Page 15 of The Blood Witch
Aggravatedly I run my fingers through my hair, which will probably frizz the crap out of my curls, but I give no fucks at this point. I feel trapped, and I hate it. All talk of me being able to return home went right out the window as soon as the use of demon magic was confirmed—not that I really believed they’d let me go before.
No, they still think my dead Grammy Ruby is behind all of this somehow. It doesn’t matter how much I assure them that couldn’t be the case, I’m just some biased witchling no one wants to listen to. I feel the weight of eyes on me, and I know without looking around that the stare belongs to Rogan. I’ve barely seen him since our talk a couple of days ago, but that doesn’t keep me from being painfully aware of his presence. It’s as though telling myself that it is never going to happen only made me hyper aware of every breath he pulls into his lungs and dispels, or every time he steps into a room I already occupy.
I could even feel him behind the mirrored glass, watching, the two other times I’ve been interrogated, the same questions lobbed at me over and over again. I feel like I’m going to go crazy in this place, and I’m starting to wonder if that’s the Order’s goal. My Grammy was right to keep her distance. I feel as though I’ve been caught up in some kind of web, and I’m never going to be able to break free or rid myself of the sticky residue or the feeling of being hunted by spiders.
My association with Rogan has painted me as suspicious. No one in the Order can understand why a good witch would be associating with a renounced one. Add to that their nonsense theory about my grandmother, and there isn’t anyone around me offering friendly smiles or support.
“I’m sorry, Lennox, I tried to convince them, but the Order has deemed it too risky. A team will go and procure anything they think you could read and bring it back here for you. That’s the best I could do,” he reassures me, and I huff out an irritated breath.
“It isn’t just about their things, it’s about being in their space,” I argue. “It’s about their energy affecting a reading and possibly helping us home in on clues we wouldn’t get anywhere else.” I can already see I’m not going to get anywhere with this, and I growl vexed.
Members of Prek’s team stand casually around my quarters, everyone listening and watching but pretending not to. I wish I could say they’ve faded to the background with their constant presence and need to follow me everywhere I go, but they haven’t.
I’ve been slowly trying to learn their names, not that they’re any help with that. Apparently, Prek is the only one allowed to speak directly to me unless I’m being given an order towaitwhile they sweep a room and then catch a passingall clearbefore they go back to the silent treatment. And because all of this isn’t torture enough, I’ve been moved to a different floor where Prek, his team, Rogan, and lucky little ol’ me now cohabitate...for safety, of course.
“I know, Love. I argued for you,” Marx assures me. “But they’re not having it. Until they catch who they think is behind all of this, they’re not going to let up,” he adds, and I throw my hands up, exasperated as I sit down in a chair, setting my pouch of bones on my knee.
“This is stupid, the person they’re looking for is dead. She would never hurt me in this life or any other, but no one wants to hear that. I could be doing more than just sitting around answering the same useless questions. Can’t we just sneak out or something?” I press, feeling like a petulant teenager who’s been grounded unfairly.
Marx chuckles and pushes a few stray strands of his blond hair back from his face. “Suuurrreee, butifwe survive the shit that inevitably will hit the fan while we’re out in the world unprotected, you’ll be right back here without any of the freedoms you have now. Don’t think you didn’t get special approval to walk in the park when you want. They warded the shit out of that place before giving you the okay to spend any amount of time there. And what about that coffee shop you like to sit in after your walks?”
I roll my eyes. “Theparkis right next to this building and is sandwiched between four Order outposts on a block that’s witch-owned. Oh, and so is the coffee shop. Is the Orderreallydoing me any special favors? Or are they just making it seem that way so I don’t demand more freedom or access to this case than I already am,” I challenge, grabbing the purple velvet bag I had set on my knee and feeling for the pieces of bone inside.
Touching the bones, even through the material of the pouch, has a calming effect, and I send out a silent apology that they won’t be used today to read the missing witches’ residences like I thought they were. I was really looking forward to getting out of this place for a bit. An image zings through my mind, cutting off my thoughts. It’s of an analog clock, like one I used to see hung up in every classroom I’ve ever sat in. The time reads five p.m. A man opens the door located right under the clock, and then suddenly he disappears. The image of the clock and the man are replaced by a woman hugging the same man, a feeling of peace and excitement permeating the vision.
I blink and the hugging couple are gone. Once again, the familiar scenery of my quarters appears before my eyes. I get a subtle itch just under my skin, telling me that what just happened is a message meant for someone else, and I look around the room, trying to deduce who is meant to have it. I stare at each individual here, trying to place what just happened with who the message is for, but nothing resonates. I let go of the bone I’m holding through the velvety fabric of the bag, and the itchy sensation immediately disappears. I reach out to clutch the bone piece again to see if the feeling will come back, but nothing happens.
Weird.
I sit like that for a moment, lost in thought, grabbing and releasing the piece of bone in my bag expectantly, but the vision and the drive to find who it belongs to is gone.
I look up, and my eyes connect with Rogan’s. He watches me constantly, but I never look long enough to try and decipher what’s in his stare. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. What’s hidden in those moss-colored depths isn’t for me, but the magical tether that connects us sings in my chest like a plucked harp string, intent on proving me wrong.
I ignore the magical call, pulling my hand from my pouch of bones, doing my best to disconnect from my magic all together. I don’t want to do anything that will strengthen this connection or further twine our abilities together more than they already are. I know when we find the missing witches, we’ll be back at his aunt’s, severing this tie, and I’m going to do everything in my power to set up that separation for success.
“I’m going for a walk,” I announce, jumping up from my chair, eagerly chasing the need to flee. I have to get away from those eyes and my jagged thoughts. Maybe I’ll call Tad or Alpha Riggs again and check up on Hoot, fall into that distraction for a while. Hopefully, it will last until the team is back from the missing witches’ apartments with something for me to read or do or examine.
My guards circle around me fluidly, all moving together like they’re more flock than individual. I realize I still have my bones in my hand, but turning around to set them down means having to look at Rogan again, so I tie them to the belt loop on my jeans instead and hurry for the door. Prek silently falls into step next to me, and as soon as the door to the apartment closes behind me, I feel like I can breathe easier.
We load into the elevator, my mind doing what it has been since I woke up in this place, overanalyzing everything. I can’t seem to turn it off. I just keep cycling through conversations with the Major, Prek, Rogan, the Order members they’ve sent to interrogate me.
“Any news on Eleanor?” I ask as the elevator doors close and we start to move down. I sense a palpable tensing in the guards all around me and snap my head toward Prek, my eyes demanding answers. “What happened? I thought they stopped the curse and had her stable?”
Prek clears his throat, and foreboding crawls through me. I can feel the bad news in his words before he even voices them. “She died early this morning,” he announces, turning away from me to watch the descending numbers light up our descent to the lobby of the building.
I look up and watch the same countdown, not sure what to think or feel about this news. I didn’t like the witch, but I also wouldn’t have wished what happened to her on my worst enemy.
“Any news on the curse?” I question, trying to change the subject to something less helpless and depressing.
“They’ve concluded that what happened was definitely some kind of safeguard, and the magic had another purpose underneath the curse that attacked Eleanor. Unfortunately, they’re still trying to isolate exactly what that purpose was. They’re also working on what the triggering mechanism was supposed to be. The hypothesis isyouwould have set off a reaction just by being near it, but we’ll have to wait to confirm those details,” Prek tells me, his tone analytical and empty.
I try not to think about all the possibilities of what could have been waiting for me. I’ve discovered in the past couple of days I have a very active imagination, and that’s most definitely not a good thing when it comes to supplying an endless and creative list of all the ways I could have been hurt or killed. Only Stephen King is into that level of morbid shit.
I’m angled toward one of the building’s multitude of exits. So far, we’ve never exited the same one, and I’ve been warned that I won’t be allowed to walk around the same time every day. It seems if my need for fresh air is sporadic and unpredictable, then it’s okay. A cloudless blue sky welcomes me before the brittle wind Chicago is famous for executes its assault. I’m not even mad at it as I wrap my arms around myself in defense against the cool draft. I push curls out of my face and follow my guards to the entrance of the green space between high-rise buildings that’s just barely big enough to call a park.
I tilt my head back to the sky and stand for a moment so the sun’s rays can try to warm me a little. Birds chirp excitedly between the heavy sound of traffic and honking, and I find myself missing the quiet of Tennessee. Mentally, I slap that thought across its annoying face and force myself to replace Tennessee with Marblehead, Massachusetts. Home. A hollow feeling sits dead center in my gut, and I exhale deeply in an effort to dislodge it.
I want to scream, but I swallow it down. I’ve known Rogan for less than a week, and yet somehow, he’s sunk his talons so deeply in me that I can’t get away from him. I’m missing a place I only spent a couple of days in and trying not to mourn the loss of an asshole who’s screwed up my life so epically I don’t know how I’m going to come back from it.
