“Breathe, Lennox,” Rogan commands as he shoots me concerned looks while still trying to pay attention to the road.
I can feel panic scratching through my body like it’s some terrifying monster that’s ready to rip me to shreds. “Distract me,” I pant out as I try not to claw at my throat and the seat belt that suddenly seems too tight against my chest. The window next to me rolls down a little, and cool, moisture-heavy air caresses my face and tries to calm me. “Just talk, tell me what a day in the life of a Blood Witch looks like. Or...whatever...just tell me something,” I plead, desperate to think about anything else other than how I feel and all of the crazy things that have happened in the last twenty-four hours.
Concern laces his green gaze, but he listens. “Uh, well, my day varies, depending on what clients I have scheduled,” he starts, his deep voice filling the car. “Some are sick and need weekly healings or potions delivered regularly to help with various things from ailments to beauty treatments to health regimens.
“I work monthly with a blood donation center to weed out possible issues with donations and apply blessings on what they’re delivering. Some doctors refer patients to me if there’s a struggle to pinpoint an issue. I also work with a local coven here and there. We like to combine our resources and create more potent brews and talismans.
“It all really just depends. Elon and I work together for some clients, but he runs a separate business as well. We try to do Tincture Tuesday where we get together and sort out what we need to make for the following week,” he explains with a quiet chuckle that morphs into a sad sigh, his voice and this information exactly the distraction I needed.
“Hmmm, what else?” he hums, checking on me out of the corner of his eye as the road curves to the right. I lay my head back against the headrest, closing my eyes and reveling in the feel of the cool air from the window. The weird feeling is there still, but it’s not nearly as overwhelming as it was.
“There’s also clients who hire me specifically for the other side of our abilities...” he goes on, the change in direction intriguing. “You know, curses and things of that nature, or maybe you don’t know,” he corrects himself.
“I know that magic and what we do as witches isn’t all sunshine and rainbows,” I tell him as I settle into the steady rhythm of the moving car. “I did just watch my cousin get hexed,” I remind him, and he nods in understanding.
“I work by referral only, so new clients have to be vetted, especially if they’re requesting help like that. I don’t take any of it lightly, so a lot goes into making sure that the darker side of things is done correctly and only on the deserving.”
“You talk like you’re worried you’re going to scare me away,” I point out. “Dark magic is just as important as the light. I at least paid attention to that lesson as a kid.”
“So then your grandmother did try to teach you?” he presses.
“Of course she did. Like you said, she was one of the best. She would get all of us together for lessons. I bought into all of it until I was eighteen, and then I…” I pause as that constricting feeling in my chest tightens even more. I sit up, opening my eyes, and look around me.
“And you what?” Rogan presses.
An off-ramp is coming up, and an exit sign indicates that we’re approaching Sweet Lips, Tennessee. I chuckle at the town’s name, but my chest gets even tighter, and I practically choke on it.
“What’s wrong?” Rogan asks, reaching out to push curls out of my face.
“I don’t know, can you pull off here? I need to get out,” I instruct as I clutch at my chest. Am I having a heart attack? It doesn’t hurt so much as it’s just uncomfortable as hell.
He turns his blinker on and pulls off at the exit, his flashy car slowing smoothly and feeling more like a spaceship than an automobile.
“Go right at the stop sign,” I tell him, something inside forcing me to go all backseat driver.
Rogan thankfully doesn’t argue, and when he turns right, the vise in my chest loosens just slightly. I pull in a deep breath and call out a series of directions, like Sweet Lips and I go way back. I have no idea how I know where to go, but I do put together what all of this means as the velvet pouch of bones that I tied to my belt loop, the ones now resting against my hip, begin to grow warmer and warmer. It’s like some fucked up version of hot and cold bones-style, and I have no doubt that I’m going to find someone who needs my help at the end of this skeletal rainbow.
“So this is what it feels like,” I state absently. “This is the urge my grandmother was talking about that could hit at any time.”
“Are you being summoned?” Rogan asks.
“Yeah, it’s so weird.” I look down at my arms as though the anticipation crawling under my skin will be visible, but they look the same as they always do. I rub at my chest, wondering how many times this happened to her. Was it like this every time, this physical need to take action, or was it more of how I felt when I knew I needed to help Rogan? That was more of an instinctual feel, this...well, this feels so much more urgent.
We round a corner onto a well-lit street, passing closed shops, a few open restaurants, and a smattering of people walking around. My heart hammers in my chest as I spot a bar with a few trucks and motorcycles parked outside.
“Here,” I point out, and Rogan pulls his too-fancy, out-of-place car into an open parking spot.
“The Eagle Fang?” he questions, reading the lit sign hung above the peeling stucco of the building.
“Actually, I think it’s called the Beagle Fang,” I point out, gesturing to the rusty-looking unlit B.
“Yeah, that doesn’t sound any better,” he deadpans as he scans our surroundings, looking like he’s been asked to touch something he finds gross. “This doesn’t look very safe,” he observes, and I just breathe and stare blankly at the front door.
“Would you say the same thing to your brother if he were the one who was summoned here?” I ask, unable to really disagree with his assessment. It looks like some run-down biker bar, not a place strangers would stop in to check out as they passed by, but what can I do? The bones are most definitely calling me here.
“I would,” Rogan answers as he looks off into the surrounding shadows as though he can see into their depths.
“Well, better get on with it,” I declare on a sigh, reaching for the door handle and stepping out of the car.
Rogan gets out on the other side. “What are you doing?” I ask, confused as to why he’s following me. His brother is an Osteomancer, he knows the deal. It’s the Bone Witches and Corium Witches that I learned about when I was younger who have to deal with this whole magical call to aid those around us. I heard my grandmother talk about it many times. Some call it a gift, others a curse, but either way, there’s no getting around it.
“I’m not going to leave you alone in a place like this,” he tells me as though that should be obvious.
“Did you ever think that maybe your hulking ass might be what gets me into trouble in a place like this?” I ask, gesturing to the front door. “I doubt anyone in there would care about some woman stopping in for a drink, but you...well, you just look like someone who wouldn’t mind creating a good ruckus or two.”