Page 4 of The Blood Witch
“That doesn’t change what happened,” Rogan declares, the healing clearly less impressive to him.
“Why do you even care?” I snap at him with daggers in my eyes as they finally fix on his.
Well, so much for a united front.“You’re the reason I’m even here. If I weren’t, things like this”—I gesture to the blood stain on my shirt—“wouldn’t be happening.” I turn from him dismissively and focus back on Major Griego. “If I’m free to go wherever I please, then can I go home?”
She hesitates for a beat and then nods. “We have some questions we need you to help us with, but once that’s done, yes, you may go anywhere you like, so long as you keep your protective detail with you.”
I appraise her, studying her features and looking for any sign of deception, anything that might give her away. I doubt it’s all so easy, answer a few questions and I’m on my way, but a small spark of hope flickers to life in me anyway.
I look over at Rogan, debating my options. He’s furious. Anger radiates off of him in waves, and it puts my hackles up. If anyone in this room has a right to feel enraged, it sure as fuck isn’t him. My nightmare flashes to the forefront of my mind. I can see Rogan’s pleading gaze, his need to try and make things right. Well, that sure as hell isn’t the look he’s wearing in real life. There’s no apology etched in his features, no pleading tone begging me to hear him out. He looks as though I’ve wronged him, and it makes my blood boil.
“Fine,” I agree, tearing my gaze from Rogan’s searing unapologetic stare. “I’ll help in any way I can, on one condition.”
“And that is?” Major Griego asks. I can see in her eyes that she already knows, but the formality of voicing it is important.
I return my seething gaze to Rogan. “Keep him away from me,” I declare flatly.
Rogan’s eyes flash with something I don’t want to interpret before a gale of wind shoves him mercilessly out of the apartment, and the door slams shut behind him.
“My pleasure,” Prek declares, a punctuation to what just happened.
But instead of it making me feel better, that same sense of foreboding I felt after I woke up from the nightmare settles in my stomach. I stare at the now closed door, and all I can hear is an echo reverberating in my mind of my last thought as I lay dying in my dream.
What have I done?
2
“Would you like a tour, Osteomancer Osseous?” the Major asks me, pulling me from my conflicting thoughts.
My head and heart are at war, and just like with all battles, I know there isn’t going to be a true winner. I don’t know why I feel this way. I have every right to be angry, to be livid for the rest of my life, but even though that’s true, something is screaming at me that choosing to be pissed forever is deadly. That Rogan won’t be the only one suffering. Maybe it’s the tether. Maybe it’s warping my emotions and trying to drive us together, but even as I think that, it has a hollow ring of wrongness to it.
“Leni,” I correct the Major. “Call me Leni.”
She nods once and steps further into the studio-esque apartment. She clasps her hands behind her back, taking in the mess I created when I was searching for clues of who lived here. The cushions on the couch are upturned, the rug pulled out and folded in half. The baubles and books decorating the shelves on one wall are on the ground and scattered. There’s an explosion of bread clumps and crumbs by the front door, and I rewind my memories and take a mental snapshot of the look that was on Prek’s face when I slapped him with the loaf of French bread earlier—you know, to laugh at later.
“These are to be your quarters while you stay here,” the Major declares, and inwardly I groan. Maybe they have someone who can bibbity bobbity boo all this shit back the way it was before I tore it apart.
The Major plucks a small white remote from a drawer in the TV hutch I didn’t notice before, and with one click, the wall of white shutters begins to rise. Night greets me on the other side of the windows, so do the city lights all around us. I realize the Order’s hub is one of the many high-rises dotting Chicago’s skyline. I knew the High Priestess resided here, but I didn’t know the Order did too. I suppose it makes sense though. We’re more or less hiding in plain sight in a big city like this, and it’s clear to see why the ruler of witches would want backup nearby and accessible.
I hate that my mind wanders to Rogan with that thought. I don’t want to care about how he feels being so close to his mother, or why he would have chosen to come back here after everything that’s happened to him in this place. I brush all my questions and unearned concern aside, tuning back in to what Major Griego is saying.
“The Order resides in the entirety of the building. You have access to anything other than the top twenty levels and anything below the basement.”
Thatpeaks my curiosity, but I don’t bother asking what’s on those floors or why I’m not allowed near them. It’s not like she’s going to actually tell me.
“We have housing, training, food, and entertainment all on the premises. There are maps in the elevators that will aid you in finding your way around, but your guards will ensure you’re where you want to be,” she points out, and I have a hard time not reading into what that might mean. Her brown eyes study me for a moment. “I’m sure by now you’ve felt the drain on your magic. It can be alarming at first, but you will get used to it. The building has protections in place for its inhabitants, it’s nothing personal. We all have to endure the dimming of our abilities here, and it should become an afterthought soon.”
I work hard to school my features. I don’t want to show the slightest bit of shock or bewilderment. One, because I don’t feel any kind of drain on my magic at all. In fact, I feel quite the opposite, like I’m a juiced-up magical battery. The other reason I don’t want to give anything away is that I suspect Order members are given something that makes them immune to whatever drain or dimming she’s referring to. Prek cursedthe dimmerswhen we were going at it, as though they affected him more than they should have andthat’swhy I got the better of him. But I don’t think that’s what happened.
Point for me, that he’s more focused on his inability to magic me into submission instead of realizing that thesedimmersdidn’t affect me and my ability to magically fight him at all. The only reason he’s not bone dust on the hardwood is because I wanted to know what I was up against, what was happening here. But that picture is getting clearer and clearer, and I’m becoming really grateful that I still have access to my magic the way I always have.
I look over at Prek. He’s still standing at attention, his eyes focused on nothing as the Major continues to talk up my new prison. I don’t care what she says about this place and all the amenities it harbors within its walls, we both know it’s just a swanky oversized holding cell. She can sweet talk me all she wants about how I’m free after I answer some questions, but based on what I’ve been told, the Order has contingencies for their contingencies, and somewhere in that mess is the plan that they could trade me for the other missing witches, just like the ransom note stated.
“There are eight suites on this floor. You occupy one. The renounced occupies another, and your protective detail is housed in the remaining suites,” she tells me, moving toward the door. “We can tour the facilities, and then, if you’re ready, sit down and discuss why you’ve been brought here,” the Major tells me, turning to see if I’m following her.
I pause, not overly interested in finding out if the Order has a juice bar. I’m also not eager for the interrogation to start, although I am hoping I can glean some information from whatever it is they’re going to ask me. But first, I need to call home.
“My phone was lost in the accident that Prek and his team caused,” I start, hoping to capitalize on the Major’s previous annoyance with Prek and his dis-Order-ly behavior. “I need to get a new one, and I need to check in with my family. They’ll be worried, I haven’t spoken to them in...” I pause, trying to calculate how many days have gone by. “How long was I out?” I ask, hating that I don’t know the answer already.
