I snort out a laugh. “Oh yeah, a dinner invitation and the drop of the digits is stage five clinger status. Alert the authorities,” I gasp in faux outrage. “Oh wait, they tried to kill us,” I point out snarkily, adding an eye roll for effect.
He shakes his head but doesn’t say anything else. I take a sip of my coffee, and it forces me to close my eyes and revel in the explosion of flavors on my tongue. I welcome the heat that pours down my throat as I swallow, and I swear this cup of coffee is a better lover than a fair percentage of my past dalliances.
“I want to have your babies,” I state matter-of-factly, opening my blissed out gaze and leveling an arduous look on the coffee machine. Rogan barks out a laugh.
“Should I leave the two of you alone?” he teases.
“Please don’t, you know she only puts out for me because you tell her to,” I plead, and he laughs even harder.
It’s a nice sound. He looks so carefree and relaxed with his head tilted back and a chuckle bouncing around the kitchen. It warms something in me to see him not bogged down by stress and worry, even if only for a moment. I dropkick that marshmallow of a thought as far away as I can. Not today, Satan. Not. Today.
“Alright, Rogan Kendrick,” I announce, taking another sip of my delicious mocha to help fortify my resolve. “I’m going to whip up some potions and protections, and while I do, you are going to sit here and tell me, once and for all, what the fuck is going on. Enough is enough, it’s time to get it all out of the cauldron. And before you even think about holding out on me, you should know that I have a recipe for a potion that will leave you unsatisfied by anything you taste, do, or fuck until the antidote is given. So if I were you, I’d have a seat and spill it.”
Rogan’s green gaze looks more interested than cowed as it dips down my body and then floats back up. “We wouldn’t want that, now would we,” he practically purrs, and his deep irreverent tone lights up my lady bits like it’s accelerant and a struck match all in one.
Well, crap. I just handed over my king on that one. My vagina screams at me that’s checkmate, bitch, and then practically squeals with excitement, ready to be plundered. I wrangle the wayward direction of my thoughts and focus back on Rogan, who is now wearing a knowing grin.
Stick with the plan, Leni. Stick with the damn plan.
I toss him an unimpressed smile, hoping he can’t see the new pink tinge of my cheeks. Note to self: no more sex threats. I don’t think the plan can take it.
19
I find the pelvic bone of the female wolf and lift it out of the box. Closing my eyes, I thank the spirit of the wolf for its offering and then move back over to the large mortar and pestle that Rogan supplied me with. It worked out for me that Rogan’s brother often does spell work here; I’ve been able to find everything I need and more.
Rogan watches me work, the worry and tension back in his eyes, and it has nothing to do with my promises to make him spill all his secrets. I know he’s picturing the last time his brother was here, prepping spell work like I am now. Rogan’s fear and sadness are almost palpable, and I wish we had new news in the search for Elon and the other missing witches. I find myself wondering where he might be, if he’s okay, and how he might feel about me messing with his things.
I reduce the pelvic bone into a fine powder in the bowl and then add some raw amber and sandalwood to the mix. Two spelled splashes of frankincense oil join the potion, and then I go about crushing and grinding everything together with the pestle. Rogan’s eyes watch the rhythm of my movements as I work the potion into the consistency that I need. I wait patiently for his green gaze to find my expectant one.
“You can start now,” I tell him, when he finally looks up at my face. I’m done asking him to source equipment and the ingredients that I need for today’s work, and we can get on with the gab sesh.
He leans back in his stool and releases a resigned sigh, running a hand down his tired face. “What do you want to know?” he asks after a beat, and I flip open my mental list of observations and questions that I’ve been tabulating since he first showed up in my shop.
“What are you keeping from me?” I start, tackling the biggest issue and concern I have when it comes to Rogan Kendrick and the mystery of the missing Osteomancers. “And before you do me the disservice of saying it’s nothing or asking me what I’m talking about, I want you to think through the consequences of doing that. I’m here, trying to help you, trying to trust you. Please don’t taint that with omissions and lies,” I tell him, my gaze pleading with him to trust me, to arm me with what I need to know about him, his brother, and what’s happening.
He studies me for a moment, his gaze intense and searching as it bounces back and forth between my resolute stare. He blinks and I can see the conviction of a decision in his eyes. I hope for the sake of whatever we have, or might have, between us that he’s going to drop the bullshit and be real with me.
“I’m not purposefully trying to keep things from you, Lennox. It’s not personal, I promise you that. It’s just that…” He leans forward and rests his elbows on the counter, releasing a weary exhale. “It’s just that I’m used to keeping to myself. I’m accustomed to only relying on a very small circle of people. People who have earned my trust.”
“And I haven’t?” I ask simply as I add mugwort and obsidian tears to the mortar.
“It’s not that, you have...” he answers with a shake of his head, his stare trained on his clasped hands. “You have,” he repeats as though it’s as much a confession to himself as it is to me.
His eyes lift to find mine, and he traces my features with his gaze for a beat. “My mother is Sorrel Adair,” he tells me, and it’s clear he expects me to know the name.
My brow furrows in thought as I search for why I should know that name. “Adair…” I repeat as though saying it out loud will conjure recognition. “Wait,” I exclaim, my eyes growing wider with understanding. “Adair as in High Priestess Adair?”
“The very one,” he confirms, and the admission sends me reeling.
His mother is the leader of the Order, she’s more or less the Queen of the Witches.
“Holy fuck,” I whisper in awe. “But I thought you said your uncles held the magic in your line?”
“No, I said that they were Elon’s and my predecessors, not that they were the only magic in my line. My mother, as you know, is a fire-wielding Vicinal Witch. My father, the High Priest, is a Soul Witch. And my two uncles on my mother’s side are...were...a Blood Witch, and a Bone Witch. They were both Order Summoners, or High Lieutenants as they’re called now.”
I take in what he’s saying as I reach for the green velvet bag that has all the vessel options in it for amulets. I quickly pluck an oval ring from the bag and try it on my hand.
“Okaaay, so you’re witch royalty. Should I brush up on my curtsey skills or something?” I tease, a little deflated.
This is the big secret? This is what’s been setting off my internal don’t trust him alarms? The ring fits snuggly on my middle finger, and I pull it off and look into the bag for a second option. I pull a chain out and then freeze, the bag of jewelry all at once forgotten as a bomb of understanding explodes in my mind.