In a flash, I lash out with my magic and snap my tethers to the bone matter all around me taut. Bone matter that this coven of witches has been breathing in while they waited for Prek’s next orders. I bypass any protection amulets they might have leaving their bones alone and only calling to the particles of powder I sneakily introduced to their systems. I wrap the tethers of magic connecting me to each of the Vicinal Witches surrounding me, around my fist, and all at once shut each of them down.
Thoughts of mercy flee my mind as I direct the bone powder to close their airways. The assaulting wind around me stops, and Rogan falls to his knees, coughing and finally able to try and breathe. Witches around me wheeze and choke, their gurgles slowly growing silent as their wide panicked eyes turn terrified.
I should feel bad as I pull air deep into my lungs and watch unconsciousness—and I know eventually death—creep into the visages of the witches all around me. But my compassion and sympathy have fled. There’s no doubt in my mind that each and every one of them would gladly kill Rogan, kill me, and I’ve done nothing to deserve it.
Fury scalds me as one witch drops to her knees, her hood flung back to reveal carrot orange hair and a purple hue to her oxygen-starved skin. Her eyes plead for me to stop, but where was her mercy, her pardon, when I was in a car flipping down the embankment, or when Rogan was being drowned from the inside out?
Other witches fall to their knees, weak and clasping at their impotent throats, but I ignore them and move closer to Prek. I want to see his face as karma bitch-slaps him across it. I want him to look into my eyes as his vision speckles with blackness, so that he knows without a shadow of doubt that his vicious actions are what sealed not only his fate, but the fate of everyone on his team.
Fear swims in his gaze as he looks up at me from where he’s fallen to the now still ground. He blinks, and then something weird happens. A trail of crimson trickles out of the corner of his eyes. I watch it move down his cheeks slowly, and then see another line of blood drip down from his nose. He’s bleeding.
“Leni, stop!” Rogan croaks, and then he’s overcome with coughs, the sound of them thankfully dry, indicating that he’s dispelled all the water from the abused organs.
I ignore him, too captivated by the trail of blood now seeping out of Prek’s ears. I’ve never watched anyone being strangled to death; maybe the blood is normal. Something niggles at the back of my mind, screaming at me that this isn’t normal. That I shouldn’t be so calm about something so wrong, so utterly horrifying like watching someone die. But it’s as if any ability to care was stripped from me.
Maybe I’m in shock or suffering from some kind of traumatic brain injury. Or maybe I’ve just had enough of other magic users thinking they can do whatever they want to me with no repercussions. Whatever it is, I’m far past the point of caring.
“Leni, Love, what are you doing?” a luscious and silky voice coos at me.
I pull my gaze from the lines of blood paving their way down Prek’s face and look over to find Marx. Surprise flashes through me, quickly replaced by suspicion. What is he doing here? As though he can read the question in my eyes, his lips tilt up in a carefree smile, but it doesn’t match the worry in his espresso-colored eyes.
“Rogan called me, beautiful, told me that a coven from the Order was out here messing with him.”
I look from Marx to Rogan, who’s struggling to get on his feet. Marx quickly moves to help him.
“I sent him a message just after I healed myself,” Rogan confirms, his voice pure gravel, and he reaches into his pocket and produces his phone as if I need the extra proof.
“Lennox, you have to stop,” Rogan orders once again, but it’s as though there’s nowhere for his words to settle in my swirling mind.
“Stop?” I ask, confused by the vehemence in his order.
Marx steps in front of Rogan. “You’re killing them, Leni, and I promise you that’s not a road you want to go down,” Marx tells me, his comforting voice warm and cozy. I swallow his words down like I just took a bite from a chocolate chip cookie fresh out of the oven. They feel gooey and delicious, and all I suddenly want is another bite.
I look over at Prek, whose arms are now limp by his sides. Small twitches work their way through his failing body, and all I can suddenly feel is a cold and hollow anger. My eyes find Marx’s again, and I feel a tear fall down my cheek.
“They were going to kill us,” I tell him in defense, my mind now feeling clouded with wrath and Marx’s tempting magic. There’s something else there too, something terrifyingly strong and overwhelming, but Marx’s warm cookie voice pulls my attention away.
“Let me take care of them, Leni,” Marx purrs, imbuing his words with even more power.
I close my eyes and float in it for a moment.
“Lennox,” Rogan starts, but Marx cuts him off.
“I think you’ll set her off again, Ro, just let me,” Marx tells him, and my brow furrows in question.
Does Rogan set me off?
“Leni, please,” Marx pleads, and I open my eyes and take him in, the appeal breaking through whatever is going on with me and resonating to the core of who I am.
“Okay,” I concede, my voice breaking a little. I release my hold on the Order’s Circummancers all around me, suddenly feeling spent and exhausted.
Coughs and labored gasps fill the night all around me, and in two steps, Rogan has me wrapped up in his strong hold as though he knows I’m completely depleted.
“Is the Order allowing unsanctioned attacks on innocent witches now?” Rogan growls, but all I want to do is curl up and go to sleep. I don’t have enough energy to feel angry anymore. Maybe in the morning.
“It wasn’t unsanctioned, Rogan,” Marx clips back as he bends to check on a yellow-robed witch who’s not moving. Relief fills his face when he finds a pulse and moves on to check on the next.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Rogan snarls.
“You need to go,” Marx interjects, cutting Rogan off when he opens his mouth to argue. “I’ll come by and explain after I get this shit show cleaned up, but you two need to get out of here now! Take my car,” he instructs, tossing Rogan a set of keys, his tone brooking no argument.
Rogan smoothly plucks the keys from the air and, surprisingly without another word, turns and moves us away from the downed Order witches and his friend, who frantically flits from witch to witch and pulls out his phone to make a call. I get lost in the steady sure movement of Rogan as he holds me to him, silently and effortlessly climbing up the steep embankment to the road where a sleek sports car is parked.
I say nothing as he buckles me into the seat, a weird sense of déjà vu running through me. Fear sends my heart galloping, and I suddenly come to the conclusion that I’m not ready to be in a car again. Not after what just happened in the last one.
“It’s okay, Lennox. I won’t let anything like that happen again. I need to get us home as quickly as possible; we’ll be safe there. I wish we had a ley line closer, but this will do,” he tells me, motioning to the car, with reassurance bleeding out of his gaze.
Emotions flood me, and it’s as though everything I should have been feeling during the near-death encounter comes surging in at me. My breaths get shorter and more panicked, and Rogan’s face moves closer until it’s a hair’s breadth away.