by Devon Monk
But unless she got up in my face for some reason, there really wasn’t much to report about her. And I needed a cup of coffee like nobody’s business.
Lovely morning. The snap of cold air on my face, the sound of birds in the trees, the gut-wrenching joy of being stalked. It was great to be me.
The next three blocks went by quickly. I kept an eye on her without being obvious about it, but she was good. I saw her once, then lost track of her at the next crosswalk. Maybe she realized she was tailing the wrong woman. Why would anyone want to follow me around anyway?
Zayvion had followed me. If he were telling the truth, he was no longer on payroll. Maybe this was the new girl on the job. Why my father felt the need to know every step I took was beyond me. I wished he would drop dead and leave me alone.
The wind pushed between tall buildings and I caught a whiff of dark roast. Get Mugged was just a few shops away and I put a little extra length into my stride. Just let me get coffee. One cup. After coffee I would take care of everything. I’d report my dad, report my stalker, contact my landlord about the late rent, and get a train ticket to Nola’s. Maybe I’d even call my dad and tell him once again, and firmly, to leave me alone.
Just ahead was a newspaper stand, and I considered blowing a couple of bucks on a magazine to read while I drank coffee and let my stalker cool off. That sounded like a fabulous idea. But as I came near the stand, near enough to read the newspaper headlines, my ears began to ring, my vision narrowed down to a hazy tunnel, and suddenly everyone around me seemed to be moving in really slow motion.
All I could see were blocks of black letters across the tops of the newspapers: DANIEL BECKSTROM FOUND DEAD. BECKSTROM ENTERPRISES CEO MURDERED. INVENTOR OF BECKSTROM STORM RODS DEAD.
Shock is a strange thing. It’s a little like dreaming about breathing underwater. I could hear the noise of the city around me. I could feel the press and push of people walking too close to me. I even watched as a man casually picked up a paper that outlined my father’s death, read the front of it, and dropped it back on the stand. A flash of hatred that he could be so callous, that he could look at something like that and just throw it away like it didn’t matter hit me. I knew I was in shock, knew I wasn’t moving, wasn’t thinking straight.
And all I could think was: so this is what it feels like to have a parent die. I didn’t think it would hurt so much. I didn’t think I would feel so empty so quickly. I didn’t think I’d feel much of anything when he died, since I didn’t like him very much and didn’t love him either, right?
Then why did so much of me ache?
Move, Allie, I told myself. So I moved. Forward. To the newsstand. I dug in my pocket and bought a newspaper. My hands were shaking so hard the man at the stand gave me a strange look. I tried to smile, but my teeth were chattering.
‘‘Cold,’’ I mumbled.
He handed me change. I put that in my pocket, almost forgot to take the paper with me, tugged it off the counter, and stepped back into the flow of the crowd. I went blank for a couple seconds. Someone brushed past me, bumped my elbow, and I got moving again. Down the street. To Get Mugged, because I could not think of what else to do. I stopped outside the wood-and-glass door and the smell of coffee was suddenly too much, too strong, too sour, and I thought I might puke if I had to walk in there.
I wanted to go away. Wanted to go somewhere where someone could explain to me why my father was dead.
A woman pushed the door open from the inside and I had to step back to let her out. The practical part of my mind took over, caught the door. I walked in and sat at a table in the back where I could watch the door.
Sitting was good. Really good. I kept my coat on, and my backpack. It was hot in the little brick shop; the coffee roaster must have just finished its job. The air was thick and moist with the heat and overcooked smell of roasted beans. Even so, I was shaking cold. I put the paper on the table. I turned it over so I couldn’t see the headline. That was worse. The bottom half of the paper was filled with pictures of my father, dressed in his business suit and smiling. I could almost imagine his voice, low, encouraging. You’ve had your fun, Allie. There is still a place for you in this company. Come home.
My throat tightened and hurt. But it was as much from anger as sorrow. How could he die on me? Why? Why now?
Come on, Allie, I said to myself. Pull it together. You’re a tough chick. You can take it. People die every day.
People die, sure. But not my dad. Never my dad.
I left the paper on the table and got myself over to the counter to order coffee. The girl behind the bar was bristling with multicolored piercings, including the one through her left eyebrow that had some sort of light worked into it and changed from blue to pink every time she blinked.
‘‘What can I get you?’’ she asked.
‘‘Coffee, black, with a shot of espresso.’’ My voice sounded a little low, a little soft. It was like I couldn’t breathe, like maybe I’d swallowed a whole bag of cotton balls and they had filled up my lungs and stuck in my throat. I cleared my throat, handed her money, and picked up the steaming mug at the far end of the counter.
I thought about leaving, about going back to my apartment, and crawling into bed, like when I was little and didn’t want to hear my mom and dad yelling, didn’t want to hear my world chipping away word by word. But my apartment was horrible and probably still stank, and I couldn’t deal with one more horrible stinking thing right now.
I sat at the table and took a drink of the coffee. Hot, bitter to the point of being sharp. It was like a slap to the face, painful, but kind of good too.
I took a second drink, then stared out the window until I’d finished half the cup. My head cleared a bit, my nerves settled some. I didn’t want to read the paper on the table. So I didn’t. Not until I finished my coffee. Then I pulled my shoulders back and turned the paper over so I could start at the headline.
The report said that my father had been found in his office, dead, late yesterday afternoon. The receptionist had found him. She’d gone in because he wouldn’t answer his phone and had an important call on hold. She’d called the police. The paramedics who arrived pronounced him dead. They didn’t list the cause but said it was a suspicious death.
The police weren’t willing to announce suspects yet, but they were working some strong leads and wanted information anyone had in connection to the case.
The rest covered my father’s life, his highly publicized dispute with Perry Hoskil over the invention and patenting of the Beckstrom Storm Rod that had changed magic distribution throughout the world, his playboy lifestyle, his six wives, one child, and the humanitarian causes he’d been involved with over the years—causes I knew he’d only taken on for the tax write-off.
Neat. Tidy. The entire life and death of a man who was a mystery I had never been able to puzzle out, summarized in a thousand words or less by a stranger.
I stuck the paper in my backpack. I should really go to the cops now. I didn’t have much information, although I had been at his office earlier that afternoon. I could tell the police I was there and what we talked about. I could tell them Zayvion Jones had followed me up to his office and could corroborate my story.
As a matter of fact, Zayvion had been in dad’s office longer than I had. I rolled around the idea of Zayvion being a hit man, capable of murder. The image of him when Mama had yelled came to me. He’d seemed angry then, dangerous. But not murderous. Still, I suppose it was possible. The article didn’t say how he’d died. But I hadn’t smelled blood on Zayvion when he’d come out of my dad’s building, hadn’t smelled the sour heat of anger or violence on him, nor spent magic.
Zayvion struck me as the kind of person who was good at keeping his cool. Even so, he’d seemed a little jumpy at the deli. And he had spent a lot of time looking out the window at the street.
I rubbed my eyes. Okay. Go to the police, tell them I thought my dad was involved in a hit on Boy, then tell them that I knew not
hing about my dad’s death even though I’d chosen yesterday of all days to visit him, and sure, I’d been angry at him, and yelled at him and stabbed him while I was there.
Didn’t that make me sound like a wonderful daughter?
So much for a trip into the countryside. I’d be stuck in the city, maybe even jail, for the next couple of weeks at the least.
Great. I tightened my backpack straps and left the coffee shop. The police station wasn’t that far away and the walk would probably help, right? Maybe help my day feel more normal, mundane—like the day everyone else was having, or at least those people who hadn’t just found out their father was dead.
I glanced up at the sky. No blue, just clouds blackened with rain. A drop hit my forehead, then another landed on my bottom lip. Then the sky let loose a heavy rain.
Lovely.
About two blocks into my march, it occurred to me that I could call a cab or catch a bus. I had money in my pocket. But I just kept walking, getting more soaked by the minute.
A woman with very blue eyes strode over from beneath a building awning and stopped in front of me. She was shorter than me, stocky like maybe she’d done some time on the football team back in college. She stank of lavender and was pretty in a desperate I-used-to-be-a-cheerleader sort of way.
‘‘Allie Beckstrom?’’ my stalker asked, her voice all daisies and lollipops.
‘‘Excuse me?’’ I said, like I didn’t hear her right.
‘‘Remember me? We ran into each other on the Lansing job.’’
I did remember her. She and I Hounded a hit someone had put on a banker maybe a year ago. She’d been hired by the bank; I’d been hired by the banker’s son. I successfully traced the hit back to someone inside the company. Turned out my client’s father was threatening to go to the authorities about the corporate magic-use policy. The bank had been ‘‘test marketing’’ low-level Influence and Glamour—spells designed to attract investors—and they’d proxied the use onto the stockholders without the stockholders’ permission.
I had gotten an arrest out of it, and the case caused yet another flurry of legislation that fell short of managing business magic. Still, the people who hired Bonnie had not been happy with how it all turned out, nor with her.
‘‘Sure,’’ I said. ‘‘Bonnie Sherman, right?’’
‘‘Yes!’’ She smiled wide enough to flash me her back molars, a sight I could have done without. ‘‘I’ve been looking for you.’’
Her eyes were too wide, her breathing too fast. Even without magic I could smell the hunger on her. She was so hot for a fight I could almost taste the adrenaline on the back of my throat. She was also on something and I figured it was painkillers. One of the other drawbacks to being a Hound—it hurt, often and a lot.
I am not stupid. I know when things are about to go down.
‘‘You working for the cops?’’ I asked casually while I drew upon the magic I stored in my bones, a magic I was certain she could not detect.
‘‘Oh, sure,’’ she said. ‘‘The cops, and lots of other people. I’ve incorporated, even hired my first employee—an office boy to take care of phones and filing. And you? How is every little thing, rich girl?’’
‘‘Well, my dad just died. And I’m on my way to the police to tell them everything I know about it. I’ve had better days.’’
She puckered her lips in an unconvincing pout. ‘‘That’s so sad.’’
‘‘Yes, it is,’’ I said. ‘‘How about you make my day better by getting out of my way?’’
She laughed. Not like she was amused, more like she was crazy.
Then she took a step closer to me.
Terrif.
It wasn’t like I was in top form right now. I still hurt from Hounding Boy—a lingering ache like I’d just gotten over the flu. So I really didn’t want this to get physical. My other option was Influencing her to do what I wanted. It would be easy, seductively so. Which was exactly why I had sworn never to use it again, although I wondered if I should make exceptions for when I was face-to-face with crazy.
‘‘I was asked to bring you in, Allie. So you and I are going to walk a little ways and spend some nice, friendly time together, just like best friends in case anyone is watching.’’ She was nodding, like I was a naughty child and she was explaining the rules of good behavior. ‘‘And you’re not going to run. You know why? Because I have a gun, and I’d really, really like to shoot you. ’Kay?’’
Shit.
‘‘Since when do the police want witnesses bleeding on their floor?’’
‘‘Oh, that’s funny. I’m not taking you to the police, silly girl. There are other people who are interested in seeing you. People who wouldn’t care if I dragged you in kicking, bleeding, or dead. Neat, huh?’’
She flashed that crazy cheerleader smile again and I noted she needed some work on a filling toward the back.
‘‘So let’s stop standing in this rain, ’kay? And go for a little walk, ’kay?’’
Here’s the thing. Magic can’t be cast in anger, or any other high emotion, including panic or fear.
Here’s the other thing. I wasn’t afraid of her. For all I knew she didn’t really have a gun—I sure couldn’t smell one—and if she did, I didn’t think she had the guts or the skill to pull the trigger.
Of course, I’d been wrong before. Actually, I’d been wrong a lot, lately.
Like that was going to stop me.
I mentally intoned a mantra, pulled magic into my fingertips, set a Disbursement—a headache or stomach cramp should do it—and pulled one of the easiest, most childish stunts of any first-time magic user.
I snapped my fingers in front of her face and set off a glyph that flashed like a two-second strobe light.
The great thing about childish tricks is that almost no serious adult ever expects them.
Bonnie jerked, blinked.
I hit her in the face. Hard enough to make my hand hurt and remind me that I really should get to the gym more often. Hard enough to give me about six seconds to start running.
These long legs of mine can do a lot with six seconds. Instead of turning and running—a great way to get shot in the back—I dodged past her and ducked into an alley, found a side door of a building open, and ran into the fluorescence of what looked and smelled like a print shop. I thought about grabbing a bottle of toner to rub over myself so I could throw her off my smell, but that kind of trick wouldn’t fool a good Hound.
I didn’t know how hard those pain pills had rattled her brain, or how good a Hound Bonnie still was, and I had no desire to find out.
I looked through the windows at the street, didn’t see Bonnie, and figured she was halfway down the alley by now. I needed to get somewhere, anywhere, fast.
I pushed through the door and stepped into the flow of foot traffic. With a silent apology to Nola, I dumped my neon pink-and-green backpack in a trash can, moved my leather book and my cash from my coat pocket to my jeans pocket, and threw my coat into the first doorway to my left. I crossed the street, ran down a few side roads and jogged through a collection of shops, including a drugstore, candy store, and knitting shop.
How had my life suddenly gotten so complicated, and why hadn’t I just taken up knitting as a hobby?
I caught a glimpse of short-and-blonde—she’d taken off her ski cap, probably to use it to wipe the blood off her nose. She was on the corner a block away. I ducked into the next shop—stationery and cards.
I hurried over to the older man behind the counter. I was wet enough that my shoes squished water when I walked. Must have hit some puddles on my run over here.
‘‘Could you call me a cab?’’ I asked with all the pretty-please I could manage.
