“Holy shit. You murdered your uncle,” I accuse, dropping the chain next to the ring as memories surge through me, and I recall the stories I’ve heard about the High Priestess and her messed up sons.
I stare at him, completely aghast. I don’t pay attention to witch politics at all, but even I heard about the brothers who brutally murdered their uncle in a grab for power. Rogan doesn’t say anything, he just watches me like he’s waiting for something, and then it hits me in a wave of shock and rage.
“Rogan, you were renounced. You and Elon were cast out,” I half shout, half wheeze as panic floods me.
I’m tethered to someone who is cursed and renounced by the Order and therefore supposed to be cursed and renounced by all witches. Nausea threatens to climb up my throat. He did something so fucked up that there was no coming back from it, and now I’m here in his kitchen trying to help him find his brother.
I shoved my bush in the face of an evil, renounced witch!
Outrage morphs my features, and I move menacingly toward where he’s just sitting and watching me.
“What have you done?” I snarl, fighting the urge to punch him in his too pretty face. “You linked us, knowing it could be a death sentence for me,” I yell at him. And when he doesn’t respond in any way, it pisses me off even more. “They could purge me just for associating with you! Is that what the whole shit show with Prek was about?” I demand, and something flashes in Rogan’s eyes, but he doesn’t say a word. “Answer me!” I snap, getting in his face. “If you’re going to condemn me to death or shunning, the least you can fucking do is explain why!”
“Breathe,” Rogan orders, as though his biggest concern is my potential hyperventilation and not the mess he’s dragged me into.
“You breathe,” I growl back, internally facepalming at the weak come back. Is it possible to be so mad that you can’t string words together anymore?
“Yes, Elon and I are the reason my uncle is dead, but it’s not what you think. You can’t believe the narrative of the High Priestess or her Council.”
“Okay, mommy is a liar, got it. Is that supposed to change anything for me, Rogan?” I demand incredulously. “Are you suddenly not renounced? I’d love for you to explain it to me, because right now all I can see is a man who showed up in my shop, enslaved me, lied to me, and has now condemned me to a seriously fucked up future.”
Betrayal settles in my chest as I stare at him, at the thin circle of gold around his pupil. I take in the scar running down one side of his face and tell myself there’s more to this. There has to be. Something doesn’t add up here, or maybe I’m just hoping that’s the case, because as much as I want to punch myself for it, I feel something for him.
Despite my efforts not to...I care.
Rogan huffs out a resigned sigh, pushing up from the stool and raking his fingers through his hair. His gaze floats around the room for a moment before it settles back on me. He studies me for a beat, and then he squares his shoulders.
“Elon and I were born with the spark. We were tested. It was found, and that’s how our predecessors knew who the next in line would be,” he starts, stepping away from me and leaning against the counter.
“When we were old enough to walk and talk, we were handed off to the person who controlled the branch of magic that we held the spark for. For me, that was my Uncle Kavon, and for Elon it was our Uncle Oront.”
Upon hearing his uncles’ names, I try to recall which one ends up murdered in this story, but I can’t seem to remember it.
“I saw my parents every couple of months,” Rogan goes on. “But other than that, Kavon was all I knew. I was raised in his house, with his family. He wasn’t overly warm or paternal, but I wasn’t treated badly. It wasn’t until Elon was accepted into the Order and assigned to the same division as I was that we were able to spend quality time together. And that’s when I discovered how different his childhood was from mine.
“I went to my mother. I told her about Elon’s brutal and violent upbringing. I demanded that something be done to Oront and that Elon be kept as far away from him as possible. But she wouldn’t listen. Elon’s spark meant that Oront was the final authority over him. She wouldn’t go against the way things had always been, and because she was weak, Elon continued to suffer. I tried to stop it, but the more I attempted to intervene, the worse it got for my brother.”
“Hold on, I’m confused,” I interject, swallowing down the sick feeling I have in the pit of my stomach over what happened to his brother. “I don’t want to dismiss how fucked up that situation is for you and for Elon, but there’s something I don’t understand. How are you in the Order if you aren’t full witches? I mean, your uncles are still alive at this point in the story, so you and Elon don’t have any powers yet, right?” I ask, completely perplexed.
“Death isn’t the only way to transfer magic in a line,” he tells me simply.
I stare at him for a beat, not registering how that could be true. “Ummm...pardon?” I ask, needing to hear it again.
“Death is one way to transfer to the next in line, but it’s not the only way,” he repeats.
“Is this one of those things that’s common knowledge to the witching community, but I ditched the day that lesson was taught and now I’m out of the loop?” I ask, feeling stupid as hell right now.
Rogan cracks a smile, but it’s gone just as fast as it came. “No, it’s a closely kept secret only certain families know. It’s how those families hang onto power generation after generation. Certain families pass magic along to the next in line when they’re young and strong and at their peak.”
“But what happens to the witch that came before you? Don’t people notice that they didn’t kick the bucket like they were supposed to?” I question, not seeing how this demon of a secret hasn’t gotten out of its salt circle yet.
“They leave,” he replies, as if it’s all that simple. “They live the rest of their lives as Lessers. They’re set up for the rest of their days to revel in the lap of luxury.”
“And they’re just okay with that?” I press.
“Your potion is starting to dry out,” Rogan warns.
I look over at the stone bowl absently and then remember I was supposed to be brewing and spelling while I was listening. Rogan’s renounced bomb completely threw me off my game. I reach for the mortar and give everything a good stir. Then I drop the ring and chain that I picked out earlier into the mixture. With what Rogan is saying, we’re going to need these now more than ever.
I lean down and whisper my incantation over the stone bowl. “Protoro ylius arum forinat cesfrunatice shara vir onyliog ra.”
With a flash and a pulse of magic, the contents of the mortar weave themselves onto the jewelry. A wide satisfied smile splits my lips as everything works exactly as I’d hoped it would. I did it. I just made my first protection amulets. I pluck the ring from the bowl and slip it onto the middle finger of my right hand. A wave of warmth moves over me, hardening like a candy shell as the spell imprints on me and locks into place. Relief radiates through me, and I already feel a little less fragile or vulnerable to magical attack.