by Devon Monk
I knelt next to Zayvion. Bloody, bruised, he was mostly intact. A trail of blood tracked down his forehead, slick over his closed eyes and his nose, and filling the valley of his soft, thick lips.
I didn’t have to press my hand against his neck or wrist. I knew he had no heartbeat.
And I knew I had only a little magic.
I closed my eyes, calmed my mind. Focused on the small magic within me. I placed my hand on his chest, over his heart.
“Live,” I whispered. “Breathe.”
The magic spooled out of me like a thin thread. No spell. I didn’t need one. I knew what I wanted magic to do, knew what it had to do for me. I sent it to wrap around his heart, to make it beat, to squeeze his lungs, to make him breathe.
“Live.” No longer a request. Now a demand. Soul to soul.
If I could give my heart to replace his, I would. My breath for his, I would. My life for his, I would.
“Please,” I whispered.
Nothing. Nothing. I inhaled. And so did he. Shallow. His heart beat one slow thud.
I exhaled.
And so did he.
I don’t know how long I sat there, able to do nothing more than inhale and exhale, his heart a hesitant beat that followed my own, but a beat nonetheless. But I knew I would do this until the end of time if it meant he was alive.
A hand slid over the top of mine. I didn’t open my eyes. I knew who it was. The rough brush of fingerless gloves belonged to Shame.
“Keep doing that,” he said gently, his voice low. “You’re doing fine. Just keep breathing for him.”
Live, I thought, I begged. Because a body needed more than breath to be alive.
Another hand fell upon my right hand. Cold, trembling. The unfamiliarity almost made me lose concentration.
“Positive and negative,” Terric said, and I knew it was he who held my other hand.
I don’t know what they did, don’t know how they did it. I couldn’t access magic, but they did. Magic, a pure, even stream of it, poured in through my hands. And I sent that magic, willingly, carefully, gently into Zay, told it to knit, to mend, to fill, to support.
“Heal,” I said.
And magic leaped to my desire, rushing through Zayvion’s body and mind with a pure wave of healing.
He inhaled. Without me.
His heart beat. Steadied. Caught and lifted by magic, magic Shame and Terric accessed, magic I sent to blend with the small magic I carried. Magic that healed.
His heartbeat fell into a solid rhythm. Another breath. Another. The rhythm of his heart beneath my hand, against my wrist, beat stronger, strong.
Alive.
I opened my eyes.
Zay didn’t stir. There was more blood covering his face. He was breathing, though, on his own. With my hands still on his chest, with Shame’s hand still on my left, and Terric’s still on my right, I bent, and kissed Zay, his blood salty against my lips.
He didn’t move. I didn’t sense a flicker of his emotions, his thoughts. It was like kissing a hollow doll.
A new fear washed over me, so like claustrophobia, I swallowed back a whimper. “Is he alive? Shame? Is he alive? I can’t feel him. Can’t—can’t feel him.” My voice was ragged, too high, too fast.
I wanted this nightmare to end. But I couldn’t make myself wake up.
Shame’s other hand turned my face so I was looking at him. “He’s alive.” Fierce. No Influence, but the power of his conviction was a slap across my mind.
“Hurt,” he said, “but breathing. Alive. Panicking will make it worse. Got that?”
I blinked, nodded. Those words, his anger, was like pulling blinders off. I could see the world around me again, could smell again, could feel my body, my feet numb beneath me, the rain falling cold and hard against my head, face, hands.
The rain, at least, had arrived. How much longer until the wild-magic storm hit?
Shame, drenched, squatted on his heels next to me, one hand on mine, the other releasing my chin. He smelled of sweat, blood, cigarettes, and fear.
On the other side of me, of Zay’s prone body, was Terric. I thought Shame looked bad. Terric sat tailor-style, his hand still on mine. His head hung so that his heavy hank of shock-white hair fell over his left shoulder. And his hair was sticky, wet with more than just the rain. He did not look up, did not move. If I hadn’t felt his heartbeat at my wrist, I wouldn’t have thought he was alive.
“Stone?” I asked.
Shame shook his head. “I don’t know.”
I looked over where Greyson had been. Where Chase had been. Where Stone had been.
Nothing. They were all gone.
“When I got here,” Shame said, “it was just you and Zay and Terric.”
“We need to find them,” I said. “They can’t just do this and disappear. I want them dead.”
“First Zay,” he said. “Then we find them. Then we make them dead.”
Rain fell in a steady stream into his eyes. He didn’t seem to notice. There was a darkness in him that burned hot, strong. A killing hatred.
I liked it.
“Do we carry him?” I asked. The very mundane mechanics of getting Zayvion out of the rain and safe were suddenly more complicated than I had the brain to handle. Using magic, all that I had, all that they gave me, had left me weak, shocky, and not thinking straight.
Of course Zayvion dying might have something to do with it too.
“No,” Shame said. “They’re coming.”
And it was like magic words. Because I suddenly realized there were people walking toward us through the rain.
Even in the low light, even through the rain, I could make them out. Lean Victor, wearing a trench coat and carrying a sword that slicked silver and black in the rain. Next to him, tiny Liddy wrapped in an ankle-length coat that kicked open to show the whip she carried strapped to her hip.
The twins Carl and La strode step in step, heads up, moving as if the rain didn’t exist, curved scythes clenched in Carl’s right and La’s left hands. Other people too—short and fit Mike Barham, who wore glowing, glyphed gloves; Sunny, dark, angry, knives in both hands; the Georgia sisters, who each held a staff.
Maeve had pulled her hair back in a stark ponytail. She wore stiletto boots and a leather full-length jacket, two blood daggers strapped to her boots, her hands in her pockets. The hulking mountain of Hayden strolled behind her with a rolling gait, big as the world. I was wrong—he didn’t carry a battle-ax or a cannon. He carried a broadsword over one shoulder and a shotgun over the other.
Last was big Jingo Jingo, wool coat and fedora, his voice a low, soothing murmur, maybe a song, maybe a prayer, as they came. All of them. Toward us. To save the day.
This was not a funeral procession—Zayvion was still alive. This was the cavalry arriving a little too late.
As soon as they reached us, time, which had felt like it slowed, suddenly snapped up to normal speed.
I sat there while voices—while people—investigated spells, checked the area, made plans. I sat there, Zayvion’s heartbeat beneath my palm, while Victor and Maeve and Hayden came over. Maeve helped Shame to his feet, and Victor helped Terric. And lastly, big Hayden picked up Zayvion, like he was a child, and carried him to a gurney, then to a waiting van.
I pushed up on my feet, swayed. It was Jingo Jingo, of all people, who was there for me, his wide, warm hands catching under my arms, holding me upright while I breathed heavily and waited for my knees, my muscles, to start working again.
I would not cry. Not now.
I tried not to think about the ghosts of children who clung to Jingo like a winter cloak. Tried not to think about how much he bothered me. I focused, instead, on his strength—and he had a lot of it—on his warmth and his calm. I focused on his voice, low, soft, comforting.
“There, now, Allison, angel. You’re gonna be just fine. Take a step for me. That’s good. Good. You’re something, aren’t you? Yes. Yes, you are. And it’s gonna all work out. Keep going;
you’re fine.”
I did as he said and walked, following Zayvion, because Jingo Jingo was one of my teachers and he was here for me, helping me. Even though he was a freak.
“You’re not gonna have to worry about tonight,” he said, and his words sank into my head and body with the weight and warmth of wine. A spell, I thought. Or maybe I was just exhausted and he was telling me what I wanted to hear.
“You’ve done enough for the night. Kept Zayvion alive.” He said it as if he hadn’t expected I would do it. “Done all you could. More than that. Rest now. Rest.”
And my knees, which were working, suddenly felt like they were made of water. I slumped against Jingo, fought not to pass out, not to sleep.
As he picked me up, I wondered why he had cast the spell on me. And wondered why behind every gentle word, I could sense his fear.
Chapter Fifteen
Voices, talking in hushed tones, woke me. I opened my eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling—plaster and dark wood beams—and an unfamiliar, narrow bed. I took a deep breath. The honeysuckle and lemon-polish scent of this place told me where I was.
Maeve’s inn.
The hushed tones were coming from outside the room, the quiet murmur of people nearby. I glanced around the room—or as much of it as I could see from the bed. White plaster walls, window curtained to block all light, small lamp on the dresser in the corner, not nearly bright enough to break the shadows down, and another narrow bed next to mine.
In that bed was Zayvion Jones. Sleeping, I thought. Breathing. Thankfully, breathing.
Medical equipment hooked into him, something that silently flickered with green light, an IV, and a few other things I couldn’t see clearly. Gina Fisher, the Authority’s doctor, had been here to see him.
The reality of what had happened, the fight with Chase and Greyson, hit, and I moaned softly.
“He’s alive.” A voice, Shame’s, from the shadows by the window.
I pushed up, sat. My bones felt hollow, ached, empty of magic. It was a strange feeling, like I had somehow lost a part of myself. Maybe it was just that I couldn’t feel Zayvion, couldn’t sense his emotions, his thoughts. If I weren’t staring at him, I wouldn’t even know he was in the room.
I still had on my shirt, though someone had gotten me out of my jeans and boots and replaced them with something that felt like sweatpants, or maybe pajama bottoms. A cool weight shifted against my breastbone and I realized I was still wearing the void stone.
No wonder magic was so silent in me. Maybe that was blocking it.
“How long have I been asleep?” I asked.
Shame shifted in the chair. I couldn’t make out his features in the shadows of the room.
“It’s evening the next day. You’ve been asleep sixteen hours.”
“Zay?” I asked. It was only one word, because I couldn’t get my head around all the other words, and all the fears they contained.
“He’s been seen by the doctors. They’ve done everything they can for him. Medically. Magically.”
“He’s okay, right? He’s going to be okay?” I didn’t like the tremor in my voice, so I swallowed and clutched the void stone in my hand, hoping it would calm my mind along with my magic.
Shame stood, slowly, I noted. He walked over to the foot of my bed, where he sat. Light finally revealed him to me.
I bit down on a gasp. “What happened?”
Shame looked like hell. His skin was pale and greenish, sunk in, all the bones of his face showing through too sharply. A red welt ran from the edge of his jaw, following the line of his jugular down his neck to disappear in his black shirt. His eyes were dark, more black than green, and carried something: pain, hunger, or anger, I couldn’t tell. He looked like he was on his way to corpsedom. He also wore a void stone at his neck, a black stone wrapped in silver and lead on a leather cord, choker-tight so that the stone pressed against his throat and moved when he swallowed.
“We, my friend, were fucked.” He smiled, a flash of humor in a face of pain. My heart caught. That was like him, though. Given the choice to laugh or cry, Shame always laughed.
“Do you remember us hunting Chase?”
I nodded.
“Do you remember us fighting her?” He said that a little quieter, but steady, as if ready for me to react.
It took me a second—then I realized why. Shame had tried to kill me.
“I remember Chase carved you up with Blood magic. Is that why you look like Death?”
Tact. I have it.
Shame’s shoulders relaxed, and he sat back, crossing one leg over his knee. “Don’t like the new look? Sort of death-chic, don’t you think?”
“Undoubtedly the new fashion trend.”
He smiled again. “You want me to give you the rundown of what happened?”
“Sure.” With a memory as spotty as mine, I had learned to never say no if someone wanted to recap events.
Shame went through the time line, starting with us finding him knocked out and Closed by Chase in the car in the parking lot.
I, surprisingly, remembered all of it, and added in some details about Zay and Chase fighting, and Greyson being cloaked in Illusion the whole time.
“And Stone showed up.”
Shame grinned. “Thought so. They found footprints—well, more like craters—at the scene. You call him?”
“No. He likes to follow me around at night.”
“Did you see what he did to them?”
I thought about it. I remembered Stone attacking, remembered him pinning Greyson. And I remembered Chase fell to her knees. I hadn’t watched the rest of it, too angry, too afraid for Zayvion. But Chase had knocked Stone out once before. Maybe she had done it again.
“I didn’t pay attention.” I couldn’t believe how stupid I’d been. “I should have done something. Should have stopped them.”
Shame gave me a steady look. “No. If you had done anything differently—anything—Zay would be dead.”
I don’t know if he was telling me the truth or just trying to make me feel better.
“You kept him alive, Allie,” he said quietly. “I think you sat there, breathing for him, living for him, for some time before I came to. Nice Sleep spell, by the way. Remind me not to piss you off.”
“Don’t piss me off,” I said distractedly. “What did you do, Shame? What did Terric and you do? I remember you added something to my magic. Helped Zay.”
He held his breath, just the slightest tensing of his body. “Death magic, mostly. Channeling magic, taking a little of our . . . life and giving you and Zay something more to work with.”
“Oh, Shame.” I didn’t know what else to say. How could I pay him back for that sacrifice? “How badly are you hurt?”
“I’ll be okay. So will Terric. I know how much to give before things get dire. We’ll recover from this. Eventually.”
There was more to it.
“And?” I asked.
“And it worked. Enough.” He glanced over at Zayvion, and I did too.
“What else, Shame?” I felt like I’d woken up too soon, and into a world that wasn’t the way it should be. It wasn’t just that I was tired and sore. It wasn’t just that Zay was injured and Shame looked like he was on death’s door. There was a deep wrongness about everything that triggered panic in my gut. I wanted to get out of this bed, take Zay—hells, take Shame and Zay and Terric—and get somewhere safe before whatever I was feeling, before the fear that scraped around inside me, got out and became real.
“Magic’s gone,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“Gone. Maybe just off. Certainly not accessible. The backup spells, which carry time-delay triggers—kind of like batteries to keep the city going—are in effect, keeping things like the hospitals and prisons limping along.” He tipped his head toward the window. “The backup spells won’t last long. Then it’s all going to go to hell out there. Soon. Real soon.”
Maybe it was the fact that he said it so calmly. Maybe it
was just that he had finally put a name to my fear. Whatever it was, I suddenly felt calm. Reasonable even.
Have I mentioned I am good under pressure, and can handle stressful situations well? Consider it mentioned. Well, at least I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t access it now.
“Has this ever happened before?” I asked.
“Which part of it?”
“Magic being gone?”
“Brief flickers. Usually before storms.”
“So it’s not unheard of.”
“No, but it’s usually just a pause. Magic’s been out for hours now.”
“And are there standard procedures the Authority implements when this happens?”
“We’ve done them. All the things Sedra has allowed.”
“Do I want to know more about that?”
“She doesn’t want any of us screwing with anything more until the storm hits. It makes some sense. When magic is this unpredictable, adding fuel to the fire can be disastrous.”
“Explain disastrous.”
“Magic channels through all the spells set throughout the city, hits hard, blows the network, destroys Proxies’ brains, burns the city down. For starters.”
“So the plan is to do nothing?”
He shrugged one shoulder. It looked like it hurt. “That’s what Sedra wants. She’s been”—he looked over at the door as if expecting someone to walk in—“different.”
The latch clicked and Maeve pushed the door open, letting in the golden glow of light beyond the room, and the smell of lemon wood polish and something more savory that made my mouth water. Clam chowder, I thought. Maybe bread.
I blinked in the raised light. Shame got to his feet and headed over to the shadows again as if even that small amount of light coming near him burned.
“I thought I heard voices,” Maeve said. “I brought food. For both of you,” she said pointedly.
She expertly maneuvered a large tray with bowls, bread, and glasses of water on it over to the dresser, where she set the whole thing down. “How are you feeling, Allie?” She turned, a bowl of soup and hunk of bread on a plate in one hand, a glass of water in the other.
“Can you move the tray?” she asked.
