by Devon Monk
Zayvion didn’t carry a cell, and I didn’t know his home number. That’s the problem with dating a secret magic assassin, a Closer: you don’t call them, they call you.
So, the date was on. I’d tell Zayvion I had a chaperone. Maybe he could help me figure it out.
Step one: shower. Would my dad feel me naked? Don’t think about that.
Step two: dress. Would my dad see me naked? Really don’t think about that.
And step three: go on a date with Zayvion. Would my dad know what I felt about Zayvion? Would he hear what I thought about him? Would he feel me hot and needful for him?
Probably. ’Cause I’m just lucky that way.
A knock on the door rang out so loud, I yelled and spun, fingers poised to draw a Hold spell. No one in my bathroom. The knock had come from my front door, not my bathroom door.
Magic flared through my bones, my hold on it slipping. The sensuous heat of magic pushed against my skin, stretching me, straining to get free, and I had to exhale to make room for it to move. It pressed heavy in me, a sweet pain, promising anything, everything, so long as I was willing to pay the price for it.
I felt the moth-wing flutter of my dad in my head, his curiosity at the magic inside me.
“You touch it, and I’ll use it to end you,” I said through my teeth.
The curious little moth became very, very still.
Good. At least he could tell when I was not kidding around.
I very carefully spread my fingers apart and then closed them into fists, consciously resisting the temptation to draw the Hold glyph, to cast magic. Because no matter what magic promised, every time I lost control of it, magic used me like a disposable glove at a proctology exam.
I am a river, I thought. Magic flows through me but it does not touch me.
I took another good breath or two, and magic retreated into a more normal rhythm of flowing up from the cisterns deep beneath the city, into me, and, unused, out of me back into the ground.
The knock at the front door rapped out louder.
I fished the vase and rose out of the sink and put them on the little shelf above the towel rack. The pink rose Zayvion had given me looked a little worse for the wear, but it wasn’t dead yet. Tough flowers, roses. All that sweet beauty with the thorns to back it up. I appreciated that.
I dried my hands on my jeans and strode out of the bathroom. I wasn’t expecting company. Well, except for Zayvion. But he said he’d be back in at seven. We had dinner plans. First-date plans. Let’s-be-normal-like-other-normal-people plans.
The knock rattled out again.
There is one thing I can say about living in the city. There isn’t a Ward or Alarm spell on the market strong enough to keep someone from breaking down your door if they have the will, the way, and a strong enough shoulder.
My baseball bat was under the bed, but I always left a hammer on the bookshelf.
Hammers can do all kinds of damage if they are swung low enough.
Yes, it had been that kind of week.
And the knocking just kept coming.
I stopped in front of the door, took a breath, and held still both it and magic in me for a second. I recited my little mantra: Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack, all dressed in black, black, black . . . until the order of those words calmed my racing thoughts.
It took about five seconds. My mind, my thoughts, cleared.
Using magic wasn’t as easy as the actors made it look in the movies. It can’t be cast in states of high emotion—like anger or, say, while freaking out because your freaking dead dad is in your freaking head. Every time you use magic, it uses you back. Sure, you could magic yourself a photographic memory for that big test, for that big interview, for that big stock market job. And all it cost you was a nice case of liver failure.
Or the memory of your lover’s name.
Exhale. Good. Calm? Check. I leaned against the doorframe and sniffed. I didn’t draw magic up into my sense of smell, though I was good at that too. Smelling, tracing, tracking, Hounding the burnt lines of spells back to their casters was how I made my living. But I couldn’t smell anything over the oily tang of WD-40 I’d sprayed on the lock the other day.
I peeked through the peephole.
The woman in the hall was dressed in jeans, a knitted vest, button-down blouse, and a full-length coat. Blond, about eight inches shorter than my own six feet, she was a little wet. Portland’s good at wet. The best. But even in the unglamorous warp of the peephole, she looked like a million sunny days to me.
Nola Robbins, my best friend in all the world.
I slipped the locks, which slid smoothly—thank you, WD-40—and threw open the door.
“Oh, thank God,” she said. “I thought I heard you yell.”
“I did. I’m fine. It’s so good to see you!” I practically flew out of my apartment and into her arms.
Nola hugged me, and I caught the scent of honey and warm summer grass even though it was the middle of winter. The familiar comforting scents of her brought up memories of her nonmagical alfalfa farm and old nonmagical farmhouse. I inhaled, filling myself with the scents and memories of pleasant days. I did not want to let her go.
She patted my back, and I gave her one last squeeze.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. “Is something wrong?”
“I don’t think so,” she hedged. “What’s up with the hammer?”
I dropped it on the little table by the door. “Just, you know. It’s the city.”
She shook her head. “You could get a dog.”
“Don’t start with me. Come on in.” I belatedly noticed she had a suitcase with her. “Let me help.”
“I got it.” She strolled into my apartment, wheeling the suitcase behind her.
Out of habit, I looked up and down the hall. No one. Not even a shadow on the wall, watching us. I hoped. I wasn’t the only Hound in the city, and Hounds knew how to be quiet when they wanted to be.
I relocked the door.
“Allie,” she said, scanning my overcrowded bookshelves and my undercrowded everything else. “Have you even unpacked since you moved?”
“Pretty much,” I said. “This is all that’s left.” Or at least it was all I could stand having. Whoever broke into my old apartment had not only tossed everything I owned; he or she had left a scent on it. The stink of iron and minerals, like old vitamins, not only kicked up half-remembered pain, but was also a bitch to scrub out of the upholstery.
And underwear. Not that I tried for long. Some things aren’t worth saving.
Nola shook her head. “What am I going to do with you?” She gave me that sisterly smile that made her look ten years older than me, instead of my age. “How are you feeling? Are those bruises on your neck?”
“Good, and no. Not really. It’s . . .” I was going to say nothing, but Nola could see right through my lies. “Well, maybe not fine, but . . . you know.” I waved at her to sit on my ratty couch, which she did, and I sat on one of the chairs by the little round table at the window. “What are you doing here?” I asked again.
“You know I’m trying to get custody of Cody Miller?”
I laced my fingers together and rubbed my thumbs over the marks on my right and left hands. Marks put there in part, I was told, by Cody using me as a conduit for magic. A lot of magic.
“Is that his last name?” I asked.
“Yes. I’m running into a little bit of trouble getting him released. He was put in the state mental health hospital for criminal use of magic—forging signatures with magic.” She shook her head. “He must have been eighteen when that happened. They said he suffered a mental break during his trial and has never been the same. But now it’s been determined he needs to undergo more psychological exams.” She shook her head. “They’ve had him for two years; I don’t know what they haven’t tested by now.”
“Wait, Cody’s twenty?”
“Right.” Nola dug in her purse, pulled out a photo of a young man with delicate, almost fragile features. He
was smiling, but his blue, blue eyes held the kind of simple intelligence I’d expect from a child.
“He’s twenty on the outside, but not mentally,” Nola said. “I decided I might be able to talk to some people personally, and find out why he hasn’t been released into my custody yet. I’m hoping to take him home with me in the next few days.”
“Want me to see if I can pull some strings for you?”
“Can you?”
I shrugged. “Maybe. I still haven’t talked much with my dad’s lawyers. But Violet basically told me the fate of Beckstrom Enterprises is mine to decide. And I’m sure Beckstrom Enterprises has string-pulling capabilities.” I grinned. “Power in the palm of my hand. Pretty cool, huh?”
“Mmm,” she agreed. “How are you doing with that?”
I opened my mouth to say I was fine, I could handle it, it was no big deal. But there was something about Nola that negated my bullshit ability. I’d never been able to lie to her, so I didn’t even try.
“I’m worried. I’m not sure what I should do. Violet has done a really good job running the business since his, uh . . . death. She’s still working on developing magic-technology integrations. She . . . she has reasons to keep things running.”
I didn’t tell her Violet was pregnant with the child of my powerful and not-nearly-dead-enough father. My one and only sibling. Violet said Dad didn’t know about the baby before he died. I didn’t know whether he’d hear me if I said it out loud. The idea of having to deal with his ghostly fit when he found out sounded like a joy I wanted to save for later.
The flutter started up in the back of my head and I rubbed my forehead until it stopped.
“Allie?” Nola asked.
“I’m fine. My head still feels weird after everything.”
“Pike?” she asked.
I nodded. And before her concern could turn to pity, I said, “I don’t have the training to run Beckstrom Enterprises the way it should be run. I’ve hated it for so long. Still, there might be someone there who could help with Cody. I can call Violet and find out who I should talk to.”
“Are you and she getting along okay?” she asked. “It must be really hard to work together with your dad’s business and money, so close to his death.”
Oh, she had no idea how close to his death I was. Time to change the subject.
“You didn’t get a hotel, did you?” I asked. “You should stay here with me.”
“I did make reservations, just in case.” She glanced over at my answering machine. “I called, but you never answered.”
I looked over at the machine too. The light was green. No messages waiting. “Maybe I forgot.”
She nodded. “Still keeping your journal, honey?”
“Yes. But I’ve been having some problems with phones and stuff.”
“And your computer?” she asked.
“No, that’s been fine. But anything electric I keep on me—cell phone, watch—wears out fast.”
“So your landline is okay?” she pressed.
“Yes.”
“I thought you and I had a deal about your checking in every day for a little while. I even had a phone installed for you.”
“What are you, my mom?”
“No, I’m your extra memory, remember? You, my friend, have holes in your head.” She held up a finger at my faked shock. “If you want me to tell you what’s been happening in your life when magic eats up your memory, then you need to tell me what’s going on. So, what’s been going on?”
I glanced at the clock on the wall.
“Well, for one thing, I have a date tonight.”
She didn’t even fight the smile that made her face light up like she was made of sunshine.
“With Zayvion?”
I nodded. “We haven’t had much of a chance to really talk since I came back to town. Or at least not about normal things. Not about us. He remembers . . . things about us I don’t remember. Which is weird. So we’re going to try a date—a real date. Get to know each other a little better.”
“When is he supposed to be here?” She stood and looked me up and down, obviously not impressed by my wet-cuffed jeans and sweater. “Are you going to dinner? How fancy is the restaurant?”
“Less than an hour. And yes, superfancy. He made reservations at the Gargoyle.”
“Tell me you’re not wearing that.”
“Excuse me? Did I just hear fashion attitude from a woman who wears overalls and men’s boots every day?”
She made a face at me. “Only on the farm. Do you even own girl clothes?”
“These are girl clothes.”
“Dress? Skirt? Heels?” She said each word slowly, as if I’d never heard them before.
“Maybe. I think so. I haven’t really looked through my closet. There’s a couple boxes of stuff I haven’t unpacked.”
“Oh my God, Allie. Your date is in an hour and you haven’t even started to look through your clothes?”
“It’s been a weird day,” I drawled.
She laughed. “All your days are weird. Let me help. You go take a shower. Want me to dig through your closet or make coffee?”
“Coffee. You are staying with me, right?”
She was already moving toward my kitchen. “If I’m not in the way.”
I got as far as the bathroom door before I heard, “Oh, Allie!”
“What?” I yelled.
“Roses. Everywhere.” She came out of the kitchen, a single pink long-stemmed rose in her hand. “You do know your kitchen is filled with them, right?”
I smiled. “There are a few irises in there too.”
“Bargain at the flower shop?”
“Nope.”
“Secret admirer?”
“No.”
“Spill.”
“Zayvion.”
The sunshine smile was back, and she got that goo-goo softy look. “Then you definitely need to put on girl clothes. Go. Shower.” She waved her hand at me. “I’ll arrange the flowers too.”
I grinned. Nola never asked; she always just told me what she was going to do for me. I’d gotten pretty used to it, and she’d gotten used to my telling her if I didn’t want her to boss me around.
I walked into the bathroom and shut the door. The flutter winged behind my eyes again. Dad.
Find the disks, my father’s voice breathed. Find my killer.
I cupped my hands over my ears. “No, no, no. Get out. Get dead.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and the flutter, the voice, was gone.
Sweet hells. What was I thinking, going on a date? My father was alive in me. Aware.
Or maybe he wasn’t. Maybe I was just imagining him, his voice, the flutter of his thoughts in my mind. Maybe I was going crazy.
A chill washed down my arms, and I took a deep, shaky breath. It was possible. Possible I was going insane. I’d used a lot of magic lately. Enough to do damage to my body and mind.
And sure, I liked to think of myself as someone who met any bad situation—like insanity and ghostly possession—straight on. But not tonight.
For just a few hours, for just this one date, I was going to ignore my father in my mind, ignore the state of my sanity, and ignore the entire city lousy with secrets and magic and brewing wars. Even if it killed me.
Chapter Two
I ducked under the warm stream of the shower and couldn’t believe that this morning I’d been at my father’s grave. Only Violet, his newest—well, his last—wife had cried. I didn’t know how I felt about his death. Sad, I think.
But it was getting pretty hard to grieve someone who wouldn’t just get on with the dying.
The disks, my dad whispered in my head, must be found. The disks. My killer must be found. . . .
“La la la,” I said. “I’m not listening to you.”
I rubbed soap over the burn marks left from the Veiled, the incorporeal bits of dead magic users who had gotten a taste of me they couldn’t resist. The burn marks still itched in a sore kind of way, but
the bruised-fingerprint look had faded. I checked my legs. Pale, long, a little bruised and scratched, but worth shaving. If I wore nylons I could probably even try a skirt above my knees.
Nola opened the bathroom door. “I’m going out. Need anything?”
“No. Wait . . . nylons.”
“Anything else?”
“Is there something I’m forgetting?” Open mouth, exhale dumb question. Nola, of all people, knew there were probably a million things I was forgetting. And not just about how to get ready for a date.
“Do you have a nice bra?”
“Of course I have a nice bra.” At least I thought I did. Cotton counted as nice if it had lace on it, right?
“Not cotton,” she said.
“I own a bra that isn’t cotton, not that it is any of your business.”
She smiled. “I’ll be back soon.”
I rinsed, got out of the shower, and spent some time looking for remnants from my college dating days. Things such as hair spray, gel, and makeup.
The drawers under my bathroom sink gave up a few useful items. A tube of mascara, lip gloss, cover makeup, blush, and some goo I used to think made my hair look sexy. I applied everything with some degree of caution and stared at myself in the mirror for longer than I wanted to admit.
I looked . . . well, if not soft, much more feminine. It was strange to see myself that way, as a woman out on the prowl for sex instead of a Hound out on the prowl for the scent of illegal magic.
I dug my fingers at the roots of my hair again, letting dark strands slide down the side of my face, covering the marks of magic along my jaw and catching on the corner of my lips. This was who I was. At least for tonight. No, this was who I always was, whom I hid behind the lack of makeup, behind the hard edge of being a street Hound, behind the torn blue jeans and T-shirts. This was the woman who had been hurt, betrayed, loved, dumped. This was the woman who hadn’t found a man who could look her in the eye. A woman who didn’t like to admit her own power. This was the me even I didn’t know how to deal with.
It was going to be interesting to see what Zayvion, the unflappable master of Zen calm, was going to do about it. Maybe he’d do nothing.
Maybe that worried me most of all.
