penguins and Julie Andrews’s silvery voice aren’t going to make this fucked up pill any easier to swallow.
I step away from Rogan, my teeth gritted against the capitulation in the move, and run my fingers through my dark-chocolate and cinnamon swirled curls. He watches me carefully like my surrender is suspicious and he’s not quite buying it yet. Good. I may have to help him, but I don’t have to be nice about it.
“Fix what you did to my magic, and I’ll help you,” I offer, deciding that he doesn’t need to know that my assistance is already, so to speak, a done deal.
“I told you, I don’t know how to reverse it, but I know who does. If you help me find my brother, I’ll make sure to set things right. I vow it.”
I study him for a beat and then nod. “So vow it,” I agree, wondering what a vow looks like to a Blood Witch. It better not be that blood brother kind of crap, because science has come too far and taught us too much to go mixing our lifeblood all willy-nilly.
Osteomancers in my line will give away a bone. Usually something small from an animal, but the bone will be infused with the magic of that Osteomancer’s promise. When the vow is complete, the bone disintegrates to dust. I hope this doesn’t go in the direction of Angelina and Billy Bob. I really don’t want to wear a vile of anyone’s blood around my neck.
A switchblade once again appears in Rogan’s hand. Now that I’m closer, I can see it’s not just your run-of-the-mill pocketknife either. It’s gold and it appears to have Rogan’s family sigil in rubies on the handle. He better be careful flashing that thing around; we’re not in a bad part of town, but people have been mugged for less.
Rogan pricks his finger and then draws a line of blood down the front of his throat. He whispers an incantation so quickly I can’t make it out, and the next thing I know there’s a tickling sensation on my wrist. I look down to see a delicate, ruby-red, lace-like circle with a swooping and elaborate K in the center. I stare at the magical tattoo for a moment, sifting through the surprise I feel over having it there.
It’s like a demon mark, only demons mark a person’s feet when they give or take a vow. I don’t know what their obsession is with feet, but I remember my father talking about it when I was younger. I didn’t know that some witches could mark others in a similar way.
I look up at Rogan, who watches me as he slips his knife back into his pocket. His green eyes drop to the mark on the inside of my wrist and then rise to meet my gaze again. I nod at the question I see in his eyes. “Let’s get on with it then.”
A relieved sigh pours from his lips, and he reaches into his other pocket and pulls out that mysterious plastic sandwich bag again. “Can you read these?” he asks, holding the baggie out to me, his question hopeful and his movements hurried.
I take it from his hands, and the contents look like ash. I look up, perplexed.
“They were in my brother Elon’s apartment. They were encircled in a ring of crushed rowanberries, and I think they’re what’s left of his familiar.”
My eyes widen with this information. I know rowanberries have medicinal purposes, but I can’t think off the top of my head what ceremonial value they might have. Anger and sadness simmer in my gut at the thought of a familiar being killed in such a brutal way. Maybe it was to weaken the witch, but it seems especially cruel and unusual. I was always told that familiars were off-limits. Then again, a stranger off the street just turned me into one, so what the hell do I even know?
I cradle the bag of ash in my hand and, with heavy, tired limbs, turn and walk through the rubble of the shop in the direction of the reading room. Glass skitters and tinkles across the floor when I accidentally kick it, and I can hear Rogan crunching behind me in my wake. My shop is a mess, and I wonder if he’ll help me clean everything up after we discover whatever there is to discover from his brother’s familiar’s remains.
I sit down in a chair, my legs grateful for the