by Devon Monk
I made use of the facilities, and as I was washing my hands in tepid water, I heard someone come into my room. Hopefully a nurse. I wanted to go home, take a real shower, and crawl into my real bed.
I walked out of the bathroom.
It was not the nurse.
Davy Silvers stood uncertainly in my room. He had on clean clothes—jeans and a denim jacket with a hoodie beneath it. He had both his hands in his pockets. But even though he’d had a chance to take a shower, the dark circles and bloodshot eyes told me he had gotten less sleep than I.
“Hey,” I said as I limped over to my bed. “What are you doing here?” I felt stupid wearing a hospital gown in front of him, so I pulled the covers back over me again.
“Came to see if you’re okay. You know.” He shrugged.
“I’ve been here all night, haven’t I?”
He pulled a chair away from the wall, sat. “Yes.”
“Have you been here all night?”
“Not all night.”
“Davy,” I said. “I appreciate you watching my back when I Hounded for Stotts. And . . . and yesterday morning. With . . . Pike. But you don’t have to do that any more.”
He leaned the length of his forearms on his knees and clenched his fingers together. “Pike told me to look after you.”
“For one night. One night, Davy, no more.”
“Hounds stick together,” he said stubbornly. “Watch each other’s backs.”
“Sure. When we’re Hounding.”
“That’s not what Pike said. And it’s not what he would want.”
“Davy . . .”
He just gave me a long stubborn look. I so didn’t feel like arguing with him. He’d been crying. And from the set of his jaw and tension in his shoulders, I knew he was angry enough to fight me for this. For his memory of Pike and what Pike wanted from him.
Hells. I was angry about everything too. The image of Pike’s mutilated face flashed through my mind, and I pressed my fingers carefully against my eyes to try to free myself of it.
“I swear, Davy, if I see you peeking in my windows at night, I will call the cops on you.”
“That’s fair,” he said. Though whether he meant it was fair that he not peek in at me, or that I not catch him doing it, I wasn’t sure.
“Later,” I said, “when things get . . . straightened out, I want to call a Hound meeting again. Do you have everyone’s numbers?”
He nodded. “Did you see him do it?”
“Who?”
“Trager. Did you see him kill Pike?”
And there was that vengeful tone again. I tried to line up my memories of the day. “No. Pike had already left Trager’s office. He killed six of Trager’s men. Mostly killed Trager too.”
“And you finished him.”
I swallowed back a mix of anger and nausea. I’d never killed anyone before. I wasn’t sure I was comfortable thinking of myself in that way. Still, Davy needed to hear the truth. And I needed to hear it too. “Yes. I killed him.”
Davy nodded, his gaze never leaving mine. “If you hadn’t, I would have.” And he suddenly looked much older, much more determined and cold than he had when he walked in the room a minute ago. “When you’re ready, I’ll call the meeting.”
“Not today,” I said.
He stood. “Anytime. We’ll be there.” He reached over and touched the back of my hand. I was a little surprised, because Hounds didn’t do that, didn’t leave their scent behind with anyone. “Feel better, okay?”
“I will. Thanks.”
Davy Silvers strode out of my room, shoulders stiff, hands in fists. Pike’s death had done something to that young man, changed him in a deep way. Probably changed both of us. I just hoped it hadn’t done either of us permanent damage.
I took a deep breath and pushed those thoughts away. I wanted to go home. Take a shower for about a year then crawl into my bed and sleep the rest of my life away.
I pressed the call button for the nurse. I knew I had to make a statement to the police. Tell them what I knew about Trager, starting with him jumping me on the bus. And I knew I’d have to explain everything that had happened in Trager’s office and the warehouse. I wondered if they’d consider me stabbing Trager as he stabbed me self-defense?
I tried to track my memories about what had happened in the warehouse and had that empty feeling I get when I realize I was missing memories. Anthony had been there—hurt—an unwilling Proxy for Frank Gordon’s magic. And I remembered the six kidnapped girls and their ghosts tied by dark magic to their bodies.
And there had been more happening, some reason Frank was doing all that.
But like something had been pulled just out of my reach, I could not quite remember what else, or maybe who else, had been in that warehouse with me.
What I did know was I had used a lot of magic. And I hadn’t set Disbursements. Which meant magic beat its price out of me any way it wanted. It had caused swelling, bruises, and I was pretty sure it had burned away some of my memories too. My hand itched for my blank notebook. I looked around the room. There was a plastic bag of clothes on the table by the wall, but I just couldn’t bring myself to go digging in that bag. Not even for my notebook.
Sweet hells. Even over the heavy cleansers in the hospital room, I could smell the stink of blood in that bag. My blood. Pike’s blood. Trager’s blood.
I swallowed and tasted the faintest hint of wintergreen and leather on the back of my throat.
My stomach clenched with fear. Maybe I didn’t want to know, didn’t want to remember the details of the warehouse.
The nurse came in and checked my vitals. She told me the doctor would be by soon and she was right. The doctor on rotation stopped in, checked my chart, asked me a few brief questions, and then skillfully unwove the Siphon spell. The nurse took out my IV line and shunt.
A bottle of prescription painkillers, some analgesic soap, and my promise that I’d make an appointment to see my regular doctor got me release papers to sign and a checkout time before noon.
My jeans were a bloody mess. My shirt too. Luckily, victim’s assistance had some sweats I could borrow. I even managed to shove my swollen feet in my boots.
I called a cab and let the nurse wheel me down to the waiting room in a wheelchair.
Just as we were rolling into the hospital’s main lobby, Detective Paul Stotts walked in through the door, talking on his cell phone. He saw me and held up his finger. “In about ten minutes,” he said to the person on the phone.
“Ms. Beckstrom?” Another man wearing a dark suit and tie, about my father’s age but shorter and heavier than my dad, walked over from the receptionist’s desk.
I knew that voice, had heard it on my answering machine for weeks now. My father’s accountant, Mr. Katz.
“Hello,” I said rather lamely.
He walked over and offered his hand, his dark eyes sparking with curiosity.
“I’m Mr. Katz. It’s my pleasure to finally meet you.”
I shook his hand. “This is a bad time for me. I know there’s my father’s estate and business and everything to take care of. I’ve been meaning to set up an appointment to see you at your office.”
“Of course, of course.” He let go of my hand. “I understand. But it is becoming more difficult to hold the wolves at the gate, if you know what I mean. Stockholders,” he said in case I didn’t, “and other . . . people who have vested interest in the company are anxious to hear from you, Ms. Beckstrom. And I assure you, it will make both of our lives easier to take care of these things sooner rather than later. However, since I haven’t been able to reach you by phone, I came by to let you know I’ve taken care of the hospital bill.” He glanced at the paperwork in my hand and at my secondhand sweats. “And to remind you that your trust fund is available to you.”
“How did you know I was leaving today?” I asked.
He smiled again. “We keep a close eye on all our important clients, Ms. Beckstrom.”
I did
n’t know if I should be worried or grateful.
“I have also contacted your father’s lawyer, Mr. Overton.”
Stotts walked over, turned off his phone, and put it in his pocket. “Paul Stotts,” he said, holding out his hand to the accountant.
“Ethan Katz.”
They shook. Stotts looked like he already knew who he was. He looked over at me. “Is there something you and Mr. Katz need to take care of?” he asked.
“Not right now.” I glanced at Katz, who nodded.
“Yes, that’s correct. I was just settling her bill and telling her she has legal counsel.” He handed a card to Stotts. “Mr. Overton can be reached at this number.”
Well, well. Wasn’t he smooth?
“If you’ll both excuse me,” Katz said, “I do have an appointment to keep.” He shook both of our hands again and then walked down the hallway, deeper into the hospital.
“I forget you’re rich sometimes,” Stotts said, watching him go.
“Me too.”
“How are you feeling?”
“The doctor said I need to take a painkiller and get some rest.”
“I’m not surprised. Would you like me to take you home, or should I call your legal counsel?”
“Neither. I called a cab.”
He looked off across the lobby. “I do need to talk to you, Allie. It can be off the record, if you’d prefer.”
“Now?”
“As soon as I can. And if you want your lawyer there, I can arrange that too.”
I held on to the plastic bag of my clothes, took a deep breath and stood up from the wheelchair, careful not to let him see how much that effort hurt.
“Will you tell me why you wanted to talk to Zayvion?”
“So you remember that?” he asked. “I can’t disclose that information. Police business.”
“Is he in jail?”
“What?” Stotts stopped in front of the sliding glass door, so the door hung open and then jerked in and out of the wall, trying and failing to close.
“Is Zayvion in jail?”
“No. I am curious as to why you think he might be.”
“I . . . just . . . I don’t know. After the last couple days, nothing would surprise me anymore.”
We started walking again.
“He’s not up on any charges,” Stotts said. “He was just . . . a person of interest in a case I’ve been following.”
The outer door opened, and wet, Oregon December wrapped around me. I was so not going to like the walk to his car.
“I’m over here,” he said. And I guess that’s one benefit to being a police officer. You get to park close to the hospital.
I walked as quickly as I could, shivering the whole way to his car, and got in.
Stotts got in the driver’s seat and turned on the car so the heater was running. “Could you tell me the order of events as you remember them?” he asked. “Off the record.”
And I realized Stotts looked tired too. There had been several deaths in the city—many of them because of magic. And all of those fell under his jurisdiction.
So I spent the drive reciting the events. I started with Trager on the bus, something Stotts didn’t look surprised about. I must have talked to him about it earlier, like when I was Hounding for him.
I left out the Veiled. Left out the Death and Life glyphs outside Get Mugged. Left out the Hound meeting. But I told him all about the blood magic spell drawing me to Pike in Ankeny Square. Told him what Pike said—that he thought Anthony had been used to kidnap the girls—and told him about me finding Trager and his men. I included all the details I could remember, including the knife I had on me—which I told him I’d gotten from a friend. I told him about the gun I saw at Trager’s and that I thought it might have been Pike’s.
Then I told him about the warehouse. Anthony, the Life and Death glyphs, the girls (but not their ghosts), and Frank having my blood and wanting to use it for some strange magical ritual I did not understand.
By the time I was done, we were parked outside my apartment building and my throat was sore.
“What about your father’s body?” he asked.
I blinked. Something in my head skittered, as if avoiding the light.
“What?” I asked.
“In the warehouse. Do you know what Frank Gordon was using your father’s body for? Do you know what the plate on his chest was for?”
I swallowed. “I don’t remember that at all.” Stotts looked a question at me, but maybe my shock showed. “All right. When you do remember, if you do, I’d like to hear about it.”
I nodded. My ears were ringing with a thin high tone. My dad’s dead body had been in that warehouse. Frank Gordon had been using it for something. Something involving Life and Death glyphs and the girls he kidnapped.
Was it too much to think my father’s ghost might have been there too? My stomach clenched in remembered fear. He had been there. Even though I couldn’t remember it, my gut, my emotional memory of the fear, told me he had been there.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” I whispered.
Stotts nodded. “Yes, I do.”
“Do you think my father’s ghost was there?”
“I don’t know,” he said evenly. “Do you?”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t remember?”
“No.”
We sat there, in silence, the car engine still running, which was burning gas, but it kept the heater warm. It was raining outside, and suddenly this little space, this crowded car wasn’t nearly big enough for me. I needed out. I needed to breathe.
“I’m going home now.” I pulled on the door handle.
“Let me walk you in.”
“No. I got it. Really. I just want a shower and bed. Thanks for the ride.”
“Call me if—”
I cut him off. “I will. I’ll call if I remember anything else.”
“I was going to say, if you need anything.”
Oh.
“Thanks.” I got out of the car and shuffled across the sidewalk. Someone, probably my landlord, had thrown rock salt on the sidewalk and stairs, so it wasn’t even slippery anymore. Just wet.
I held my breath and dug in the plastic bag of my clothes. The clothes were stiff and damp with sweat and blood, but my hand came out a lot cleaner than I thought it would. I pulled the key out of my coat pocket and I let myself in the building. I took my time climbing stairs until the third floor showed up.
My head spun with thoughts of my father. His ghost had touched me twice. Had he touched me again in the warehouse? Had he done more than just touch me?
Even though I could not remember, there was an echo, an emotional memory. My father had done something to me. Something bad.
And I knew, without a doubt, that whatever it was, it was permanent.
What did you do to me, Dad? What did you want to use me for?
That skittery feeling at the back of my head triggered again, like a moth wing beating at the top of my spine—like something moving away from my concentration, dodging my notice.
I made it to the third floor and stopped. Down the hall by my door, stood a woman. She looked older than me by fifteen or twenty years, her faded red hair streaked with gray and pulled back in a loose bun. She had on a forest green wool coat and high heel boots.
I’d never seen her before, but she held up a hand and waved.
“Allie?” she asked. “Are you Allison Beckstrom?” Her voice had the slightest accent that made me think Ireland or Scotland.
And sure, it might be really dumb to tell a stranger who I was, but damn it, I was tired. And a little spooked. I just wanted to get home, and she was in my way.
“I’m Allie Beckstrom.”
She closed the distance between us and stuck out her hand. “My name is Maeve Flynn. I knew your father.”
I shook her hand, aware that mine wasn’t very clean.
Her hand was warm and strong, and she shook mine firmly enough I could feel the bon
es beneath her flesh, but not so hard as to hurt. She had working hands, a little calloused, but her nails were professionally polished with a soft pink gloss.
“Business partner?” I guessed.
“No. More of an acquaintance than anything else,” she said. “He and I didn’t agree on many things, though neither of us were shy about our personal opinions on the use of magic. He wasn’t pleased you went into Hounding, you know.”
