He stares up at the house, the bay windows gleaming in the morning light, and shrugs. “I wish I knew.”
I open the car door and step out into the cool morning air. There’s not a hint of big city laced in the molecules I inhale, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear I could taste a hint of acorn squash and apples in the wind as it whips my hair around.
Rogan’s car door closes, the sound bouncing off the distant trees, and he walks up to the garage and enters a code that makes the door slowly begin to rise. A smaller white SUV sits dormant, and Rogan leads me past it and into the house. A light wood, herringbone-patterned floor guides us into the kitchen. I can see that the interior is updated but still has all the charm and character of the outside.
There’s a loaf of opened white bread on the island, next to a plate and a can of soda.
I recall Rogan saying that his brother didn’t eat or drink any of these things, so I go meander by them to see if there’s anything I might pick up that Rogan didn’t. I get nothing.
Rogan doesn’t say much, just waits until I’m done perusing his brother’s space, and then leads me to the next living area. I walk through the living room, giving the pile of whatever it is that’s surrounded by crushed rowanberries a wide berth. I meander through Elon’s office, observing the pictures on his desk and bookshelves. All of them are of him and Rogan.
Elon is shorter, and his green eyes are darker, but there’s no mistaking the family resemblance. “Are you two twins?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure the answer is no. I feel like that would have been an important thing to mention before now if it were the case.
“No, he’s older by almost a year,” he tells me from where he’s leaning against the door that has beautiful stained glass inlays with bone borders.
“So Irish twins then,” I observe as I pull a book out that was sticking out more than the others on the shelf, almost like someone put it back in a hurry. The spine and contents are in a language I don’t know, but I flip through it just in case something pops out at me. Nothing does.
We do a quick tour of the upstairs, where I discover that Elon sleeps on a bed frame made of bones, and that’s where I draw the line with my envy, because that’s just weird. I could feel extra protections in his bedroom, including bones under the floorboards, almost like this room could serve as some kind of panic room, or if there was a last stand to be made, this was the place to do it. It was all a bit too much.
Rogan’s phone chirps, and he brings it up to his ear and answers it. I debate spying on him for a couple of seconds, but when it seems like the call is businessy and boring, I see myself downstairs. I stand in the middle of Elon’s living room and ask the bones to help me figure out what happened in here, but I feel nothing from them. There’s no residual panic or pain that they’re hanging onto, there’s not even a trace of fear, which there most definitely would be if Elon’s familiar was burned in here.
I walk over to the kitchen counter and untie my bones from my hip. I grab the plastic pincher thing that’s supposed to keep the twisted opening of the bread closed, and then rip the metal tab off the soda can. I drop both items into the purple pouch, close the top, and shake the bones. I ask them to help me read the person who bought these things, and I shake until the bones let me know that they’re ready.
I’m not sure what to expect, but when I dump the bones, a sea of blankness is not it. Every symbol on every bone is face down, making it so I can’t see them. The metal tab and the bread pincher are off to the side as though the bones have rejected their presence. I stare at the spread for a moment to make sure I don’t miss anything.
Well, it was worth a shot.
I pick up the bones one by one and drop them back in the pouch, but when I grasp one particularly large chip, the bone heats in my hand. I flip it over to see the symbol for letters or language, depending on the context and angle of how this particular bone piece lands. I study it, trying to decipher what this could mean, and after a beat, it comes to me.
I set that bone aside and quickly place the others back in the pouch. I look around me, wondering where Elon keeps his scrying tools, and then remember that I don’t need his, I can summon my own, just like I did the bone knife that I used to free Tad from the hex. I close the velvet bag and ask it to give me the scrying board and pendulum I rescued from my evil aunt’s house. When I open the bag and reach in, it’s there, and excitement flashes through me. Magic is fucking cool, and I hum my appreciation as I pull the scrying board and onyx pendulum from my bone pouch. I set them on the table and then place the bone that warmed in my hand back inside the pouch.
I wipe the bone board down with the hem of my shirt, cleaning out the grooves of the center design, which is an elaborate sun with a face that has closed eyes, and a crescent moon that’s cupping the sun from below. It’s the size of a large pancake, with the word yes centered at the top of the board and the word no at the bottom. The alphabet is carved, letter by letter, into the right curve of the circular board, and the numbers one through ten on the left side of the circle.
I give the board and pendulum a moment to get acclimated, and then I grab the bronze chain and lift the onyx stone attached on the other end above the board and demand that they spill their secrets. The pure black stone of the pendulum zings so fast to the letter N, that I have to fight my reaction to duck and find cover. I’m suddenly so glad that Rogan isn’t here to witness this, because I probably look like an idiot, but I recover just in time to see the stone fly to the letter I. K follows quickly, and then an S, M, E, L, S, E, R.
Quickly, with my free hand, I conjure a pad of paper and a pen. It’s the fanciest stationery I’ve ever seen, and the pen is made from a rabbit’s leg, but a witch’s gotta do what a witch’s gotta do. I write down the letters, staring at them for a minute as I try to decipher what they mean.
“Is this another language other than English?” I ask the board.
The pendulum streaks down to the word no and then circles it before going still.
Okay. Not another language. Niksmelser. What the hell does that mean in English then?
“Is this a location?”
No is once again circled, squashing that hope.
“Is this word a code? Is there a key needed to decipher it?”
The pendulum doesn’t move, and then I remember that the grimoire states to only ask one question at a time. “Is this a code?”
No.
“Is it a name?” I ask, hoping for a long shot.
Excitement sparks in me when the pendulum moves away from no and flashes to yes. I stare at the scrying board, surprised by that response, and then I look at the paper. I study it for a moment, trying to pull a name from the arranged letters. I draw a slash between the K and the S of the word to create Nik Smelser.
Holy shit. It is a name.
“How do I find Nik Smelser?” I ask the board, figuring one long shot worked, why not a twofer? The pendulum flies to the letter R, then to the U, and rests lastly on the N. My brow furrows in confusion.
“Run? You want me to run?” I query, and then the onyx stone begins to tremor on the board before it shoots into the pouch out of nowhere. I jump back, startled, and that’s when something catches my eye. I look through the bay window that shows the land at the back of the house, and see a man slowly stalking toward the back door.