knew what would be expected of them if their children were heirs.”
“Are there a lot of families that do things like yours?” I ask, surprised by what seems like an archaic set of traditions.
“Not as many as there used to be, but many founding magical houses are still there, and this is how they’ve always done things.
“It all seems so stuffy compared to how I grew up, so stifling. Are you sure your brother wasn’t running from that?”
Rogan studies me for a moment, and I can’t tell if he’s thinking about the questions or looking for something in the planes of my face. “Maybe,” he finally answers. “I don’t think so, but I’d be dumb not to consider every possibility. But even if that’s the case, how do you explain the other disappearances?”
“Are the other witches also from founding houses?” I ask in my best aristocratic voice as I mime holding a teacup, pinky out, of course. I honk at some asshole who cuts me off going half the speed limit, and angrily change lanes to speed past them. “Learn how to merge, you numpty!” I shout out my still open window, and then I feel like a prick when they give an apology wave. Oops, guess I’ll just reel my road rage right back in. I return the wave as though we’re now road besties and promptly putter away.
“One is,” Rogan answers, ignoring my driving faux pas. “But the others are from newer lines.”
I grew up in Massachusetts, so the whole Old Money versus New Money thing isn’t new to me, but I’m a little shocked to see it’s like that with magic too. I probably shouldn’t be; I know enough history to see a pattern of this when it comes to most things. Religion, land, money, magic, politics, the list really is endless, and regardless of which option, there’s always a group that wants to be on top, with people at the bottom hoping someday their lot in life will change.
“So what about you?” Rogan asks me as I take a sharp right and barrel down the street that leads to my apartment complex.
“What about me? You know how I got my magic.”
“No, what’s your sad childhood story?”
“Sad, what makes you think it was sad?”
“Everyone has a sad childhood story,” he answers simply, and it makes me pause.
Maybe he’s right. Mine’s not ideal. I never really thought of it as sad, but an outsider could.
“My mother died giving birth to me,” I offer. “It devastated a lot of people. She was pretty incredible, but it left me and my dad to pick up the pieces. My Aunt Hillen helped, and Tad is more brother than cousin, but as sad stories go, mine’s a little lame,” I joke as I tear into my parking lot and gun it for my building at the back of the complex.
What I don’t tell Rogan is that growing up in my family was pretty great until I hit about sixteen. That’s when my dad got cancer. I had the typical bad moments as a kid, getting teased for living in a trailer or not wearing the newest clothes and trends, but it wasn’t until my dad got sick that I really learned what hurt felt like. And when he died, that’s when I felt my first sting of betrayal.
I squeal into my assigned parking spot as though I’m a professional stunt car driver. I activate the e-brake and get ready to celebrate my victory, but when I look up, I see Tad and Hillen in all their gloaty glory standing just outside my apartment door.
My jaw drops in surprise, and Tad’s smile grows even wider. I look over at the visitor parking spot to check that his Prius hasn’t somehow morphed into a time bending DeLorean or one of those rocket cars designed to break land speed records, but it’s still just a Prius.
“How in the hell…” I ask as I climb out of my car. I had almost a perfect run over here, minus the road rage incident.
Tad reaches up and searches for the hide-a-key that I don’t keep hidden very well at the top of the trim around my door.
A loud, mean dog bark sounds off next to me, and I turn to see who let a hellhound run loose in the complex. All I find is Hoot once again wiggling in Rogan’s arms. Maybe he’s not the cuddler that Rogan seems to want him to be. The bark sounds off