“You’re a Blood Witch, so can you tell if my ancestors got it on with any lycans?” I ask as I hurry to catch up with Rogan. He shoots me a questioning look as I pull up even with him and Hoot.
“Why?” he asks. “You feeling the need to mark your territory or dig a hole and bury something in it?” he deadpans.
“Har har,” I mock laugh with a raisedI’m not amusedbrow. “No, but the urge to drag my ass on carpet is getting stronger and stronger,” I snark, eliciting a quiet rumbling chuckle from Rogan. “I’m asking because I just went allRain Manin my head about the moon, and that seems weird, or maybe I should say weirder than everything else has been so far. Why would witches care about the moon? Seems like it would be more of a Were trait,” I observe.
Rogan stops walking and looks at me like he’s not sure if I’m serious or not. “Fuck the Crone, you really are clueless,” he declares, scorn radiating out of his gaze. “Ruby should be brought up on charges for letting her line stew in such ignorance,” he states matter-of-factly, and immediately my hackles go up.
“You know, believe it or not, Rogan, Hemamancer of House Kendrick,” I quip, “not everyone gives a shit about the witching world of magic. This life isn’t exactly all that it’s cracked up to be,” I snap defensively.
How dare he come for my grandmother. She would have dropped everything to help him. I’ve seen and been on the receiving end of it enough to know how seriously she took it all. She doesn’t deserve his ridicule. I might, but not her.
“And what would you really know aboutthis life? From everything I’ve seen, the answer to that is nothing,” he retorts dismissively.
“Please,” I snap. “I didn’t need to have magic to see what it does to the people around you who don’t. All the stories my aunts and uncles tell about their mother just up and leaving all the time because someone required her help. The stress and pressure it put on their father to never be able to count on her, to have to raise five children on his own until he keeled over from a heart attack. And don’t get me started on the fighting and backbiting this world causes. The way it taints people, makes them desperate to be powerful, to feel special, to want it so badly that they end up divided over it and lost. There’s so much collateral damage, look at what just happened to my cousin!”
I stop myself there. I don’t reveal any more, I don’t spill the other reasons I have that made me stop believing in the magic ofmagic. Rogan and I may be tethered, but it doesn’t give him an all-access pass into who I am and what’s made me that way.
“Grow up, Lennox,” he grumbles, throwing his hands up in exasperation.
I’m completely taken aback by the admonishment.
“This islifethat you’re dealing with, not some fairy tale or wizarding story conjured up in the imagination of a starving artist. Life isn’t easy. There’s good and bad, just like there is in all things. You want to cherry-pick the bad in order to justify your ignorance, go for it, but you’re not doing yourself any favors. Like it or not, this world is yours now, and resenting that doesn’t change anything.”
An incredulous snort escapes me. “Thank you, oh wise and benevolent one, for your gracious counsel. You think I don’t know that? But I didn’t grow up the way you did in some revered special house of magic, so cut me a little slack. I fucked up, I get it. I shouldn’t have pushed my grandmother away when she tried to teach me, but I did. In case you haven’t noticed, she’s gone now, and I can’t take that back. I’m doing the best I can. Had I known the bones would choose me and then some self-righteous asshole would show up and take over my life, I might have done things differently.”
Hoot rips a fart so loud and rumbling it would make a Harley Davidson motor jealous. I scrunch up my face and immediately throw my arm over my nose to protect it from the assault I know is coming. Rogan gets hit by the noxious fumes first, and he scrambles away, a dry heave working its way up his throat. I move as upwind as I possibly can, never more afraid to breathe than I am right now. Hoot looks at me and then Rogan, and with a snort that I’m pretty sure meansmy job here is done, he proceeds to roll around in the grass and dirt, reveling in his own stench.
“I callnot iton giving the fucker a bath,” I announce, my voice more Steve Urkel sounding than normal due to my plugged nose.
“That’s just wrong,” Rogan states, fanning the air around his face aggressively.
I raise my eyebrows and nod slowly in agreement. And then we just stare at each other for a moment, the rising tension that was building between us stopped by Hoot’s ass torpedo, but there’s a distinct discomfiture now.
Rogan moves toward me, giving Hoot and his evening roll-about a wide berth. He slings the duffel bag around his chest, moving it to sit behind his back. I’m not sure what he’s doing, but as he invades my personal space, I step back instinctively. He reaches out and stops me from retreating, stepping into me until my thoughts go somewhere tantalizing.
This is somefirst kisskind of shit, and we are so not there. I don’t care if my lady bits just fired up like some NASA rocket that’s ready to launch, I don’t like Rogan Kendrick. I don’t care how kissable his lips might be or why he’s staring at me with such intensity. A girl’s gotta draw the line somewhere, and I draw it at magical enslavement.
“Wha...what are you doing?” I ask, the question airy and giving away just how flustered I feel right now. He holds me against him, and I’m forced to look up to meet his penetrating gaze.
Do not look at his lips. There will be no accidental leaning in. Get your shit together, Lennox!
Rogan’s moss-green eyes flit back and forth between my unsettled toffee-toned stare, and his hands drop from my upper arms, skimming down to my elbows before his touch falls away. “I’m teaching you,” he says evenly, quietly, and my mind conjures several meanings, all of which send butterflies fluttering through my abdomen.
“Close your eyes?” he instructs me, his tone assured.
“Why?” I argue as I tell myself to step away from him and whatever the hell he’s doing, but my feet stay planted right where they are.
“So I can explain to you how to feel them,” he tells me. I feel even more befuddled as my eyes automatically shoot to his pecs, and my fingers twitch with anticipation. “The ley lines, I’m going to teach you how to feel them so that you can use them.”
Understanding pours over me like a bucket of ice water, and my eyes bounce up to Rogan’s lips for a fraction of a second before settling back on his potent stare. “Right. The ley lines. Gotcha.” I internally facepalm, but externally I close my eyes. Mortification curdles in my stomach, and heat moves up my neck and into my cheeks. I would laugh at myself right now if I could feel anything outside of undiluted embarrassment.
I seriously need to get a grip. Yes, it’s been a while since a good-looking man got all up in my business, but the fact that my brain just jettisoned off intooh, you know what would be fun? An orgasm!territory is just plain pathetic.
“Okay, youshouldbe feeling the different frequencies that the individual lines give off,” he explains, and with a deep breath, I focus on what he’s saying. “It’s almost like you’re listening to several radio stations at once, some louder than others, and you want to pick the loudest out of all of them.”
Using my other senses, I study the different energy sources all around me until I can pinpoint the one that feels the most dominant. Rogan is quiet, patiently giving me time to work through what he’s telling me to do.
“I think I’ve got it.”
