reprieve, and take a deep breath. I’ve seen my Grammy do this before. I’ve watched her hold a bone and read it, gleaning whatever she can from its cells. I, on the other hand, have never attempted it. I can only hope it’s as easy as it looks.
Rogan sits down next to me, and I can feel the tension pouring off of him and settling into the air all around me. Pressure pecks my skin, and it doesn’t take the High Council to tell that there’s a lot riding on this for him.
I steel myself, pulling in a fortifying breath, and then I open the bag.
Here goes nothing.
I dump some of the contents into my cupped palm, and my hand starts to warm. I close my eyes and feel the sensation, willing the remains to tell me their secrets. A flash of worry strikes through me as I realize that maybe the remains will have me watch their death. My stomach roils at the thought, and I try not to panic. I don’t want to watch someone burning a witch’s familiar alive or, worse, experience the sensations the animal did as it perished, but I might not have much choice in the matter.
I’m reminded of all the things I wish I had asked my grandmother when she was alive. I had a well of knowledge and experience at the ready, and I never bothered to tap into it. I know I thought Gwen was a shoo-in for this power, but I suddenly wonder if it made my Grammy sad that I never took more of an interest in her life simply because it was her life.
I try to compartmentalize the guilt and sadness that settles on me like frost on unexpectant spring leaves, and focus on the remains cupped in my palms. Nothing happens. I pour more of the ash into my hand and once again wait for magic to somehow show me the way.
Except it doesn’t.
I give things a couple more minutes before opening my eyes and releasing a defeated sigh. Frustration immediately taints Rogan’s demeanor. “Are you even doing it right?” he demands, pushing out of his chair and beginning to pace again. I’ve never seen anyone actually do that when they’re frustrated, and it could be oddly soothing if he weren’t so damn annoying.
I try not to get defensive over the accusation, because, real talk, maybe I’m not doing this right, but I’m not sure what else there is to do. Grammy Ruby would only ever hold the object she was reading. I never saw her mumble an incantation or add an elixir or powder to aid her. She just held the bones and spoke their secrets.
I shrug. “I’m pretty sure reading something just involves tactile connection and then interpreting the things that come to you. Maybe I’m wrong, or maybe these ashes don’t have enough bone matter in them for my abilities to work. Did you try your magic on them?”
Rogan shoots me a withering look that makes it clear what he thinks about that question. “Of course I did,” he snaps.
“And…”
“And nothing, I couldn’t get anything. Maybe they’re spelled somehow.”
I tip my palm over the opening of the bag and spill the ashes back into the plastic receptacle. He could be right, but I don’t sense any traces of magic on the remnants. “Are you sure these belonged to his familiar?” I question, trying to think through why there’s no residual information on or in the substance.
Rogan runs his fingers through his luscious and annoyingly healthy looking hair and turns to pace back in my direction. “I can’t be sure. Part of her collar and tag were sitting in the pile. It could be her, or it could be some kind of plant or decoy, it’s hard to say,” he admits, starting another round around the room.
“Okay, so start at the beginning and tell me what makes you think he was taken and that the same thing happened to the others.”
“I will explain, but first is there anything else you can do, any other means to test what that is if it’s not the ashes of my brother’s cat?”
Out of habit, I wipe the grit from my hand onto my pants and then immediately cringe when I realize what I just did. Disgusted, I hold my hand away from me as though it’s contaminated. I just wiped mystery dead crap on my favorite boyfriend jeans. Nice one, Lennox. Ew.
“Um, again I’m new at this. I