by Devon Monk
He held very still, so still I didn’t think he was breathing. Finally, “No. Just with you.”
And for no reason at all, those words made my stomach flutter, like he’d just drawn his hand down my back and pulled me close. Oh, yeah. There was a reason I’d been attracted to him. Still was. Even in a graveyard, even in a rainstorm, even after a crappy day like today, he knew what to say to make me feel like there was no one else in the world with him but me.
Well, me and the person standing by the gravestones, staring at us.
We walked toward the car, Zayvion crossing behind to position himself on my right and slightly uphill from me. The way someone would position himself if he wanted to put his body between me and, say, that person up there on the horizon.
“How about you start by telling me why you don’t want whoever that is up there to see me?”
I could see his smile from the corners of my eyes.
“You’re an observant woman, Ms. Beckstrom.”
“You have no idea.”
I let the sound of our boots in the grass take up some time. Zayvion didn’t look worried. I couldn’t smell anyone on the wind, couldn’t smell much over the strong pine of Zayvion’s cologne.
“Might be no one I know,” he finally said.
“Or?”
He shrugged again. “Never hurts to be careful. You’re a public figure right now.”
“I’ve always been a public figure.”
“Not like this,” he said softly. “Not like now. People are watching you, Allie. Closely.”
Like that was news. It would take more than a vague reference to scare me. Hells, as far as I knew Trager’s men waited around every corner and even dead people had suddenly decided to watch my every move.
“I’m just lucky that way. Who do you think is watching me?”
“A lot of people. People in powerful positions.”
I usually wouldn’t put up with that kind of coy answer. But I had lost weeks to that coma, and a lot of memories. Zayvion had been with me for a lot of what I no longer remembered. He’d been there when I last saw my father. Nola said he’d even been there when I found out my dad was dead and when I’d turned into a living receptacle for magic.
If he had something to say, if he knew something about my life, then I wanted that information.
I could be patient when I had to be.
The raindrops fell, bigger, harder, a cloudburst now instead of a steady drizzle. The wind, which had never really stopped, picked up the pace.
“I’d like to hear more about those people,” I said.
“Then it’s a date?” he asked.
“It could be.”
Zayvion brushed his hand along my bent elbow and guided me forward a little more quickly.
“My car is down by the gate. Let’s get out of the rain first.”
Out of the rain and out of earshot, or eyesight, of whoever was watching. Without looking over my shoulder, without breaking stride, I strained to hear the sound of footsteps, of movement, of breathing in the graveyard. Strained to hear or sense, without the use of magic, anything or anyone other than Zayvion and me.
“The car’s over here.” Zayvion pulled his keys out of his pocket and strode off ahead of me.
I glanced over my shoulder at where the figure had been. He—because I decided it looked more like a man than a woman—was still there, leaning against a tall pillar gravestone, black coat, black figure against a dead sky. And I knew, without using magic, that he was looking for me. Maybe even was one of those powerful people Zayvion said was watching me.
See how well I put two and two together?
Zayvion came back to where I stood and touched my arm. “Come on, Allie.”
The click and thunk of his car door opening, and the promise of warmth and sanctuary it offered, got me moving. I crawled in and had a moment to worry about ruining the black leather seats, but was grateful for the shelter from the cold, the wet, and the overwhelming presence of death. I was freezing, soaked through, and tired. Really, really tired.
Like death warmed over. Ha-ha, not funny.
Zayvion walked around the car and slid in the driver’s side.
“So who do you think that man is? Was he there when my father was buried? Does this all have something to do with his death?”
He put the keys in the ignition, started the car, and, thankfully, the heater.
“How about I drive while I talk?”
“Where are we going?”
Score one for the logical mind.
He looked over at me. Nothing but Zen. Well, a little wet. A lot kissable. And just unreadable enough that I didn’t feel safe enough to risk getting too intimate. Yet.
“Where do you want me to take you?”
“Anywhere you’re going to tell me the truth about that man out there, the powerful people watching me, and my father’s grave.”
He frowned. “What about your father’s grave?”
“Did you actually see his body lowered into it?” I said it like it didn’t freak me out that my dead father was missing in inaction. So to speak.
He looked out the front window like he was looking into his memories. Then took a very deep, loud breath. Let it out. “A lot of . . . people saw his casket lowered into the grave.”
“Nice hesitation,” I noted.
He put the car in reverse and backed out of the cemetery, out through the iron gates, then put it in drive and pulled onto the street. He didn’t say anything more. I didn’t let that stop me from talking.
“Listen, I know we said we’d try this . . .”
“This?”
“Us,” I said. “At the deli when I came back to Portland. That we’d try us. But I am so done with the mystery-man bit. If you don’t level with me, there is no way I’m going to trust you like—”
“Like you did before?” Zayvion gave me a sad smile. “Trust wasn’t exactly what our relationship was built on.”
“Really?” I said, not believing him. Trust was a big thing for me, and I didn’t get into a relationship without it. “Then what was it built on?”
“Really good sex.”
I had the unfortunate tendency to blush. And I think Zayvion Jones knew that.
He grinned. “Maybe there was some trust going on too. I know that I trusted you. Trusted in your strength. And your stubbornness.”
“Watch it,” I warned.
“Maybe it’s not me you’re afraid to trust right now,” he said. “Maybe it’s yourself.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. Because he was right. And I was too stubborn to admit it.
Chapter Eight
Zayvion guided the car down the hill, heading north toward downtown. My chance for a snappy come-back had passed about a minute and a half ago. Instead, I’d opted to look aloof and unimpressed while I waited for the hot rush of blood to drain from my cheeks, neck, and chest.
“As I was saying,” I said, “I’d like you to level with me.”
“That sounds fair,” he said. “But it will take some time. Are you hungry?”
My underwear were giving me the wet wedgie of a lifetime. I really wanted to change into dry clothes before going to the Hound meeting.
“I just ate,” I said. “What time is it?”
He nodded toward the car’s dash and a digital clock. “Ten thirty.”
I bit at the inside of my cheek. I had just enough time for him to take me home so I could score some dry clothes before the Hound thing. And besides, he’d said he’d talk while he drove.
“I have an appointment at noon. Could you take me home so I can change?”
“Sure.”
He didn’t ask what the appointment was. Didn’t ask me where I was going or whom I was going with. I was simultaneously happy and disappointed that he wasn’t interfering in my personal business.
“I moved to a new apartment,” I said.
“I know.”
“Have you been spying on me, Mr. Jones?”
“Spying on someone else in my building?”
“That seems unlikely, doesn’t it?”
“Way to dodge the question.”
“Thank you. Speaking of questions, why did you go to the graveyard today? It’s not exactly good weather for it.”
“It’s almost December. Of course it’s not good weather. Who was that man back at the graveyard? Is he part of MERC?”
Zayvion frowned, and our little question volley took on a more serious tone. “Where did you hear about MERC?”
Interesting. So he knew about them.
“Friends on the force mentioned it. Is that it? The MERC team is watching me?”
They had wanted to tag me. Since I said no to that, it made sense that they might want to follow me in a more conventional manner. The weird thing was I had no idea why they wanted to keep such a close eye on me, unless it was because of Trager. I hadn’t worked for them yet, hadn’t Hounded whatever case might put me in the line of danger.
And all I kept thinking about was sixteen Hounds dead in six years.
“Maybe MERC is watching you,” Zayvion said.
“Are you a part of that? Of them?”
He gave me a strange look. “Allie, you know I don’t work for MERC.”
“No. I don’t.”
“Ah.” He Zenned.
No other reaction. Just that: “Ah.”
“How about a little help here?” I said. “Who are the powerful people watching me and what are they watching me for?”
“I shouldn’t tell you that.”
“Because you work for them?”
“If I did, do you think I’d tell you?” He smiled, laugh lines crinkling at the edges of his eyes.
I groaned and thunked my head on the side window. “For all that’s holy, Jones, talk to me. If I’m in danger, I need to know. Is it Trager?”
Zay tightened, looked at me. “Lon Trager?”
I shrugged. “I heard he’s out of jail.”
Zay nodded. “He is.”
“Is that it, then? Trager’s looking for me?”
“It’s . . . complicated.” He glanced at me, looked back at the road. He was no longer smiling. “I do some work for the . . . for people. In powerful positions. The man in the graveyard is a part of the . . . of what I’m . . . working on. He might have something to do with Trager.”
“Does he have anything to do with me?”
“He shouldn’t.”
“But he could?”
“Anything is possible in this city.” At my glare, he added, “There are a lot of things going on—with people who use magic, with the people who police magic. All of them involve magic. What it is. How it’s being used. Who can use it. And you use magic, so, yes. It could involve you. It could involve Trager, but I don’t know that as a fact yet. It could involve anyone.”
“Was my dad part of what is going on in the city? And before you answer, I know he’s dead, but I know he was a powerful magic user. There’s no reason you can’t give me the truth on this. Was he involved in what’s going on with magic in the city?”
“Yes.” He looked like giving a straight answer hurt.
“So the danger to me—if there is danger to me—may be secondary? Because I’m his daughter?”
“Have I ever told you you are a very astute woman, Ms. Beckstrom?”
“Never hurts to hear it again.” Sweet hells. People who might want to kill me were going to have to start taking a number and getting in line.
“Did you see my father’s body before he was buried?”
If he was surprised by the change of subject, he didn’t show it.
“I saw it at the viewing, yes.”
“Are you sure it was his body?”
Now that surprised him. His heartbeat elevated, and this close, I could tell he held his breath.
“I’m serious,” I said.
“I know you are.” His lips pressed into a thin line. He wove the car through traffic, heading closer to the downtown area.
“I didn’t touch the body,” he finally said. “I did lean in close to it during the viewing. It wasn’t an imposter.”
“Not a fake? A mannequin or wax dummy?”
“No. The man in that coffin was dead.”
“Are you sure? Absolutely sure he was dead?”
“Allie, I know a dead body when I see one.”
Under other circumstances I might have asked him why, exactly, he was that familiar with corpses. But right now, I just wanted to know what he knew about my dad’s death and burial.
“Why?” Zayvion asked.
“Because his grave is empty.”
No more Zen Zayvion. No more calm and quiet Zayvion of the cool mint fingers and sexy smile. He stopped the car—good thing we were at a stop sign—and didn’t move through the intersection even though there was no other traffic.
He turned toward me. He was wider through the shoulder than he looked, so there wasn’t much room for him to really turn.
Images, no, memories of his body against mine—not on my father’s grave, but some other time, when the heat and strength of his body pressed against me—came back with a quick flash of fire. My stomach fluttered and I swallowed to keep from making any small sound.
Then the image—and the emotion behind it—was gone.
The man before me wasn’t the same as the lover of my memory. Blackness poured like ink through the brown of his eyes, filling his gaze with killing darkness. Then he blinked, and his eyes looked brown again— just brown—and I really, really hoped I was just imagining things.
“How?” he asked.
“Do you think I know? That’s why I’m asking you.”
“No,” he said. “How do you know his grave is empty?”
“I wanted to touch him.” Okay, that sounded creepy.
He blinked a couple more times, like either the sentimental me or creepy me wasn’t lining up.
“Physically?”
“Did you see me carrying a shovel? Of course not physically.”
“So what did you do, Allie?”
“I touched him. With magic. Because, you know, grave robbing is so last season.”
“Allie. This is serious.”
“I know. My dad is dead—or so everyone tells me. But he is not in that coffin. Nothing is. Nothing but stale air.”
Zayvion rubbed a hand over his face and scrubbed at the back of his neck. He glanced out the windshield and seemed to notice we were not moving. He straightened, took his foot off the brake, and rolled through the intersection.
“How can you be sure?” he asked. “A dead body doesn’t feel the same as a living body. Even when touched with magic.” There it was again—his casual acquaintance with dead people. And how they felt when touched with magic. Interesting.
“There would have been bacteria, not to mention bugs of all sorts, so, yes, there would have been something alive if there had been any flesh in that box. There wasn’t anything in the coffin except air.”
“People don’t bury empty coffins.”
“Someone did.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Is this a part of the whole dangerous magic going on thing?” I asked.
The image of the magic glyphs on the warehouse wall came to me. Warnings. Life magic. Death magic. All in my father’s signature.
“Does it have something to do with death magic? Was my dad involved in some sort of . . . dark magic?” Now that I thought about it, it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if he were involved in whatever passed as the dark arts.
And no, I didn’t know what that was. It wasn’t exactly covered in my college Business Magic 101, where you learned the proper Proxy-to-potency ratio for advertising illusions.
The line of Zayvion’s shoulders tightened. I’d hit a nerve.
“Where would you get that kind of idea?” he asked, all low and calm, like it was silly to even think there was dark magic. He totally did not fool me.
&
nbsp; And that was when it occurred to me that he might be a part of this—whatever this was. He might be a part of the reason why my father was not in his grave, might be a part of the death magic glyphs, hells, might be a part of why I saw my dad’s ghost, or—and at this I felt a chill all the way down to my wet panties—he might be a part of my dad’s death.
