by Devon Monk
Just tell me how to cast the damn spell, I said. Because he was right. We were out of time. The thing, the man-dog thing, had paused, right out there on the sidewalk where I’d been standing a moment ago.
The wind was blowing toward me, which meant he might not be able to smell me. For once luck was on my side, but I didn’t know how long it would hold.
Tell me how to cast Camouflage, I said again. If that thing kills me, you aren’t going to have anyone’s mind to hide in anymore.
It is too complicated. And this time it wasn’t approval in his voice, it was anger. And fear.
Yeah, well, welcome to my life.
The creature hunched his far-too-human shoulders, hung his head, and scented the wind. He moved toward me, on all fours, human hands curled under so only the knuckles touched the bricks, body a tragedy of bone and sinew and maggot-white skin. He looked bigger than before. Stronger.
If you don’t give up, I said to my dad, we’re both going to be dead.
I felt him pause, still, as if he held his breath. Felt him decide. You are right, he said quietly.
And while I would have crowed in victory at that admission when he’d been alive, staring down my own certain death sort of dampened the thrill.
My dad reached out into my mind and yanked that damn cord again. Pain rushed over me in a wave of fire. The wave, my father’s will, crashed down over me so fast and so hard, I didn’t even have time to exhale my scream.
Both of my arms raised, palms forward—even though I was not the one moving them.
Back off, I said. I pushed at my dad, built brick walls between us as quickly as I could, but it wasn’t working.
No. Stop. I won’t let you do this to me, I said.
You have never known when to fight, Allison, he said. Without my consent, my fingers traced an intricate glyph pattern. All I wanted to do was puke. Watching someone—worse, feeling someone—use me, puppet me around, control me, brought nightmares screaming through my mind.
Oh, hells, no.
I pushed at him. It was like shoving a mountain of sand—lots of movement, and none of it did a damn bit of good.
You have never known the right thing to fight for, he said, his voice growing stronger in my mind, his willpower blasting apart the walls I scrambled to build, leaving nothing but dust behind. His hands, my hands, traced magic into the air to his bidding. His will sucked at the magic in my bones.
And you have never known what is worth losing to get what you want. With that, he shoved me so hard, I felt like I’d just fallen down an elevator shaft. My body jerked, hit the back of my head against the wall, but I felt it only distantly, as if I’d been huffing nitrous oxide. Dad was doing something to screw with my vision. I couldn’t see anything but blackness. But even at the bottom of an elevator shaft I could still hear, and I could still smell.
The scent of butterscotch and rum filled my nostrils and slid down my throat—the Camouflage spell.
If my dad could shove me out of my own conscious mind, take over my body, and cast a spell, I was on the hard end of a screwing.
Fine. I may not like my father, but that didn’t mean I was stupid. He had the upper hand for the moment, and since it was in his best interest not to let his current ride, aka me, get killed, I hated to admit it, but letting him cast that spell was probably saving my ass. The butterscotch-and-rum meant the spell was in effect. All I had to do was keep my mouth shut and let Dad hide us until the beast moved on.
The thing was close. I could smell the foul rot of flesh and death and blood from it.
I held very still, wrapped in darkness, breathing butterscotch, and straining to hear anything, any hint of it walking away.
“Daniel.” The word was low, a growl. “I know you. I smell you. I see you,” it said. “You cannot hide. Your death calls me.”
“Go on your way,” I heard myself command. I could feel the honey twist of Influence my father brought to bear behind those words. “Or I will undo you.”
He was using my hands. He was using my eyes. He was using my magic. And now he was using my mouth.
That pissed me off. My dad was using my lips. My dad was using my tongue.
Nobody used my tongue but me. Nobody.
Fuck him. Even though I was shoved down here somewhere in my own head, I could still feel magic inside my body. All I had to do was find a way to get to it and a way to cast it.
“You are my way, Daniel Beckstrom,” the creature growled. “Living, undead, you hold the key to the dark and light. The key to open the gates. And then I will have my revenge on those who betrayed me.”
The back of my head hit the wall again, and I was aware, distantly, that my shoulders hurt. Also, I tasted blood. That was not a good sign.
Closer, in my ear, the beast shouted: “You are mine.”
Light slid like a blade of electricity between my eyes. Blackness flashed strobe white, blinding me again.
No! My Dad, inside my head.
“No,” my own voice echoed.
I didn’t know which one of us had control of my body. We were mixed, too much of one person and not enough of two. The weight of the beast hit my chest—for the second time—and I crumpled to the ground beneath it.
I opened my eyes—my eyes. Oh yeah. Go, me! I was in control again.
Fangs hovered inches from my face, and dark black eyes burned ebony into my own.
Shit.
“You are mine now, Daniel Beckstrom,” the Necromorph growled.
The Necromorph opened his mouth, unhinging his jaw, and breathed out. Dark magic poured over me like ice, magic that chilled the air. Magic I could not see, could not smell. I inhaled and deathly cold tendrils of magic slipped into me, into my lungs, into my mind.
“Come to me,” the thing growled. “Death nor life, I killed you once. You have done much worse to me. I will no longer wait here in the in-between, denied both life and death.”
What the hell? Killed him once?
And then the Necromorph inhaled. The darkness inside me cinched tight around something in my head.
My father moaned, twisted to try to break free of the hold that the Necromorph had on him. It was like my dad was a speck of dirt and the Necromorph was a vacuum. The Necromorph sucked in again.
I gasped in shared pain. Memories washed through me. My dad’s memories. Of a man holding his hands behind his back while a gun dug into his temple. Terror and fury washed me in cold sweat.
Because even more frightening than the memory of the gun to Dad’s head was the memory of the man in front of him. A man who cast magic. A man who had disks in one bloody hand, a knife in the other, and the same eyes as the beast that was tearing into my head.
Holy shit. This thing, this Necromorph, was one of the men who killed my father.
They thought James Hoskil was behind it all. And James’ mother had even named him. But it never made sense for one man to sneak into my father’s office, past his Wards, past his protections, and kill him. My father had been one of the most powerful magic users in the city.
But this man had killed my father.
And he wanted to do it again.
Through me.
The cold burned, and something in my head twisted and popped like a tooth being pulled out by the root. I yelled.
Ohcrapohcrapohcrap.
No, my father said again. Then, a whisper to me, Help me. Allison.
And sure, I hated my dad and hated him being in my head. And even though I didn’t want to just stand by while he was hurt, there was one ugly truth staring me in the eyes.
This thing had killed my father. Killed someone a lot more skilled in magic, someone who was still a lot stronger than me, even when he was dead. There was no way in hell I could fight this thing and win.
I don’t know how, I thought to my dad.
Cast, he whispered, his voice nearly gone now, as if caught by a winter wind. Cast magic.
Right. The thing had me flat on my ass. My arms were pinned beneath
its corpse-cold grip. How was I supposed to cast a spell?
“Come to me.” The Necromorph’s words were a chain around my dad that dragged him up and up.
I felt his terror. His pain.
And there was nothing I could do to save him.
Nothing magical.
I pulled my legs up. Shoved my boots beneath the Necromorph’s thighs. Pushed as hard as I could.
He stumbled back. Rose up on his legs, face contorted in fury. And roared.
A dull metallic glow radiated at its throat. A circle. A disk. Embedded deep into his neck.
The disk stank of burned copper. The Necromorph stank worse. I scrambled to get on my feet. My boots slipped on wet bricks. The Necromorph twisted his neck to look down at me, hiding the disk beneath his chin.
“I will kill her to have you.” He lunged, nails clawing, tearing at my coat. I threw my hands up to protect my face, and traced the fastest, easiest spell I could think of.
Light.
Light flashed, too bright in the night. The Necromorph growled, blinded.
Problem was, I was blinded too.
I finally got to my feet, but there was an entire frickin’ house at my back. I had nowhere to run.
Fine. I wasn’t planning to run anyway.
The murderer rushed me. I pivoted. Fangs sank into my shoulder, a dark, burning pain on top of the cold.
I yelled. From pain, yes. And because I was really angry. All I had wanted was a frickin’ cup of coffee. Couldn’t a girl go downtown without having to deal with undead mutated murderers on the way?
Forget mantras. Pain did plenty to clear my head. I didn’t even bother with a Disbursement. I didn’t care what magic was going to make me pay for this. I reached into my bones, into the raging magic there, and pulled it up through me so fast and hard, all my senses snapped into hyperfocus.
I could smell the beast’s hatred. Could smell his fear and pain. Could see dark spells burrowed into him, long, fat tendrils hanging off his twisted, emaciated body like leeches buried belly deep, down to his soul, sucking the life, sucking the soul out of him.
Around him a crowd of dead lingered, the Veiled, bits of dead magic users, looking like they always looked—pale watercolor images of people with holes where their eyes should be—sucking at the ends of the spell, leeches, drinking the beast down.
The horror in front of me couldn’t register through my anger. It sucked to be him, but hey, we all have issues.
I wove the glyph for Fire and poured magic into it.
Flames exploded in the air, blew outward, heat carrying to the sidewalk. It was a good thing it had been raining a lot lately. What plant life there was in the area was so wet I doubted a blowtorch could get it to smolder.
But the murderer wasn’t a plant. He took the full brunt of my fury face on.
Idiot.
He didn’t try to block. Didn’t wag one creepy finger to deflect.
Allison, my dad warned, a little stronger than he had been. Don’t.
Yeah, like I’d listen to him.
My right arm burned too hot, magic flowing and curling in multicolored strands down my arm and pouring out my fingertips. My left hand was cold, numb, and the numbness crept up to my elbow, hurting as it rose higher and higher toward my heart.
Positive and negative. Me using magic, and it using me. The joy and the pain.
I broke the Fire, and cast Sight so I could see through the darkness.
The Necromorph hadn’t blocked the spell because he didn’t have to. He just drank it down. The fire, the magic, everything. All my Light magic fed him. And all the leeches hanging off him got longer and fatter, and the Veiled sucking on them moaned.
Okay, here’s the thing. I had not woken up thinking I was going to be facing down certain death, nor the creepy Rastafarian dog-man from hell.
Which is probably why one look at the squirming mess of magic leeches writhing over him made me stop and stare instead of pay attention to other things, like, say, the Veiled who had suddenly decided to pay attention to me.
Shit.
The Veiled rushed. Fast. Too fast for any living thing.
And the Necromorph was right behind them.
The Veiled’s fingers clutched my coat, my hands, my arms, pressed under my skin, hooked magic out of me, and drew it into their mouths with huge smacking gulps.
Dad had protected me from them before. But he was silent. Inert as a lump of lead.
I was on my own.
And if I wanted the Veiled not to eat me, I had to stop using magic.
Which meant I had nothing but my fists as weapons.
Violet was right. I so needed self-defense training.
There was no way I was going to get out of this unbroken. But I damn sure was going to get out of it alive.
I dropped the spell, dropped the magic. Like a dark curtain falling on a bright screen, the real world came back.
I was breathing too hard and hurting everywhere. My head, my bleeding and possibly broken shoulder, my chest, my skin. There had to be a weapon I could use, but all I had was the journal in my pocket.
That would do. I put my hand around the book, ready to pull it out and throw it at him, or maybe jamb the pointed corner into his eye.
“For innocence to remain,” the Necromorph said, “no price is too high.” It was strangely soft, more man than creature.
And I swear, it sounded like an apology.
Nice, but a little too late.
He lunged at me.
I twisted at the hip, aimed the book and my fist at his face with everything I had.
And slammed my hand into a rock wall. I think I broke a finger. Or five.
A roar filled my ears. Not my own. Though I yelled too.
No, this sound was huge. The murderer was howling in pain.
That was no rock wall I’d slammed my fist into. That was a gargoyle.
Stone tore into the murderer with hands and fangs. Four ground-shaking blows from Stone sent the Necromorph to the ground, bleeding black. He was broken. More than that, he was pulverized.
I thought it was over.
I think Stone thought it was over too.
But even without holding Sight, I could feel the magic gathering beneath my feet. Feel it pooling, growing, and pouring toward the murderer.
I traced a quick glyph for Sight.
Holy shit. It wasn’t magic, or at least it wasn’t magic as I had ever seen it before. It was like a shadow of magic, indigo, violet, bloodred, dark and seeping. Rising up through the soil and pushing into the Necromorph’s body while the disk in his neck pulsed and glowed the same shadowy colors as the magic.
He twitched. Jerked. Stood back up.
Holy shit. He was dead. Had been dead. But he was not dead anymore.
I pressed against the wall. Stone growled. The Necromorph looked at me.
“You will not stop me.” Then he took off running, bleeding, fast and fluid and silent, a slice of moonlight in the shadowed night, despite the wounds Stone had given him. Stone was right behind him, just as fast, but each footfall landed like a heavy engine shaking the night.
Yes, I could have stood there and watched the rest of the gory details. But I was going to get the hell out of there while the getting was good.
I ran uphill toward my house. I didn’t care if that would be the first place anyone would expect me to go. I needed to get away, get out of there, run, run, run before the nightmares caught up with me.
I was halfway home when I heard footfalls behind me. Human footfalls. Running.
“Allie?”
I knew that voice. Davy Silvers. Hound. But I couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. Not for him. Not for anyone.
Davy had two things on me. Legs and youth. He caught up to me before I reached the doors to my apartment.
“Wait,” he said. “Wait. Hold on.” He tugged on my sleeve and it hurt like hell. It took everything I had not to punch him in the nose.
I stopped, spun on him.
He stumbled back several steps and held up both his hands. He was sweaty, his face too pale in the streetlight. “I heard you scream. Heard the fight back there. Then you were running, but there’s nothing behind you but me. You have blood on your face.”
Maybe. I had anger too. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop following me around?” I said. “You could have been killed.”
He folded his arms over his sweatshirt and tucked his hands in his armpits. “You’re hurt,” he repeated stubbornly. “Do you want me to call an ambulance or take you down to the hospital myself?”
“Listen,” I said, trying to calm down, trying to pull my wits back on, one word at a time. “A guy jumped me. I hit my head on a wall fighting with him. I’m fine.”
Davy was a Hound. One things Hounds are good at is spotting bullshit.
“Okay, we can go with that for now,” he said. “At least we both agree you’re hurt. Ambulance or front seat of my car?”
“Neither. I’m going home.”
I started toward my apartment a block up the hill. Davy followed me. Out of swinging range.
Smart boy.
“Go home, Davy.” The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving me shaking and tired.
“I am. Just not my home.”
We walked a distance from each other all the way up to my building. By the time I reached the stairs, every ache, pain, and scratch was reporting for duty.
I hurt inside and out. And magic was pointing a headache at my brain that already made my molars ache. The wind was too cold, even with my heavy coat on. That meant I had a fever. Great.
Still, if I showered, took some aspirin, and slept for a month or so, I’d probably come out of this with only minor scars. I stopped in front of my door.
“Davy—” I looked over my shoulder.
Davy’s face was washed in the blue light of his cell phone, which he closed and stuffed in his pocket. “Yes?”
“Who were you calling?”
“Zayvion Jones.”
My brain tried to figure that one out, and came up empty. And I mean static-on-the-TV empty.
“What?” I said. “Why? How do you even have his number? Why are you still following me?” My voice rose up and up with each question, even though I didn’t want it to.
