“Abracadabra? Really?” I tease.
“What would you rather I say? Shazam? Boom chaka laka? Voilà?”
“I mean, a simple yeet would have sufficed, but boom chaka laka is a solid choice as well.”
“Noted,” he deadpans, and I fight a smile.
“So, if I don’t know the frequency of where I want to go, I’m screwed. Is that the gist of it?” I reiterate, making sure I understand everything correctly.
“Yep, you got it. You may think you can wing it and just create any frequency to see where it will lead you and learn that way, but if you drop yourself in the middle of the ocean, you’re screwed. A current could pull you away from the line...like that.” He snaps his fingers, and I blanch. “You wouldn’t be able to get back on it, and that’s only one of the many bad things that could happen. You could apparate to freezing temperatures in the Himalayas or a volcano. The middle of a board meeting, exposing us to Lessers.”
“I hear you loud and clear. Don’t be stupid and play around,” I tell him.
I sigh. So much for the Bahamas.
“So how do you learn the frequencies of where to go, if you’re not allowed to figure things out via trial and error?”
“There are recordings you can get. They’re like a ley line map. You study them, and then practice with someone who’s experienced until you’ve got it down safely. Once you’ve got it, there’s an app you can download that’s a ley line directory.”
“Seriously?” I ask, shocked.
“What? Witches can’t be technologically savvy?” he teases, a glint of amusement in his eyes.
I realize then that he’s still holding me against him, and my heart rate responds to the sudden awareness. My fingertips lightly skim the soft fabric of his shirt, and I can feel his unyielding muscles as they press against me. I have the uninvited urge to reach up and trace the scar that cuts down his one eye with my fingers, finding myself abruptly curious about how he got it. Rogan pushes a wayward curl out of my face, and then it’s as though whatever spell we’re under bursts. He clears his throat and releases me, stepping back to put space between us.
“We should go,” he announces, and I blink myself back into the here and now, nodding my agreement.
“Right, yes. Blackbriar, Tennessee, here we come,” I declare awkwardly, feeling the need to run off into the surrounding trees and hide. What the hell is wrong with me? It’s as though my hormones are going haywire and misinterpreting everything around me.
Rogan releases a chirpy little whistle, and Hoot comes trotting over. I stare at the little furball, slightly offended that he listens so well to a man who should practically be my enemy. Traitor. Hoot is scooped up, and then next thing I know, Rogan is wrapping his arm around me again.
Right on cue, my insides revert into teenage lust mode, and just when I’m about to scold the shit out of them, Rogan tells me to hold on. Reluctantly I wrap my arms around his waist. I stare off into the trees, trying to think about things like calculus and paying bills so my inner fiend can get the hint and fuck off.
My eyes zero in on a strange movement in the shadows, and trepidation creeps through me. I can barely make out the black silhouette of a person, and they appear to be watching us. But before I can open my mouth to say anything, I’m dissolving into an infinite number of pieces and being siphoned out into the universe. It’s as though I’m grains of sand being sucked up into a vacuum. One minute I’m whole, standing in the middle of a park, and the next, I’m nothing, and everything around me is gone.
10
The steady hum of tires against a smoothly paved road serenades me as I languidly rise to the surface of consciousness. My face breaches the dark pool of oblivion as though I’m lazily coming up for air, and I’m all at once aware that I’m strapped in a car with my face pressed against a cool window. There’s a seat belt cutting across my chest, and a trickle of drool making its way from the corner of my mouth down my chin.
I sit up, wiping at the evidence of the deep sleep state I was just in and try to get my bearings. I’m in a car, a nice car if the leather front console and fancy dim lighting are anything to go by. I look to my left. And yep, Rogan’s driving. Snoring rises up from the back, and I look behind me to find Hoot, who has made himself at home and is out for the count.
“What happened?” I ask groggily, looking around outside of the sleek car, but it’s too dark to really make out much. “Did you knock me out again?” I accuse, my tone too sleepy to communicate the annoyance I feel at that possibility.
“No, you and Hoot passed out when I pulled us out of the line. It’s normal. It can take time to get used to fragmenting and coming back together.”
My stomach roils at that thought, and I try not to picture my parts scattering to the wind and then getting sucked back together. There are just some things that a person doesn’t need to imagine, and this is going on that list. I pat myself just to be sure everything ended up back where it’s supposed to be, and breathe out a relieved exhale when it feels like I’m just as I was before. My chest constricts in an uncomfortable way for a moment, and I observe the feeling, dismissing it when nothing worse happens. It’ll probably take time to feel all the way normal again.
“Where are we?” I question as we pass a streetlight that’s illuminating wild grass and some mystery expanse of land that stretches past the light, far out into the darkness.
“We’re about forty minutes from my home,” he tells me, and I nod even though I’m unsure how I feel about that. He buckled my unconscious body into his car, and we’ve been driving for who knows how long. Seems like a weird thing to do. Then again, he’s a witch, and I’m discovering that weird is just part and parcel.
“The biggest ley line near me is two hours away in Gallywough. I would have waited for you to wake up, but it was getting late and we would have been vulnerable just sitting there so close to a line,” he offers, obviously picking up on my discomfort.
My chest tightens again, and I’m not sure if it’s a warning of something or some residual effect of what my body just went through. I rub at my sternum and wince at the strange sensation.
“Do you need some water or something? I have a couple bottles stashed behind the seat.”
“No, I’m…” I trail off as we pass another streetlight that’s illuminating a sign for an exit that’s forty miles away. “I’m fine, I think, I just feel...off,” I explain, not sure how to put into words what’s happening with me.
“That’s normal,” Rogan explains as he shoots me a sympathetic look. “Ley lines can act like chargers; you might feel like every cell in your body is lit up with a shit ton of magic for a while.”
I take stock of myself. Is that what I’m feeling? Is it adrenaline and a surplus of magic and energy that’s creating this anxious undercurrent that’s running just below my skin? It’s hard to say since I’ve never ridden a ley line before, and I’m not sure what recovery is supposed to be like, but whatever is happening, I’m not a fan. I feel almost itchy with anticipation, and it sucks.
“So I’m strung out on magic, no biggie,” I announce with a shrug, but my voice is pitched higher than normal, meaning this is absolutely a biggie, and I just might be starting to freak out about it.