Magic to the Bone

by Devon Monk

  Violet was a smart woman. She may have decided there were more benefits if she were the widow Beckstrom, instead of just another discarded ex-wife.

  That made sense, but now that I’d met her, I had a harder time fitting her into the money-hungry, calculating, black widow category. Intelligent enough to pull off that sort of a scheme? Sure. Willing to actually kill my father? I didn’t think so.

  Which left me with the break-in-and-fire story for the missing disks. And somehow Bonnie, and whoever she was working for, and Cody fit into this mess.

  I dunked in the water, and rubbed at my face. I needed to find Cody. If he really was there when my father died, then he could finger the people behind it. And since I’d healed him and practically bathed in his blood, I was confident I could sniff him out of the city. Where I found Cody, I’d find Bonnie.

  I finished rinsing, gargled some hot water, and rubbed my palm over my itching arm.

  I turned off the shower and toweled dry. My arm felt like fire ants were swarming over it.

  ‘‘Damn it.’’ Scrubbing with the towel only made it itch more. Maybe it was irritated by the soap. The ribbons of color seemed brighter, and my unmarked skin was pink from the heat of the shower. Cold water? I thought about turning the shower back on, but spotted a bottle of hand lotion on the sink. I pumped lotion into my palm, sniffed it. It smelled like beeswax, and didn’t have heavy perfumes. I spread the lotion over my hand and arm and shoulder and face, careful not to use my fingernails. Much.

  Nope. My arm was on fire, hot to the touch. Maybe I was having an allergic reaction to the soap. Worse, maybe I was having an allergic reaction to the magic I carried. I didn’t even know if that was possible.

  Peachy.

  My clothes were on Zayvion’s bedroom floor, so I wrapped the towel tightly around me, tucking the corner in at the top. The towel was short and barely covered my butt. Another joy of being a tall woman.

  What I needed were my clothes and some anti-itch cream. Or Zay’s fingers.

  Bingo. If he could Ground me and ease the pressure of the magic trying to push out through my pores, I might even be able to think straight. Might be able to meditate, regain my control, and figure out what was making my arm itch, itch, itch.

  I strode out of the bathroom, into the living room. ‘‘Zayvion?’’

  But it was not Zayvion who stood by the couch. It was a plain-looking man, an unhandsome man. Not Violet’s man, Kevin, but someone like him. A man you would never notice in a crowd, someone who calmly paused to decide exactly how he was going to kill me before he muttered a mantra and drew his palms toward each other, pulling magic up from the earth and from the building’s storage. Like most magic users, he did not draw it into his body, but worked a liquid silver glyph between his hands.

  All this in less than a second.

  ‘‘Zay!’’ I yelled, hoping to give him time to catch the guy after I died.

  I drew on the magic in me, and whispered a mantra of safety, of shielding. The first one that came to mind was a stupid little spell—one that can be used against rain when you forgot your umbrella, or sharp rocks if you were wading through a pond. It was not strong enough to ward off a magical attack.

  Like wings of fire, magic spread inside me, filled me. A trailing salve of power rushed down my arm.

  The man brought the tips of his fingers together, then pulled them apart, releasing the glyph.

  Magic is fast. Spells cannot be tracked while they are being cast, but can be seen after the fact, like an afterimage burned in the air. I did not see the glyph that wrapped around me, but I could taste it on the roof of my mouth—thick and sharp, like a chemical burn—and I could feel it, cold as a frozen wire squeezing my throat.

  I ran my hand over my neck and magic spooled from my fingertips, burning into the cold wire. I unknotted the glyph, and it broke in a shower of blue sparks.

  The man pulled a gun.

  A gun.

  And pointed it at me.

  There were spells that could be cast to cause a temporary muscle cramp, say in a gunman’s hand. There were spells that would momentarily blind a person. There were even spells that could make a person sneeze uncontrollably.

  Any one of those would do me fine right now. But I couldn’t think of one of them. I couldn’t think of a single spell. It was like the world had suddenly stopped making sense, but had slowed down so much that all I could do was stand there, frozen in shock, wondering why the world had suddenly stopped making sense, and wishing I could think of some way to save my life.

  Magic cannot be cast from a state of confusion or high anxiety or emotion. I was burning with untapped power, and I couldn’t do a single thing.

  So instead of fighting the emotions, I gave in. I got angry.

  Death by bullet? Oh, hells no.

  I charged at him.

  He lowered his gun, the idiot, and took half a step back, but I was six feet of pissed-off, adrenaline-pumping woman, and if I was going to die, I was going to take him down with me.

  I rammed my shoulder into his sternum. Air blasted out of his lungs, the gun exploded once, twice, so loud, so close I wanted to scream, did scream, as we careened across the room into the door, me clawing for the gun, him pulling his hand away. I breathed in the scent of him—iron and minerals—overwhelming, like old vitamin pills.

  The gun rang out again, and this time I screamed in agony. The left side of my body felt like it had been blown apart. The world went white-hot. I tasted blood in my mouth.

  The bastard had shot me.

  Suddenly, my mind was very, very clear. I convulsed down to the floor, landed on my knees, my hands over the side of my stomach, gushing blood all over Zayvion’s perfect white carpet. I thought of a mantra, but the blood, the pain, made it hard to stay calm, hard not to just scream and scream in rage.

  I recited the mantra, through the blinding pain, through the blinding fear. Recited it through tears pouring down my face, recited it even though blood made my fingers sticky and slick.

  The bastard raised the gun, level with my head.

  ‘‘Good-bye, Allison Beckstrom.’’

  I looked up into his eyes. If he was going to do it, I refused to look away.

  This was not a game, not a lark, not make-believe. I was about to die. I hated that.

  He jerked the gun up and pointed it past me.

  It was Zay behind me. I hoped it was Zay. Then I hoped it wasn’t because whoever was behind me was about to be shot. The man’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  But there was no explosion, no bullet.

  Magic is fast.

  You cannot see it coming.

  I had focus. I had deadly concentration. I was overflowing with magic. I was also in pain and could not think of a spell.

  But I wasn’t just a woman with magic. I was magic. Who needed a spell? I told the magic to make him stop, make him go away, make him not be there.

  Magic poured out of me, hard, fast. A second pain, a fire on an open wound. Too much. Too hot. I screamed. But I could not make the magic stop.

  Someone else was screaming, someone else was chanting. The room spun. And everything went black.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Cody did not like this place. It was dark and small and smelled like mice. His back touched one wall and his feet squished up against a door that would not open.

  He was all alone and scared. Kitten was gone and probably didn’t like him anymore. He had thrown her away in the field, because he didn’t know what else to do. He had told her to run fast. Run away in the green grass, in the sunshine, away from the bad lady and bad magic and the bad bees buzzing and angry inside him.

  He shouldn’t have thrown her away. She was his friend. His only friend.

  He wished the older, smarter part of himself would come back, but he was gone too. Maybe he was mad like Kitten.

  Cody rocked and rocked and tried to be brave. If he was brave, maybe the older, smarter part of him would come back. Maybe
Kitten would come back too.

  His head knocked against the wall of the tiny room and hurt but Cody didn’t stop. Cody didn’t know how long he rocked. A long time, maybe.

  Then he heard something. Footsteps. Someone was walking on the other side of the door that would not open. Not little footsteps like Kitten. Big footsteps. Footsteps that belonged to a man.

  Cody rocked and rocked. He wanted to go away. Far away. Fast, fast, fast.

  The footsteps got louder. Stopped. The door clicked.

  Cody held still. He held still in the dark and didn’t scream. He was too scared to scream. Too scared to move. He didn’t want the door to open. Didn’t want anyone to find him.

  But the door did open. And standing there, so big, too big, was the Snake man.

  ‘‘Aren’t you something, Cody?’’ he said in his snake voice. ‘‘I don’t know how you survived. A death for a death is the price. Why aren’t you dead?’’

  Cody couldn’t talk. Cody couldn’t tell him that the older, smarter part of him had done something, something special with the magic in the coins, something special with the magic in the little bone. He couldn’t tell him that the older, smarter part of him had found a way so they wouldn’t die. And he couldn’t tell him that the lady with magic inside her had made him all better again.

  ‘‘You don’t know, do you?’’ the Snake man asked in a sorry voice that was not sorry. ‘‘Well, maybe we’ll find out together.’’ He smiled, but it was only on the outside. Inside he was hating. Hating Cody.

  Maybe if Cody sang a song the Snake man would go away.

  ‘‘Snake man, Snake man, bake a cake man.’’

  But the Snake man did not go away. He reached into the little room. Cody wailed, wishing the older, smarter part of him would come back. He wasn’t brave all alone. He was too small to be brave. Too small for anyone to hear him. Too small for anyone to care.

  Chapter Fourteen

  There is something wonderful about silence, about blackness. For one thing there is no pain. For another there is no fear, just gentle drifting and casual ignorance of reality’s harsh light.

  But silence cannot stretch on forever. Sounds punch their way through, muffled at first, a man’s voice, a name. My name. And the sound of my name carries so much more—it tells me who I am, and that I am not dead just yet.

  I wonder if I’m breathing. Inhale.

  Air, light, sound, taste, smell, and pain—hells, the pain—chew the silence to shreds and I am awake.

  ‘‘Damn it, Allie, breathe. C’mon, babe. I can’t do this. You can’t do this to me.’’

  I opened my eyes—okay it took a few tries—but I finally got them open. I felt like I’d just spent the last month in a meat grinder.

  ‘‘There.’’ Zay’s voice was shaking, his words coming out too fast. ‘‘Good. Good. Don’t give up. Don’t go away. Stay here. Good. Good.’’

  I blinked. I was going to open my eyes again, honest to goodness, but the silence was so easy, so soft, so empty.

  Zay swore and dug his hands into my ribs, sending off shock waves of pain. ‘‘No. Fuck it, Allie. Come back to me.’’

  If I had fallen into a vat of hot mint, I couldn’t have felt more permeated with the sting of it.

  Ow.

  The darkness skittered out of my reach, all of its soft, welcoming nothingness covered by a warm, wet layer of mint. And the mint flowed toward me, gently forcing me to step back, to turn, to remember I was not breathing and that was bad. To take a breath.

  I opened my eyes.

  Zayvion’s face, ashen-green, sweat glittering in the tight black curls across his forehead and running wet lines down his cheek, hovered over me.

  ‘‘Look at you and those beautiful eyes. Good job, babe. You’re doing really good. Take another easy breath. Perfect.’’ He smiled. ‘‘I am Grounding the hell out of you, Dove. You need to let go of the magic, let it rest, let it fall back into the earth. Can you do that?’’

  Oh sure. And after that maybe I’d show him my amazing high-wire trapeze act.

  ‘‘Just keep looking at me.’’

  I blinked, but this time I could open my eyes again.

  ‘‘Good. I’m going to talk you down into a trance, all right? I’ll be right here. You’ll be safe. You’ll be warm. Comfortable. You’re safe with me.’’

  I listened as he droned on, and every so often reminded me to breathe. And then he guided me to feel every part of my body from the top of my head to the soles of my feet and told me to exhale and envision all of the magic pouring out of me into the ground.

  I did. And I was awake. For real this time.

  Zay was still above me, still sweating, still shaking, and still looking a little sick around the edges.

  ‘‘Hey,’’ I tried to say. It came out breathy and all vowel.

  ‘‘Hey,’’ he said. ‘‘How are you feeling, babe?’’

  Oh, like I could do cartwheels uphill.

  ‘‘Bad,’’ I said. ‘‘Turd.’’ I’d meant to say ‘‘tired’’ but it didn’t come out right. Zay didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘‘That’s okay. That’s good,’’ he said. ‘‘I’m going to help you sit, then get you to bed. Ready?’’

  He didn’t wait for me to answer. The room spun. Eventually I figured out it was me moving, sitting up, and not the world doing a lazy Susan.

  Smart, I are.

  Zay sat there with me, anxiously brushing my hair away from my face until I looked back into his eyes again.

  ‘‘I’m fine,’’ I lied. ‘‘Help me up.’’

  With him doing most of the heavy lifting, I was on my feet and, with his arms supporting me and his voice a constant babble of encouragement, I was across the living room, down the hall, and lying back thankfully, so very thankfully, on Zay’s bed. The strange thing was I didn’t have on any clothes.

  He fussed with my pillows, and I realized some of the moisture on his cheeks wasn’t sweat. It looked like he had been crying.

  ‘‘Zay?’’

  ‘‘I’m here.’’ He lowered closer to me.

  ‘‘What’s wrong?’’

  His face went blank, still, frozen. Then he hung his head. ‘‘Nothing,’’ he said. He laughed, choked, then looked back up at me. ‘‘Everything’s okay.’’

  ‘‘Something’s wrong,’’ I said. ‘‘Zay. I don’t remember.’’ I hated saying it, but I had a really bad feeling I had missed out on something big.

  ‘‘You were shot. Do you remember that?’’

  I remembered pain. I remembered terror. Anger.

  ‘‘Right here.’’ Zay gently cupped my left side, just beneath my ribs. ‘‘I think the bullet went all the way through, but I haven’t gone looking for it yet. You bled pretty hard.’’

  ‘‘Bled?’’ It seemed that unless Zay had stitched me up or cauterized the wound, I should still be bleeding.

  He nodded. ‘‘You healed. Like you did to Cody, I think. Magic closed the wound. Does it still hurt?’’

  I felt his finger brush downward from the top of my rib cage, lost feeling for some time, then felt his finger again toward my hip bone.