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 washerlife.
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.
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 canreaddead things but not do a readingforthem, 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 inherspace, 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 readslike 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.
