Page 26 of The Blood Witch
He glares at me.
“What? You were hoping for pity? Poor ol’ Rogan, fucked someone over and now they don’t want anything to do with him. Poor guy probably cries himself to sleep, oh wait, he’d have to give a shit, he’d have to care for that to go down,” I thunder. “What happens to the rest of us if your shitty relatives figure out how you and Elon came back?” I demand, outraged.
“Watch what you say,” Rogan growls, prowling forward until my back hits the wall behind me. I didn’t even realize I was retreating from him until his arms come up and box me in. “I do care,” he snaps at me, his voice quiet, undiluted menace. “And I think the real issue is that you do too, and you hate it.”
His breath brushes enticingly against my face, and I loathe the reaction I have to it. Goose bumps crawl up my arms, but I refuse to get lost in his presence, to cave to what he can make me feel. I don’t care how he can coax my body into betraying my mind, I’ve had enough of this.
“Oh I care, Rogan, or I could have before you stomped all over me like I was nothing. Don’t worry though, it’ll pass.”
Hurt flashes in his gaze, and this time he doesn’t push it away, he doesn’t shut me out. He just stares at me, his eyes hemorrhaging pain and begging for something he’s no longer worthy of.
“Tell me how to fix it,” he whispers brokenly, and I don’t know if he’s asking to fix what happened between us or the situation we’re in now, maybe it’s both.
I’m not sure what’s changed since the last time we talked. He was so resigned that there was no going back, so was I, but that’s not what I’m seeing in his face right now. I want to soothe the anguish he’s sharing with me in his troubled gaze, but he hasn’t earned it. He doesn’t deserve what I have to offer.
“You can work hard to save Elon, but you can’t sacrifice everything for him,” I start.
Rogan shakes his head, his lips readying an argument, but I cut him off.
“We don’t know where he is or who could have him. You could be walking right into the High Council’s trap, and for what? You think telling them what they want to know ends all of this for you? You’re renounced, Rogan, there’s no overturning that once it’s happened,” I remind him, my eyes begging him to see the truth in what I’m saying. “You and Elon—if we ever find him—won’t be any safer than you were before. Do you think they’ll let you live?” I ask, rolling my eyes and shaking my head at the thought.
“That will never happen. They’ll test the limits of thisgiftyou have, because once the powerful have what they want, they remove the threats. You’re a threat, Rogan. They’ll eliminate you if possible, and if not, they’ll lock you up and throw away the key,” I tell him, resisting the urge to run the back of my hand over the tic that’s started in his jaw.
“You sold me out because you needed more resources and access to more information, but are we any closer to finding your brother than we were before?” I demand. “You’re not thinking straight, and you’re making choices that have long-lasting consequences not only for you, but for our entire race. I don’t know how or why what happened with you and Elon happened, but grow the fuck up and stop playing like this information isn’t a game changer. Yes, you have a responsibility to your brother, but you also have the responsibility of keeping what you know in here,” I add, leaning into him and flicking his forehead.
He reaches up and catches my hand, pressing it against his cheek. He closes his eyes, leaning into the touch in a way that breaks my heart a little. I strengthen my resolve, tilting away from him...but I don’t pull my hand away.
“I killed you,” I blurt out of nowhere.
His lids open, and lost moss-green eyes find mine.
“I watched you bleed to death at my feet, and it felt good. But then I died too.” I pause, silence stretching between us like the magical tether I’m not sure I’ll ever be free of. “You bulldozed my life, Rogan. You’ve altered my magic, obliterated my choice, and traded me like you had the right to. There’s no fixing that,” I finally say, answering the other part of his complex question.
Pained, Rogan closes his eyes, reaching up and cupping my cheek. His presence overwhelms me. The need that flutters through my belly makes all of this harder. It reminds me of what could have been and shows me that I really wanted it. As annoying as Tad can be, he’s right. I liked Rogan, and now all this fucked up shit is what I have to show for it.
“For what it’s worth, Lennox, I am sorry. I know you think I’m irredeemable, but I’m trying not to be.”
I breathe him in, feel his sincerity, and bask in the desire I sense billowing off of him. If only that were enough for me. I reach up and slowly pull his hand from my cheek. I look up into his stunning eyes, tracing the strong angles of his face greedily with my gaze. I settle my stare on the scar that’s a small representation of the damage he holds inside. And then, with everything in me, I let go.
“And I wish your apology was worth more to me than it is,” I tell him honestly, and then I duck under his arm and leave him standing, lost and forsaken, in my room.
8
Istare at the hair brush sitting on the table in front of me and groan. I look from it to my bag of bones, not even bothering to see if they will react to this useless item. Just like they haven’t reacted to any of the other dumb shit the Order’s team procured from the other two missing Osteomancers’ homes. There’s not one bone or anything containing even a speck of osteo matter in the pile of confiscated items, and honestly, I want to scream at someone about it.
The powers that be said it wasn’t safe for me to go. They said they’d bring back any useful items they found and I could see what I could get from them. Well, what the hell is a Bone Witch supposed to do with an empty can of Coke, a hair brush, some dirty clothing and a brand new beeswax candle?
Fuck all is what I can do.
I grunt frustratedly at the useless collection and start to wonder—not for the first time—if the Order is incompetent or doing this shit on purpose. There’s no way that they went to two separate Osteomancers’ homes and didn’t find one bone to bring back for me to try and read. I sit back in my chair with a sigh, taking in today’s interrogation room of choice. This one is bigger than the others I’ve been in, with only one long half-wall-sized mirror to spy on me from. I turn around and stare at my reflection, wondering who’s on the other side of it today.
The door slams open with a loud bang, and I jump from the sudden movement and noise. I’m on my feet just as two guards spill into the room, their uniforms nicer and slightly different from the crew that usually surrounds me. They stand at attention on either side of the door, making way for two men in suits to stroll in, derision and pellucid judgment written all over their faces. One is in a deep cranberry suit, with a dark chocolate shirt and no tie. His crisp shirt is unbuttoned a little too low for my taste, and even though his long hair is the exact same shade, the color coordination can’t hide the signs of aging on his tan face. He’s definitely closer to my parents’ age than mine, although my guess is that he probably doesn’t like being reminded of that fact.
His companion is in a midnight blue suit, clean white shirt and coordinating polka dot tie. His salt-and-pepper hair is shoulder-length and looks shiny and soft. His angled features have held up slightly better against the test of time, and there’s something familiar about his face that has me throwing decorum and appropriate social graces right out the window while I stare at him in an effort to figure out where I know him from.
I’m still digging through my memories when a tall, lean woman finally steps through the door. Her cream floor-length dress is cinched at the waist with a chunky belt that looks like it was made from a poor albino alligator. Her outfit hugs every curve of her lithe body, making her look elegant and powerful. Her hair is dark as pitch, with a thick white streak framing her face and breaking up the black. Green eyes quickly appraise me, and a kind smile decorates her full mouth.
I school my features, reining in the shock that catapults through me as who I’m dealing with registers. Sorrel Adair, the High Priestess of Witches, just walked into the room. The green of her eyes is more kelly-green as opposed to the moss color I’ve come to appreciate, but there’s no denying how much Rogan takes after his mother. I look over to the man in the midnight blue suit and now easily recognize Rogan’s father. The third man bears no family resemblance, and I figure he must be a trusted council member, maybe one of the witches Rogan said he’s met with.
