behind me, and I spin ready to magically cut a bitch. Adrenaline hammers through my veins, but when I turn, I only find Rogan. He looks a million times better, but now I want to punch him for scaring the shit out of me. He steps up next to me, not an ounce of apology in his hard moss-green stare for practically sneaking up on a girl.
“You are in violation of the Engagement Act of 1847,” Rogan bellows out into the dark, and I jump, not at all prepared for his voice to rip through the stillness of the night. “You’ve attacked us without provocation or warning, which is a contravention of witch law and a punishable offense.”
I scan our surroundings watchfully as Rogan goes full lawyer and vocally objects to what’s happening. I’m not sure what good it’s going to do since we’re now officially surrounded and they obviously mean us harm, but what do I know? I personally thought guerrilla warfare was our best bet, but maybe we can talk this out. I roll my eyes at that thought. These people just shoved us off a road and down an embankment at sixty miles an hour. What is he expecting them to do, shout my bad and be on their way?
“If you go straight up Karen and ask to speak to a manager, you’re on your own,” I irritably whisper to him as I wait for our attackers to ignore his efforts to shame them into giving up, and attack us already.
Surprisingly, nothing happens.
The night quiets once again, the crickets not even brave enough to send their song out into the tense silence. Anticipation thrums through my chest, each rapid beat of my heart like a war drum in my head. I hold my breath, the inhale and exhale feeling too loud and disruptive as I wait for what will come next.
“Punishable offense?” a smooth, confident voice calls back, and then all at once, a ring of witches in golden-yellow hooded cloaks steps out from the obscurity of the dark and into the dim light of the rising crescent moon. “Maybe, but I doubt anyone would really take issue with the removal of the Kendrick stain from the fabric of the magical community,” the witch declares matter-of-factly.
With a twitch of my hand, the splinters of bones I spread around us earlier slowly rise. I don’t attack, knowing that the small projectiles likely won’t make it past any protective amulets, but I have other plans for them. A robed figure lifts his hands and pushes back the hood obscuring his face.
Smooth dark skin, a shaved head, and a short tidy black beard dust the witch’s square jaw. His full lips tilt up in a taunting smile, his russet-brown eyes fixed on Rogan in a way that immediately tells me they know each other. It also tells me this is not a good thing. He reaches out and lazily swipes at nothing with his hand—a gust of powerful wind surges in around Rogan and me, sending my bone splinters crashing back down to the ground. It’s less a defensive move and more of a you don’t want to fuck with us effort at intimidation.
Arrogance wafts off the Circummancer, his cold stare never leaving Rogan’s. With zero hesitation, I take advantage of the witch’s preoccupation and send a fine, almost imperceptible, mist of bone powder up into the air to join the dust, leaves, and evergreen needles that have been kicked up by the threatening breeze. None of the other surrounding witches speak up or do anything to stop me, and I revel silently in the success of my actions. That couldn’t have gone any better than I had hoped, but I don’t let the satisfaction or eagerness I feel show anywhere on my face or defensive stance.
“Prek,” Rogan grumbles out, and the hoodless Circummancer’s smile grows even wider. “When did they make your sniveling ass a commander?” he questions, and a spark of anger flashes in Prek’s steely gaze.
“It’s been a while, old friend,” Prek points out, but the bite in his tone and ice in his gaze betray the sentiment of his words.
“I think we both know who the stain truly is,” Rogan states pointedly. “Still holding onto unfounded grudges, I see,” he adds with a dismissive wave, the tension in his body immediately dropping away as though this situation is no longer threatening and he can relax.
I, however, am not so convinced.
Prek chuckles, but there’s not an ounce