Magic on the Storm

by Devon Monk

  Or maybe I just wasn’t dead enough to sense it.

  The Veiled were almost on us.

  “This way,” Dad whispered. He rolled his fingers, catching up the lines of the Camouflage glyph and balancing it on his open palm. He pushed his palm outward in a sort of traffic-cop stop motion and the spell moved with us, keeping us hidden.

  Impressive.

  Dad’s mouth set in a hard line and his eyes narrowed, as if casting magic and maintaining the spell wasn’t easy. Still, he stormed down the alleyway—not once looking back—strong, confident.

  And for a second, just a second, I saw my dad as a heroic figure. The epitome of what a magic user should be. The mythic wizard who knew the hidden strengths of magic and his own soul. Even in death, my dad stood tall and kicked ass.

  “Walk or be eaten,” he said.

  Okay, so much for the hero bit.

  I picked up the pace and Stone padded along beside me.

  The Veiled stepped into the alley behind us and shuffled over to where we’d been standing. They didn’t follow us. A few dropped to their knees, patting the sidewalk as if they’d just lost something, while others ran their hands along the brick wall, mouths open. They leaned against the building and sucked at the wall as if they were starving for even the slightest drop of magic it might contain.

  It creeped me out. I walked faster, holding tight to Stone’s ear.

  “I did not want to enter this way,” Dad said, “but bringing you along has changed my approach. Why must you challenge me in every way, Allison?”

  “I’d be happy to help,” I said as pleasantly as I could muster, “if you’d tell me where Zayvion is so I can get the hell out of here.”

  He stopped at the other end of the alley. More Veiled blocked our passage. These stared at us as if they could see right through the Camouflage my dad still held.

  That wasn’t good.

  I put my hand on the hilt of Zayvion’s katana, which was sheathed on my back.

  “Don’t draw the blade.”

  There wasn’t a lot of room in the alley. I was mostly behind him. I didn’t know how he’d seen me reach for the sword.

  “I’m not going to wait until they jump us.”

  And just like that, the Veiled rushed toward us.

  “Do you trust me?” he asked without looking back at me.

  “No.”

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  My dad broke the Camouflage spell—and I mean it shattered and fell like glass exploding.

  Then he spun and stuck his hands into my chest.

  Into. My. Chest.

  It hurt. I inhaled. Exhaled. Yelled. Couldn’t move to draw the sword, draw a spell, draw a breath.

  Stone launched at him. Then I couldn’t breathe even more.

  Dad was fast. He pulled his hands free, pulling magic—pink and silver and black—out of my chest and pointing at Stone, who halted in his tracks and stepped on my foot, so I had at least some contact. Dad cast a glyph out of the magic—my magic—and threw a metallic, sparking fireball at the Veiled.

  The explosion lit the street and carved hard shadows down the alley.

  The Veiled screamed, an unholy sound that echoed out and out and seemed to reflect off of the sky as if it were a low ceiling. It was too big a sound, too much sound, in too small a place.

  Their scream vibrated somewhere deep inside of me where I couldn’t get away from it, making their pain a part of me, my magic a part of them.

  No, no, no.

  I reached for Stone, for my dad, for anyone, anything to hold on to to make this stop. Then Dad was standing in front of me, his hand over the old bullet scar just below my collarbone.

  “Breathe, Allison. Breathe.”

  I gasped. Got some air down. Tasted something sweet against my tongue, and the cool, rough bricks of the building against my back.

  “What. The. Hell,” I said.

  “Light and Dark magic, through Death magic,” he said evenly, not moving away from me. “A transference. I took from the magic within you, and now I give you back the magic of death.”

  So that was the bluish glow coming from his hand.

  “Wait. What? You are not putting dead people in me.” I pushed at his hands, but it didn’t do much good. I was very, very tired, and he didn’t seem to have any problem keeping me pinned against the wall.

  Why was I was so tired?

  Could it be because I was in death? And my father had just ripped magic out of my chest? And right before that, back in life, I’d Grounded a wild-magic storm and fought a bunch of crazy magic users, all the while killing Hungers and other nightmarish creatures while trying to save my friends’ lives?

  Yes. That would be why. I’d had a hell of a day and the adrenaline of the battlefield was wearing off, leaving behind the very real horror of what had happened.

  Zayvion was in a coma. Shame had almost died. For all I knew, the crystal I’d given to Terric had been only a temporary reprieve for Shame. Jingo Jingo betrayed everyone, nearly killed Maeve, nearly killed Shame, kidnapped Sedra. Magic users had turned against magic users. Liddy, my Death magic teacher, was dead. Chase and Greyson might be dead too. And La, and Joshua, and probably more were hurt. Violet was in the hospital. Kevin too.

  The Authority wasn’t cracking; it had broken. Sides had been taken. The war was on.

  Whoever came out on top would rule how magic was used by the common citizen, and by the Authority. Whoever came out on top would control all the magic the public knew about, and, worse, all the magic they didn’t know about. There was a lot of power at stake here. Plenty enough to kill for.

  And I was here, dead. With no one but my gargoyle and my dad to help me find my way home. Where were my ruby slippers when I needed them?