Magic at the Gate

by Devon Monk

  “Why hasn’t anyone put light and dark magic back together? It’d get rid of the Veiled, right?”

  He shrugged. “Some of us have tried and failed. Some of us haven’t given up trying.”

  The walk felt like an uphill chug. Even with my hand on Stone’s head, I wasn’t getting enough air to fill my lungs. “What has to be done to fix it?”

  “Someone has to contain it.”

  “Come again?”

  “There must be a Focal to contain both light and dark magic.”

  “And no one wants the job?”

  “Anyone who’s tried it has died.”

  “Zayvion can wield dark and light magic.”

  “For brief amounts of time, without going insane or losing control, yes. The Focal must hold magic, light and dark, together long enough for it to mend.”

  “How long does it take to mend?”

  “No one’s survived long enough for us to know.”

  I could see why people weren’t rushing to volunteer.

  “We’re almost there.” He pointed. “Just a little farther, by the river.”

  If we stepped through the gate in St. Johns, I wondered if he meant the Willamette River.

  “Are we in St. Johns?”

  “We’re in death. The two worlds do not directly align. That makes navigation . . . difficult. And there is a perceived misalignment in time.”

  “Time? What? How long have we been here?”

  “That is not—” He glanced up suddenly.

  I didn’t hear anything, even with my good ears. Stone didn’t react either. He just kept walking smooth and steady, growling so softly it was a comforting purr under my palm.

  “I believe,” Dad said, “we’ve arrived.”

  We were at the corner of the street. Gothic high-rises stacked to our right and left. A few more steps and the city opened up, revealing a river as wide as the Willamette, but filled with fast-flowing black water. Beneath the water flashed ribbons of magic, metallic rainbows and jagged lines, sparking and weaving glyphs that disappeared as soon as they were formed, like fish nipping the surface of the water.

  “The Willamette?” I asked, because it didn’t look like the river. “The Columbia?”

  “The Rift between life and death, light and dark,” my father said.

  “Exactly,” my father said.

  Whoa.

  I looked away from the river. My dad stood beside me. And standing beside him, was my dad.

  That dad, the second version of him, looked younger than the dad who had crossed into death with me. New Dad had jet-black hair without a trace of gray, and instead of wearing a business suit, he wore black casual slacks and a black dress shirt.

  “Daniel,” New Dad said. “This is interesting.”

  “Daniel.” Old Dad nodded. “Different than I imagined.”

  “Isn’t it?” New Dad said.

  Then they both smiled the exact same smile. Narcissism times two.

  Oh, get a room already.

  “It is good to see you, Allison,” New Dad said.

  I’d been standing there like an idiot. One dad was more than enough for me. Especially on a stroll through death when he’d already gotten grabby with my magic. Two dads? Worst. Day. Ever. And how the hell did that work anyway?

  “Why?” I demanded. Not “how,” because I didn’t care how he had split himself in two. I just wanted to know his reason for doing it.

  “It happened a long time ago,” he said dismissively. “You were a little girl. It was a price I had to pay. A part of me died.”

  “That’s crazy. What in the world is worth killing yourself for?”

  Those green eyes of his caught my gaze. “You tell me, daughter.”

  I couldn’t hold his gaze. I knew what I believed was worth walking into death and back again for—love. I didn’t want to know if he felt that way too.

  I looked away and saw dark, four-legged beasts, bigger than Stone, slinking along the edges of the street toward us. Silent as a starving wolf pack closing in on prey, they were the Hungers—creatures who crossed through the gates and fed on magic and magic users.

  And right now, I was pretty sure we were their prey.

  Magic eaters. Killers. I reached for the katana. I didn’t know how I was going to wield the sword against a dozen of the beasts with one hand stuck to Stone, but I wasn’t going to stand there and let the Hungers run us down. Well, run me down.

  “Allison?” Old Dad said. “What do you see?”

  A chill washed over my skin. There wasn’t a lot of wind here, but the slight breeze dug beneath my clothes and made me feel stretched and cold.

  “Hungers.” I didn’t turn, didn’t take my eyes off the beasts.

  “Do not provoke them.”

  Stone growled like a vacuum cleaner full of nails.

  “I’m not going to provoke them.” I drew Zayvion’s sword. It sang free of its sheath. “I’m going to kill them.”

  The beasts paused as soon as light touched the edge of the sword. They tipped their heads skyward and howled, a warbling birdlike tone that was strange and beautiful. If I hadn’t known what they were and what they could do, I would have been mesmerized.

  “Put that away,” Old Dad said. “Now.”

  Old Dad was not happy. So not happy that he grabbed my shoulder and squeezed. We were of a height, so this put his mouth right next to my ear.

  “Put it away slowly. They scent the magic. The old magics of light and dark worked together into that blade. And they will tear you apart to get to it. Put it away slowly. Put it away now.”

  New Dad spoke. “Allie, that sword burns like a flame in the shadows of death. They see it, even if they don’t see you. If you don’t put it away, they will tear you apart. And I—we—can’t stop them.”

  Did I trust him—either of him? No. Did I think he could be telling me the truth? Maybe.

  The Hungers started toward us, heads hung low, scenting the magic. More Hungers poured out from the corners of the buildings, drawing up out of the slick pools of shadows on the street. Magic that had hung off them like leeches in life was multicolored ribbons here, draped across their bodies like woven harnesses that shifted against the roll of muscle.

  Their ribbons glowed metallic, pastel rainbows, like the marks on my arm, like the magic in the river.

  They were dangerous. Deadly. Hungry. Beautiful. And they were closing in. One of the beasts carried something in its jaws. I realized with a jolt that it was the shadow of Zayvion’s sword—the sword he’d taken with him when he was pushed into death—the shadow of the sword I carried.

  Stone growled again.

  I shifted my one-handed grip on the sword. The beasts lifted their heads, following that movement.

  Okay, maybe the dads were right. Maybe I should put the sword away.

  Breathing wasn’t going so well. Holding the sword—just supporting the weight of it—was like holding up a mountain. My muscles shook so hard, the sword wavered with my heartbeat.

  The beasts were a quarter of a block away now. If they attacked all at once, I wouldn’t be able to hold them off one-handed. I tipped the sword back into the sheath, slid it home.

  The Hungers paused, lifted snouts to the wind, and sniffed.

  “I’d like to hear your plan,” I said softly to the dads.

  Stone growled.

  The beasts growled back.

  And I drew the dagger from my belt, ready to fight.

  Chapter Two

  “Allison,” the dads said.

  I didn’t care what they had to say about this.

  “Come.”

  That last word was cast with so much Influence behind it, I fell to my knees.

  I managed not to skewer myself on the dagger but lost contact with Stone, which meant I couldn’t breathe. Maybe that was a good thing. I would have screamed if I’d had the air. Falling hurt.

  Stone pressed against me and I could breathe again. I inhaled a long, ragged moan.

&nb
sp; Pain stabbed my wrist. I looked down. Amber magic with sparks of red glinting through it, looped around my wrist and stretched back behind me, like a rope held taut. The magic was smooth and cool as marble or silk. And it was very, very solid.

  I glared at the dads, at their identical expressions of anger. Old Dad held the other end of the amber rope in his fist.

  “Fighting the Hungers in death will kill you,” they said in tandem. Stereo creepy.

  “Get this off me.” I held up my bound hand, dagger and all.

  The amber rope, the flecks of rubies, shone. Solid, real. I couldn’t smell the honey sweetness, but it was Influence, the spell my father had most often cast on me—the spell I had never been able to fight against. Right here, before my eyes. And it wasn’t just around my wrist. The Influence spell clasped my wrist like fine jewelry and followed the pattern of magic up my forearm, closing around my neck like a choker.

  I’d always known my father was a powerful magic user. One of the most powerful I’d ever known. And I’d always known his magical signature was elegant and clean, defined by a grace and surety of the cast. But I did not know how beautifully he could use magic.

  Yes, even though that magic was a chain, I was impressed by the skill behind it.

  “Influence?” I asked rather stupidly, because, duh, what else would it be?

  New Dad nodded. “Stand, and walk to us now. Quickly.”

  The rope around my wrist lifted my arm, tugged on my neck, and my body followed. I was on my feet and a dozen steps away from the Hungers, who were still sniffing the air for the scent they’d lost, before I remembered I didn’t like doing what my father told me to do. Ever.

  “Sheathe the dagger.”

  I did. We Beckstroms had a knack for Influence, and even though I was good at casting it, I was also vulnerable to it. Especially when my dad used it on me.

  “Don’t.” I meant it as a threat. It came out like a plea. “They have Zay’s sword. They know where he is. Let me go to him. Please.”

  I hated asking. Hated begging. But I would do anything to get Zayvion back home.

  “It is too late.” New Dad glanced over at Old Dad, who nodded.

  “Turn and look, Allison.”

  I did. Well, I had to. Influence and all. The beasts were gone, and so was Zay’s shadow sword.

  Zayvion would never have let go of that blade. Even when he’d died, he hadn’t lost it.

  Fear gripped my throat and squeezed my chest.

  “Where is he?” A shadow in the shape of a man detached from the steps of the building down the street. Not Zayvion—I would have recognized him even if all that was left of him was a shadow. I tried to make out details of who or what he might be, but he faded away.

  “Come with us,” Dads said.

  I couldn’t say no—the Influence made sure of that.

  But just because I had to follow my dads like a puppet didn’t mean I had to like it. Unless they told me I had to like it. I shuddered at that possibility.

  “Where’s Zay?” I asked again. My fear was strangely dull. Zay must be dead, really dead, but my mind couldn’t figure out how to handle the pain of that yet.

  “We’re looking,” New Dad said. Old Dad cast a Seek spell, the glyph as delicate as a white lace doily inset with bits of bluish magnifying glass. He tipped his finger, spinning the doily until it flushed bloodred.

  “There,” Old Dad said. “He has him.”

  A flood of relief poured over me. “Who?”

  New Dad held his hand out for me, maybe to help me breathe or walk.

  I glared and he pulled his hand away, surprised.

  “You’re angry?” he asked. Like he had to.

  I held up my wrist. “I want this gone.”

  “You weren’t listening. You would have killed yourself if we hadn’t cast it. It is a gentle spell.”

  “Really? When was the last time you let a magic user wrap a spell around your throat and drag you around like a dog?”

  He didn’t answer.

  We walked for a while—south, I thought, then down a side street. I was so turned around I didn’t know which way we were going.

  “Zay?” I said again. Just a wheeze this time. Air was quickly becoming my highest priority, even with Stone tucked up against me.

  “Let me touch you,” New Dad said. “It will help you breathe.”

  I shook my head.

  “I don’t know how much longer you’ll be able to tolerate death.” He rubbed his thumb over his fingertips in a circular motion. He used to do that when he was worried about something. I hadn’t seen him show that “tell” in years.

  “Allison.” I had the faintest memory of him speaking like that, whispering, no, singing to me in that loving tone when I was very, very young. “One mistake will make this your place of rest for good. I want to help you get home.”

  The strangest thing? I believed him. And not because of the Influence.

  But that didn’t mean I would let him touch me. I still had air.

  Old Dad hadn’t said anything. Since casting that last spell, he looked gray, pale, sick. The price for casting magic was very, very high if just three spells—Camouflage, Influence, and Seek—could wear him down.

  That worried me. I had to open a gate to get back to the living world, to get back to the living Zay. If one little Influence spell knocked my dad off his footing, I didn’t know how I’d be able to throw around enough magic to open a gate before I passed out. Then who would haul me, and Zay’s soul, home?

  “How long do I have left?” I asked New Dad, since he seemed chattier than Old Dad.

  “I don’t know. There are legends of the living crossing and returning. Legends of magic users who have done so in the past. Leander and Isabelle.” He glanced over at me. “Have you heard their story?”

  I didn’t waste my breath answering.

  He looked over at Old Dad, who shook his head.

  “Hundreds of years ago when all magic was one magic, there were two young lovers, Leander and Isabelle. Leander’s father was a very powerful member of the Authority—a Voice of magic for all of Greece. Isabelle was the daughter of a strong line of magic users from England who had a knack for Blood magic.

  “Isabelle’s mother was in poor health, so they wintered in Greece, staying in Leander’s father’s home. That is where Leander and Isabelle met and fell in love. Leander’s father was not pleased with his son’s dalliance, thinking the girl no more than a distraction to his son’s schooling.

  “But when Leander’s father forbade him to see Isabelle, she came to his defense. Together, she and Leander cast magic more beautifully and perfectly than he had ever seen.

  “A gathering was called. They were tested as Soul Complements. And it was clear from the moment they stood across from each other on the testing floor that they were not only Soul Complements but perhaps two of the most powerful magic users ever known.

  “They were young. Not even twenty. Magic came to them like bees to the flower, answering their every whim and asking no cost. Soon they used magic for every simple thing, casting together as one until they knew each other’s thoughts, saw through each other’s eyes, and even breathed in rhythm with each other. If one were cut or bruised, the other bore the wound; if one cried, the other shed the tears; if one spoke, the other whispered the words.

  “At first, they were praised for their mastery of magic, and for using magic through each other, as each other. And then the insanity began. It is said they possessed the people around them and forced them to do their bidding.”

  I held up the bracelet and gave him a look.

  “Not Influence,” he said. “They crawled inside people’s minds and bodies and forced them to do horrific things. Terrible things. People died.

  “At first, the Authority thought they could teach them to resist using magic together. It was hoped that their insanity would pass if they were given enough time to be apart, to remember that they were two people, two minds, two souls.
They were separated. Leander was made a prisoner in his father’s manor and Isabelle was taken by a trusted advisor back to England.”

  “With her mother?” I asked.

  “Her mother was found dead the day before they set sail. She had carved out her own heart with Isabelle’s blood blade.”

  Why did I have a feeling this story wasn’t going to end well?

  “Five years passed. They underwent grueling training to learn control of their own minds, passions, and personalities again. But even that was not enough. They escaped their prisons on the same day, killing their keepers. Members of the Authority around the world were quickly found dead, triggering the most massive manhunt the Authority had ever undertaken.

  “For three years they avoided capture. It was rumored they could walk in and out of death, as easily as walking through an open door. A world council was called. It was decided that the only way to separate Isabelle and Leander was to break magic into two, creating a Rift between light and dark, life and death, binding light magic to life, and dark magic to death, and each of the lovers to their own body.”

  “They can break Soul Complements?”

  “It had never been tried before.” He was quiet, and I didn’t know if he was thinking about the legend or had just run out of things to say. I mean, seriously, my dad was in two places at once. I had no idea what that did to a brain.

  “What happened?”

  “Neither would let go of the other. Nor would they let go of magic. Leander died. Isabelle’s mind shattered. She lived a long life, tended and guarded. She never smiled again, never cried, never spoke. When she finally passed away, the Authority set into place very strict tests for Soul Complements. Boundaries for how much magic they are allowed to wield together. The price of crossing that boundary is death.

  “The Authority could not mend the Rift they had torn in magic. Still can’t. Magic has been broken for five hundred years.” He shook his head. “The man who finds a way to heal it will have his place in the history books. He will be immortal, crossing through life and death. A god among men, if magic doesn’t destroy him.”

  We were walking downriver—I mean downrift. The neon slide and flicker of magic beneath the dark water was more sinister than soothing.