“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 again, and I’m stunned to hear that the menacing sound is coming from the tater tot. Shockingly, this pint-sized pup has a Michael Clarke Duncan kind of bark. If James Earl Jones were a dog, his bark wouldn’t even be as deep or scary sounding as Hoot’s.
Rogan struggles to keep Hoot in his arms, and he quickly bends to put him down.
“He probably just has to crap again. It’s a good thing we’re outside, but I’m going to go stand upwind until he’s done,” I announce.
But as soon as Hoot’s paws touch the pavement, he takes off in the direction of my apartment. Someone’s excited to be home, or at least one would think that if it weren’t for the angry barking and snarling he’s doing.
“What the hell?” I ask as I take off after him. Hillen will kill me if my former familiar takes a chunk out of her or Tad. Luckily, they seem to be oblivious to what’s happening right now as Tad pulls my key down and goes to fit it in the lock.
“Stop!” Rogan shouts, and I snort in annoyance. Does he really think that’s going to work on Hoot?
“Don’t touch it!” he bellows again, and this time I’m confused by the instruction and the panic in his voice.
Hoot starts to scramble up the stairs like a pocket-sized Cujo, and I turn to ask Rogan what the hell is going on. Tad turns the key in my lock while simultaneously looking back to see what all the commotion is about. And that’s when I see what the hell has Rogan so freaked out.
A white charge of power explodes out from my apartment door. It’s like a magical bomb just went off, but instead of sending debris and missiles out into the air, the force of the explosion slams directly into Tad. His hand is frozen on the key he’s holding in the doorknob as his body bends backward from the impact of the explosion. Tad’s face and mouth are contorted in a silent scream that I know will haunt my nightmares for the rest of my life.
Horror jackhammers through me as, helplessly, I watch it all happen entirely too fast for me to stop. I scream and pump my legs even harder. Hillen’s face collapses in confusion, and she turns to see the source of the terror written all over my face. I’m halfway up the stairs, practically climbing over Rogan when my aunt’s keening wail slams into me like a nuclear pulse. The horrible sound sears my insides, promising that it will be a sound that I never forget.
Hoot reaches the top of the landing first, but instead of going for Hillen or Tad like I originally thought he was trying to do, he charges the front door and starts biting and pulling at something that looks oddly like a shadow. It’s like there’s a film on the door, and I didn’t notice it until Hoot tried to peel it away.
“Oh god, what’s happening to him?” Hillen shrieks, the raw pain in her voice like daggers to my heart. Rogan gets to them first, and he quickly pulls Hillen back from the door. Thankfully, she doesn’t fight him but allows him to move her so we have the space that we need.
A horrible gurgling is coming from Tad, and there’s no question that whatever is happening is fucking painful. My catalogue of magical options pops up in my head just like it did at Magda’s house, but before I can put anything in my cart and check out, Rogan has his knife in one hand and a deep slice down the palm of his other.
Expertly, he uses his blood to draw symbols against the film that’s torturing my cousin. I recognize symbols for protection and banishment, and what he’s doing sinks in. An image of a knife pops into my head, and immediately I know it belongs to my ancestors and is made from dragon bone. Need strikes through me, and out of thin air, the purple pouch of bones appears in my hand. I stare at them for a moment, not sure how they got into my palm or why, but I get the distinct feeling that I need to reach inside the bag.