Magic in the Shadows

by Devon Monk

  “Yes, it changed when I got marked.”

  “When did that happen? How?”

  I didn’t want to tell her. Didn’t want to be vulnerable, exposed. Have I mentioned I have trust issues?

  “Do you really need to know that?”

  “If you want me to stand as your advocate at the testing ground, yes, I really need to know that.”

  “Testing ground?”

  “In three days, your control of magic will be tested in front of the members of the Authority.”

  This must be the test my dad kept talking about.

  “Is that when you decide if I deserve to use magic? If you should just erase all my memories about the Authority and put limits on what I can do?” It came out angry, which was no surprise since it pissed me off that someone else thought they could tell me how to live my life.

  Yes, I knew that wasn’t the worst thing they could do to me. Zayvion had told me they could go so far as try to kill me if they thought I was too much of a danger or risk to myself or others.

  Of course, I wasn’t going to just stand around while they threw rocks at me, or whatever they did to get rid of people they didn’t want in their little club.

  Maeve stood and sat back in the plush chair. “It may not seem fair, or lawful in the ways of the modern world. It is an ancient custom. A test to discover your abilities, your limits, your control. Things that can mean the life or death of those you would stand beside. It is necessary. Every person in the Authority has gone through it.”

  “So I don’t have to like it, but I still have to do it?”

  She nodded.“Tell me when magic claimed you with those marks.” Woman was all about getting down to business.

  I did some quick thinking, something I hadn’t done enough of lately. Since I didn’t want to bring undue attention to Nola, I decided to skip the part where I explained I didn’t actually remember getting the marks, and tell her instead what Nola had told me I told her. Confusing, but hey, when you have a memory with more holes than a pair of hand-me-down fishnet stockings, you make do.

  “I was trying to get a man to the hospital. He was injured, and when I tried to help him, he reached through me and connected to magic. Then he . . . um, pulled magic through me and into me. It fed the magic I already carried, made it stronger so that it burned”—I thought about that, nodded to myself—“burned these marks into me.”

  “And where did this happen?”

  “Over in St. Johns.”

  Maeve’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you sure?”

  I thought back on it. I was sure Nola told me I had found Cody down by the river in St. Johns. I’d been running from gun-toting Bonnie at the time, but was slowed by trying to carry Cody and his cat. I’d told Nola that Cody was nearly dead when I found him. But she said by the time Zayvion had driven Cody and me out to her farm, his wounds were gone.

  “I’m sure. St. Johns.” I suddenly realized why she looked so surprised. St. Johns was off-grid. A dead zone. There was no naturally occurring magic there, and Portland hadn’t seen fit to budget in a network out into the fifth quadrant of the city.

  Which meant I should not have been able to pull on that much magic like that there. Which meant Cody should not have been able to pull on that much magic like that there either. “Who was the man you were helping?” Maeve asked.

  “I wasn’t formally introduced—”

  “Allie,” and there was tangible weight behind her words and a familiar honey taste. “Tell me the name of the man you helped in St. Johns.”

  “Cody,” I said, under the spell of the Influence she’d just used on me. “Cody Miller.”

  Maeve didn’t ask me anything more. All the color washed out from beneath her skin. She traced a circle in the air and drew her finger across it in a slash, breaking the Influence she’d used on me.

  I hated Influence. “I would have told you without the push,” I said.

  “I’m sorry. It was—it is—very important.” She wasn’t looking at me anymore, but instead over my shoulder at the middle distance there. She sounded distracted, her voice thin.

  “Maeve?”

  She cleared her throat and visibly pulled herself together enough to give me a small smile.

  “Thank you for your honesty. I won’t Influence you again—it is rude. Most people don’t notice it, though,” she said. “Tell me how you’re feeling. Is the stone helping with the overflow of magic?”

  I took quick inventory. I felt great, actually. A little tired, but a lot less pushed around by magic. As a matter of fact, even my headache was better. I felt light, like someone had just pulled a lead blanket off me.

  “Better,” I said. “What kind of stone is this?”

  “A void stone.” At my look, she waved her hand dismis sively. “Some stones have the right combination of chemical compounds and exposure to magic that they actually become void to it and are able to project a calming or negating effect on magic.”

  I looked over her shoulder and around the room and noted several more small, round river stones in grays, greens, browns, and blacks scattered among the tables and shelves.

  “How much does this thing cost?”

  Maeve’s smile, this time, was genuine.

  “That one stays here. Most stones are much smaller. I’ll see if I can find something for you, if you want. Now, on to the matters at hand. I need your permission to look into you again.”

  I nodded. “You have my permission.”

  Maeve placed her hand on my wrist and did her silver-eye trick again. This time I felt the press of magic filtering into my mind, and I leaned back, away from Maeve. I could not look away from her eyes. The white magic around her cast red shadows against the back of my eyes like a flashlight pouring light toward the back of my brain.

  “Breathe,” Maeve said gently, without Influence. I realized I’d been holding my breath. I exhaled. While I was at it, I loosened my death grip on the rock in my lap.

  “That’s good. You’re doing fine.” Maeve, Magical Proctologist.

  I didn’t know if the wall I’d built between my dad and myself was still standing. Found that I couldn’t really turn and assess anything in my own head. Not while magic and Maeve’s gaze held me still.

  But I could still feel my head, could still think. Something, like a small, many-legged thing hiding from the light, scrabbled across the back of my skull.

  Nauseating. As comforting as a tapeworm.

  Maeve looked a moment longer, then closed her eyes. When she opened them again, they were green—just green—and the magic around her was gone.

  “More water?” she offered.

  “No. Did you see him?”

  “I saw something that needs to be looked at by someone more familiar with the transitional magic of life and death. It’s not my expertise,” she said apologetically. “Jingo Jingo should be by this evening. I’ll have him look into it as soon as he’s here.”

  As if on cue, a short, sharp set of knocks rapped on the door. Maeve flicked her fingers, releasing, for my benefit, I realized, the Ward she’d put on the room when we had entered. A Ward I hadn’t seen her cast, even though I’m usually good at paying attention to those sorts of things.

  Okay. That was spooky. If she was always that smooth with magic, she was a hell of a lot more dangerous than she looked.

  Maybe my dad was right about her.

  Fantastic.

  The door opened and a kid—okay, he looked a few years younger than me, maybe twenty-one—stepped into the room. Thin as the pages of a fashion magazine, he wore black head to toe: black hair in ragged edges around his pale face, black T-shirt over a black long-sleeved thermal, black fingerless gloves, black pants with dull silver buckles running down both legs to the black tips of his combat boots. He gave off a sort of goth mixed with reluctant rock star vibe.

  The only shot of color on him was the shock of green from the large potted plant he carried.

  “Ready, Mum?”

  “I t
hink so. Come on in.” She waved at the other chair next to her. “Sit.”

  His boots muffled across the rug, as if there was very little weight behind each step. He folded down into the chair next to Maeve, graceful but elbow-y, a long-limbed marionette with too much string. He plunked the potted plant on the floor next to him. The plant was so tall, the leaves were level with his shoulders. I expected him to adopt that I-don’t-give-a-damn slouch, but he sat on the edge of the chair like a man ready to pony up to a bet. He leaned over the coffee table and extended his left hand toward me.

  “Shamus Flynn,” he said. “Everyone calls me Shame. You’re Beckstrom’s daughter, aren’t you?”

  “Allie.” Shaking his gloved hand made me wish I had my own gloves on to cover my markings.

  Shamus smelled of cigarettes, booze, and hot cloves.

  “Nice,” he said, tipping my hand to catch the light before letting go. “Sorry your da was such a prick.” He settled back like a man used to casually dodging a fist to the face. “But damn, he was powerful. Guess it gave him rights to be a prick, eh?”

  “Not from my point of view.”

  “Grew a mind of your own?” he asked. “Bet that disappointed him.”

  “You have no idea.”

  He raised his eyebrows, once, quickly, and grinned. “Might be I like you, Beckstrom.”

  “You should probably hold off on that.”

  “Got yourself a boyfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jones? That bucket of ice water? Isn’t that a surprise?” he said, like it wasn’t a surprise at all. “Don’t you think that’s a surprise, Mum?”

  “No,” she said. End of conversation. “Allie, place the void stone on the table, please.”

  I so did not want to do that. I did it anyway. She was my teacher, and I apparently only had three days to learn a lifetime of magic.

  Magic began filling me again, a warm, tingly rise from my feet upward.

  “Are you comfortable with the level of magic in the room?”

  I nodded.

  “Good.” She stood and moved behind the chair, pacing to the center of the room. “Come stand here.” She pointed at a position about four feet in front of her.

  I did, and to my relief, magic continued to fill me but did not try to break free of my control. I wondered if I could smuggle one of those stones out of here.

  “Shamus, stand here, please.” She pointed at the space beside us, effectively creating a human triangle on the ornate red and brown carpet. “Close enough to touch her if you need to.”

  “Don’t I know? Not like I haven’t done this.” He picked up the plant and lugged it with him, muttering, “Stand there, Shamus. Don’t bother the new girl, Shamus. Don’t back-talk me when I’m teaching, Shamus.”

  Maeve raised her eyebrows. “Don’t back-talk me even when I’m not teaching, Shamus,” she said.

  He set the plant down between himself and his mother. He was standing, I noted, close enough that he could touch me if he stretched his arm full length. He gave his mother a smile that I bet worked on the girls, but wasn’t having any effect on her.

  “So, Beckstrom,” he said, not looking at me. “You ever done a face-to-face Proxy?”

  I had, twice, in college. It was required that you understand just how much pain you could put someone through by making them pay your price for using magic. You had to cast a spell and watch your Proxy sweat, cry, and/or puke right in front of you.

  Good times.

  “Yes.”

  “Often?”

  “No.”

  “Won’t this be fun, then?” He slapped his hands together, the knit fingerless gloves softening the sound. “All right, Mum. Name the poison.”

  “Allie, I want you to cast Proxy to Shamus.” She stood across from me, both hands at ease at her sides. The rest of her body language was alert, taut, like a watchful cat.

  Shamus angled toward me. “Give me all you got, girl, an’ don’t be shy. I can take it. Twice as hard as Jones.”

  “I don’t Proxy to Zayvion,” I said as I mentally intoned a mantra—the jump rope jingle Down by the river where the green grass grows . . .

  “No, he Grounds you. Says you’re more than a sweet handful. Says he likes doing you that way.”

  Okay, now he was pissing me off. I had enough sense to suspect that was all a part of the test. Could I keep my mind on the job when someone was dicking around?

  I traced the sharp, pointed glyph of the Proxy into the air in front of me. Even though I couldn’t see it, I caught at where the bottom corner should be, reached out, and touched Shamus with it with no more force than necessary—see how controlled I was?—and pressed it into his skin while I held the shape of it, the intent of it, clear in my mind’s eye.

  Corporations hired a bevy of casters to do these sorts of spells, and were supposed to Offload their magic use to the legally accepted outlets like prisons and the regulated Proxy pits.

  There were also people who made their living free lancing as full-time Proxies. Short, high-paying career if it didn’t kill you. Some people were into that kind of pain and abuse.

  Shamus looked like he might be one of those people.

  His lips were parted and he held the tip of his tongue between his teeth. I hesitated, wondering if the Proxy had connected. It had been a long time since I’d done this. He nodded slightly, letting me know we were okay so far.

  “Good,” Maeve said. “Now access as much magic as you can from the well beneath the room. Cast the strongest Lightning spell that you can.”

  Oh, she had to be kidding. “I’ll blow the walls out.”

  “I’d like to see you do it.” She really did sound curious.

  “No. It would kill him.”

  “I won’t let that happen,” Maeve said firmly. “Now cast Lightning.”

  She didn’t look worried. I noted she had both hands held at ready to cast—probably Cancel or Hold or some other negating spell. Hells, maybe she had a pocket full of rocks she could throw at the spell if she had to.

  Okay, fine.

  Back to the jump rope song, back to clearing my mind. I traced a glyph in the air in front of me. A very different glyph this time. Lightning wasn’t as pointed as Proxy. It flowed in a series of broken lines and arches.

  Magic rolled in me, painful, sharp. But that was just the magic that I held inside of me. The other magic, the magic in the deep well beneath us, I had been very careful not to touch.

  I took a short breath, braced for the torrent, and tapped into the well. Magic stormed through me like heat through a lightning rod, riding my bones, my blood, my flesh. I burned with it, shook with it, tasted the scorched earth of it thick and hot at the back of my throat. I held my focus, directed the magic pouring through the colored whorls down my arm to my fingertips, fingertips that glowed neon blue with an afterimage of soft rose, into the glyph I continued to trace. Magic spun from my fingers.

  The corners of the room fell into shadow. Lights dimmed, went out. The spell raged against the room, burning and arching against the Blocks and Wards and glyphs worked into the walls, floor, ceiling. Wild electricity struck and was sucked into Shields and Wards that were deeper and more complex than I’d ever seen.

  And still more lightning poured from my hands.

  Shamus groaned, swayed, taking the full painful price of my using so much magic. He did not fall. That man was tougher than he looked. Magic exacted an equal pain for power. This strong of a spell should have knocked him unconscious.

  Now I understood why there were no windows. Now I understood why Maeve had wanted to teach me here, have me access power here. This room was built like a vault. What came into it stayed in it.

  Even my spell.

  Magic poured through me, feeding the spell, growing it larger and larger. I think Maeve and I realized at the same time that while the spell was going to stay in the room, if it continued to grow, to feed on itself, there wouldn’t be room for the rest of us in here.
r />   There wouldn’t be any room to breathe.

  I was trapped, suffocating. My heart pounded. There was no room to breathe.

  Hello, claustrophobia. I wondered when you’d get here.

  I met Maeve’s gaze. The walls shook, assailed by a thousand fists. The floorboards creaked, trembled.

  We were in trouble.

  “Close it,” Maeve said, her voice strong, pitched loud enough to carry over the din of the spell.

  “I don’t know how.” And that was true. I had never cast with so much magic behind a spell, had never really cast this spell, as there isn’t that much use for Lightning in Hounding.

  And yet I had cast it perfectly. As if I’d done it a thousand times before.

  Child’s play. It was only a whisper, but my dad’s voice was the loudest thing in the room. Although I was pretty sure I was the only one who heard him.

  It is easy, Allison, he breathed. So easy. Inhale, exhale. Relax.

  Sweet hells. Of all the time for my dad to kick up and try to Influence me, he had to do it now. I fought to hold my focus, to not fall beneath his words.

  I never had a chance.

  He had full control of my mind, of my hands. I was pressed, not unconscious, but simply away from myself, my body. I felt daydreamy and drifty and didn’t even see it as my father used my hand to trace a new spell.

  End, he said. And my daydreams were filled with his memories of using that spell in hand-to-hand combat, canceling spells other magic users threw, canceling his own spells and changing them into new, wicked blades to throw at his enemies.

  The air flashed hot, cold. The spell in the room extinguished. Lights crackled to life; the lingering scents of roses and apricot and ash filled the air.

  My ears popped from the pressure, and I inhaled greedily as I came back to myself, like someone had been holding my head underwater.

  Shamus fell to his knees next to the plant. His fingers spread and sunk in the soil, his head bent, hair hiding his pale face, back heaving with each heavy breath. I was amazed he was still breathing.