Except it doesn’t.
I give things a couple more minutes before opening my eyes and releasing a defeated sigh. Frustration immediately taints Rogan’s demeanor. “Are you even doing it right?” he demands, pushing out of his chair and beginning to pace again. I’ve never seen anyone actually do that when they’re frustrated, and it could be oddly soothing if he weren’t so damn annoying.
I try not to get defensive over the accusation, because, real talk, maybe I’m not doing this right, but I’m not sure what else there is to do. Grammy Ruby would only ever hold the object she was reading. I never saw her mumble an incantation or add an elixir or powder to aid her. She just held the bones and spoke their secrets.
I shrug. “I’m pretty sure reading something just involves tactile connection and then interpreting the things that come to you. Maybe I’m wrong, or maybe these ashes don’t have enough bone matter in them for my abilities to work. Did you try your magic on them?”
Rogan shoots me a withering look that makes it clear what he thinks about that question. “Of course I did,” he snaps.
“And…”
“And nothing, I couldn’t get anything. Maybe they’re spelled somehow.”
I tip my palm over the opening of the bag and spill the ashes back into the plastic receptacle. He could be right, but I don’t sense any traces of magic on the remnants. “Are you sure these belonged to his familiar?” I question, trying to think through why there’s no residual information on or in the substance.
Rogan runs his fingers through his luscious and annoyingly healthy looking hair and turns to pace back in my direction. “I can’t be sure. Part of her collar and tag were sitting in the pile. It could be her, or it could be some kind of plant or decoy, it’s hard to say,” he admits, starting another round around the room.
“Okay, so start at the beginning and tell me what makes you think he was taken and that the same thing happened to the others.”
“I will explain, but first is there anything else you can do, any other means to test what that is if it’s not the ashes of my brother’s cat?”
Out of habit, I wipe the grit from my hand onto my pants and then immediately cringe when I realize what I just did. Disgusted, I hold my hand away from me as though it’s contaminated. I just wiped mystery dead crap on my favorite boyfriend jeans. Nice one, Lennox. Ew.
“Um, again I’m new at this. I can read dead things but not do a reading for them, so that rules out tossing the magicked bones on their behalf. Maybe there’s something in the grimoire that could work,” I propose, pushing out of my chair and trying not to touch myself or anything else with my ash-coated hand. I leave the bag of remains on the black table and fish keys from my pocket.
Rogan stops his pacing to follow me, and I’m tempted to tell him to wait down here while I go up into my grandmother’s former home alone. If I thought for two seconds that he’d listen, I would, but I get the distinct impression that he’s used to being the one in charge. I don’t really want him up there, a stranger in her space, or maybe I just don’t want him up there to see how much her absence affects me. I’m already tethered to him magically; he doesn’t need access to my vulnerabilities and what makes me tick too.
Looking back at him, I pause with the key in the lock. The determination in his gaze has me swallowing down my argument. His face reads like it or not, I’m coming, and I just don’t have the energy required to knock him out to ensure my privacy. With a resigned exhale, I unlock the door. It swings open to reveal a set of golden oak stairs, and I tamp down the loss that rears up inside of me as I begin to climb them. I get about halfway up and realize that my presence never tripped the ward I know my Grammy had on the doorway.
She had residual magic encasing the entrance that would make you feel scared and have you either backing away or running up the flight to avoid the monster that you just knew was right on your heels. Maybe I’m immune to it now that the same magic runs through my veins. But when I look back at Rogan, there’s no hint of panic, no sweat on his brow that would indicate he’s fighting the terror he should be fighting by tripping that ward. He just looks at me curiously.
Maybe the necros cleared it when they came to smudge and retrieve Grammy’s body? Cautiously, I turn forward and continue slowly up the stairs. I crest the landing that leads into the large studio-style apartment, and inhale the scents of my childhood. An updated kitchen sits in the right-hand corner with a large eat-in island and stools.
To the left is the wall-less bedroom. She put waist-high open-backed bookshelves around it to delineate the space, and a queen bed is set in the middle of it all, the white painted brick of the apartment serving as a headboard. Hanging plants above the overflowing bookshelves contain her favorite potions ingredients. And the table next to the bed is overflowing with candles, wax drippings covering the shafts and pooling on the cedarwood finish.
I expect to see the bed mussed from use, but instead I’m greeted by a smooth quilt, throw pillows, and extra blanket folded at the foot of the bed. I move in that direction, my Converse thumping against the wood floor, the noise matching the speed of my heart, beat for beat. Yesterday, my grandmother lay down for a nap, never to wake up again. I blink back the emotion that wells in my eyes and try to breathe through my sorrow.
The faint hint of necromancer herbs tickles my nose, and I wonder how many of them came to retrieve the body and how long the ceremonies they do to cleanse and honor it will take.
Should we have a funeral? What rituals would she want at a burial? Or would she rather be cremated and ride the winds for the rest of time? I’ll have to call Aunt Hillen and see what she thinks.
Rogan is silent behind me. I get the impression that he’s trying to be as unimposing as possible, and as much as I don’t like him, I appreciate the reverence with which he moves through my grandmother’s home.
It’s my home now, but I can’t quite wrap my mind around that. I’m also still not comfortable with living where my grandmother just died. The family will tell me to gut it, redo the entire inside so that it doesn’t feel like the same space or carry any remnants of death and sadness, but I’m not there yet. The shop makes sense, because it’s what we’re destined to do, sell our wares and offer readings and guidance as needed, but living in this apartment is a choice, and I’m not ready to commit to it yet.
I search for the small skeleton key that I know fits into the lock of the drawer on the bedside table. With a click, I pull it open, holding my breath as I wait for the grimoire to come into view. Puzzlement flashes through me as I fully open the drawer.
“It’s not here,” I mutter, shocked, turning to Rogan. “The grimoire isn’t here.”
His steps clomp closer to me as he moves to survey the empty velvet-lined drawer that I’m gesturing to like some vacant-eyed game show model.
“Are you sure it should be here? Is there somewhere else she would have put it?”
“No, she was always very careful with it.” I look around the room as though the answers to the missing magical book will be there. My gaze stops on the made bed, just as Rogan holds up a long strand of red hair. I narrow my eyes at the sight and let out an irritated growl. “I know who took it,” I announce, and then I stomp out of the room and head right for the stairs.