Magic at the Gate

by Devon Monk

  “It was the price I paid to get your soul back. But it’s okay. I’m okay. I’d do it again.”

  “You said you wouldn’t”—he swallowed—“be a hero.”

  “Don’t like getting saved by a girl?” I teased.

  “I told you to go home.”

  “I did go home. We both went home. I brought you with me.”

  He stared at me, then turned his head away. “I can’t. Allie, too dangerous. I wish you wouldn’t. Have. So foolish.”

  My chest clenched like a fist. Was he angry about me saving him? So much that he didn’t even want to see me? I sat there, stunned. I didn’t know if I should be mad or hurt, or understanding. He had just turned away from me when I’d risked everything—everything—to save him.

  His breathing was already deeper, even. He was asleep again.

  Had I just screwed that up? Screwed us up?

  I got out of the bed, numb. Confused as hell. My head followed above the rest of my body as if filled with helium. Pain hovered there, barely buoyed by the helium, heavy as a concrete hat that could fall and crush my brain at any minute.

  I crawled back into the other bed and pulled the covers around me. I didn’t fall asleep.

  I felt bad about what I’d done for about thirty seconds. Then I remembered what it was like to pull up out of a coma. I remembered how vulnerable and confused and less than myself I felt. I remembered how much of my life I had lost, how much control over who I was I had lost.

  It had scared the hell out of me. Made me feel angry and helpless. I had a lot of practice pulling myself together when I lost control of my life, my memories, and my mind, and lately, my body and magic. Still, coming out of that coma had been one of the hardest things I’d done.

  Zayvion had sat with me for two weeks, patiently waiting for me to come back.

  This was probably the first time Zayvion Jones hadn’t strode out of the flames and wreckage of a battle as the shiny unscathed hero. This was probably the first time he’d failed, the first time he’d had to lie there and come to grips with the fact that his life had been torn apart and put back together by someone else’s hands.

  It was tough to swallow. Some people never got over it. The people who did knew it took time and patience to glue a broken soul, a broken life back together. I could give him that time. I could give him that patience.

  A soft knock at the door was followed by it opening. From the three-point footstep, two feet and a cane, I knew it was Maeve. Someone strolled behind her, heavier, longer stride. I caught the scent of muscle rub. Hayden.

  “Allie,” Maeve said, “I brought you some soup.”

  I wanted to tell her to go away, but I was starving.

  I sat and leaned against the headboard. “Thank you.”

  Maeve pulled the lap tray over and Hayden handed her a bowl of soup and a glass of orange juice. “I wasn’t sure if you’d had a chance to eat lunch.” She went through the motions of setting up the food, cutlery, napkin, slower, but with grace even though she leaned on the cane. She handled pain and injury like it was a familiar inconvenience.

  “When’s the meeting?” I asked.

  Hayden brought a chair in from the hallway and placed it at the foot of my bed. Maeve sat and Hayden leaned against the door, cleaning his nails with a knife.

  “As soon as you’re ready. Everyone’s here. Shame briefed us on most of what happened—the gate he handled, you running into two Veiled. The trouble with Davy Silvers and Martin Pike’s ghost. He also said you’ve been marked.” She rested the cane against one arm of the chair and folded her hands in her lap.

  “How are you doing with seeing Martin Pike?”

  I scooped another spoonful of soup—mushroom with bay leaf and onion and something else sweet I couldn’t quite place—to give myself time to think.

  “He said he wasn’t in pain. He wasn’t exactly happy. It was . . . it was good to talk to him again. Shame told you what he said?”

  “Yes. I’d like to hear your version too, but let’s do that downstairs.” Maeve glanced at Zay. “Did he wake?”

  I finished off the soup. I’d practically inhaled it. “He did. It was really good to talk to him too.”

  Maeve stood and walked to the door. Hayden took her elbow and helped support her out into the hall.

  I stepped up to Zay’s bed and put my hand on his shoulder. It used to be when I touched him I could feel his emotions, hear his thoughts. Since the coma, I hadn’t felt anything. Now I could tell he was sleeping, fitfully, probably dreaming, tired, agitated.

  “You’re going to be okay,” I said quietly. “It won’t be easy. Nothing’s easy. But you are strong enough to get through this, to get back on your feet again, to be the guardian of the gates again. I know you’re going to be fine. Don’t give up.”

  Even though he was asleep, I knew he heard me. A slow burn of anger and helpless fury rolled through him. I wished I could say something to ease his mind. Instead, I bent and kissed his forehead.

  “Love you,” I whispered. Not that it made him any less angry. But that was okay. Like Shame said, it was better to be angry than dead.

  Chapter Thirteen

  By the time I found my shoes, got them on, and made it to the hallway, Maeve and Hayden were just descending the stairs. They’d either waited outside the door or taken their time walking.

  I followed them down two flights, and through the halls to one of the sitting rooms I hadn’t been in before, about three times the size of the other sitting rooms. The ceiling was a grid of cream-painted beams squared across maple tiles with subtle plant-themed molding. The walls were sage, and wood-and-cream chairs and couches cupped the corners, nearly hidden beneath liberal piles of decorative pillows.

  A rug centered the wooden floor, ending just shy of the fireplace in the corner that gave off the cherry and ash smell of recent use. Low maple bookcases squared the walls, and a map of Portland hung over a desk with a computer on it. There were enough side tables and footstools, chairs and couches, to accommodate thirty people.

  Only a dozen or so people were present. Were we really down to just that few?

  Me, Maeve, and Hayden. On opposite sides of the room, Shame and Terric, and the rest of the familiar faces, the twins Carl and La, Victor, Nik, Joshua, the three Georgia sisters, and Sunny.

  They each glanced over as we entered. I got a lot of strange looks. Might be my new hairdo. More likely it was respect or barely concealed fear. I picked out an empty armchair, sank down into it with a sigh. Maeve knew how to keep comfort in her decor.

  Victor, who wore a long-sleeved crew neck sweater—the most casual I’d ever seen him—and still had his right hand and wrist wrapped, started things off as soon as Hayden shut the door and activated the wards.

  “Thank you all for coming here. Let’s get down to business. The gates are still opening at a steady rate. About four a day. They are not opening in any pattern we can see. I’ve updated the map with today’s gates. At this time, there are no open gates as reported by our scouts. Still, I hope to keep this meeting short.

  “Allie, you’re late to the discussion. I assume Shamus has filled you in on the current standing of events?”

  “Basically, yes.”

  “Is there any information we should know?”

  “A couple things,” I said. “One, when I was on the other side of the gate, Zayvion’s soul was bound and Hungers were draining the magic out of him. To free him, I made a deal with Mikhail.”

  You could have dropped a speck of dust and heard it hit the carpet.

  “He was the only one who could release the spells on Zay and open a gate into life. I gave up a part of my . . . magic. . . . ” Wow, that was hard to say. I bulled on. “A part of my magic in exchange for his help. He took that, the, my magic to a woman who was sleeping, I think. She looked a little like Sedra, but I probably couldn’t pick her out in a lineup. The whole thing is a little fuzzy, and I was busy trying to get Zay home, so I didn’t ask questions.”<
br />
  I took a shaky breath. “Okay, in exchange for taking my magic, he marked my left palm.” I held it up for everyone to see. They all looked; no one moved.

  “It’s hard to see in this light, but there’s a little smudge there.” Doubtful faces. Yeah, it didn’t sound like a big deal.

  “It’s easier to see if you cast Sight.”

  A dozen hands traced the glyph for Sight.

  I kept my palm steady. “Pike, um . . . he used to be a Hound and now he’s a ghost—said he could see this mark on me like a beacon. He said any of the dead, or Veiled, could see it because it’s a piece of death. Also, it makes my hand catch on fire. But only sometimes.”

  Someone swore. Several people canceled their spells. I tucked my hand back into my lap and did not let on how much it freaked me out too.

  “So the good part of this is the mark hurts and gets cold when I am around the Veiled. The bad thing is they can see me too. As for the flame . . . ” I shrugged. “I don’t know how to control it. It does seem to hurt the Veiled. I met one, a Veiled, in a chocolate shop this afternoon when Shame was dealing with the gate. Her name was Truance, and she was solid. She was using a disk to stay alive and said Mikhail’s time was over. She said she was going to be immortal thanks to Dad’s technology—well, as soon as she figured out how to recharge the disk.

  “We fought. I can’t remember what spell I used on her, but my hand was on fire, and that was what stopped her. But then she said a word—I don’t remember the word—and disappeared in a storm of magic.”

  Victor pinched the bridge of his nose like he had a headache too. “You didn’t mention this when I saw you earlier.”

  “You told me to fill you in tonight.”

  “Yes, I did. Is there anything else?”

  “Pike thinks he’s being called into some kind of war, and that more of the dead are being called. I don’t know why. Neither did he.”

  More silence. I looked at Shame. He just gave me a slow shake of his head.

  “Shame pulled the disk out of the man—the Veiled—who rushed us on the sidewalk. It was in my duffel. You gave it to them, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s it,” I said. “That’s what I got. Do you know who’s giving the disks to the Veiled?”

  “What we know,” Victor said, “is the disks taken from the battlefield have been changed by the wild-magic storm. Either the Veiled can see the disks or someone is, indeed, supplying them to the Veiled. Of all the people at the scene, Jingo Jingo is under the most suspicion since he was seen taking most of the disks with him.

  “There’s a slight chance no one is behind it. A short time ago, the Veiled became more . . . agitated.” He frowned, thinking. “As for Truance.” He wove his fingers together gingerly, and pressed the tips of his index fingers against his mouth. “She’s been gone a long time now.”

  “Was she from around here?” I asked.

  “Oregon City. Why?”

  “Pike said life is confusing for the dead to navigate. He said it’s all rivers of magic and black holes that pull you off the path. If the Veiled are coming back to life, and the Veiled are powerful magic users, or at least people who used magic a lot, it would be good to know if they are going to be locals. I mean, I don’t know the history, but I’m assuming there have been powerfully dangerous magic users throughout the world, not just in Portland.”

  “We’ve thought of that,” Maeve said. “And from what we know about death, and passing over”—here she gave me a slight nod—“those who died nearest this place should be the ones who would naturally find it again. We cannot, however, rule out the possibility that other powerful dead members of the Authority may have the disks.”

  “And there’s the problem with Closed Veiled,” Shame said.

  Maeve frowned. “There are no Closed Veiled.”

  “My point. People who have been Closed because they did something bad, something in direct opposition to the Authority’s rules, are Veiled now too. And becoming the walking undead. Was Truance ever Closed? Because if there was something someone didn’t want her to remember, she remembers it now. And she knows who took that memory away.”

  Maeve pressed her fingers against her eyes. “Ah, Shamus. That’s true.”

  The mood in the room took a dive.

  “We know more than we did,” Victor said. “It’s grim, but useful information. If anyone else sees another angle on this, don’t be shy.” He waited, then went on. “Are you sure you didn’t recognize the male Veiled, Shame?”

  “Positive.”

  “Allie, have you ever seen him before?”

  I thought about it. Just because I hadn’t been a part of the Authority for long didn’t mean I hadn’t been alive. I’d worked as a Hound for years in the city. Before that, I lived here. I’d crossed paths with a lot of people.

  Problem with the Veiled, though, was that other than the smell of burned blackberries from the disks, they didn’t carry their own scent. I couldn’t remember his face, and he had no smell for me to correlate it to.

  I could always ask my dad. I didn’t want to. But if he had a lead, I’d take it.

  Dad? I thought. Do you know who he was?

  A slight shuffling, like a shoe scuffing dust in the back of my head was all the answer I got.

  He had been quiet since the fight. I wondered if Truance had permanently shut him up. Maybe I owed the old girl a bit of thanks.

  “No,” I said.

  “So,” Victor said, “do we all understand we are up against the unliving Veiled, and must deal with the gates opening?” He was up now, pacing with the thoughtful, controlled movements of a professional swordsman. “And we understand there are magic users who have not weighed in on either side of the fight?” He turned and made eye contact with me.

  “Those persons shall be seen as neutral in this struggle, until they throw in their lot.”

  “Is there a list?” I asked. “Are they wearing a DON’T HIT ME. I’M NEUTRAL sign? Maybe a secret neutral handshake?”

  Terric chuckled. Victor didn’t think it was funny.

  He gave me a look and continued pacing. “Those in this room are adhering to the Authority’s rules. Those we fought in St. Johns: Jingo Jingo and Mike Barham are known defectors. Others have not made their decision or will not fight at all.”

  “Wait, they can do that? Just stand back and let a few of us fight it out?”

  “It is the way.”

  “Well, the way sucks. I think anyone who isn’t against the way the Authority has been running things should have to pitch in to keep things going. No sitting back and letting other people bleed for your privileges. This isn’t politics.”

  Victor stopped pacing. His hands were behind his back, I’d guess clenched, his elbows rested outward. I’d seen him take that stance a hundred times when he was teaching me the basics of Faith magic. Not that I’d ever been any good at Closing. But the general style of Faith magic usage, I liked.

  He took that stance when he was waiting for my outbursts to wind down.

  I leaned forward in my chair, not willing to back down on this. “If we’re fighting, we’re all fighting. There is a strength in numbers, and having neutral parties standing around eating popcorn while we decide the fate of . . . of the world, is insanity.”

  “I agree,” he said quietly.

  You could have knocked me over with a marshmallow. He never agreed with me on these kinds of things.

  “But we have no sway over those who abstain from the fight. The fractures run deeper than just those of us in this room and those who fought us during the wild-magic storm. At least we know where the neutral stand.”

  I didn’t see how that was good news. What was keeping the neutral from throwing in their lot, as he pointed out, with the bad guys?

  “So it’s just a handful of powerful, disk-carrying magic users we’re fighting.” Hey, I was doing my best to shove sunshine into this bag of coal.

  “Perhaps. We are bound
by the rules. That does not mean that they are.”

  I laughed. I mean, I really laughed. This was ridiculous. When I focused on him again, on his reaction, I didn’t see annoyance or anger. I saw calm. Zen calm. And suddenly his words took on a different meaning. If they weren’t bound by the rules, that meant they were breaking all the things the Authority stood for—for keeping magic safe for those who used it. If they were breaking the rules, they were fair game to be hunted down and killed.

  No regrets.

  No mercy.

  No remorse.

  That was what his words meant. It meant we were to do everything in our power to bring these people to their knees. Everything.

  That, I approved of.

  “If the Veiled are looking to recharge the disks, and if they are ex-members of the Authority, they know of the wells,” Victor went on calmly. He had gotten his pace on again. “Four wells. Life, Death, Faith, and of course, Blood here, beneath the inn.”

  “We have monitored their levels, checked the wards. I want a team of at least two out again. Look in on the wells. Search for any sign of change. Call back to Hayden, who will be coordinating tonight.

  “I’ve mapped out the next sectors of Portland to investigate for signs of Jingo Jingo or Sedra. Once again we’ll work in a sweep formation, cross over and cross back before returning and reporting. Teams of three.

  “Watch for changes in the networks and conduits. Report spikes or drains. There still hasn’t been any contact from Jingo Jingo or anyone else in the last twenty-four hours. No threats. No ransom. Nothing.”

  The muscle at the edge of his jaw tightened. He was angry. Worried. He knew—we all knew—that the longer a kidnapper wasn’t in contact with someone, the more likely we’d need to start looking for Sedra’s grave.

  “We have not heard from any other branch of the Authority. This is still our problem to take care of. Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

  The mood in the room released in a shared exhale. They hadn’t been hoping the cavalry was on its way. They just wanted to be sure the cavalry wasn’t coming to wipe out their memories and take away their power.