The Bound Witch by Ivy Asher

8

Power inundates me with only a speck of a thought. It crackles all around me like dangerous static as I shove it out into my surroundings, searching for attackers. I’m prepared to find cloaked magic users advancing on the shop SWAT-style, or moving to trap us in a grid, but that’s not the case. Rogan’s magical signature is a steady hum, and I only sense two other mancers nearby. One of which has wards protecting them against the reach of my magic, and the other doesn’t.

I prepare my magic to Bone Witch bitch-slap whoever just picked a fight without any protection. I’ll deal with the easy target first and then teach the other one a lesson next. I’m just about to let my magic loose on the two mancers on my radar when something confusing happens. The witch I can feel who has no wards or spells protecting them suddenly attacks the other magical presence I sense.

What the hell?

Why would they take out each other?

Without a thought, I call on even more magic, readying myself for whatever is going on, and I shove out the front door. I rush to the right where I can feel the other two magical signatures, and when I round a corner into the narrow alleyway between my shop and the one next to it, I find Marx breathing heavily and standing over the crumpled body of...Prek.

Confusion and relief battle each other in my chest, and I can’t seem to find my voice as my eyes dart back and forth between the two of them. Near Prek’s hand is a black and brown gun that looks odd. I don’t know what’s off about it, and apparently my body doesn’t care, because just the sight of any kind of gun has me choking on alarm and foreboding.

I’m back in the church, the sound of a gun discharging suddenly reverberating all around me. Pain tears through my chest and then heat as the bullet rips through me, my skin and bones no protection at all. My lungs fill with blood, and I gasp for air, only this time my magic doesn’t blink out, instead it flares.

The sensation of hot power pulsing out of me pulls me from the flashback. It’s as though a blue hypergiant star has just opened up in my chest, causing flames of magic to consume every inch of me. My shocked gaze lands on Marx’s wide eyes, and I can see the fright and surprise in them as he takes a hesitant step closer. He lifts his arms, palms out, and then lowers them slightly, silently communicating that he wants me to calm down.

“Lennox,” he calls to me, his voice laced with so much soothing and reassuring power that I want to wrap it around me in hopes that it will help to douse this all-consuming inferno. “Lennox, you’re okay, just breathe.”

I nod jerkily and focus on pulling air into my lungs. Slowly my chest rises with the smooth intake of a deep breath. It chases away the feeling that I’m drowning in my own blood again.

I survived, I tell myself, blowing the breath out and pulling in another one.

My lungs are clear, my chest is healed, I’m okay.

My raging power starts to calm, and I go from a burning white beacon of magic to a softly glowing ember.

“That’s it,” Marx tells me, lacing his words with more of his own magic, and I’m immediately grateful he’s a Vox Witch and therefore knew exactly how to talk my magic down.

The glow kissing my skin disappears altogether as I continue to breathe through my panic and assure myself that everything is okay. Yeah, Rogan is still lying on the ground, but I’m pretty sure we have Prek to thank for that, and he’s currently an unconscious heap too. Marx is here, no one else is closing in on us. It’s all okay. The burning hot star in my chest blinks out, and my body relaxes as I finally get my power under control.

I blow out a deep sigh of relief and offer a warm smile to Marx. “What are you doing here?” I ask, my tone friendly but surprised to see him. But Marx’s stare is stunned and focused on something behind me. I whirl to see what it is.

Well, shit.

Across the street, a sea of bones floats just over the ground in the massive graveyard. I squeal with panic and start flapping my arms, shooing the bones back to what was supposed to be their final resting place. I look all around as I do, but the few passing cars don’t slam on their brakes and run screaming from their cars. I don’t spot any pedestrians or anyone else walking slack-mouthed out of the surrounding businesses with their camera phones poised to capture the unexplainable phenomenon. I quickly bury the bones back where they’re supposed to be and then awkwardly speed walk away like there’s nothing to see here.

With a flick of my wrist, I call both Prek’s and Rogan’s bodies to me. I might be getting a little too good at this. I dismiss that thought as I hold open the door and carefully float Rogan inside. I shove Prek in next, not bothering to be overly careful as I bump him around purposefully. Oopsie. Marx quickly follows after, and my anxious eyes flit over everything around us as he disappears into the shop. No one is so much as glancing my way, and I relax a little as I shut the door, lock it, double-check that it’s actually locked, and then magically send Prek’s and Rogan’s bodies through the saffron yellow curtain that separates the main part of the shop from the large room where my Grammy Ruby did her readings.

I set Prek in the high-backed chair Ruby loved to sit in, and lay Rogan out on the table.

“Can you tie him up or secure him somehow?” I ask Marx, who’s watching me, oddly quiet, from the doorway.

He nods and gets to it while I check Rogan over. Magic tells me that he’s unconscious but otherwise fine. Relief spills out on a sigh, and I reach up and pull a finger-sized dart from his neck. Power pulses at my fingertips as I examine it, but I don’t detect any potions or spells. Whatever Prek hit him with seems to be a concoction of the human variety.

I brush hair away from Rogan’s face, gently running my fingers over his cheek.

It hits me that I too woke up on this table after meeting Rogan for the first time and being knocked out.

My, my, my, how the tables have turned.

A small smile ticks at the corners of my mouth. He looks way more uncomfortable than I remember feeling, or like he will be when he wakes up. I should probably feel bad about that, but I did tell him he’d rue the day for messing with me, and this day is a ruing.

I debate for a moment trying to speed up the metabolizing of whatever drug is in his system. Now that I know Hemamancers can heat up blood, maybe that would work, but I’m hesitant to try it. I don’t want to burn him up from the inside out or cause damage. I could also try to separate the drug itself from his system, but again the theory sounds great, but I don’t know how to actually do it.

I open myself up to the tether and the blood magic, willing it to guide my hands like my bone magic has so many other times. I wait for that telltale knowing to percolate in my mind, for pure instinct to tell me what to do, but nothing happens. Okay, I definitely need to work that out with Rogan when he’s awake. No point in both of us having access to the other’s abilities if we don’t know how to use them when we need to.

I look over to find Marx draping a braided leather necklace around Prek, a small fuchsia pouch hanging from it and resting against the Order member’s breast bone.

“What happened?” I finally ask when Marx steps away and starts quickly inspecting his handiwork.

“Siobhan had to report the missing bodies. I tried to get her to hold off just a little longer, but she said they’d know she waited and that my dick wasn’t worth going to prison for.”

I snort out a laugh, not expecting that overshare, and shrug awkwardly. Marx shoots me a look that very clearly argues this Siobhan’s claim, and I hold up my hands in no position to argue one way or another.

“To be fair, I don’t know if any dick is worth going to prison for?” I assure him, looking over to Rogan.

I tilt my head in contemplation. I mean, maybe I’d have to spend more time with it to be sure.

“Fuck, this is weird as hell,” Marx confesses on a deep exhale. “Rogan and Elon told me what happened to them. It all makes so much sense with what I’ve seen them put through, but I saw you...die. I watched them shut your eyes and clean you up. You were gone...but here you are.” He gestures to where I’m standing less than five feet away from him. “I don’t know how to process this. I thought I had. After talking to Rogan, I thought I got it, but I don’t know now.”

“It was weird for me too, trust me,” I reassure him. “You get used to it though,” I offer unhelpfully.

He rubs the back of his neck and chuckles at my crappy attempt at comfort.

“For real though, who is Siobhan and why would she wait to report missing bodies? Rogan told me you had a friend who was helping; I’m assuming that’s who you’re talking about, but you know this fool never paints the whole picture,” I tell him, waving a hand at where Rogan is still splayed out on the large circular reading table.

Marx laughs again, and some of the tension and uncertainty drains from his stiff shoulders. I know Rogan and Elon trust him, and I really want to be able to. I feel a little better now that he doesn’t look like he’s about to freak out.

“Yes, Siobhan’s my friend who works at the morgue. She’s in charge of processing and discharging bodies that have been claimed for rituals and sacrifices and other things like that. I figured that would be a quiet and discreet place to keep you while we, you know, waited,” Marx explains.

“Did she know there was a possibility I could wake up?” I question, wondering if she’s now going to be another loose end that could be a threat to us.

“No, definitely not. When she’s there, she’s normally in her office, making arrangements, not hanging out with the bodies. That part of the Order’s morgue doesn’t get a lot of activity though. Bodies are held there until Siobhan goes through the request database to see if there’s a match between a ceremonial request and what she has on hand. I remembered her saying once that some people wait months and months before they match up with a request. If you were going to wake up, we hoped that would be the best option for it to go undetected.”

“Oh,” I chirp, processing that information. “The bodies in those fridges were for ceremonies and sacrifices?” I ask, my face scrunched in concern, even though it does help me feel a little bit better about forcing them to help me.

“It’s completely voluntary,” Marx assures, taking in my judgmental look. “Just like Lessers have organ donation or the option to donate their body to science, mancers can opt in to be used for many different things. Covens all around the world still make sacrifices to different deities or elements. There are ceremonies that require parts of a mancer to be successful. It’s really fascinating. I have a great book that deep dives into a ton of great history on it, if you’re interested,” Marx offers casually.

I make a mental note to pivot from epic funerals and stunning headstones to a kickass sacrifice or something for the three bodies I magic jacked.

“Um, I’m cool, but thanks,” I tell Marx, and he just shrugs like I’m missing out. “What happened to the Order though? I thought the High Council had people watching me?” I gesture to Prek, who’s still out cold.

“I don’t know what he’s doing here,” Marx declares, toeing Prek’s boot and watching for any reaction. “As far as I know, his team was assigned to the file room until the investigation is complete on how portal bones got into your quarters.”

My mind snaps back to the owl skull that sucked me into that demon-marked cage and then ultimately helped me break out of it.

“Some undercover Order members were watching the morgue itself, but they stopped about four days ago—we think because too much time had passed,” he says with a hint of apology in his tone. I wave it away. “Rogan and Elon had to stay away because we didn’t want to draw attention to anything. I was keeping an eye out through Siobhan and a motion sensitive camera I snuck in, but the battery died a couple hours before you must have woken up. I only found out that something had happened, because Siobhan got a notification that the temperature of the holding fridges had gone up. That’s only supposed to happen when they’re empty, they’re magically designed that way. She thought it was a glitch, and I conveniently offered to accompany her while she checked on it. That’s when we discovered you and three others were missing.”

I nod in understanding, not sure if I’m offended or impressed that he took advantage of his relationship in order to protect me.

“I called Rogan right away, thinking someone must have taken you, and I begged Siobhan to give me a couple hours before she reported the missing bodies.”

And alas we come full circle, I muse as all the pieces to the puzzle now fit snugly together.

“I’m assuming you’re here to warn Rogan that the Order, and therefore his evil parents, now know that I’m missing,” I tell him, and he nods his confirmation. “So now we just need to figure out why he’s here,” I declare, fixing a glare on Prek.

A groan sounds from the table, and I look over to find Rogan stirring.

Perfect timing.

I rush over to him as his eyes start to flit open. “Hey, you’re okay,” I reassure him as he makes a disgruntled noise and tries to get his bearings. “Prek shot you with a tranquilizer dart,” I explain as he looks around, confused. Lush mossy green eyes lock on mine, and whatever bewilderment was floating in them is chased away by sappy affection.

“Hey, you,” he coos at me, lifting a hand in the direction of my nose. I’m pretty sure he’s going in for a boop, but his hand drops like it weighs a hundred pounds before he can. “Ow,” he grumps when he accidentally slaps himself in the face. Rogan glares at his knuckles but then looks back to me, and a lovesick smile stretches across his face. “You are the most beautiful soul I have ever seen,” he tells me, his tone serious and reverent.

A current of tenderness flashes through me, and a fluttering sensation starts low in my stomach.

“I just want to eat you,” he goes on, the words slightly slurred.

Oh boy.

“Especially that nose, no, definitely those lips. Your hair drives me beyond the brink of madness. I’ve never wanted to eat someone just because they’re so cute. Not just cute though, like cute in a sexy as fuck kind of way,” he announces on a titillating growl that sneaks into my body and settles warmly between my thighs. “Can I eat you?” he asks on an adorable pout, and I cover my mouth with my hand to try and trap in the laughter there. “I mean, not like that,” he adds, wagging his eyebrows. It clearly takes way more effort than it should, and he concentrates hard on the movement. “I wouldn’t actually eat your gorgeous face, but I would like to dine on that pussy. Table for one,” he announces, lifting a hand like he’s calling for a waiter.

“Ooookaaayyy,” I exclaim loudly, straightening up and trying to fight the blush that’s inching into my cheeks.

Marx laughs hard, and Rogan’s eyes snap to him. “Heyyyy, buddy,” he offers him in greeting, and Marx looks like this is the best thing ever.

Rogan is drugged out of his gourd, and it’s better than any coming out of anesthesia video I’ve ever seen online.

He tries to sit up, and I rush to help. Damn, all that muscle is heavy. I grunt as he suddenly stops supporting his own weight, and we almost tip over. Marx hurries over and helps me get him upright on the table.

“You’re so damn pretty,” Rogan practically shouts, and then his volume must register, because he cringes and brings a finger up to his mouthto say shhhhh as though Marx and I are the loud ones.

He turns to his friend. “Isn’t she just the most astonishing thing you’ve ever seen?” he asks Marx, and I chuckle at the weird high pitch to his voice. It has this goofy innocence to it that makes me want to say awww, but also makes me want to record it so I can make fun of him about this later. “And it’s not just outside, my frrriennnn,” Rogan implores, momentarily getting distracted by his finger for some reason. “No, sir, she’s stunning on the outside and on the inside. Bro, you should see her body!” he whisper yells, and I can’t help the twitter that escapes me.

“What?” Rogan suddenly demands. “How dare you,” he accuses, as though Marx were the one to suggest checking out my body and not him. “I love you, Marx, but I will kick your ass. I already have to fuck up that wolf, Saaaxooon,” he announces, mocking the name. “Fucker kissed her twice, bro, twice,” he growls as he holds up three fingers. “Never wanted to kill someone so badly in my life, and my parents renounced me! That’s fucking legit, man!”

Marx looks over at me and raises a judgmental eyebrow. I roll my eyes. “Puh-lease, your bro Rogan wasn’t even on my radar at the time,” I defend, not able to stop myself from making fun of all the bro-ing.

Rogan’s hand shoots up into the air, and he shakes it impatiently like he’s waiting to be called on. Marx laughs as he calls on him.

“Not true for six-hundred, Alex,” he calls out, like we’re suddenly on Jeopardy. “I was all over that radar: we kissed in the kitchen, there were talks of a safe word, secrets were told,” he counters, and Marx chokes on air at that declaration.

I huff out an exasperated groan that morphs into a chuckle at the end because this is all so ridiculous and yet utterly amusing. We have an unconscious Order member tied up in a chair, and I’m here defending my relationship or the lack thereof when I kissed a lycan twice.

“We did kiss in the kitchen, and then you screwed me over at your aunt’s cottage. The betrayal negates anything that had been building between us before then. I was well within my rights to kiss Saxon,” I justify.

Rogan looks to Marx as though he’s waiting for his ruling. Marx shrugs. “She has a point,” he concedes, and Rogan groans.

“I know she does. Fucking Saxon. Still gonna kick his ass though,” he grumbles, all pouty and disgruntled. “But, Lennox,” he calls out. “My little bone flower…” He cringes as the endearment slips out of his full lips. “No, that was just weird,” he mumbles before continuing on. “You’re mine now, right?” he asks, the question both parts boyish and possessive.

“Will someone please shut him up?” a groggy voice groans, and my head snaps to where Prek is tied to my grandmother’s favorite chair.

Russet eyes are fixed on me as Prek lifts his head. “Hello, Osteomancer. Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you supposed to be dead?”