“There’s not a damn thing wrong with me; you’re the one over here laughing like that’s a normal thing you do,” Marx accuses, and Rogan throws his hands up in exasperation.
“I laugh,” he argues.
“You sure as hell do not,” Marx counters.
I chuckle, completely amused by the ridiculous back and forth. Rogan fixes me with a stare.
“I laugh,” he defends again.
My hands go up, palms out in a gesture of innocence. “I didn’t say anything.”
“I totally laugh,” Rogan grumbles, looking back toward Marx and shaking his head.
My heart warms as I wait patiently for Marx to get back to his story. He’s quiet for a moment like he’s still not sure if he believes Rogan is fine, but eventually he just shrugs and gets back to it.
“Anyway, like I was saying, we found Nikki Smelser. Her neighbors said they haven’t seen her for about a month, and her apartment looked like no one had been there in a while. We put wards all over it, so if she shows up there, we’ll be on her. But I’m not holding my breath.”
“Why?” I question, surprised by the conviction in that statement.
“Because someone sent a note to the Order saying that they’d trade the missing Osteomancers, and after magical analysis, the handwriting on the note belongs to one Nikki Smelser.”
“She’s the witch-napper?” I query, surprised.
“That’s the theory the Order is working off of for now,” Marx states.
I look over at my bones, feeling a little bad. Okay, maybe they could have given me a heads-up about the whole guy-girl thing, but technically they did help us find the bad guy—or girl in this case. That’s certainly nothing to turn my nose up at. I reach over and pat the purple velvet bag affectionately.
“Have they assigned a team to the case now?” Rogan asks, and Marx nods.
“Yeah, after the ransom note appeared, they opened a full investigation. When Osteomancer Osseous’s report was flagged as potentially useful, they brought me in for questioning.”
Rogan stiffens beside him, and Marx looks over at him apologetically. “I had to tell them what you and I had been looking into. You know I can’t exactly keep that to myself. It would have only been a matter of time before they questioned someone we already had and knew anyway,” Marx defends. “I didn’t say anything about Lennox or our insurance policy, but other than that, they now know what we know.”
“So is that what they want to talk to me about? My grandmother’s dream?” I query, completely confused. I suppose I can chalk up the level of aggression to Prek and Rogan’s history, but why the hell not just tell me that? And why not question Rogan too, if they know Elon’s missing and Rogan’s been looking into everything in hopes of finding him?
Marx’s eyes seem to darken infinitesimally, and he clenches his jaw at my question. “I’m sure they’ll ask you about it when they question you, but no, you’re on the Order’s radar for another reason,” he replies cryptically.
A chill runs down my spine as the High Priestess’s face pops up in my mind. I saw her on the cover of a magazine once, looking cold and formidable, and from what Rogan’s had to say about her, that’s not just an image she portrays. I refuse to look at Rogan, not wanting to risk that it would give anything away, and knots of worry start to form in my stomach.
“Do you know what that reason is?” Rogan presses, a menacing bite to his tone that I wish made me feel better.
Marx releases a weary exhale and levels his gaze on me. “The note that Nikki Smelser sent to the Order. The one saying that she’d trade all the missing witches. Well, you’re the trade she wants. The note says you for them.”
I flinch back at his words as though I’ve just been slapped. Stupefaction swirls in my mind, and my stomach drops out the bottoms of my feet. “Why?” I demand impotently, not understanding what I could possibly have to do with any of this.
“All we have is speculation right now,” Marx answers. “We don’t know for sure. But that’s why the Order summoned you, because we need to find out.”
“Are they wanting to simply question me, or are they actually considering handing me over?” I demand, not liking that this is even a question, or the look on Marx’s face.
“I can’t say definitively one way or the other, but I can say that trading you is not off the table.”
I shoot off the couch onto my feet, and both Rogan and Marx do the same. “Leni, you have to understand how the Order works,” Marx defends.
“Oh, I think I understand plenty,” I argue. “It’s not difficult to see that it’s an organization that ultimately will do what’s best for them,” I add.
“Maybe so, but what’s best for them doesn’t mean it will be what’s worst for you. The Order isn’t considering a trade because it personally doesn’t see your value, they’re considering it because that’s what the Order does. They create contingencies for every possible thing,” he defends.
I scoff at him in disgust.
“Leni, the Order isn’t operating with a lot of information right now. We know there are missing witches, but we don’t know why. We have a dream, a ransom note, and you. That’s it. But right now you are their best lead. You’ve been summoned, and even though I won’t force you to go in, someone at some point is going to.”
Worry courses through me, and I look over at Rogan as I try to swallow back my panic. It hasn’t been lost on me that he hasn’t said a word since Marx dropped the trade bomb.
“Penny for your thoughts,” I snark, and it seems to snap him out of whatever’s going on inside his head. He focuses back on me and then looks at Marx as though he’s getting his bearings.
“Do they know how the note got to the Order? There’s not a lead there?” Rogan asks, and I can hear the desperation in his voice.
“There’s a team looking into it, but they haven’t found anything substantial yet,” Marx replies, and his phone chirps a notification.
“Fuck!” Rogan snarls, starting to pace.
I jump at the sudden outburst, my heart aching for what he must be going through. “Do you think you and Elon know her, ran into her somewhere?” I ask him, trying to pull at the threads we have before us.
“I don’t know, I’d have to see a picture, but the name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“I can get a picture emailed over to you,” Marx assures him, sighing as he takes in his pacing friend. “The bones didn’t say anything else?” he asks me, and I open my mouth to say no before it dawns on me that’s not true.
“They said run,” I tell him, baffled by why I hadn’t thought of that until now.
“What?” Rogan and Marx both ask simultaneously.
“I was scrying, I got the name, then it told me to run. When I looked up, I saw you in the backyard,” I tell them, gesturing to Marx. “I assumed you were the reason for the warning. I just didn’t think about it after that,” I admit, feeling a little dumb now. “Everything happened so fast. Marx wasn’t a threat, but then I was dealing with what I saw from Tilda and the bones. It just got lost in the mix, I guess.”