I immediately wonder if Rogan knows they’re here, and then I set that thought aside to focus onwhythey might be here and how I want to play this. With a flick of her wrist, the door slams shut, the display of her elemental magic I’m sure meant to intimidate.
Dramatic entrance much?
She saunters into the room confidently, stopping on the other side of the table across from me. She looks over my head to the mirror behind me, but I don’t turn around and follow her gaze. No, I’m too busy recognizing that someone just did something to the room. It doesn’t impact my magic—nothing in this building ever has, although I’ve been working hard to keep that on the down low—but there’s a change all the same. And I get the sinking suspicion that whatever devices, charms, spells, and runes used to spy, observe, and record what happens within these four walls just went dead.
The man in the cranberry-colored suit winks at me, and I’d bet good money that he’s a Contegomancer. Corium Witches are almost as rare as my kind, but they specialize in protections, shields, and concealment among other things. They’re the ancient palm readers of old, holding dominion over a person’s skin—their protective shell so to speak—but that protective magic translates into so much more beyond simply reading the lines of someone’s palm.
“I’m sorry we’re meeting under such circumstances, but it’s nice to meet you all the same, Lennox,” the High Priestess tells me in lieu of a formal greeting, her eyes alight with kindness and her smile warm. Rogan’s father moves forward to pull the seat out for her, and she sits down stiffly like she doesn’t want to touch anything for fear of catching something.
She doesn’t address me formally, which is the respectful thing to do, or attempt to introduce herself at all, clearly deciding that I should already know who she is. I do, but it’s arrogant and rude all the same. She waves for me to have a seat, and since I’m not trying to start shit as of yet, I plop back down in my chair and wait. Her High Council side-pieces sit down after I do, but it feels less like a chivalrous move and more an effort to make me feel cornered by them.
The High Priestess and I study each other for a moment, her perusal shrewd despite the sweet mask that’s fixed on her face. I try to calm my hammering heart, remembering that Rogan told me his father is a Soul Witch and is probably reading my body’s reactions like a book. Then again, anyone in their right mind would be startled by the sudden appearance of the High Priestess of Witches. So maybe I’m okay on that front.
“Does your grandmother have my son?” Sorrel asks, forgoing the beating around the bush pleasantries and getting right to the point. I almost respect the move...almost.
“No,” I answer just as frankly.
“You believe that despite the evidence?” she counters coolly, folding her hands demurely in her lap.
“And what evidence is that?” I ask. “I mean, despite the circumstantial and conjecture-based theories that have been spat at me, I’ve yet to see any evidence that supports this accusation.”
“It doesn’t seem like a logical conclusion to you based on the facts?” she asks, deflecting my question.
“It does not,” I tell her simply. “And unless the Order is keeping vital information to themselves, there are far too fewfactsavailable to us to draw any accurate conclusions from.”
“How do you know my son?” she pivots, once again dodging my point.
“I don’t know him, I only know that he’s missing.”
“No, not Elon, Rogan?” she redirects.
“You know the answer to that question; I’ve been asked it repeatedly by the Order and have answered honestly and the same every time.”
“I’d like to hear it for myself,” she presses.
“He came to me, asking for help with finding his brother. I agreed to help him. Here I am,” I tell her, offering the CliffsNotes version.
“Yes, here you are,” she coos, the smile still in place on her lips, but her eyes now cooling from our exchange. “My sons were renounced for murdering their uncle in cold blood. Were you aware of that?” she asks with a little sniff.
“Yes.”
“And that’s not a concern for you?” she queries innocently, but the judgment in her green eyes gives her away.
“Honestly, it’s none of my business,” I counter, trying to calm the anger that starts to boil my blood as the High Priestess of Witches, Rogan and Elon’s mother, tries to paint her own children with lies and disdain, all to further some ridiculous power grab. She can judge me all she wants, but I know what she’s about, and it disgusts me.
A small voice in my head is begging me to stay calm, to play along and not fuck with the people who more or less rule my race. I could easily play the victim, make Rogan out to be the bad guy just like she’s doing. He might even deserve it, but that’s not who I am.
Maybe it’s the flashes I saw of his life as a kid when Rogan and I first used magic together. Or the truth of what happened to them, and the people who stood by and allowed it. Perhaps it was the realization that nothing is what I thought and that there are far more gray areas in the world than my black and white upbringing would have ever had me believe. But as I feel the weight of High Council stares on me, sense the subtle disdain leaking out of the kelly-green eyes of the piece of shit witch across from me, I’ve hit my limit with playing small.
I’m done with all of it. The Order can shove thisfor your protectionbullshit up their tight ass. Rogan can fuck off with his too late apology. This bitch can kick rocks, thinking she’s better than me. And I can stop being a little bitch and pretending I’m anything other than what I am, a powerful as fuck, badass Bone Witch.
“How is murder and the safety of your fellow witches none of your business?” the High Council member in the cranberry suit demands.
I roll my eyes and direct my answer to the High Priestess. “If they’re so dangerous, why renounce them instead of execute them? You want me to worry about their penchant for killing, but clearly you as High Council members weren’t worried, because you let them loose on society. So yeah, it’s none of my damn business. Besides, no one came to me and asked me to kill anyone. I was asked to help find missing witches. Witches, it seems, no one aroundhereis actually interested in finding, and frankly, I’mreallystarting to wonder why that is.”
“Careful, witchling,” she warns, losing her cool.
“Heed your own warning, lady, you don’t know shit about who I am,” I snap back, pushing out of my chair and onto my feet. I’m surprised when Sorrel Adair balks slightly before shoving her all-powerful mask back in place and matching my stance.
