“Roganisn’tirrelevant,” he counters. “He’s a pariah, andyouwere with him. By association, you can be held to the same standard as he is, andhe’sdangerous.”
I throw my hands up in frustration. “I didn’t even know who he was until…” I try to recall what day it is again, and remember it’s still Wednesday.
Was it really just this morning when Rogan and I stood in his kitchen, spelling and spilling secrets?
I look down at my hand and see that my ring is gone. Dammit, I just spelled that earlier.Did I lose it somehow, or was it taken from me?
“This morning, actually, I didn’t know who he was until this morning,” I repeat defensively. “I had no idea when he showed up in my shop that he was a renounced witch.”
The elevator doors open to an empty car, and Prek doesn’t say anything as we both step in. He pokes the button for floor eleven. I look up and see that we’re currently on floor thirty-seven before the doors close and we begin to move down. I lean against a wall and rub at the back of my neck. I’m tired and run down both physically and emotionally. The side of my neck stings a bit, and I realize that’s where they stuck me with whatever knocked me out. I want to ask if it was Rogan or Prek who did it, but in the end, it doesn’t really matter.
“Just tell me what’s going on,” I finally ask, breaking up the silence as we descend. “Leave the Rogan shit out of this. I don’t know what the issue is between the two of you, but it has nothing to do with me.”
Prek turns his head to study me for a moment and then faces forward again without a word as the elevator stops.
“Rogan is as good as dead to me,” I declare emphatically as the doors slide open, revealing none other than the asshole Rogan Kendrick himself. He towers over both of us, and I immediately stiffen at the sight of him. He fixes a severe stare on me, the likes of which tell me that he heard my last statement and doesn’t like it.
Good. He can smolder all he wants. Burn himself up for all I care. I’m done falling for the tall, dark and broody bullshit.
It doesn’t go unobserved that, unlike me, he’s sans an escort. Then again, what do I expect? It’s clear the Major isn’t a fan, but I know Rogan cut some kind of deal to be here, and it seems that deal included free rein of the place and a constipated, priggish manner while he’s here.
Prek elbows past him without a word, and I do the same, throwing a few more elbows than are necessary. Rogan takes it, stoic and confusing as ever. Prek leads me further into floor eleven, which has a busy precinct feel to it. I see the yellow robes of Order members coming and going. Witches in offices working or talking with other groups of witches. We pass the beehive of activity, Rogan’s imposing presence on my heels the whole way.
I feel like I’m holding my breath. Will he say anything? Do I want him to? I have so many questions, and yet I simultaneously wish I could never see him again. I want to drop-kick the part of me that’s quietly hoping he will fix this, as if there’s something he can do or say that would make everything he did okay, but I know that’s bullshit. Nothing can erase what happened. I’m also assuming that he even has something to say, that he realizes what he did was wrong, but I’m not getting that impression, and that ties me in knots too.
The hustle and bustle grows more sedate the further we walk, and I observe a small maze of closed doors that have an odd pattern to their arrangement. It isn’t until Prek opens one and I’m herded in that I realize why. I’m brought into a well-sized conference style room with modern cushy chairs surrounding a stark white oval table. I take in the massive rectangular mirrors that make up two of the four walls, and I know exactly what this kind of room is used for.
Without a doubt, I’m here to be interrogated.
I stop in my tracks as apprehension floods my system. It’s like being called into your boss’s office without warning. I know I haven’t done anything wrong, but tell that to my racing heart and the adrenaline that just shot into my system.
“Have a seat,” Prek instructs, and that sets off even more panic. Which chair do I choose? Will they read into my selection?
Oh she sat on the end, she’s guilty!
I do my best to swallow down my unease, telling myself it’s irrational. They told me they had questions, and here I am to answer them. I had no idea it was going to be in this kind of setting, but it changes nothing. I haven’t done anything wrong.
I select the chair farthest from the door—that’s not on the end—and sit down, opening and closing my fists in my lap in an effort to release the tension thrumming through me. I keep picturing button-down-shirt-wearing detectives on the other side of the reflective glass, drinking stale coffee and jonesing for a cigarette. It’s a stupid visual. I know this room and what’s happening on the other side of the faux mirrors won’t be like anything I’ve ever seen, or even heard of, on a TV show.
This is the Order. They have magic to observe and deal withallkinds of things. Witches that track vitals and feelings, that can hear lies. They could have a mind reader behind one of these walls of glass for all I know. And for what witches can’t do, there are amulets and potions that can. There’s no telling what’s built into the walls of this place or what could be standing on the other side of the mirror. I’m sure they surprised me with this setting on purpose so some witch can get a baseline on my emotions or dig into my head or something.
“If you’re reading my mind right now, here’s a scarring slideshow of what STDs look like. You can thank my high school health teacher for the trauma. Also, go fuck yourself,”I snap in my mind, looking over to the expanse of mirror across from me.
Movement pulls my attention from my mental sabotage efforts, and I see both PrekandRogan turning to leave. Bewilderment stomps out my trepidation, and I shoot out of my chair.
“Wait. You’re not being questioned too?” I demand as Rogan moves to exit the still open door.
He turns back to me, a bored look on his face. “I’ve already been questioned,”he replies, his tone far too dismissive for me to ignore in my current state of freak out. When he turns to leave again, as though that’s all the explanation I’m owed, I lose my ever-loving shit.
I drop every barrier I’ve been using to hide my magic from him, and reach for the tether that connects us. I may not be able to magically flex outside of myself in this place—not yet anyway—but I sure as hell am about to let Rogan know that I’m coming for him. I wrap my essence around our connection and pull with everything I have. I syphon his magic so brutally and proficiently his knees buckle and he goes down. I hear him gasp in pain as I call on our familiar link and take every ounce of ability stored in his gargantuan body.
If our connection was a true witch-and-familiar connection, I could kill him by doing this. I could pull his entire essence into me, extinguish the light in his very soul if I were cruel enough, but I can’t. The tether between us allows him to pull right back. But if I drain him thoroughly enough, it will take him time to recover and build up the magical strength needed to either replenish or syphon back what was taken.
What I’m doing is painful and violating. I’m leaving him vulnerable, weak, and right now I couldn’t care less. It all happens in a matter of seconds. Prek barely has time to turn around to see why Rogan is on the ground before the damage is done.
“Just like that, you’ll leave me here to fend for myself?” I snap at Rogan as he shakily tries to push up from the floor. His eyes rise to meet mine, and the fury swimming in his gaze makes my heart constrict painfully in my chest. “Not even a glint of apology on your face for what you’ve done to me?” I demand, hating the frail wobble in my tone that breaks through my rage. “You dropped me dead center into all this shit, and I can’t get so much as a heads-up from you?” I gesture all around me, furious that I’m here, livid that I didn’t get a say in it. “Well, how do you like it, Rogan? How doesvulnerable and fuckedfeel to you?” I snarl, dropping back down into my seat, wrath worming its way around my chest and begging for more.
My blood sings with ability, my magic calling for retribution, but it also triggers an echo of what I felt in my nightmare. I breathe through the anger and pain churning at my core, reminding myself of the warning in that dream. I play back what it looked like and felt like to kill him, and then I recall what it felt like to die right alongside him. I acted on raw emotion in my dream, retaliating without a second thought, but I ended up drowning in my own rage, suffocating on my own blood, wishing I didn’t know what the taste of regret was like on my tongue. I tamp down my fury and struggle to get a hold of the hurt bleeding out of me.
