The ground rushes up mercilessly to meet me as I fall. All I can hear beyond my own dying is Rogan’s voice when he told me,what happens to my soul happens to yours. What happens to my bones, happens to yours. We are bound now, and unless I remove it, there isn’t a thing you can do to change that.
My body starts to convulse, and I know it will be over soon. My thoughts race, and the taste of blood in my mouth is replaced by the bitter taste of regret. What will my Grammy think? What will become of the line? Will Tad and Hillen forgive me? Will they ever know what happened?
Agony tightens like a fist around my heart, and all my questions, all my twisted thoughts of retribution and justice are replaced with paralyzing fear.
What have I done?
The magic is lost to me, I couldn’t rein it in if I tried. The damage is too great to ever take back. I try to blink blood from my vision, and my terrified, dimming stare settles on empty green eyes. Eyes that have looked at me in so many different ways. With betrayal. With attraction. With hope. And now with death. I stare into Rogan’s now lifeless eyes, and I want to ask why, but in my head, I hear the answer loud and clear...wedid this to each other.
The sensation of falling takes over, and oddly, I land on something hard. With a gasp, I’m yanked from my own death, and I find myself on a dark wood floor, blinking and gasping as I sit up. Panic claws at my throat, and I cough hard to clear my airway of...nothing. There’s nothing in my throat. No blood. No death. Nothing. And yet the sour taste of regret still sits on the back of my desert-dry tongue.
I look around frantically, taking in what appears to be a small, swanky apartment, but Rogan’s not here. He’s not lying next to me, dead on the floor in a puddle of blood. His lifeless eyes may haunt my future dreams, but they’re not staring back at me from the ground. I clutch my chest, my heart racing from the nightmare I just woke up from. The poor battered organ beats furiously, clearly disbelieving that what just happened wasn’t real.
Was it a prophecy? A foreshadowing of sorts? Or just my fractured mind trying to fix everything that happened?
A glass of water sits on the black side table next to the king-sized bed I just fell out of. Bubbles line the inner walls of the glass, leading me to believe it’s been sitting there awhile. I grab for it and gulp it down greedily. I need to wash the taste of loss from my mouth, rid myself of the guilt I’m swimming in even though what just happened wasn’t real. I didn’t kill Rogan.
“Just a dream,” I mumble to myself as I wipe my mouth with my forearm and stand up.
I’m wearing the same gray T-shirt and jeans I had on before. They don’t look worse for wear, which—despite what the flat tepid water might indicate—makes me think I haven’t been down for long. My legs feel unsteady and weak as I put my weight on them, and I feel all fluttery and fragile like I’m recovering from the stomach flu or something. That thought conjures images of Rogan puking up blood, and I cringe away from the imagined flash of his pain.
“Just a dream,” I repeat, but I feel as though it might be more of a warning.
I survey the dark wood of the apartment around me. Deep browns and blacks offset light gray fabrics on the bed, sofa, and chairs. It’s a studio style setup. I can see a living room, a kitchen, and a door that leads to a bathroom, I hope, with another door that looks like it’s the entrance and exit to this space. I’m not sure what to make of my surroundings.
When Prek and Rogan dosed me, I expected to wake up in some kind of cell. Bars and polished concrete wouldn’t have surprised me, but this...I don’t know what this means. Did Rogan change his mind and steal me away to wherever this place is? Has someone else rescued me?
I eye the door, unsure about what to do. Do I make a run for it? I mean, even if I can escape, how far can I get? With the Order looking for me, a yet-to-be-confirmed possible kidnapper hunting down Osteomancers, and the unresolved issue of Rogan and me still being tethered, the odds aren’t good. Do I wait for Rogan to appear and then force him back to his aunt’s place to remove our tether? Is that even possible if one half of the connection wants to use the other half? What if Rogan isn’t the one who brought me here, then what?
My head aches from the weight of the issues that are bearing down on me. Doubt, confusion, and questions apply more and more pressure to my already exhausted mind as the seconds tick on. So I push all of it aside and focus on the most pressing issue I’m dealing with right now.
I have to pee like a racehorse.
I stumble on unsteady legs over to the bathroom, some semblance of a plan forming as I plop down on the porcelain throne, sighing in relief as the floodgates are opened. First phase of the plan: empty the tank. Second: refill it by tracking down some food. And lastly: tear this place apart looking for clues as to who owns it, and then go from there. I flush and wash up, surprised by what I find in the mirror staring back at me. Once again, my expectations of my reflection are far from reality.
I feel weak and shaky and expect to find a reflection that looks as haggard as I feel, but that’s not what’s staring back at me in the mirror. I look good. Like,reallygood. There’s a healthy glow to my tawny-beige skin. I appear pumped full of vitality, and oddly, I’m practically photoshop smooth. I got a dose ofrefreshedandbeautifulwhen I first bound the bones to me, butthis...this is next level. I don’t just lookOsteomancergood, I lookQueen of all the Bonesgood.
I rotate my face in the mirror and poke my plump lips and smooth skin. I fight the urge to raise my hands above my head and shoutI have the powerHe-man style. I lean in closer to the mirror and fluff my tresses. Damn, even my typically unruly hair looks tamed by professionals. I angle my head this way and that, the cinnamon-toned streaks that break up my dark brown mass of curls, adding dimension. And shockingly, every strand on my head looks luminous and frizz-free. I stare at myself dumbfounded, my golden brown irises staring back at me curious and looking a little too haunted. I look away before that gaze can suck me in and remind me of just how painful my reality is.
Time to get serious. No more marveling overExtreme Makeover: Magic Edition, it’s time to focus on what the hell to do now. With a roll of my neck, I try to shake the exhaustion from my limbs. I find a loaf of French bread, a Coke, and some butter and call my hunt for food over. I shovel bites into my mouth like I’ve taken up speed-eating as a profession, dropping crumbs all over as I search the small but lavish studio.
I get even more bewildered when I don’t find any clothes in the drawers and nothing hanging in the armoire in the room. There aren’t any pictures or personal effects in the entire place. It’s empty of anything other than furniture, home decor, some toiletries, and food. On closer inspection, what I thought was a blank white wall turns out to be a massive blackout shutter. I try to open it, but it seems I need some kind of remote or elemental magic or something.
I take a huge bite of bread as I start to search the living room for some device that opens things when I hear two faint beeps, and then the door to this place opens. I whirl around, my heart sprinting like it’s racing Shelly-Ann Fraser-Pryce for a new world record, with worry and alarm on its back. It isn’t Rogan’s annoyingly handsome face that spots me from the doorway, it’s Prek’s surprised russet-brown stare that meets mine.
The Order member who attacked Rogan and me hesitates at the door as though he wasn’t expecting to see me. I log the reaction, intent on examining it later, but there’s no hesitation in my bones as I lunge for him. Too late, he blasts wind my way, but I’m close enough to swing and slap him across the face with half a loaf of French bread before a cyclone tries to pull me away. Instinctually, I infuse my bones with magic, making them heavy, unmovable, and locking myself in place.
He shoves more magic at me, but I grit against the onslaught and step forward, closing the distance between us one forced step at a time. Magic is calling on me to crush him, tempting me with the thought that a simple incantation could make him dust underneath my sneakers. I reject the idea immediately, echoes of the nightmare I had just before I woke up here still looming over me menacingly and undeciphered. That and, like it or not, Prek is an Order member. They may not be playing by the same set of rules of honor and morality that I am, but I can’t start a war with the Order. Not if I want to live. Or try to get out of whatever fucked up situation Rogan has forced me into.
I kick his feet out from under him and aim another kick at his ribs just as soon as his back hits the floor. He doesn’t anticipate that I would try tophysicallyfight him, which seems stupid given the bread slap that I landed seconds ago. It makes me question the kind of unprepared idiots the Order hires, but then he rolls away from my kick and pops back up, a pissed-off look in his eyes. I return his angry look with one that screamsfuck you and the broom you rode in on, and we both ready our stance.
“Useless dimmers, I’m going to kill whoever made this one too strong,” Prek growls, but whatever he’s talking about isn’t for me, it’s more like he’s making a to-do list for after he beats my ass.
I ball my fists and bring my hands up, ready to go toe-to-toe. Prek’s jaw tightens, accentuating his square jawline. He’s clean shaven now, no black beard to cover up the smooth dark skin of his cheeks or to hide his buxom lips. “I don’t want to fight you, Osteomancer, but I will if you force me to,” he warns, tense and waiting for me to strike.
I give an indignant snort in response. “Could have fooled me with the way you’ve now attacked me...twice,” I point out, adding an extra sprinkle of irritation on the last word. “Where am I?” I demand, looking past him into what looks like a simple apartment hallway.
Why the hell would Prek bring me to his house?
