by Devon Monk
But that one drop of blood created a tie, a bond between me and Maeve, me and the blade, me and every drop of blood within the weapon, every person in the room.
“Give me your word,” Maeve said quietly.
“You have my word.” The bond tightened and stretched in me, twisting into the magic that filled my bones, and anchoring there.
That was a hell of an oath spell. And a lot more elegant than a spit and a handshake. I had a good sense of everyone in the room. That was going to be handy in a fight.
She was still singing when she turned away from me, even though I thought I was the last to take the oath.
I looked up and saw a figure appear in the arched doorway at the far end of the room.
Tall, and oh-my-aching-heart handsome, Zayvion Jones paused, scanning the room for me. His gaze and soft smile touched me as if his hands were on my face, his lips against my mouth, kissing, holding. I swallowed and tasted pine and mint.
That man could do things to me.
He walked into the room, a little gingerly, as if he weren’t quite steady on his feet. His ratty blue ski coat a little loose, his cheeks too hard an angle, too much bone at the arc, but still, he stood tall.
Shame sprang away from the wall and was on him in a second, first clasping his hand, then wrapping him in a hard hug before pulling away to really look at him.
Zay leaned forward and said something. I didn’t hear it, not even with my good ears, and Shame whispered back. Maybe apologies or gratitude, before Maeve was there, singing softly, the blade in her hand.
Shame stepped to one side, grinning. Looking like his best friend had just waltzed off the battlefield of the dead and made it home alive.
Which he had.
Tired, thin, but radiating that calm strength, Zayvion held his left hand out for Maeve. With that movement, I could see the sword he had sheathed at his hip. Not his katana, which I had across my back, but another sword I’d seen him use a lot in sparring practice.
She nicked his thumb.
I felt the pulse of his blood join with my own, felt his words as my own as he swore his fealty to this battle, this war, this cause.
Oh, how I’d missed him.
And then Maeve’s song was over, the vow was done, and the room erupted in happy, congratulatory voices as everyone gathered around Zayvion. They shook his hand, patted his shoulder, or simply stood there and smiled at him.
And it suddenly hit me. Guardian of the gates wasn’t just the best at Closing. He wasn’t just a magic user who could use all disciplines of magic, light and dark. He was their hope, the embodiment of what they hoped magic could be again someday. He was a knight, a hero, a protector, the walking representation of the Authority’s ideal.
His near-death had done as much, or maybe more, to pull the Authority down than Jingo Jingo’s betrayal, Sedra’s kidnapping, Chase and Greyson’s attack, or the wild storm.
Zayvion was more than just the guardian of the gates. He was the Authority’s honor. He was their soul.
And he was my soul.
Terric strolled over to him. There were too many people in front of him to reach Zayvion, but as soon as Shame saw him, he motioned him over.
Zay’s face lit up when he saw Terric, and they clasped hands. Shame leaned into Terric, unthinkingly, hand on his shoulder, Terric’s hand on Shame’s shoulder, both of them grinning like fools.
They had all been friends once. And right now, it looked like they were all friends again. I’d like it to stay that way. With fewer near-death experiences.
“Aren’t you going to go to him?” I hadn’t even noticed Victor next to me. Made me wonder if Zay had learned the whole silent-on-his-feet thing from the man.
“Thought I’d let the crowd clear a little. Did you know he was awake?”
Victor smiled, but was still looking at Zay. It was the first really relaxed expression I’d seen out of him. He always seemed to handle everything with succinct grace and clear command. But beneath the Voice for Faith magic, and my teacher the Closer, was a kind man who had taken Zay under his wing, maybe even, in his way, taken me under his wing. The smile was nice, and made me wonder for the first time what Victor did on his own time when he wasn’t trying to save the world from monsters and nightmares.
“I was upstairs checking on him when the Summon spell activated. You know the first thing he asked me?”
I shook my head.
“If you were okay.”
“That’s because I told him I was going out on the hunt with Shame and Terric. And he’s not exactly happy I went into death for him either.”
“I don’t think that’s what he was talking about.” Victor mused. “He said he heard you talking in your sleep last night. Arguing with your father.”
The dream. I remembered I’d dreamed something. Dad was in my dream asking a favor. A quick image of paper squares and a shoe box flashed behind my eyes. Someone else had been in the dream. Who?
Victor looked at me. “Is your father going to be a problem?” I knew what he was really asking. Did I want him to Close me. To Close my dad too, probably, though I didn’t know how one would take a dead man’s memories away. But if anyone could do it, it would be this calm, capable man standing next to me.
“I won’t let him get in the way.”
Victor pursed his lips and nodded. “You’re not alone, Allie. Not anymore. You are one of us. If you are hurt, we’ll make sure the person hurting you winds up dead.”
Correction: this calm, capable killer standing next to me.
He looked into my eyes, searching not for me but for my father. “And we will see to it that he stays dead. Permanently. No matter the cost. Tell your father that for me if you get the chance, won’t you?”
My dad was dead silent. But I felt the slide of anger that was not mine waft through my mind.
“I think he heard you.”
Zay looked up, his gaze a brush of heat across my cheeks, my chest. Sexy, hungry, that man made me want him.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I said. I didn’t wait to hear if Victor answered.
I strolled across the room, my gaze locked on Zayvion. He smiled a slow, sweet grin that made me want to take his hand and lead him away from this fight. Preferably to someplace with a mattress, silk sheets, and a bottle of wine.
“Allie,” he said once the crowd in front of him saw I was coming and cleared out of the way faster than night seeking shadows.
“Zay. Good to see you on your feet.”
“Thank you. Good to see you on your feet too.”
Was that a stab at me being hurt after saving him? Did he really want to get into a fight the first time I’d seen him standing since he took on Greyson and Chase? “Thank you.” I tried to make it sound easy, nice. But I was running on too little sleep to pull off tactful. It came off a little cool.
“Allie—” He didn’t get the chance to say anything else.
The room thrummed like a bass drum struck by a falling anvil. Magic flared, lifted, ran like water up the walls, windows, crawled across the ceiling, filling the glyphs—glyphs I had never seen nor sensed—throughout the room. The room darkened. Lights and glyphs took on a deep purple that made whites burn electric blue.
Like a well-practiced team, half the people in the room drew Sight spells, facing all four compass points. Half the people in the room drew their weapons, and traced glyphs for Block, Shield, or Impact but did not pour magic into them. Yet.
My left hand went cold.
“The Veiled are here,” Victor said calmly, like he was reading a grocery list. “There are five—no, seven—solid Veiled. I recognize three: Truance Stimple, Frank Gordon, and Elijah Hemming.”
“The blond woman is Lauren Brown,” Hayden said.
“Anyone else?” Victor stepped back so others could look out the window.
Maeve shook her head. I took a quick glance out the glass.
Victor had a tendency to understate things. Have I mentioned that?
&nb
sp; He was right: Truance and Frank Gordon, that twisted doctor who had tried to kill me and resurrect my father, were both striding our way from the access road. I guessed the thirtysomething blond bob in slacks and a black jacket was Lauren, whom Hayden recognized, and the dark-haired, short, thin man with the beard might be Elijah.
The others were a pin-stripped suit guy, a dark-haired woman, middle-aged, wearing a 1950s-style dress with heels and gloves. And behind her was a man who looked like he’d just stepped out of the early 1900s: bowler hat, vest, long jacket, and loose slacks on a scarecrow-thin frame. There was nothing old-timey or quaint about the hatred in his eyes.
I didn’t recognize any of them except Truance and Frank, both of whom had taken starring roles in my recent nightmares. And if Dad recognized the others he did not say anything.
Which was fine with me.
“No,” I said, as the others had said.
Just to be sure, I cleared my mind, ignored my pounding heart, and set a Disbursement. Something that would hit me a week from now. I did not need pain in my way.
I cast Sight. All seven of the solid Veiled became people-shaped clouds of green light and magic. And surrounding them was an army of watercolor people. More Veiled, a lot more Veiled. Hundreds, with open mouths, and black holes where their eyes should be.
And behind them all was a tall, man-shaped shadow, the shadow who had followed me from death. And that, whatever it was, was our real enemy.
No, Dad whispered in my mind. Horrified.
I didn’t like my dad, but I liked it even less when he was scared to death of something that was about to attack us.
Daniel Beckstrom, the thing out there said, its voice a scrape of metal and rock and pain grating through my mind. Die.
He tipped his head upward. If he’d had eyes, I would have sworn he was staring at me. He raised his hand, pointed at me. The mark on my left hand crackled with pain that shot up my arm and caught inside my head. I heard my dad scream.
Then the Veiled weren’t standing anymore. They were running, fast. A mob, a swarm, a cloud of hungry, sharp fingers, teeth and claws, pouring toward the inn.
Chapter Twenty-three
“Hold,” Maeve said. I swear it sounded like she was standing next to me. The blood oath, carrying on our mingled blood and magic, allowed us to hear her. It was like wearing the disk cuffs, but focused on Maeve’s strength and presence, filtered through her, clean and clear and very nice.
Dad had stopped screaming. I couldn’t feel him at all. I swallowed hard, and tasted my own fear.
We held, spells at the ready, evenly divided at the compass points of the room. No chance the Veiled would politely line up and attack from the front door.
The Veiled hit like a heavy wind. I heard the old wood frame creak at the impact, the windows click and rattle. Dust sifted down from the rafters. The Veiled attached to the walls and feasted upon the magic in the building. As soon as they drew too hard on a Ward, they exploded into smoke and flames.
But there were more, thousands, to replace them. A flash of light, the sound of breaking glass, and the first Ward failed.
I shifted to the center of the room, behind one of the tables. I faced West, a Hold spell in my right hand, awaiting the magic to activate it. Zayvion’s sword was strapped to my back. I wasn’t ready to draw it yet.
I traced Sight with my left hand, which was cold, but not on fire yet, and poured magic up through my body and into the glyph. Being this close to the well made magic slick and easy to access. That was one thing going for us.
The world opened with wild streaks and luminescence of magic, held in each magic user’s hands, burning like fire up the clean, tall white walls, across the ceiling, and lighting the wooden floor and windows in golden lacework.
Another flash of light and shattering sound as the Veiled chewed through another Ward. If enough Wards held long enough, it was possible that all the Veiled would be reduced to smoke before they breached our defenses.
“Now?” I asked.
“No,” Maeve said. “Casting through the wards will cancel them.”
Who came up with that defensive plan?
In front of me stood Victor, in front of him the table Terric and Shame and I had had breakfast at, was it only yesterday morning? We faced the windows. To our right stood Sunny, both blood blades drawn. She wore black tights, boots, and everything else denim: skirt, jacket, and cabbie hat that kept her dark hair out of her eyes.
One of the Georgia sisters stood behind Sunny, her staff glowing with sparks that swam like slender fish, up and down the length of the staff.
At the far end of the room, facing North, was Shame, sword at the ready, his back to me. The twins, Carl and La, stood behind him with curved scythes in their hands. At my back, I knew, was Hayden with that battle-ax and broadsword he carried, Zay, and another of the Georgia sisters. And at my left, facing South, was Terric, an ax in each hand, his back to Shame, Nik, who carried a blade a lot like Victor’s, and the last Georgia sister. Maeve and Joshua stood in the center of us all. Someone was whistling. I think it was Nik.
Another Ward fell in a flash. And another.
The Georgia sisters lifted a Shield around the inside of the inn, an Illusion like the Shield they had used in St. Johns to keep the battle below the radar of the police, and more importantly, Stotts and his MERC crew. The Shield was a bubble that would keep the fight, noise, and magic inside.
The Shield closed and rang out like a deep drum. The Veiled were exploding into smoke, the wards failing faster, strobe-light flashes drumming against the windows.
I squinted against the light, and saw the shadow man draw a glyph. I didn’t recognize it.
“What the hell is that thing?” Victor said. “It’s drawing a gate. No,” he said, “not a gate. It’s the Rift. Shield!”
“Down!” Maeve said.
And even if I hadn’t wanted to, her words in my blood, her Influence, made me drop to my knees.
Everyone in the room cast Shield and hit the floor. Good thing. The shadow man’s spell sliced through the inn like a horizontal guillotine, a razor-sharp blade that would have taken off heads and torn through the torso of anyone still standing. Fast as a snake’s tongue, the blade was gone. A second spell hit the inn like a bomb.
The explosion of Wards breaking was deafening, the light blinding, and the darkness it plunged the room into so deep that, if not for the blood oath spell, I wouldn’t have known where any of us were. I had dropped Sight, so I could maintain Shield and keep Hold caught and ready in my right hand. My left hand hurt like a son of a bitch.
And the darkness robbed me of normal vision.
Shit.
A spark of violet flared up the side of the room—one of the Georgia sisters casting Light. The spell bloomed across the ceiling, caught like fire, and formed a lotus that spanned the ceiling, petals softly glowing lavender.
We were on our feet. Even though I was afraid, no one else looked like this was anything more than a walk in the park.
No more watercolored people sucking at the Wards, though I didn’t know why they weren’t swarming the place.
Then I saw the seven solid, living Veiled, storming toward the inn.
Hello, nightmare.
Truance was in the lead, and right beside her was Dr. Frank Gordon. Frank looked exactly how I remembered him in life—crazy and vicious.
They blew open the door—what did you know, they did use the front door. Truance cast Block, Frank threw something that crawled, skittered, and pulled itself with dark, shadowy fingers up the walls to cut the lines and flow of magic in the inner Wards and glyphs.
Dark magic.
We threw everything we had at them.
The smell of machine oil and burned grass and scorched blackberries filled the air. Truance and Frank took one step, two, deflecting, absorbing our magic, and moved aside as the other solid Veiled joined them, spread out, shoulder to shoulder on either side of the door.
We coul
dn’t break through their magic. Whatever they were using as a Shield absorbed our magic like a sponge in water.
Well, magic wasn’t the only weapon we could use.
Zay’s katana was in my hand. I cast Impact. Black flame wrapped my hand, poured down the blade, and fed the spell. It hurt. I didn’t care. I ran forward and swung at their Shield, aiming for Frank’s head.
The blade cleaved the Shield, cutting like I was dragging it through mud, the black flame so dark, it stung my eyes as it caught the Shield on fire.
I ducked. The Shield burst outward in big gooey drops of magic and black fire.
I was dizzy, my ears ringing, my left arm numb. I needed to stand up. I needed to cast a Block, a Shield.
A strong arm grabbed me around the waist and hauled me up onto my feet. Victor cast a Shield around us both and jogged with me toward the back of the room, the Shield moving with us just like the one my dad had cast in death.
My hearing cleared up, and I suddenly knew why we were beating a retreat.
The watercolor people rushed into the room, like a roaring gush of magic and hunger. I heard one of the Georgia sisters scream. Chanting and cursing filled the air as light and dark magic clashed, exploded, spells and glyphs howling as dark magic cleaved through the living world.
Victor pressed me up against the wall near the door to the hall. “Stay here.”
He strode to the front line, his blade burning silver into the darkness, painting glyphs through the air as he destroyed Veiled after Veiled.
I shook my left arm until I could feel it again, looked for an opening, and took Sunny’s right side. My left hand still licked with fire, but I didn’t let the flame touch the blade. If I used the flame with magic again, it’d probably knock me out in midswing. I cut through the watercolor people, trying to hack a path to Frank.
Truance, Frank, and the others stood behind the watercolor people, and used magic like it had no end. They cast as if it cost them nothing, battering, bludgeoning, pressing us in a tighter circle, playing with us. The weapons in their hands radiated dark magic.
None of the seven spoke or even breathed. Disks shone eerie green at each of their throats as they pressed past defense after defense, breaking spells faster than we could throw them.
