Page 20 of The Bone Witch
“No, what’s your sad childhood story?”
“Sad, what makes you think it was sad?”
“Everyone has a sad childhood story,” he answers simply, and it makes me pause.
Maybe he’s right. Mine’s not ideal. I never really thought of it as sad, but an outsider could.
“My mother died giving birth to me,” I offer. “It devastated a lot of people. She was pretty incredible, but it left me and my dad to pick up the pieces. My Aunt Hillen helped, and Tad is more brother than cousin, but as sad stories go, mine’s a little lame,” I joke as I tear into my parking lot and gun it for my building at the back of the complex.
What I don’t tell Rogan is that growing up in my family was pretty great until I hit about sixteen. That’s when my dad got cancer. I had the typical bad moments as a kid, getting teased for living in a trailer or not wearing the newest clothes and trends, but it wasn’t until my dad got sick that I really learned what hurt felt like. And when he died, that’s when I felt my first sting of betrayal.
I squeal into my assigned parking spot as though I’m a professional stunt car driver. I activate the e-brake and get ready to celebrate my victory, but when I look up, I see Tad and Hillen in all their gloaty glory standing just outside my apartment door.
My jaw drops in surprise, and Tad’s smile grows even wider. I look over at the visitor parking spot to check that his Prius hasn’t somehow morphed into a time bending DeLorean or one of those rocket cars designed to break land speed records, but it’s still just a Prius.
“How in the hell…” I ask as I climb out of my car. I had almost a perfect run over here, minus the road rage incident.
Tad reaches up and searches for the hide-a-key that I don’t keep hidden very well at the top of the trim around my door.
A loud, mean dog bark sounds off next to me, and I turn to see who let a hellhound run loose in the complex. All I find is Hoot once again wiggling in Rogan’s arms. Maybe he’s not the cuddler that Rogan seems to want him to be. The bark sounds off again, and I’m stunned to hear that the menacing sound is coming from the tater tot. Shockingly, this pint-sized pup has a Michael Clarke Duncan kind of bark. If James Earl Jones were a dog, his bark wouldn’t even be as deep or scary sounding as Hoot’s.
Rogan struggles to keep Hoot in his arms, and he quickly bends to put him down.
“He probably just has to crap again. It’s a good thing we’re outside, but I’m going to go stand upwind until he’s done,” I announce.
But as soon as Hoot’s paws touch the pavement, he takes off in the direction of my apartment. Someone’s excited to be home, or at least one would think that if it weren’t for the angry barking and snarling he’s doing.
“What the hell?” I ask as I take off after him. Hillen will kill me if my former familiar takes a chunk out of her or Tad. Luckily, they seem to be oblivious to what’s happening right now as Tad pulls my key down and goes to fit it in the lock.
“Stop!” Rogan shouts, and I snort in annoyance. Does he really think that’s going to work on Hoot?
“Don’t touch it!” he bellows again, and this time I’m confused by the instruction and the panic in his voice.
Hoot starts to scramble up the stairs like a pocket-sized Cujo, and I turn to ask Rogan what the hell is going on. Tad turns the key in my lock while simultaneously looking back to see what all the commotion is about. And that’s when I see what the hell has Rogan so freaked out.
A white charge of power explodes out from my apartment door. It’s like a magical bomb just went off, but instead of sending debris and missiles out into the air, the force of the explosion slams directly into Tad. His hand is frozen on the key he’s holding in the doorknob as his body bends backward from the impact of the explosion. Tad’s face and mouth are contorted in a silent scream that I know will haunt my nightmares for the rest of my life.
Horror jackhammers through me as, helplessly, I watch it all happen entirely too fast for me to stop. I scream and pump my legs even harder. Hillen’s face collapses in confusion, and she turns to see the source of the terror written all over my face. I’m halfway up the stairs, practically climbing over Rogan when my aunt’s keening wail slams into me like a nuclear pulse. The horrible sound sears my insides, promising that it will be a sound that I never forget.
Hoot reaches the top of the landing first, but instead of going for Hillen or Tad like I originally thought he was trying to do, he charges the front door and starts biting and pulling at something that looks oddly like a shadow. It’s like there’s a film on the door, and I didn’t notice it until Hoot tried to peel it away.
“Oh god, what’s happening to him?” Hillen shrieks, the raw pain in her voice like daggers to my heart. Rogan gets to them first, and he quickly pulls Hillen back from the door. Thankfully, she doesn’t fight him but allows him to move her so we have the space that we need.
A horrible gurgling is coming from Tad, and there’s no question that whatever is happening is fucking painful. My catalogue of magical options pops up in my head just like it did at Magda’s house, but before I can put anything in my cart and check out, Rogan has his knife in one hand and a deep slice down the palm of his other.
Expertly, he uses his blood to draw symbols against the film that’s torturing my cousin. I recognize symbols for protection and banishment, and what he’s doing sinks in. An image of a knife pops into my head, and immediately I know it belongs to my ancestors and is made from dragon bone. Need strikes through me, and out of thin air, the purple pouch of bones appears in my hand. I stare at them for a moment, not sure how they got into my palm or why, but I get the distinct feeling that I need to reach inside the bag.
Not willing to waste time questioning that driving instinct, I loosen the top of the bag, reach into it, and pull a hand-sized knife out. Shock rockets through me when I look down to discover that the dragon bone knife I was just imagining is now clutched in my hand. As mysteriously as it appeared, the velvet pouch disappears, and I’m left reeling and stunned.
My Aunt Hillen’s crying pulls me from my stupefied inaction, and I shake away my bewilderment. I step up on Tad’s other side, ready to get to work, but I don’t cut my hand and bleed onto the attacking magic like Rogan does. Instead, I once again trust the push of my magic and use the bone knife to start directly carving my own symbols into the attacking magic itself. Image after image pops into my mind, and I trace each line with the blade into the hex that’s been placed on my apartment. The shadow looks soft and malleable from the way Hoot is biting at it, but for me, it feels like I’m trying to cut through a diamond.
The muscles in my arm are screaming by the time I finish three symbols, but I can feel that what we’re doing is working. Rogan is repeating an incantation quietly, but it’s barely even a whisper, and I can’t make out what it is. No incantation comes to me, so instead I lace each slice of the bone knife into the hex with my demand that it leaves, with my plea that Tad won’t be hurt, and with my promise to fuck up whoever did this.
Tad’s eyes are panicked and terrified as he struggles against the magical force slamming into him. His body is bent back unnaturally, his hand still clutching the key in the knob like it’s some kind of lifeline. Pain radiates from every tense muscle in his body, and I want to scream in frustration at the torture I can see he’s going through. I channel my aggravation into moving faster and working harder to free him.
Rogan has to slice into his hand three more times before I feel the hex start to really weaken. I’ve never dealt with a hex before, so I don’t know if this is normal, but this fucker feels insanely strong. I call on all my strength and renew my efforts, slamming my blade into the vile magic.
I feel it sink through.
