“My grandmother had just died, you discovered that when you walked into the shop that morning. How could I have done any of this? I didn’t have any magic before then, what would be the point of kidnapping a bunch of people more powerful than me?”
“You don’t have to be a witch to get the drop on other witches. Not having magic doesn’t rule you out as a suspect or make you powerless. You were the next in line, it was a fair assumption Kendrick made,” Marx points out in Rogan’s defense.
“I didn’t know I was the next in line,” I counter. “And I didn’t kidnap anyone. I don’t give a shit about thefragmented branches of magic.So are we good now? Can I go home and be done with all this bullshit?” I question, hating the betrayal I feel and just how badly it stings. I knew there was more to all of this, but I didn’t knowIwas on the suspect list.
“Why am I here?” I ask, my tone hollow. “You knew before now that I wasn’t involved.”
“I did, but I was hoping you could still help,” Rogan admits. “That maybe you could pick up on something I couldn’t.” He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, a sheepish look on his face. “There was also the issue of the tether. A coven here is the only one I’ve ever heard talk about it, so I knew they could fix it.”
My eyes jump back and forth between Rogan and Marx as I place all the pieces I just learned in front of me. “If you’re the member of the Order, and the one investigating the missing witches, why didn’t you come to speak with my grandmother?” I ask Marx, not understanding that part of the puzzle. “Why would you come?” I question Rogan.
Marx’s eyes drop to the ground, and he toes some ripped up earth from where a piece of bone buried itself. “Because this isn’t an official Order investigation.”
“I don’t understand,” I confess as confusion hammers me so hard I can feel a headache coming on from it.
I need a damn nap.
“It’s not an official investigation, because we don’t want anyone in the organization to know we’re looking into things. That’s whyIdidn’t go to meet with your grandmother; I can’t leave my assigned district unless it’s for a case, and technicallythisisn’t one,” Marx supplies.
“Our theory, before we suspected your grandmother, and then subsequently you…” Rogan adds, “was that maybe someone high up in the Order was behind this. Which is why we have to be careful.”
Understanding crashes down on me like an anvil. I don’t like any of it, but I can’t pretend that it doesn’t all fit together. I just wish I knew how to feel about everything they just purged. I want to tell myself that I shouldn’t feel betrayed—I knew Rogan was playing close to the vest—but everything feels tainted with deception now, and it’s bothering the shit out of me.
I shake my head and fold my arms over my chest, as though the stance can somehow protect me from any more duplicity and hurt. “Nik Smelser,” I offer, my tone thoroughly pissed off.
“Nik Smelser,” Rogan parrots.
“I don’t know who it is or if they’re even involved, but it’s the name the bones gave me when I was scrying.”
Rogan’s head snaps to Marx, who is already writing the name down.
“Did you get anything else?” Marx asks, his dark brown eyes rising from the small magicked notepad in his hands and settling on me.
“No,” I declare, deciding to keep the flash I saw when I connected to all the bones on the property to myself. I’m not sure what it means yet, and these guys aren’t the only ones who can hold out until they know more.
“That’s a lie,” Marx declares, with a cocked brow, his tone a dead ringer for Maury Povich’s.
Shit.
I forgot Vox Witches could hear that. Stupid walking, talking lie detectors. Rookie move, Lennox. Rogan’s face clouds with anger, and for some reason that makes me feel better.
“Don’t look at me like that. If I’m holding back, you only have your own omissions and cagey behavior to blame,” I defend and release a resigned exhale. “I’m not sure what it means yet. If I decide it’s pertinent, I’ll tell you. That’s how you two like to roll, isn’t it?”
I turn and stride back into the house, dodging Rogan’s effort to grab me again and stop me. I duck out the door leading to the garage but get boxed in by the two of them before I can go any further.
“This isn’t a game,” Rogan growls as he lords over me, backing me into Marx until I’m pinned between them.
“I’m not playing one. This isn’t tit for tat. I need to see the other Osteomancers’ houses before I know if this is even relevant,” I defend.
“Fine, I’ll take you to them, but keeping anything to yourself right now is a stupid move. It could mean life or death in the end if itwaspertinent,” he grumbles, his stare both angry and desperate.
I give a derisive snort, hating that he’s right. I take a deep breath and slowly let it out. “The pile of ashes inside the rowanberries are from the grill outside. I don’t know what purpose the presence of the smashed berry circle serves, but I think its only purpose is to throw anyone looking for Elon off.”
“How do you know this?” Marx questions, and I shoot him a glare. He holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m not saying you’re lying, it’s just a side effect of what I do, I question everything.”
“Because when I went into defensive mode, I tapped into every bone that exists on the property. I wasn’t picking up on anything unusual inside the house because the bones that had this information aren’t inside the house,” I explain.
“Your brother’s familiar is a corgi right?” I ask Rogan.
