Surprisingly, nothing happens.
The night quiets once again, the crickets not even brave enough to send their song out into the tense silence. Anticipation thrums through my chest, each rapid beat of my heart like a war drum in my head. I hold my breath, the inhale and exhale feeling too loud and disruptive as I wait for what will come next.
“Punishable offense?” a smooth, confident voice calls back, and then all at once, a ring of witches in golden-yellow hooded cloaks steps out from the obscurity of the dark and into the dim light of the rising crescent moon. “Maybe, but I doubt anyone would really take issue with the removal of the Kendrick stain from the fabric of the magical community,” the witch declares matter-of-factly.
With a twitch of my hand, the splinters of bones I spread around us earlier slowly rise. I don’t attack, knowing that the small projectiles likely won’t make it past any protective amulets, but I have other plans for them. A robed figure lifts his hands and pushes back the hood obscuring his face.
Smooth dark skin, a shaved head, and a short tidy black beard dust the witch’s square jaw. His full lips tilt up in a taunting smile, his russet-brown eyes fixed on Rogan in a way that immediately tells me they know each other. It also tells me this is not a good thing. He reaches out and lazily swipes at nothing with his hand—a gust of powerful wind surges in around Rogan and me, sending my bone splinters crashing back down to the ground. It’s less a defensive move and more of a you don’t want to fuck with us effort at intimidation.
Arrogance wafts off the Circummancer, his cold stare never leaving Rogan’s. With zero hesitation, I take advantage of the witch’s preoccupation and send a fine, almost imperceptible, mist of bone powder up into the air to join the dust, leaves, and evergreen needles that have been kicked up by the threatening breeze. None of the other surrounding witches speak up or do anything to stop me, and I revel silently in the success of my actions. That couldn’t have gone any better than I had hoped, but I don’t let the satisfaction or eagerness I feel show anywhere on my face or defensive stance.
“Prek,” Rogan grumbles out, and the hoodless Circummancer’s smile grows even wider. “When did they make your sniveling ass a commander?” he questions, and a spark of anger flashes in Prek’s steely gaze.
“It’s been a while, old friend,” Prek points out, but the bite in his tone and ice in his gaze betray the sentiment of his words.
“I think we both know who the stain truly is,” Rogan states pointedly. “Still holding onto unfounded grudges, I see,” he adds with a dismissive wave, the tension in his body immediately dropping away as though this situation is no longer threatening and he can relax.
I, however, am not so convinced.
Prek chuckles, but there’s not an ounce of genuine humor in it. “Typical Rogan,” he purrs, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Always thinking he’s the star the rest of us simply orbit around.”
I try not to snort out a laugh of agreement. Nope. This prick could have killed us; I will not find him amusing or his assessment mildly accurate.
“Believe it or not, this visit isn’t about you,” Prek states, his tone suddenly bored as his dark gaze turns to me.
His sharp stare takes me in. His eyes drop to the pointed bone shards gripped in each of my hands and languidly make their way back up to mine. Curiosity flashes in his gaze for a brief moment, but it’s quickly replaced by jaded resignation.
“Lennox Osseous, you’ve been summoned to appear before the Order of Magic. This is not a request, but an order. You are to be taken into custody immediately and brought before the High Council.”
“Taken into custody?” I ask, bewildered, at the same time Rogan steps forward menacingly and growls, “For what?”
“Rogan Kendrick, this matter doesn’t concern you. You will back off and not interfere with the Order’s business,” Prek warns, but the light in his brown eyes screams that he hopes Rogan will do the exact opposite.
“Am I being arrested?” I demand, ignoring the higher pitch of the question and telling myself there’s no need to panic. I haven’t done anything arrest worthy, except maybe threaten Marx, but that was before I knew who he was, and Rogan cleared the whole misunderstanding up.
Prek doesn’t clarify, he just repeats, “Lennox Osseous, you’ve been summoned to appear before the Order of Magic. This is not a request, but an order. You are to be taken into custody immediately and brought before the High Council.”
Prek’s robot mode stops, and I look to Rogan, confused. Is this normal? If I’m simply supposed to go with them for some welcome to the magical community get-together, then why not just say that? Why attack us first? That doesn’t seem like something you’d do to facilitate an innocent introduction. It’s very possible shoving us off the road was less about me and more about whatever history is between Rogan and this prick, but being deemed sacrificial collateral damage doesn’t exactly make me feel any better about the situation.
Rogan turns and takes me in for a moment, as though he too is trying to work out what’s going on. It makes my stomach drop even more to see evidence in his gaze that what’s happening isn’t normal. I shake my head no ever so slightly. I don’t want to start shit with the Order, but everything inside of me is screaming not to go with them.
“Lennox Osseous, approach any member of my team so that you can be taken into custody,” Prek commands coldly.
Rogan steps protectively in front of me. “Yeah, that’s not going to happen,” he states evenly as though he hadn’t a care in the world and the Order doesn’t have us trapped in a grid.
Prek’s smile brightens, and for the first time since he’s revealed himself, he looks genuinely pleased. Alarm bells ring in my mind as the chuckle that bubbles out of him is tinged with pure delight. “Oh, Kendrick, I was really hoping you’d say that.”
With a movement so fast I don’t even have time to register it, all hell breaks loose around us. The earth beneath our feet begins to undulate as though it’s really the sea and had us fooled the whole time. I start to fall back, but Rogan pulls me to him, slamming me into his unforgiving chest so hard that it knocks the wind out of me. Air leaves my lungs in a rush, and then it betrays me even more by turning and trying to pull me from Rogan’s hold.
Wind assaults me from every angle, and for something that technically isn’t tangible, it feels like a giant fist wrapping around me while bellowing fee fi fo fum and promising to crush my bones into paste. I scream, but it’s torn away from me by the attacking gale. I hang onto Rogan for all that I’m worth, but suddenly he’s choking and coughing up water, desperately working to dispel the liquid from his lungs.
Terror seizes me. I know I have fractions of a second before I’m torn away and might very likely be forced to watch Rogan die. Part of me wants to argue that this isn’t right, the Order can’t just go around doing this to innocent witches, but I’m not that naive.
Fear swirls in Rogan’s eyes as he clutches onto me in a bruising hold with one hand and claws at his throat with the other. Heaves and wet coughs wrack his body, as once again everything goes so wrong so fast. Rage explodes through me, my blood heating with the potent and punishing need for vengeance.