I shove reassurance and a whole lot oftrust meat him through our tether, and a weary sigh greets my ears. A small smile ticks at the corners of my mouth, and I try to tame it before amusement leaks through our connection.
Is it wrong to find joy in his annoyance?
Na.
I take a sharp right without signaling and press on the gas so I can barrel down the empty side road.
“What are you doing?” Rogan demands, his knuckles white and his faith in my driving skills dry as a bone.
“Losing any tails we might have...obviously. If there’s one thing I’m learning in this second life, it’s that you can never be too careful,” I offer matter-of-factly.
Rogan’s eyes narrow in warning at my declaration ofsecond life, and I huff out an annoyed sigh.
“I don’t know if you remember this, but I’m pretty sure youlet the cat out of the bag when you announced I was part of someI can’t dieclub,” I point out, and he promptly finds something really interesting just outside of his window.
Yeah, that’s what I thought.
Chagrin trickles through the tether to me, and this time I don’t even crack the smile that’s tickling my lips.
I’m getting so good at this.
I take another series of crazy too fast right turns, making sure I complete a circle before moving erratically in another direction and watching for followers in my rearview mirror the whole time.
“Alright, Prek, you’re with us now, so let’s get it all out there,” I announce, and then everyone in the car is slammed to the left as I jump a curb and turn on squealing tires into a neighborhood. I drop my speed as houses start to flash by, but I’ve still got my eye out for potential tails.
“It’s all fun and games until the human police put you in jail for reckless driving,” Rogan mumbles quietly under his breath.
I roll my eyes, but the grump does have a point, so I start scanning my surroundings for followersandcops.
“Prek, do you hate Rogan?” I ask bluntly, hoping we can get to the bottom of their issues quickly and then over them just as quickly.
He takes a minute to answer, and I can feel the animosity brewing in Rogan.
“No, I don’thatehim...I don’t trust him. We used to be friendly, respectful, and then the next thing I know, my aunt’s dead and so is his uncle. My family wasn’t allowed to question it, the Kendrick heirs were renounced, and we were all just supposed to be okay with that and move on.”
“And you weren’t okay with that?” I dig, still feeling like we’re not at the bottom of things yet.
“No, because things didn’t make sense. The way all of it was handled screamed that there was more going on here, I just don’t know what,” Prek admits, and I consider what he’s saying.
“It would be very easy for your imagination to run wild, I bet,” I tell him, empathy coloring my tone. “I could see a million worst case scenarios that might run through your head. Especially with your profession being what it is. You probably see the worst of witchkind on a regular basis; I can only imagine what you thought might have happened to your aunt. What Rogan and his family were hiding from you.”
I’m talking to Prek, but my gaze lands on Rogan. What I’m saying is just as important for him to hear and understand. What happened to Prek’s aunt wasn’t Rogan or Elon’s fault, but Prek doesn’t know that. He was fed some bullshit story that never made sense to him and then expected to get over it. That’s a solid recipe for resentment if I’ve ever seen one. It also confirms what I suspected. Prek isn’t an angry Order member out for revenge, he’s a man who lost someone and would simply like some answers.
Apprehension amps up inside of the car as I loop around to another neighborhood. I feel like I’m walking on a tightrope of tension. If I reveal what really happened and Prek doesn’t take it well or believe me, we’ll have a serious situation on our hands. Plus, the next time I ask Rogan totrust my instinctsmight not go over so well. I’m risking a lot here for someone I don’t really know. I look over at Rogan for a moment. Then again, maybe risking a lot for someone I don’t really know is what I’m all about now. I mean, it’s worked out well so far.
I take a deep breath and fortify my resolve. “Your aunt Kyat, she was hooking up with Rogan’s uncle Oront, right?” I ask.
“Right,” Prek answers, a hint of exasperation in his tone, like he can already guess where I’m going with this.
Pshhh, try again, buddy.
“Oront tried to kill Elon. He didn’t want to pass his powers down, so he found some ancient ritual that convinced him that he wouldn’t have to if he used it. Rogan tried to stop Oront, but your aunt had to get herself involved and attacked Rogan. Rogan fought Oront off, killing him to protect his brother, but he was hurt badly. He and Elon tried to save themselves using their magic, but in the end, they both died. Rogan didn’t murder Kyat, she murdered him. Elon died from the wounds Oront carved into him, and then somehow the magic that was at play that night saidsykeand it brought both Rogan and Elon back from the dead.”
I look back at Prek to see if he’s getting all of this, and he just looks perplexed. His eyes dart to Rogan as though he’s expecting him to start laughing or something, but Rogan is stoic and quiet, and Prek has no choice but to see that I mean every word of what I just said.
“I gotta be honest, you tell that story way better than Rogan does,” Marx teases in an effort to lighten the mood, and I shoot him a grateful smile.
“Right,” I agree. “Rogan’s so doom-and-gloom about it; he wants to draw it out and make you guess. I say it’s better to just lay it all out there and hope for the best. Rip off the immortal Band-Aid, so to speak.”
