I spot a pair of horns resting on a mound of dirt that the rolling car must have upturned. I call to them, and with the help of my magic, the large attached skull exhumes itself from the soil and slides over to me. It’s the bison skull I ordered from Riggs. It must have flown out of the car during the accident. I call all osteo matter in the area to me, and in a snap, the contents of the order I placed at the lycan compound are piled next to me.
I take in the collection of bones for a moment, sorting through how I might use them to help me. A lightbulb practically goes off in my mind, I instruct the caribou leg bones I planned on using for the waitress’s tea, to break into a different more useful shape. The radius and ulna bones do as my magic commands and separate so that one end has a sharp, smooth angle. I order that end of the bone into the seam of the car door, forcing them to wedge themselves and help me leverage the door open.
I grab the handle, and on the count of three, as though I’m instructing a team of helpers instead of just me and my magic, I pull the door with all my might and simultaneously force as much magic as I can into the wedged leg bones. With an angry metallic groan, the door starts to give. I shove every ounce of strength that I have into my arms and hands, and into my magic. A determined and labored screech pours out from my clenched teeth as I fight with the door, refusing to let it win.
I think I hear the sound of dirt trickling down the hill behind me, but I ignore it, focusing all my efforts on creating an opening that I can get Rogan out through. My arms and hands burn from my exertions, and the headache I thought I had dispelled comes back with a vengeance, but I push through, pulling at the smashed door with all my physical and magical might. Pops and the tearing and scraping of metal on metal fill the air all around me, and all at once the door wrenches open.
I fall back, losing my balance as it tears open, but a bruised ass is the least of my worries right now. I get to my hands and knees and quickly scramble into the car as much as I can to try and get Rogan free. Immediately I press my fingers against his neck, checking for a pulse to make sure he’s still with me. An unexpected sob almost chokes me when I feel the steady beat of his heart against the pads of my fingers. Tears start to drip steadily down my cheeks as I reach for the buckle to his seat belt, and I think it’s safe to say that the shock and numbness I’ve been feeling are starting to wear off.
That uncomfortable sense of urgency is breathing heavy down the back of my neck, and I snarl a frustrated growl when his buckle doesn’t release easily like mine did. I pull at the seat belt locking Rogan in place, but it holds tight, refusing to release him from its protective clutches. I call the polar bear jaw bone to me that I ordered, and try to saw at the seat belt with the teeth that are still intact and attached to the bone. It doesn’t work.
I need to move fast, I can feel it in my bones. I stop yanking at the seat belt and start searching Rogan. I pat his pockets and whimper in relief when I feel what I’m looking for. I have to shoulder him back a little so I can get my hand into the front pocket of his jeans.
“Stupid tight ass pants,” I grumble as I struggle to get a hand in. “Stupid big ass muscles and too tight pants,” I add as I work the bejeweled knife I’ve seen him use before up his thigh, with one hand, and shove my other deeper into the pocket.
“What are you doing?” Rogan murmurs groggily as I press in harder against him, trying to hurriedly coax the knife out of his pocket.
I gasp and flinch, startled and not at all prepared for him to suddenly be awake. “What does it look like I’m doing?” I huff, and I can just feel the cold metal of the closed knife against my outstretched fingertips.
Just a little more.
“It feels like you’re trying to get your hand down my pants,” Rogan observes, his statement a little slurred and worrisome.
I snort. “Yep, you caught me, I thought this would be the perfect moment to dazzle you with my hand job skills,” I snark. “Got it!” I announce excitedly, wrapping my fingers around the knife and pulling it free.
“What happened?” Rogan asks, his voice gravelly and his confusion feeding into the panic racing through me.
“We wrecked,” I tell him, my eyes meeting his. “I fixed what bones I could, but—”
“You’re bleeding,” he announces, reaching a hand out to my face and wiping at the steady slow trickle I’ve had since I woke up. His green eyes flash from perplexed to confused and then to angry.
“We both are,” I explain, and then I pull my face away from his hand and get back to work.
The blade of the knife pops out with ashicksound, and I waste no time positioning it against his lap belt. “Hold on,” I instruct as I prepare to saw away at the webbed polyester, but the knife is sharp as hell and cuts through the belt like butter. Rogan half tumbles on top of me before he seems to catch his weight against the frame of the destroyed car.
I crawl back and out of the tight space, pulling him along with me. I try to ignore the winces and grunts of discomfort as I go, but that same strange rumble moves through the ground I’m kneeling on, and it feels like it’s screamingyou’re out of timeat me. Just as the sensation passes, Rogan’s gaze snaps up and searches all around us. His face fills with anger, but that emotion is quickly replaced by pain. An agonized groan pours from his mouth when I try to help him get all the way free of the car.
“Lennox, run,” Rogan grunts out. He suddenly starts to push me away from him.
“What the—” I object as I pull on him even harder, confused.
“Run,” he orders more adamantly. “They’re trying to surround us.”
Panicked, my head snaps up, and I look all around us. “Who is?” I demand when I don’t see anything there.
“Circummancers!” he snaps, the word filled with fury and alarm.
Vicinal Witches, my mind supplies, pulling the name from lessons I didn’t think mattered as a kid. And then it all dawns on me. The freak wind that shoved us off the road, the strange current I can feel vibrating in the ground, the sense that I’m running out of time. We’re being attacked by elemental magic users, and they’re about to lock us into a grid.
“Fucking hell!” I grunt, yanking hard on Rogan and freeing him from the car the rest of the way.
The lesson from my early teenage years comes rushing back. I can hear my Grammy’s voice explaining to us the history of witch battles and how they were fought. I remember pretending to be as into it as Tad was as she detailed how groups of witches liked to fight.
“One on one, the odds are more even,” Grammy agreed when Tad asked why witches didn’t duel like they did back in the olden days. “But no one likes to lose, Tadpole, which is why magic users prefer strength in numbers,” she explained, as if it were the most riveting story she ever told.
“Witches like to surround and attack, creating a force, a grid, where magic bounces off of other witches. That way the magic becomes stronger and more lethal,” she declares as she mimes a sword fight. “In a grid, it doesn’t matter if your magical blow or attack misses its mark. The magic bounces around inside the circle until it hits someone, or a partner-witch takes it and combines the force with their attack, until BOOM!” she shouts, and it makes me and all of my cousins jump in surprise.
Her voice fades as our childish giggles fill my mind, and loss constricts around me, so tight that it all at once makes it hard to breathe. I recall her telling us that normally witches can’t feed off of each other like that. That our magic is usually onlyourmagic, but witches and covens have found ways around that. I learned that day that amulets that protect and temporarily link witches to a partner in a group have been a game changer when it comes to fighting, and now Rogan and I are about to experience firsthand why you never want to be in the center of a grid.
