Magic at the Gate

by Devon Monk

  “I’ll send you my bill.” She stood, taking one of those old-fashioned black doctor bags with her as she moved across the room to talk with Victor, who sat with Maeve, Hayden, and Jamar on the other set of couches.

  It was an odd mix in the room as the Hounds and the Authority felt each other out. I couldn’t think of two more suspicious groups of people, but the general atmosphere was that of friends and business acquaintances getting together to catch up.

  Jack had even started a card game with Joshua, Carl, La, and Bea, who caught me looking and gave me a smile. The Georgia sisters were curled up on bunks against the far wall, their hair wet, like they’d had a chance to use the shower. Sunny was sitting on a stool in the kitchen, wearing one of Davy’s old shirts and a pair of sweatpants, her hair wet and a hell of a bruise blooming against the milky white of her skin. She sipped from a mug, watching Davy make a grilled cheese sandwich like she’d just discovered someone she never wanted to look away from.

  Shame and Terric were not in the poker game as I would have expected, but were both asleep on couches, one bruised, finger-burned arm over their eyes, one foot on the floor. They even both snored softly in the same rhythm. Shame had a blanket pulled over his hips and chest. It was amazing that none of the Hounds seemed curious about the crystal in his chest, or more likely, they just couldn’t sense it.

  The elevator pinged, and I glanced over.

  Grant, the owner of Get Mugged, walked through the door, two coffee carriers in his hands and two bags filled with scones.

  “Espresso, mocha, latte, and raspberry sweet-cream scones,” he called out. “Help yourself, everyone.” He plunked the goodies down on the counter in the kitchen, gave me a wag of his finger, and I raised my hand in a wan hello. He probably would have strolled on over to me in his cowboy boots if Davy and Sunny hadn’t caught his attention and started a conversation with him.

  No, I had no idea what to do with my nice, nosy, nonmagical buddy being here among the Hounds and secret magic users, but hey, he brought coffee, and anyone who brought coffee, especially Get Mugged’s coffee, was okay by me.

  I knew there used to be Hounds who worked for the Authority. Back when Mikhail was the head, before he had died. I didn’t think things were better with the two groups being separate. Yes, there was the whole secret-society stuff, but a lot of the Hounds had worked for Stotts, and never gone around telling people there was a secret police force that investigated magical crime. They could be trusted, if not with all the truth, certainly with some of the truth.

  I thought of Grant as that kind of person too.

  My mind chased the possibilities of Hounds and coffee shop owners and magic for a while and finally ended on Mikhail. And I remembered my dad had told me—maybe in a dream?—that Sedra had killed Mikhail. I wondered if the Authority knew that. I would ask about it, but not yet. Not here. Right now I wanted food and a shower, and some kind of assurance that the Veiled weren’t going to break out of the Lock my dad had set.

  Which meant I needed to talk to Victor, Maeve, or Hayden.

  I took a deep breath, getting ready to stand.

  “Where are you going?” Zay’s eyes were closed, his long legs stretched out, heels resting on a footstool.

  “Business. Coffee. Food. Shower. In that order.”

  He grunted but didn’t move. Frankly, I didn’t know how he was still awake. I stood, caught a glimpse of Grant playing cards. He had settled down next to Nik, and the two of them were laughing. He must have felt me looking at him. He glanced up, gave me a wink.

  Huh. Maybe there was more than friendships being made today.

  I walked over to Victor and Maeve. Everything hurt, even the bottoms of my feet, but nothing was broken, and hey, in the good-news department, I hadn’t lost any memories after a major magic tussle.

  Go, me. Maybe I was getting good at this secret magic thing.

  “How’s it going?” I asked. I wanted to sit, but the next time I sat, I wasn’t going to get up for days.

  “Good,” Jamar said. “Want some privacy?”

  Oh yeah, Hounds. They were perceptive like that.

  “If you don’t mind.”

  He smiled and pushed his glasses back on his nose. “Not a problem with me, bossman.” He stood. “Pleasure meeting you all.” He walked off and gave me an approving nod. I had no idea why.

  “How are you doing, Allie?” Maeve asked.

  “I’m okay, I think. Are we good?”

  “The inn will stay closed,” Maeve said. “The spell locking it down is . . . ” She frowned. “Remarkable. Especially for who cast it. That kind of spell is a variation of Hold. When it was being used, many years ago, it was called Cherish. The magic is organic, much like the roots of a tree, made of both light and dark magic, and will cling and hold any organic thing in a state of stasis until the Cancel spell is worked. We have security in place to let us know if any outside, or inside, force tampers with it.”

  “There are some things we need to talk to you about,” Victor said so quietly I almost couldn’t hear him. I was positive the other Hounds couldn’t hear him either. “Jingo, Sedra, Leander, and Isabelle. I’ll want to talk to your father. But first we all need some rest.” That, he said louder.

  He was good at this.

  “The gates?” I asked.

  “That’s the good news,” Hayden said, surprising me that he too, could keep his voice below Hound notice. “There hasn’t been a hint of a gate opening. We think the recent events put a plug in that for the time being.”

  I stood there nodding. We weren’t out of the woods. There were a lot of unanswered questions about the solid Veiled, Jingo, Sedra, and how my dad knew that was Leander sending the Veiled to kill us. But for right now, this minute, we could rest.

  I liked the sound of that.

  “Are you staying? You’re welcome to,” I said. “I own the upper floor too, though there’s only one mattress up there.”

  “No,” Victor said. “We’ll be going on our way. Each of us has . . . business to attend to.”

  “Maeve?” I asked. She lived at the inn. Her home had fallen victim to the fight. “You need a place to stay?”

  “Don’t worry about me. I have other property here in town, one with a lovely deep bathtub, a king-sized bed, and a change of clothes.”

  I looked at Hayden. He raised one eyebrow. Then smiled at Maeve. “King-sized bed, eh?”

  “The couch is open,” she said solemnly, even though she blushed. She was making the man court her proper-like. I highly approved.

  “Looks like I’m set,” he said to me. “How about you?”

  I didn’t know if he meant me and Zay, or me and Dad, or something else. “I’m going to take a shower, eat, and sleep. I’ll keep my cell phone on, though, if you need me.”

  I started across the room slowly.

  Victor spoke up. “Allie?”

  I glanced at him.

  “If you need us, for anything, never forget we are here for you. All of us. You have done amazing things to make this world a better place.”

  That was really sweet. And sincere. And if I didn’t look away from his kind expression, I was just going to cry like a little girl.

  “Wait until you see my encore,” I said. Then I walked into the bathroom behind one of the only ceiling-to-floor privacy walls in the big, pleasantly crowded loft.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  There were two showers in the room, spacious enough that I wasn’t claustrophobic, and private enough that two people could shower and dress without seeing each other.

  Where the rest of the den was sparsely decorated and leaned pretty heavily on the appeal of uneven brick walls, exposed pipes, and support beams, the bathroom was enclosed by honey-colored oak floors and basins tiled in deep green, lights set to be soothing rather than clinical among the brass, glass, and mirrors.

  It was designed to be a place where a Hound could rest her weary bones.

  And this was the first time I got
to try it out. I tossed a towel over the shower door so I wouldn’t have to search for one after my shower.

  I took my time undressing, and lingered in the warm, wide fall of water. There was a bench along the shower wall, and I thought about adjusting the water and sitting there until I sucked down all the hot water in a three-mile radius, but I would probably just fall asleep and wake up when the water went cold.

  I had the expected array of bruises and cuts, more burns than I remembered getting, but nothing was bleeding. That was something, right?

  I heard someone enter the bathroom, which meant I had forgotten to lock the door. Smart, Beckstrom. “I’m taking a shower. Privacy, please.”

  The door shut. The person had not walked out.

  “Don’t make me hurt you,” I said. “Because if you don’t let me take my shower in peace, I will make you regret it.”

  “Speaking of regrets,” Zayvion said. “I wish I would have gotten in here earlier.”

  I turned off the water and stood there dripping, trying to decide how I felt about him. How I felt about us.

  “Well, you’re too late. I’m perfectly capable of showering on my own.”

  Ouch. That sounded funny in my head, but came out too sharp.

  I pulled the towel off the door, dried myself while trying to put my head and heart into some reasonable order. I loved the man. That had not changed.

  But would it hurt him to thank me for all I’d given up for him?

  I’d felt like a hollow shell since I relinquished my small magic into Mikhail’s hands. There was a cold emptiness I could not fill. I didn’t think I’d ever feel whole again. But I’d do it twice, if it meant Zay could live.

  I opened the shower door.

  “Hey, sexy,” he said. He had a cup of coffee in one hand and a scone on a small plate in the other. “Thought you could use some coffee.”

  I smiled. “That was nice. Thanks.” I took the cup, sipped, and sighed as the warmth trailed past the lump in my throat that threatened to make me cry.

  I picked up the scone, took a bite, and put it back on the plate so I could carry it to the sink to set it down. I didn’t want to let go of my coffee cup, so this required one-handed eating.

  “Wait until you see my next trick,” he said.

  “Taming lions?”

  “Too easy.”

  “Really?” I took another bite, washed it down with the coffee. “Tightrope?”

  “Not dangerous enough.”

  I smiled again. “What, then?”

  “This.” He walked over to me, too thin in the black T-shirt and jeans. He licked his lips, and the look in those beautiful brown eyes made me hold my breath.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly, taking my hand, scone and all, into his. “I’m sorry I said you couldn’t handle yourself. That you didn’t know enough. I was wrong. I’m still angry that you walked into death—death, Allie—what were you thinking?” He shook his head. “But thank you. Thank you for being my Valkyrie and saving me.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Stuck the landing on that. Bruise your ego much?” Okay, maybe it was going to take me a couple minutes for his apology to really sink in.

  “A little. Maybe a sprain. I can walk it off.”

  I pulled my hand out of his and put the remaining scone on the plate. I swallowed one last mouthful of coffee, then put the cup down too.

  “I have a better idea.” I untucked the towel wrapped around me, and let it fall to the floor.

  “How about if you apologize again. Only this time naked, with me, in the shower, wet.”

  “Anything else?”

  “And slow.”

  He grinned. “There’s a room full of Hounds out there,” he said. “They might hear us.”

  “I don’t care who’s out there. All I need, all I want, is you.”

  I wrapped my arms around him, sliding my hands up beneath his T-shirt, savoring the heat of his skin, the roll of his muscles as he shrugged out of his shirt. He pulled me against his body, the rhythm of his heart pounding in time with mine. Then he kissed me, gently, patiently, until the cold emptiness inside me began to fill with his warmth. He took his time to taste me, to touch me. Then we proved to each other, soul to soul, that we were inseparable, whole, and very much alive.

  Read on for an exciting excerpt from Devon Monk’s next Allie Beckstrom novel,

  MAGIC ON THE HUNT

  Coming in April 2011 from Roc.

  Zayvion stretched out on my bed. He lay on his side, elbow propped under his head, wide shoulders blocking most of the view of my door and apartment beyond. I faced him, covers tucked under my free arm.

  We were not touching. We were not talking. We were at war.

  “Two out of three?” Never go into battle without laying basic ground rules.

  “Fair,” he said.

  Zay threw rock. I threw scissors. Damn.

  “One,” Zay said.

  I threw paper. Zay threw rock.

  “Mine.” I looked into his eyes, brown and filled with that gold fire that came from using magic. And let me tell you, he’d been using it very nicely over the last three days since we’d sealed the undead magic users in Maeve’s Inn. Three days we’d spent almost entirely in bed.

  We both knew our rest would be short-lived. Victor had called last night and asked me to come down so he could talk to my dead dad, who was possessing my mind. He wanted to know what my dad knew about the solid Veiled sealed in the inn, and about Leander, who had followed me into this world through death’s gate. I didn’t want Victor digging in my head to talk to my dad about powerful undead magic users, but we were running out of time. Leander had tried to kill us all a couple days ago.

  “Still with me?” Zayvion asked.

  “Sorry. Tiebreaker?”

  “Winning hand.” He gave me a quick smile, then schooled his face into that impenetrable Zen mask.

  “Think that’s going to throw me?”

  “What?”

  “That Zen thing.”

  “What Zen thing?”

  “You know what I’m talking about. It won’t work. You are the easiest man in the world to read, Mr. Zayvion Jones.”

  One eyebrow quirked. “Bring it.”

  It was one of the most underrated survival skills in history—winning at rock, paper, scissors. Zay had thrown rock twice in a row. Would he stick with his game and throw it again? Or would he expect me to think he would and instead throw scissors to cut my paper?

  I studied his eyes, his lips, his smile. Nothing.

  We fist-pumped one, two, three.

  I threw paper.

  Zayvion Jones threw rock.

  “Aha!” I crowed. “I win. I’d like my eggs scrambled, toast buttered, and coffee hot.”

  “You get a bowl of stale cereal.”

  “Oh, no. Hot breakfast was the deal.”

  “True.” He pushed the covers down a little, getting his feet free. “What do you think about omelets?”

  “I’m pro-omelet if there’s cheese involved. If not, then I’m totally on scrambled’s side.”

  “Maybe I’ll make a nice, slow quiche.” He leaned over me, forcing me to roll onto my back.

  I made a face. “I don’t like quiche.”

  “I can make you like quiche.”

  He kissed me, soft, easy. He moved down to my neck and the edge of my breast and kissed me there, his tongue catching my nipple.

  “No, you can’t,” I gasped. Which was a lie. When he kissed me like that, I was pretty sure he could make me like anything.

  “Tell me you want quiche.”

  “I want coffee.”

  “And quiche?”

  “Omelets,” I breathed.

  He grinned. “Stubborn, stubborn, stubborn.” He kissed me again.

  Oh, baby. If he’d kept kissing me like that, I’d have eaten a dozen quiches.

  He pulled back suddenly and sat.

  “Wait. Where are you going?”

  “Those omelets aren’t go
ing to cook themselves. Deal was hot breakfast.” He mercilessly shucked out of the covers, pulling them off me in the process.

  Cold air sent goose bumps over my bare legs and arms. “Oh, you are such a sore loser. Winner means I get to stay warm.” I tugged the covers back over my shoulders.

  “I’m not a sore loser. I let you win.”

  “You did not.”

  “Throwing rock three times in a row? Yes, I did. You make your eggs too runny.”

  “I cannot believe you are critiquing my kitchen skills in my own home.”

  “Not your skills. Just your eggs.” He stood up. “Well, now. Since you’re awake, how about winner sets the table?”

  “Winner doesn’t want a formal breakfast.”

  He strode out of the room wearing nothing but his boxers and the fine skin he’d been born with, though he grabbed a T-shirt from the dresser top.

  “Not feeding it to you in bed,” he called back, “again.”

  I smiled and pulled the covers over me, snuggling down. “Didn’t want you to.” Okay, that was a lie too. But he was right. It was probably time to start behaving like regular people instead of honeymooners.

  I took a minute to stretch out and hog the bed all to myself. Zay’s half was still warm and smelled of his cologne. I closed my eyes and savored the far-too-uncommon sensation of not hurting, not worrying, and not running for my life.

  Things were good. Right here, right this minute. It felt good to be happy.

  Yesterday, the higher members of the Authority—Victor, Maeve, and Hayden—had broken the magical lock on the inn my dad had left there. They had transported the undead magic users—Veiled who had used the disks my dad invented to reclaim bodies—to the secret prison the Authority used to deal with magic users who broke the law. Zay had been angry he hadn’t been asked to help. Shame, the only one of us who they had asked go along, didn’t want to talk about it afterward. He’d said they were still alive, but held in a prison they’d never break out of.

  I was actually glad I hadn’t had to face those people again. They had died once, and, as far as I was concerned, they had no right to be living again—especially when they had been bent on killing me and my friends.