Oh fuck, we gotta go!
14
Fear hammers through me and sends my pulse galloping away as though it’s a thoroughbred making a play for the Triple Crown. My throat grows tight, and I have just enough time to realize that we won’t make it out of here before whoever that is comes crashing through the back door.
“Rogan!” I shout in warning as I round the island and thrust out my hand.
I have two warring arguments going on inside of me right now. One is pleading for me to hide, and the other wants to fuck shit up. I lift my hand slowly, tapping into the bones buried all around the yard. When I have a hold of what I need, I close my fingers into a fist, and white missiles rip out of the earth to form a cage around the intruder.
Fuck shit up, it is.
I run for the back door and fling it open. It slams against the wood of the house with a loud bang that sends more adrenaline jolting through me. With my other hand, I call on the bone stakes hidden all around the property. A floating ring of femur-sized spears surround the bony cage, and I take in the trapped intruder as I move cautiously closer.
I expand my senses to see if there’s anyone else here besides him, but I don’t feel another presence. I shove power out into every bone on the property, and a pulse of magic tears out of me in a brutal tidal wave that sends my prisoner crashing against the bones surrounding him and crumpling to the ground. A flash of something pops up in my mind, but I shove it aside so I can magically feel everything around me and assess the threat level. To my surprise, Elon even hung bone chimes in the trees, making it possible to feel an attack coming from above.
I tuck my admiration away, and focus on the man in the cage as he gets back onto his feet and starts to brush himself off. “I just bought this shirt,” he grumps, fingering a tear in the sleeve that must have caught on a bone fragment. My ring of bone stakes constricts slightly, and he looks over at the movement with clear annoyance written all over his face. He turns his gaze on me, his eyes widening a fraction, before a cold wall of indifference slams down in their espresso depths.
“You’re not Elon,” he states evenly, a strange hint of seduction in the obvious observation. “And you’re not any of my missing witches…” he goes on.
“Your witches?” I question as a thumping noise comes from the house. I turn to see if Rogan is coming, but an overwhelmingly enticing voice catches my attention instead.
“Drop the weapons, Love, and then drop the cage,” he commands, but the words are wrapped in something so luscious and delectable that my whole body warms to it regardless of how ridiculous the order is. “Do as you’re told, gorgeous, and then we’ll have a nice long talk afterward,” he practically purrs, and it’s as though his words are a soft blanket on a chilly day. I want to wrap them all around me, snuggle into them, and let the hidden promises in each syllable melt me from the inside out, in all the most sinful ways.
What the hell?
I take a step toward my prisoner but stop myself as doubt pinballs around in my mind. I study him for a moment, arrogance etched in his square jaw, cocked eyebrow, and the sensual curve of his lips. His hair is combed to the side in a perfect blond wave, and as nice as he is to look at, letting him out makes no sense.
Understanding dawns on me, just as irritation flashes in his dark brown gaze. He’s a Vox Witch. I just read last night about the sirens of old. I focus magic in the bones surrounding my ear, and the heady buzz his magic has resonating through me stops like someone just flipped the off switch.
“Very good, Osteomancer,” he commends, no more magic dripping from his words.
“Who the hell are you, and why are you here?” I demand, forcing my bone stakes to streak toward him, stopping only inches away from his throat.
He holds his hands up as if to plead for me to stop, and a booming whoa sounds off behind me. This time, I don’t take my attention away from the witch in the bone cage as Rogan comes running up beside me.
“Took you long enough,” I snap, and I don’t miss that the Vox Witch’s face relaxes slightly when Rogan enters the picture.
“Well, if someone hadn’t thrown me off the stairs with their burst of magic, I would have gotten here sooner. What the fuck are you doing?” he snaps at me.
“Exactly what it looks like I’m doing,” I snap back. “I’m getting some answers from the lurker I found in the backyard.”
“Lennox, this is Marx, the witch from the Order I was telling you about. The one investigating the disappearances. I asked him to meet us here.”
I huff out a frustrated breath and turn to him, vexation radiating out of me. “You didn’t think that maybe a heads-up would have been good in this situation?” I grumble, flinging my arms back so the bone stakes and parts making up the cage bury themselves deep in the ground again.
“I got tied up, and he got here faster than I thought,” Rogan defends, turning his attention to the Order member Marx. “Are you okay?” he asks, stepping toward him and extending his hand.
Marx extends his as well, and they grip each other’s forearms in the witch version of a handshake.
“You owe me a shirt,” Marx deadpans, and Rogan gives a humorous snort as they separate and look over at me. “And who is this? I haven’t received word that any of the missing witches’ powers had moved down their line.”
“They haven’t. This is Ruby’s successor.”
Marx’s head snaps to Rogan, shock replacing his swagger, and there seems to be some kind of odd unspoken conversation between the two as Rogan nods his head once in confirmation. The exchange happens so fast I’m not sure what to make of it. But before I can so much as try to interpret what just happened between them, Marx’s eyes are back on mine. He closes the distance between us, his hand extended, and as uncertain as I am, I also don’t want to offend the Order in any way.
When he’s right in front of me, I take his arm, gripping his forearm hard enough to convey, you don’t want to mess with this, without downright offering a challenge. He holds my arm a second too long, his fathomless espresso stare studying me intensely.
“I’m sorry to hear about Ruby. She was greatly respected and will be eternally missed,” Marx offers, and the reminder of her loss makes my throat grow tighter with emotion. Marx releases his grip, his fingers running a line down the inside of my forearm as he steps back. Then just before he pulls his hand away, he flips my palm up and runs his gaze over my wrist.
He does it quickly, smoothly, probably hoping his touch alone serves as enough of a distraction that I won’t think twice about what he just did. But Rogan’s vow mark sits crimson against my skin, and suspicion swells in my gut.
How did he know to look for that?
“What are you doing?” I ask evenly as he casually steps back, an attractive and friendly smile on his face. It’s probably meant to disarm me, but all it does is serve to make me even more uneasy.
Marx’s brow dips in confusion, but his eyes don’t radiate the same emotion. “Getting acquainted with the newest Bone Witch of the revered Osseous line. Why?” he queries innocently.
Rogan moves his weight from one foot to the other, and my eyes narrow.
“What am I missing here?” I press.