The Bound Witch by Ivy Asher
10
The Tennessee sun creeps slowly to bed, and the exit for Sweet Lips is only miles away. From the passenger seat, I stare at the sign announcing the upcoming exit, my head tilted back with exhaustion as Rogan drives us to his place. I’m tempted to check in on Paul and his son. I felt in my bones that he was going to be okay after the reading I gave him, but it might not be bad to stop by and see if there’s anything else he needs. I dismiss the curiosity, knowing that my magic isn’t being called to do that. Plus, the last thing I want to do is drop any of my trouble at his door, so I don’t say anything as the arguing in the car ratchets up a notch.
Since I dropped the whole possible collusion bomb, these three have been going at it. They’re not fighting so much as passionately discussing the odds that I could be right or wrong, what either outcome means, pitching other potential scenarios, then playing devil’s advocate about everything and starting it all over again when the possibility of peace and quiet gets too close.
Prek hasn’t said shit about the whole could be immortal thing. He seems more keyed up about the suggestion that any mancer would ever conspire with a demon, let alone a demon using a witch whose line had been stripped of magic. The whole thing is laughable, and Rogan and Marx argue each side of every scenario so thoroughly that I think they’ve confused themselves at this point.
All I know is that I’m not nearly caffeinated enough for any of this shit. My eyes are scratchy and burning, my body aches, my stomach is pissed that there aren’t more fast food options located on the highway in the middle of nowhere Tennessee. The only thing carrying me through right now is the fact that I’m going to see my little buddy Hoot soon, and then I’m going to jump face-first into the nearest bed and sleep off the death.
Dusk deepens all around us as we go, and it’s making me even sleepier. I immediately sit up and roll my neck, making myself aware of everything around us.
“Just sleep,” Rogan implores me, again. “I can feel your exhaustion; it’s okay to crash for a little while,” he urges.
I stifle a yawn, as riding the ley line again to get here really drained me, but I can’t succumb to the call of sleep just yet.
“I’m fine, it’s not too much longer. I don’t want anyone sneaking up on us while you three wax on and on and on about witch politics and if there’s any major significance to the fact that the skull was an owl skull.” I fake wretch at my words and roll my eyes for good measure.
Rogan reaches over and runs the back of his hand across my cheek. I melt a little inside at the gesture and the way his eyes warm as he looks at me. “It’s been a long day,” he notes, and I don’t know why that simple observation makes me feel like I want to cry.
It has been a long day, and I know there are many more to come too. Maybe that’s what’s stoking my overly emotional reaction, or maybe I’m just tired and hungry. That’s never a good combo even on the best of days.
“I was thinking,” I start, “before I saw you tranqed on the ground, that it would be good to train each other on one another’s magic. It’s a little reading each other’s diaries,but it would probably be beneficial to go through our grimoires too. I know we have a million things we need to do to get ready for what’s coming for us, but I think this is important,” I tell him, and he caresses my face once more before dropping his hand to mine and threading our fingers.
“I agree,” he responds, his tone supportive. “I know my aunt’s house is not your favorite place because of what I did there, but I think it would be good to talk to her coven again about everything. When we were there before, we had every intention of severing things between us. Now that things are different, we should try to learn as much as we can.”
I swallow down the hesitancy that creeps into my chest at the mention of his aunt’s coven. He’s right, I know he is, but it feels risky too. “Can we trust her?” I ask, worried that the question might offend him. “She seemed like a lovely person, don’t get me wrong, but she’s your father’s sister. Doesn’t she subscribe to the same toxic crap he does?”
Rogan gives my hand a comforting squeeze. “Not at all. My father hasn’t talked to her since she was a teenager. She was always all about the old ways and the order of things, and that’s clearly not at all what my father was about. I only know about her because my mother used to throw her existence in my father’s face whenever they were arguing. She thought Alora was some kind of blemish on my dad’s magical line.”
I snort incredulously, making it clear just what I think about that, and Rogan lifts an eyebrow in agreement.
“Elon and I met Alora and her coven after we were renounced. It’s why we chose to settle in Tennessee—she gifted Elon and me the land our houses are built on. She took us in when nobody else would. She never even asked us what happened, she said she knew our souls were pure and she’d help us in whatever way she could.”
Once again, I have to blink back the emotion his words stir in me. I hate that he’s had to go through so much, and I’m grateful that at least he and Elon weren’t abandoned by everyone. It’s nice to know that sometimes good does prevail over evil, even though it can be hard to see evidence of that in the world we live in today.
“Love you,” I tell him softly.
“Love you,” he professes right back.
The car suddenly grows quiet, the steady debate that was just happening behind us stalling as though someone found their mute button.
“Wow, you two jumped right into that quick,” Marx observes, his tone teasing but also ringing with a touch of surprise and concern.
“Sure did,” I concur, not an ounce of shame or regret in my voice. “The days of too much PDA are on the horizon too, so get ready,” I decree with a cheeky smile as I rub my thumb over Rogan’s.
“When you know, you know,” Rogan agrees casually, like it’s really just that simple.
“Well, damn,” Marx declares. “I’ve known the guy for fourteen years, and the first time he’s told me he loves me was today.”
I crack up at the revelation, and Rogan smiles, amused.
“But then he threatened to kick my ass,” he points out, concerned. “Does an I love you even count when the person saying it is high as a kite?” he then questions, and I laugh even harder.
“‘Ouiser, you know I love ya more ’n my luggage,’” I tease, and then the car goes quiet.
Rogan shoots a puzzled look my way, and I drop my mouth open, shocked and completely scandalized. “What?” I squeak. “None of you have ever seen Steel Magnolias?”
Prek snorts and Marx grunts his dismissal.
“Yeah, Lennox, that’s exactly what the three of us do on our time off. Watching old ass chick flicks is most definitely a passion of all of ours,” Marx deadpans, and I turn to glare at him.
“First of all, Marx, don’t ever let me hear you disrespect the great Dolly Parton again. Second of all, a classic is a classic, and you three would be better men for it. What about Fried Green Tomatoes, tell me you’ve at least seen that one.”
Marx snickers, but no one speaks up.
“You’re all heathens,” I accuse, turning back to face the front, appalled. “Swine,” I call back as Prek and Marx start to titter. “My Grammy wouldn’t approve a one of ya,” I decree, a strange Southern accent popping up like even my voice has declared solidarity with Ouiser and the gang.
Rogan pulls into a long driveway that’s dimly lit by solar lights, and the guys start arguing about movies they have seen and think are good. I tune it all out when the brilliance of Rocky starts to get tossed around. Trees line each side of the drive, and I feel the need to hold my breath until we crest a rise and Rogan’s house is suddenly in view.
Just like the first time, welcoming light glows inside and outside, making the palatial modern house feel warm and homey. I run my eyes over the dark gray siding, the gorgeous cedar accents, and all the windows that I now know display gorgeous views from every room in the stunning house. I feel like I’m coming home, which is weird, but I’m going to go ahead and apply the laws of finders keepers and just roll with it.
As though Rogan can feel everything I just did, he shoots me a smile so wide and stunning that it makes me forget how to breathe.
Damn, that gorgeous mug he’s rocking is potent.
He looks away, his own feelings of relief and happiness flowing over to me, and my involuntary muscles once again remind my brain that we need oxygen. A garage door opens as we drive closer. The frosted glass panes inset in the cedar door are a beautiful combination, and I watch them rise until we’re pulling in underneath them.
Prek whistles, impressed, and I smile proudly, even though I had absolutely nothing to do with making this home so damn incredible. What’s interesting is that I can feel this house in a way I couldn’t before. Now that I’m more open to the tether, I can sense protections, wards, weapons, and even the blessings that are incorporated throughout. I feel it all just like I could feel Elon’s house, and it makes me even more awed than I was before.
We all climb out of the car, grabbing my things from the back, and file in one by one. A demon dog bark booms all around us, and both Prek and Marx freeze. The sound of nails on the hardwood rushes toward us, and I set my bag of potions and ingredients down and get on my knees.
Hoot’s gray Ewok-looking ass comes scrambling around the corner and squeals with excitement as he barrels right into me. I hug him tight, petting his face and cooing at him loudly as a fluffy corgi comes bouncing at us in Hoot’s wake. Rogan grabs the other pup, and I wait excitedly for what I know is coming next. Gibson, Rogan’s skunk familiar, prances around the corner, and I hear Prek screech a fuck no and then dive into the living room.
I start laughing so hard I almost pee my pants. I can’t stop seeing him throw his body out of the way as his voice goes full teenage girl at a boy band concert. Rogan sets Tilda down and picks up Gibson, and Prek proceeds to army crawl behind the couch. Marx is leaning against the wall, grabbing his stomach as laugh tears spill down his cheeks, and I can feel Rogan’s smug feelings. I’m sure his thoughts on the matter are somewhere in the range of payback’s a bitch.
Prek peeks over the couch, still not catching on that the skunk is harmless, and I break into a new fit of giggles at the sight of him. My cheeks and stomach hurt by the time Rogan convinces the Order member that he won’t get sprayed. I look down at Hoot and start peppering him with kisses. The normally stoic pooch is clearly excited to see me, and it makes my heart melt.
“Who’s a good boy?” I baby talk at him. “It’s you, it most certainly is. I missed you so much, buddy,” I assure him, sounding like a mix of Scooby-Doo and a Chipette. I cuddle him to my chest again, which is exactly when he rips a fart so loud and lethal that I find myself wanting to dive into the living room, Prek-style, and then army crawl away.
Moon shits, it’s bad.
Marx looks over at me like I’m the poop shoot offender, and I flip him the bird while trying to convince my lungs that oxygen is way overrated. I put Hoot down and scramble away, pulling my shirt collar above my nose as a secondary offence. Rogan wastes no time in grabbing my hand and pulling me along after him. He knows what’s up, and he quickly pulls us both to safety.
Apparently, Marx didn’t get the memo though, because he leans down to pet Hoot like the atmosphere around him isn’t ripe as hell and dangerous. The moment Marx realizes that he’s made a huge mistake, will live rent-free in my mind forever. One minute, Marx is reaching for the adorable little furball that he thinks the rest of us rudely abandoned, and the next, he’s inhaling and then seriously wishing he hadn’t. He gags and slams back against the wall as though making himself as flat as possible against it will make the reek go away.
Hoot steps closer to him, clearly wanting those pets that Marx was just offering, and Marx gurgles out a weird combination of groan and squeal before he leaps away. Hoot suddenly thinks this is some kind of game and proceeds to trot after him, a steady stream of toots going off like machine-gun fire in his wake.
Rogan runs to a set of sliders and pulls them open. “Run!” he yells at his friend. “Lose him in the trees, or there’s no hope for you,” he calls after as Marx books it into the backyard with Hoot, Gibson, and Tilda hot on his trail.
I have no choice but to run to the guest room by now, holding my crotch and bargaining with my pee to not go anywhere until I say it’s okay. I’m still cracking up as I slam the door behind me and, in record time, strip down and commandeer the toilet. Laugh-tears drip down my cheeks, and I wipe them from my face, losing it again when I hear Marx scream from somewhere outside.
I love that dog.
After washing up, I head back out to the kitchen where I find Rogan talking to Elon while he makes a sandwich.
“You’re back,” I announce, surprised, and then Rogan moves over, and I catch sight of my girl.
I gasp. “Oh my god, I’ve missed you so much,” I exclaim and then open my arms and sprint across the massive space.
Rogan looks amused, and Elon looks momentarily confused before he opens his arms, clearly expecting my hug trajectory to take me to him. I run right past him, wrapping the espresso maker up in a bear hug so tight that it communicates how much I’ve missed her and that I never want to leave her again.
“It’s you and me forever, you got that?” I promise her, closing my eyes to revel in the feel of her cool metal outside and the magic all her parts create inside.
“What the hell just happened?” Elon mumbles. “Did I seriously just get pushed aside for the coffee maker?”
“Don’t take it personally,” Rogan reassures him. “I barely make the cut. Pretty sure she was open to forgiving me because I read the instruction manual and know all its tricks.”
“You’re not wrong,” I confirm, giving him my best puppy dog eyes. “Please make her scream my name,” I beg, and Elon chokes on air as Rogan offers me a wide grin and a shake of his head that says what am I going to do with you.
He trades me places and starts touching the espresso machine in all the right ways. “Fuck, that’s hot,” I purr at Rogan, and his eyes turn molten and playful.
“You two are making me uncomfortable,” Elon announces evenly, and I turn to him, almost forgetting that he was there.
“How’d everything go? Did Tad and Hillen get settled in okay?” I ask.
As if his name conjured him, Tad walks out from the direction of the stairs, in sweats and ruffled wet hair. Bewilderment crashes through me as I take him in, and then worry inundates me as questions stack up in my mind.
Did something happen when they were going to the safe house? Where’s Hillen? Why didn’t Elon call to tell us?
“Don’t get mad, Len,” Tad commands, and my eyes narrow at the instruction.
“Tad, what the hell did you do? You’re supposed to be at some safe house I’m not allowed to know about so it can’t be tortured out of me!” I shout at him, all thoughts of a coffee-making hot-as-sin Blood Witch fleeing my dirty, dirty thoughts.
“I was,” he shouts back. “But then Elon was leaving, and I just couldn’t do it.”
“Couldn’t do it?” I demand, confused.
“No, I lost you once already, and I’m not going to sit aside and let it happen again. Elon and I already discussed it,” he announces as though that makes it all final.
“Oh, you did, did you. You discussed it?” I snarl, aiming a glare at Elon.
Rogan moves toward me, sending me all the calming vibes through our tether, but I shut that shit down. “Elon, it’s not safe here,” I start, but Tad cuts me off.
“Actually, Lennox, it is. It’s safe here inside this house or inside Elon’s house. They designed them that way. Elon, Ma, and I all already agreed. I’m staying in the house where it’s safe. I won’t take any unnecessary risks. I will not get in the way, I’ll only help where I can while staying completely safe and secure at all times.”
I open my mouth to argue. The only problem is I’m struggling to grasp on to anything I can argue about. He’s right, Rogan’s house and Elon’s house are mini bunkers. There’s no one getting in here unless we let them in. The plan is to take the fight to the High Council anyway, so there’s really no reason at all that Tad couldn’t be perfectly fine here.
“What about Hillen?” I counter, raising my eyebrows in a very mature declaration of there, take that.
“She’s calling the rest of the family we actually care about and getting them to safety. She understood that I needed to be here, and she was fine with it.”
I scoff. “Oh please, she was fine with it?”
He fidgets for a beat and shrugs. “Okay, fine is a stretch. She said, if anything happened to either one of us, that she’d spend the entire afterlife kicking our asses,” he admits.
I shake my head. “Quite a mouth on that one these days,” I point out, and Tad snorts out a laugh.
“You died and she found her inner sailor.”
Tad and I stare at one another for a beat, the rest of the kitchen quiet, and tension leaks out of the atmosphere. Tad closes the distance and wraps me up in a hug.
“Don’t be mad, Supreme Boner,” he pleads, his voice soft and filled with love.
“Fine,” I concede, hugging him back.
The back door into the kitchen suddenly slams open, and Prek and Marx barrel in, quickly shutting it behind them. They’re breathing hard and look ruffled as hell. A scratching sound starts at the door, and Marx flinches and moves further away. Tad and I separate, and it’s as though the last dregs of my energy go with him when he does. Rogan moves in closer, a mug of delicious coffee gripped in one hand.
“Come on, let’s get you to bed,” he encourages, and right in that moment, those seven words might be my favorite sentence ever.