixing our lifeblood all willy-nilly.
Osteomancers in my line will give away a bone. Usually something small from an animal, but the bone will be infused with the magic of that Osteomancer’s promise. When the vow is complete, the bone disintegrates to dust. I hope this doesn’t go in the direction of Angelina and Billy Bob. I really don’t want to wear a vile of anyone’s blood around my neck.
A switchblade once again appears in Rogan’s hand. Now that I’m closer, I can see it’s not just your run-of-the-mill pocketknife either. It’s gold and it appears to have Rogan’s family sigil in rubies on the handle. He better be careful flashing that thing around; we’re not in a bad part of town, but people have been mugged for less.
Rogan pricks his finger and then draws a line of blood down the front of his throat. He whispers an incantation so quickly I can’t make it out, and the next thing I know there’s a tickling sensation on my wrist. I look down to see a delicate, ruby-red, lace-like circle with a swooping and elaborate K in the center. I stare at the magical tattoo for a moment, sifting through the surprise I feel over having it there.
It’s like a demon mark, only demons mark a person’s feet when they give or take a vow. I don’t know what their obsession is with feet, but I remember my father talking about it when I was younger. I didn’t know that some witches could mark others in a similar way.
I look up at Rogan, who watches me as he slips his knife back into his pocket. His green eyes drop to the mark on the inside of my wrist and then rise to meet my gaze again. I nod at the question I see in his eyes. “Let’s get on with it then.”
A relieved sigh pours from his lips, and he reaches into his other pocket and pulls out that mysterious plastic sandwich bag again. “Can you read these?” he asks, holding the baggie out to me, his question hopeful and his movements hurried.
I take it from his hands, and the contents look like ash. I look up, perplexed.
“They were in my brother Elon’s apartment. They were encircled in a ring of crushed rowanberries, and I think they’re what’s left of his familiar.”
My eyes widen with this information. I know rowanberries have medicinal purposes, but I can’t think off the top of my head what ceremonial value they might have. Anger and sadness simmer in my gut at the thought of a familiar being killed in such a brutal way. Maybe it was to weaken the witch, but it seems especially cruel and unusual. I was always told that familiars were off-limits. Then again, a stranger off the street just turned me into one, so what the hell do I even know?
I cradle the bag of ash in my hand and, with heavy, tired limbs, turn and walk through the rubble of the shop in the direction of the reading room. Glass skitters and tinkles across the floor when I accidentally kick it, and I can hear Rogan crunching behind me in my wake. My shop is a mess, and I wonder if he’ll help me clean everything up after we discover whatever there is to discover from his brother’s familiar’s remains.
I sit down in a chair, my legs grateful for the reprieve, and take a deep breath. I’ve seen my Grammy do this before. I’ve watched her hold a bone and read it, gleaning whatever she can from its cells. I, on the other hand, have never attempted it. I can only hope it’s as easy as it looks.
Rogan sits down next to me, and I can feel the tension pouring off of him and settling into the air all around me. Pressure pecks my skin, and it doesn’t take the High Council to tell that there’s a lot riding on this for him.
I steel myself, pulling in a fortifying breath, and then I open the bag.
Here goes nothing.
I dump some of the contents into my cupped palm, and my hand starts to warm. I close my eyes and feel the sensation, willing the remains to tell me their secrets. A flash of worry strikes through me as I realize that maybe the remains will have me watch their death. My stomach roils at the thought, and I try not to panic. I don’t want to watch someone burning a witch’s familiar alive or, worse, experience the sensations the animal did as it perished, but I might not have much choice in the matter.
I’m reminded of all the things I wish I had asked my grandmother when she was alive. I had a well of knowledge and experience at the ready, and I never bothered to tap into it. I know I thought Gwen was a shoo-in for this power, but I suddenly wonder if it made my Grammy sad that I never took more of an interest in her life simply because it was her life.
I try to compartmentalize the guilt and sadness that settles on me like frost on unexpectant spring leaves, and focus on the remains cupped in my palms. Nothing happens. I pour more of the ash into my hand and once again wait for magic to somehow show me the way.