“I don’t know, can you pull off here? I need to get out,” I instruct as I clutch at my chest. Am I having a heart attack? It doesn’t hurt so much as it’s just uncomfortable as hell.
He turns his blinker on and pulls off at the exit, his flashy car slowing smoothly and feeling more like a spaceship than an automobile.
“Go right at the stop sign,” I tell him, something inside forcing me to go all backseat driver.
Rogan thankfully doesn’t argue, and when he turns right, the vise in my chest loosens just slightly. I pull in a deep breath and call out a series of directions, like Sweet Lips and I go way back. I have no idea how I know where to go, but I do put together what all of this means as the velvet pouch of bones that I tied to my belt loop, the ones now resting against my hip, begin to grow warmer and warmer. It’s like some fucked up version ofhot and coldbones-style, and I have no doubt that I’m going to find someone who needs my help at the end of this skeletal rainbow.
“So this is what it feels like,” I state absently. “This is the urge my grandmother was talking about that could hit at any time.”
“Are you being summoned?” Rogan asks.
“Yeah, it’s so weird.” I look down at my arms as though the anticipation crawling under my skin will be visible, but they look the same as they always do. I rub at my chest, wondering how many times this happened to her. Was it like this every time, this physical need to take action, or was it more of how I felt when I knew I needed to help Rogan? That was more of an instinctual feel, this...well, this feels so much more urgent.
We round a corner onto a well-lit street, passing closed shops, a few open restaurants, and a smattering of people walking around. My heart hammers in my chest as I spot a bar with a few trucks and motorcycles parked outside.
“Here,” I point out, and Rogan pulls his too-fancy, out-of-place car into an open parking spot.
“The Eagle Fang?” he questions, reading the lit sign hung above the peeling stucco of the building.
“Actually, I think it’s called the Beagle Fang,” I point out, gesturing to the rusty-looking unlitB.
“Yeah, that doesn’t sound any better,” he deadpans as he scans our surroundings, looking like he’s been asked to touch something he finds gross. “This doesn’t look very safe,” he observes, and I just breathe and stare blankly at the front door.
“Would you say the same thing to your brother if he were the one who was summoned here?” I ask, unable to really disagree with his assessment. It looks like some run-down biker bar, not a place strangers would stop in to check out as they passed by, but what can I do? The bones are most definitely calling me here.
“I would,” Rogan answers as he looks off into the surrounding shadows as though he can see into their depths.
“Well, better get on with it,” I declare on a sigh, reaching for the door handle and stepping out of the car.
Rogan gets out on the other side. “What are you doing?” I ask, confused as to why he’s following me. His brother is an Osteomancer, he knows the deal. It’s the Bone Witches and Corium Witches that I learned about when I was younger who have to deal with this whole magical call to aid those around us. I heard my grandmother talk about it many times. Some call it a gift, others a curse, but either way, there’s no getting around it.
“I’m not going to leave you alone in a place like this,” he tells me as though that should be obvious.
“Did you ever think that maybe your hulking ass might be what gets me into trouble in a place like this?” I ask, gesturing to the front door. “I doubt anyone in there would care about some woman stopping in for a drink, but you...well, you just look like someone who wouldn’t mind creating a good ruckus or two.”
Rogan rolls his eyes. “I’m sure any old woman would have a hard time from at least one person in a place like this, but someone like you...here...that’s what’s going to cause a ruckus.”
“What doesthatmean?” I demand. “I know I’m new to all of this, and aside from you, this will be my first summoning, but despite what you think, I can do this. I can also take care of myself, thank you very much,” I huff as I round the front of the car.
Rogan reaches out for my arm, using my momentum against me and swinging me around until I’m facing him instead of stomping toward the door. I didn’t even see him move from where he was standing next to the driver’s side of the car.
“I’ve seen how you can take care of yourself, and as impressive as your right hook is, I still won in the end,” he points out, and indignation fires through me. “I never said you couldn’t do this—I don’t even think that—I was saying that a beautiful woman walking into a hole like this is bound to create issues.”
“Are you seriously using the fact that you attacked me against me?” I question, completely floored and willfully ignoring thebeautifulcomment. Mooning over that is just going to get me nowhere. “First of all, I had no idea you were going to do what you did, and second of all, if you didn’t have magic, I would have taken you.”
“Oh please, do you really think anyone is going to give you fair warning before they come for you?” he exclaims, his tone astonished and dripping with judgment. “And if I recall correctly, you attacked me first. I didn’t get physical until you did, and even then, I was just trying to keep you from hurting yourself.”
“You are fucking delusional. You made me your familiar less than two minutes after meeting you. Maybe I threw the first punch, but you most definitely attacked first. And if I didn’t have someone in there that needed me, I’d show you just how helpless I’mnot. So just stay the hell out of my way, or so help me, I will test all the different ways I can break your bones without killing you.”
I pull my arm free from his hold and march toward the bar’s entrance. Rogan doesn’t say anything, and I hope that he’ll just stay in the car with Hoot and let me do what I need to do. I’m nervous enough as it is, but now I’m pissed and shaking with adrenaline from the argument I just had. It’s not exactly the state of mind one should be in when someone needs help.
I practically stomp into the bar. It’s dimly lit, with a pair of pool tables off to the right and neon signs hung up on the walls that announce what brands of beer are sold here. I rein in my irritation over what just happened outside and head for the bar, taking in the dark booths to my left and the high-top tables and stools scattered about.
There aren’t a lot of people in here, and surprisingly, I’m not the only woman in this place. There are three men, who I assume belong to the bikes parked outside, playing pool with a woman who most definitely is a bottle redhead and looks as though she takes fashion tips from Peggy Bundy. Two older gentlemen sit at the bar, and there’s a man draped in darkness, sitting in the booth farthest from everything else.
The pouch of bones blaze against my hip, and the anxious clenched-feeling in my chest immediately subsides as I lay eyes on the man in the booth. I’m tempted to immediately walk over now that I know he’s the one I’ve been summoned to assist, but I stay on my route to the bar. Nerves scramble inside of me like ants over an abandoned picnic lunch. All at once, I feel like I’m in sixth grade again, standing on a high riser, blinded by a spotlight, and completely forgetting the words to the song I spent months practicing for the choir performance. My mouth grows dry, and I realize I have no idea how to do this.
Do I just walk right up and sayyou called? Does he even know that he summoned me, or is it more like I’ve been guided here by the universe? I try to think back to what Grammy Ruby used to say about this, but I’m drawing a super helpful blank. Are the people of Sweet Lips, Tennessee, going to burn me at the stake if I walk up to a complete stranger and ask if I can read his bones?
