The Bound Witch Read online

  “And you’ll keep me in the loop?” I press. “No more making decisions without me or living that it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission life.”

  Amusement ticks at the corners of Rogan’s lips with my questions. “I’m going to communicate so much you won’t even know what to do with yourself. Mistakes were made, but I won’t make them again. You will be in all the loops all the time, you have my word.”

  “Ohh kinky,” Tad coos, and Hillen beams her son with a roll.

  I laugh at Tad’s expense as he rubs at a red spot on his forehead, courtesy of his mom.

  “I’ve never seen so many people use bread as a weapon,” Rogan observes, clearly referring to the French bread beatdown I gave Prek before.

  “It’s a skill; feel free to be jealous,” I smirk at him.

  “One passed down in the Osseous Chronicles, I’m sure,” Rogan teases, and my smirk turns into a dopey smile.

  I like playful Rogan.

  He reaches out and wraps one of my curls around his finger, his gaze heated and filled with so much promise and conviction it makes my toes curl.

  “Will you go to war with me, Lennox?” he asks, his tone sultry and earnest.

  I study his face for a moment, everything else around us fading away like we’re the only two people left in the world. He cups my face, and I lean into it, relishing the intimate touch and everything we’ve been through to get here. I press my lips to the palm of his hand and then straighten, ready for whatever is going to come next.

  “Lead the way,” I assure him, and he nods once, his green eyes filled with fire and determination.

  Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to war we go.

  7

  Rogan holds the oh shit handle so tight that I question whether or not he can even feel his hand still. Clearly, I can be trusted with his secrets and his heart, but driving him safely from my aunt’s house to my grandmother’s shop is super questionable.

  Please, I’m an excellent driver.

  I roll down my window and scowl at a driver as I pass him. “Word of advice,” I yell at the gray Volvo. “If you’re gonna drive in the fast lane, drive fast, jackass!”

  “Remember that little part of Elon’s instructions about keeping a low profile and not drawing attention to ourselves?” Rogan asks me.

  I roll my eyes as I roll up my window. “I’m not screaming suck my immortal exhaust at the dude,” I defend. “And he really shouldn’t be driving that slow in the fast lane, I’m just looking out for him.”

  Rogan scoffs and looks behind us, offering an apologetic wave.

  Traitor.

  I gasp in outrage and narrow my eyes at him. “How could you? There will be no apologetic waves,” I scold.

  “It’s a car full of priests,” he argues, and I balk as I look in the rearview to see for myself.

  Crap, either they’re very early for Halloween or they’re definitely a car full of priests.

  I cringe and offer an apology wave of my own. I’ve already got witches and demons gunning for me, no point adding Hosts of Heaven to that list too. I sigh, slowing down a little and trying to rein in the east coast road rage that’s practically a part of my DNA.

  I feel edgy as hell.

  There’s something about saying goodbye to your loved ones as they rush to pack their belongings because they’re about to be hurried off into hiding. I know Elon is with them, and right now they shouldn’t even be on anyone’s radar, but I can’t help but feel bad for the buttload of danger I just dropped on their doorstep. Elon promised he’d let them call me as soon as he got them settled in with all the proper protections in place. But the fact that we’ve gone defcon cloak and dagger makes everything feel entirely more real and threatening.

  I mean, technically it was all of that before, but something about losing myself to the throes of passion and then laughing with the people I love over a home-cooked meal made everything feel so manageable.

  Late afternoon light and lazy paint-stroke clouds give the familiar streets of my hometown a deceptively relaxed feel. Even so, I can’t stop looking around as though the High Priestess herself is going to zip past on a broom, a threatening cackle in her wake, while demanding a taste of the good shit, aka immortality.

  “So exactly how are the three of us going to take down the ruling body of all known mancers?” I ask a little too casually as I turn right in the direction of my grandmother’s—dammit—I mean my shop. None of it still feels like it’s mine, but Rogan and I did get a solid head start on Demo Day the first time we met, so I really need to stop thinking of it as Grammy Ruby’s.

  “We expose the corruption,” Rogan answers, just as nonchalantly.

  “Cool, cool.” I look over at him, waiting for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. “Not that I’m doubting that clearly very detailed and, might I add, brilliant plan, but don’t most magic users know that the ruling class is corrupt, like don’t those things normally go hand in hand in all civilizations? I don’t exactly see an angry uprising about it, so…”

  “Maybe if we were dealing with run-of-the-mill corruption and degradation, I could see people turning a blind eye, but the High Council has been messing with some serious shit for a very long time. When my mother renounced us, she thought we’d come crawling back, begging for a place at the table we’d been spoon fed from our entire lives. But really, she forced us to see that what we were raised thinking was normal, was everything but.”

  I nod in understanding, my head bobbing to the rhythm of my blinker as I wait for a green arrow. I think back to what Rogan told me about his childhood. About the abuse Elon survived. I recall learning about how the founding families passed along their magic, how they ensure their lines stay strong and formidable. I can see how being chucked out of that privileged world would be a shock to the system. It’s apparent that Sorrel Adair didn’t know who her sons were at their core though. They aren’t the power-hungry, heartless rulers they were created to be. They are good souls, who recognized evil and decided that would never be their legacy, no matter what the High Council tried to do.

  Respect and admiration warm in my chest, and before I know it, our tether is humming with the emotions. Rogan looks over at me, surprise twinkling in his mossy gaze. “What’s that for?” he asks, his tone deep and inviting. I practically have to fight off the shiver that wants to crawl through me at that melted milk chocolate timbre.

  Come on, body, we can’t let him think he’s got it like that already. We’re still early stages, make him work for it.

  “What’s what for?” I challenge, pretending like I have no idea what he’s referring to.

  He gives me a knowing smile but doesn’t call me out. “Anyway, Elon and I knew that they wouldn’t leave us alone forever. We had an inside track on how they played the game, and we were painfully aware of what we were up against. So we started tracking and documenting anything and everything we could against them. We looked into every possible lead. Lines of magic wiped out without warning or provocation. Unsanctioned stripping of power. Blanket immunity for certain families no matter how vile the crimes against fellow mancers. Blackmail. The list goes on and on and on,” he explains, and I try to tamp down my anger.

  I turn down the block the shop is on, and a warm tingling feeling of welcome washes over me.

  “We began to collect what evidence we could. We hacked into our parents’ private records and files, worked to gain access to top secret digital records. We’ve slowly siphoned what we could, and now we’ll put it all together and start educating all supernaturals about what’s been going on unchecked by the powers that be.”

  I raise my eyebrows with surprise and shoot an impressed look over at Rogan.

  “That’s way less Deathly Hallows and the final magical show down than I thought this war was going to be,” I admit.

  Why do I sound pouty about that?

  I side-eye myself for a moment, not missing that Rogan seems to be amused by whatever it is that’s radiating
to him via our tether. I really need to figure out how to mute this thing. A girl does need to rely on her mysterious ways from time to time, although this could come in handy when I’m PMSing and need to send chocolate and comfort food SOSs because I’m too growly to form proper sentences otherwise.

  We pull into the parking lot in front of the shop, and a flash of everything that happened the last time I was here courses through my mind. I look to the passenger seat as though Hoot will be right there in all of his unimpressed and stinky glory, and my heart aches a little when I register that it’s just Rogan sitting there.

  “He’s safe at home with Gibson and Tilda, they’re all best friends, and as soon as you pick up some stuff, we’ll be on our way to see them,” Rogan reassures me, reaching out and lacing his fingers with mine.

  I offer him a small grateful smile and then turn off the car and step out. Cool air caresses my cheeks as I take in the fig-colored awning and the large front windows that sit on each side of the front door. I run my gaze over The Eye, studying the name of the shop as though looking at it long enough will provide some much needed direction. I pull a deep fortifying breath in, and then I slip the spare key Hillen gave me into the lock and push the door open.

  I expect the inside to be a mess. Rogan and I didn’t exactly stop to clean up after ourselves before we rushed out of here in search of my grimoire. But it’s apparent that Hillen and Tad did some tidying up when they brought my boxes here. My chest tightened when she told me that they had packed up my apartment about a week ago.

  I totally get it, no point paying rent when you’re dead. Even if I hadn’t been murdered, the likelihood that I was going to be moving into the apartment above this shop when I came back from my adventures in magic land was pretty high anyway, so Hillen and Tad were doing me a solid either way.

  Boxes are stacked by the front register, labeled in surprising detail even though they were eventually going to find themselves donated. Although this is my can’t stay still aunt that organized all of this, so really I shouldn’t expect anything less. Hillen said they brought some of my stuff here to join what they were clearing out from my Grammy Ruby’s place. Then everything was going to those who were less fortunate and needed it.

  Rogan comes in behind me, the heat of his body teasing my back. His strong presence practically wraps itself around me, grounding me, and I all at once feel more settled and secure. I step closer to the cardboard stacks, running my finger over the waist-high edge. It’s strange that most of my life is packed in so few boxes. I figured there’d be more here.

  I guess it makes sense, since my furniture is in storage, waiting for Tad to go through it to see if there’s anything he wants to keep. My pictures and other sentimental things are at Hillen’s house. These boxes are just clothes, some dishes and cookware, and a collection of other random things that there’s no point keeping when the owner is long gone, but it feels good to see them again.

  “It’s strange to be back here,” Rogan observes as he looks around. “So much has changed in such a short amount of time, who would’ve known,” he muses, offering me a small smile as he takes in the righted shelves and swept floors.

  “Pretty sure my ancestors did,” I tell him as I start to pull boxes down from their stack in search of the ones marked clothing.

  “How so?” he queries, taking a box I hand him and setting it aside for me to go through.

  “When you applied your best Puss in Boots begging eyes and asked for my help, I was going to say no.”

  Rogan clutches his chest and shakes his head judgmentally at me. I roll my eyes.

  “It’s not like you’d exactly endeared yourself to me, barging in and trying to rob me of my choices. There was no way I was getting tangled up in your damage,” I tell him, and he snorts out a laugh and raises an enticing eyebrow at me.

  “There’s no running now,” he taunts playfully, and I chuckle.

  “There was no running then,” I admit on a breathy laugh. “My ancestors legitimately zapped me into accepting. At the time, I thought that’s what it must have felt like when I was magic bound to help someone, so I begrudgingly cooperated. But now I know that’s not what it was,” I go on, searching through the rest of the stack, hoping I’ll find a box marked underwear.

  Please don’t tell me Hillen threw them away. I know it’s beyond creepy to donate used underwear, but I promise, this time, I won’t judge.

  “What was it then?” Rogan asks as he works to restack the boxes I don’t need.

  “When I’m being called to help someone, it’s like this anxious, itchy, why do I feel like I’m forgetting something feeling. I feel pulled in a direction and put in that person’s path. But with you, it was more a gentle tasing that I’m going to call fate assistance,” I joke, arcing a hand in the air like I can see the name written in the very atmosphere around us.

  “You think we’re written in the stars?” Rogan asks, and I can’t get a read on just what he might think about that.

  I snort incredulously. “I don’t know if I’d go that far, maybe my ancestors just thought you were hot,” I declare cheekily.

  A slow smile stretches across Rogan’s gorgeous face, and he laughs quietly. I start opening the boxes of clothes we’ve set aside and pulling out things I need.

  Hello, leggings.

  “Yes!” I scream out like I just won the lottery.

  I pull the bag out containing underwear and bras, grabbing a pair from the top to show Rogan, like I’m fully expecting him to be just as excited.

  “I prefer you without them,” he offers, a flirty twinkle in his eyes as he shrugs shamelessly.

  Heat courses through me, but I tsk at him and set the bag aside. I definitely need to keep an eye on it. No oops, I lost your underwear is going down on my watch. No sirree. I pack up a box that has a couple months’ worth of clothes in it, hoping that will be enough. The plan is to regroup with Elon back at Rogan’s and suss out a survival and attack strategy there. Yep, this will have to do.

  I hand the box to Rogan to put in the car, shooting him an I’ll be watching you look so he knows my underwear better not turn up missing, and he just waggles his eyebrows at me, which doesn’t leave me feeling reassured at all. I clean up my mess and stand to take in the shop. The scent of incense and my grandmother still permeates the walls, and I hope that will always be the case. I had such big dreams for this place, but now as I stand around looking at everything, it all feels so uncertain.

  Will I really ever be able to settle down here? I mean, even if we can survive the evil High Council, how can I stay here when there’s the chance that I might never die? I don’t even know if we grow old. Am I stuck in this body, with this face, forever?

  I look down at myself and shrug; it is a good body and face to have. Why did I never think to ask about this before? Oh yeah, that’s right, I didn’t know I’d ever come back from the dead. It’s been ten years since Rogan and Elon came back for the first time, they both still look pretty good. On the other hand, we do scar, so maybe we do age?

  I bring a hand up to my chest and press against the mark there. I look outside, ready to ask Rogan about all of this when he walks back in, but he’s not there. I squint to make sure I’m not just missing him bending over to load the box into the back of my Pathfinder, but I don’t spot his big muscular body through the glass. I hurry to the door to see if maybe he’s taking a call or something and has wandered away from the windows, but when I spot a pair of thick, long legs on the ground behind my parked car, fear and panic slam into me like a tidal wave.

  How did they find us so fast?

  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.