I leave him to stew on my ambiguous non-answers and stride to the yellow curtain that separates us from the main part of the shop. I pull it back sharply and find Rogan sitting on the ground with his head in his hands.
“How’s it going?” I ask Marx.
“He sang me a rather lovely song, and now I’m pretty sure he’s coming down.”
I bite back a smile. “Cool, can you get him buckled up in the car, we gotta go now...like, now.”
“On it,” Marx asserts, and then I shut the curtain and look at Prek expectantly.
He studies me for a beat and then nods once. “I’m in.”
I stride toward him and lift a hand. The chair beneath him poofs into a cloud of dust, and he falls hard on his ass. He glares at me but pushes the thin rope Marx used to tie him up off his wrists and ankles. Prek stands up, and I will the bone that makes up my Grammy’s favorite chair to resume its previous shape.
“Could have warned me?” he grumps, rubbing his ass.
I shoot him a saccharine smile. “Could have not tranqed my boyfriend,” I lob back.
As soon as the wordboyfriendleaves my mouth, it feels wrong. He’s more than that, but I doubt Prek cares to understand the nuances of my relationship. He offers a conciliatory nod and then follows me as I quickly move into the main part of the shop.
“Go get in the car, I’ll be right there,” I order as I move behind the front counter.
I grab a cloth bag and feel for the bone locks that open up the false wall. The smell of patchouli, singed cedar, and warm sugar cookies greets me as my magic connects with the hidden locks, and the wall slides open, like the pocket door it really is. I step into my Grammy’s store room, breathing in the remnants of her scent that still fills the stone walls.
Racks and shelves line the walls, filled to the brim with ingredients, old bones, aged potion books, stoppered bottles and sealed jars of anything and probably everything an Osteomancer could ever need.
I infuse magic with what I need and then push that magic out into the cellar-like space, urging it to find what I require. Jars and bottles begin to rotate on shelves like they’re being spun on lazy Susans. Bones rumble from the bottom of piles and then climb to the top, and I walk through the room plucking things from their homes and placing them in my bag. I hurry, and when it feels like the room has offered up all the useful contents it contains, I back out of the space.
“Thank you,” I whisper to the magic and to my ancestors for good measure.
I guide the door closed, reactivating the magic bones that only my line can sense and unlock, and then I steal one more glance at the shop. I have the strange sense that I’m saying goodbye to it, and as odd as that sensation is, there’s a warm peace that washes over me at the same time. I breathe in one last deep inhale of my Grammy, and then I tuck away all the dreams and plans I had for this space, hoping that my instincts are wrong and one day I’ll be able to call this magical place home.
“Miss you, Grammy,” I murmur. “Pretty sure shit’s about to get crazy, so wake up whoever you need to on that side, because I have a feeling I’m going to need all of you watching my back.”
I stand as my words ripple away from me, sinking into the ether and, I hope, going to work. I tighten my hold on my bag, and as I stride toward the door, a warm caress of confirmation brushes across my cheek. I close my eyes at the sensation, and I can picture my grandmother next to me, pride shining in her eyes and a stalwart set to her shoulders.
I can feel thewe’ve got youin her presence, and emotion wells in my eyes. I swallow it down, nodding gratefully to her, and then without another word or spilled tear, I push out of the door to the shop, lock it, and then dash to the car.
Rogan watches me as I climb in, and I feel support and strength flow from him to me.
“How are you doing?” I enquire cheekily, and he groans slightly, his eyes begging that I take pity on him. Mine glimmer back playfullynot a chance.
He laugh-grunts and then grabs for theoh shithandle as I peel out of my parking space and then race down the avenue. I roll my eyes before looking into the back seat view in my rearview mirror.
“You better be buckled up, boys,” I warn, and Prek chuckles as Marx scurries to find his seat belt.
“Why is he here?” Rogan grumbles, nodding to the back seat but refusing to actually make eye contact with Prek.
“He’s choosing a side, that’s what he’s doing,” I announce, my eyes finding a pair of russet ones brimming with curiosity in my mirror.
“Lennox,” Rogan warns.
“Rogan,” I mock-warn back. “I trusted you about Marx, trust me about Prek. If I’m wrong...I’m wrong. I don’t see how we’d be any worse off if I am. The High Council already knows, so they’re already looking for us, and if he turns out to be a snake, we’ll kill him.”
“Hey,” Prek objects, and Marx chuckles.
I shrug, not sorry at all.
“Watch the road,” Rogan grumps as I stare into his eyes and try to get him to see what I see.
