by Devon Monk
“Leave the meter running,” I said. “I’ll be right back out to pay.” I pulled on the door handle, opened the door, and groaned. I felt like I’d just lost a fight with a bulldozer.
The cold air felt good, then it felt too cold. Shivering made my entire body hurt. Still, I made it through the lead-lined glass front doors, across the cavernous lobby, sparsely decorated with wedges of black marble against white marble, and to the elevator without drawing much attention from the business-suited comers and goers within. Maybe my bruising wasn’t as bad as Zayvion said it was.
My father’s office was, of course, the entire top floor of the building. And Zayvion, for no reason I could understand, followed me across the lobby to the elevator.
“What part of not interested don’t you get, Zayvion?”
He held up a hand. “I have an appointment on the top floor. I also paid for the cab. You owe me ten bucks.”
“How thoughtful,” I drawled. “And the top floor? Isn’t that interesting?”
The elevator door opened on a polished wood interior—a warm contrast to the rest of the Art Deco marble and iron decor of the lobby. Zayvion put his hand out and held the door. He waited for me to enter the elevator.
I hesitated. What if he was part of the hit on Boy? He didn’t smell of old magic, but right now, hurting and angry, my Hound instincts were seriously off. Even if he wasn’t part of the hit, getting in an empty elevator with someone who might turn out to be only an everyday sort of stalker, wasn’t exactly on my “good girl, you get to live” list of smart choices.
Cripes. I could take him. Even sick. Even sore. Even in an elevator.
I walked in and pressed the button for the top floor. Zayvion made a little “what a surprise” sound and stood on the other side of the elevator, his hands folded in front of him.
The door slid closed and suddenly the elevator seemed way too small for the two of us. I took a good deep breath, trying not to think about the walls closing in, the ceiling pressing down, the floor mashing up, until there was no air, no space. My palms were wet with sweat.
This was not working. Think of happy. Think of good. Coffee was good, even though I hadn’t had any yet today. Flowers were good—flowers in big open fields. Big open fields like Nola’s farm were good. It had been too long since I’d seen her. I’d only been to her big open farm with big open fields twice since her husband, John, died.
Death was not good. My chest tightened. That wasn’t good either, so I went back to thinking about flowers and big open fields, and the coffee I wished I’d had this morning.
I hated that I had to see my dad. It had been seven years since he and I had been in a room together. I wished it could be seven more. And having to see him like this—because of what he had done to Boy—made me really mad.
The one thing Harvard got right was this: anger made using magic impossible. For everyone. No exception. It was good because it simplified some things, like whether or not murder via magic was premeditated. Quick answer: always.
I worked on thinking calm thoughts and whispered a mantra, drawing upon the remaining magic within me. This time I intoned a Disbursement, and traced the glyph in the air with my fingertip. Magic was invisible to the unaided eye. And unless you were really good at reading finger motions—a lot like reading lips—you never knew what people were up to, so I wasn’t worried about Zayvion seeing that, in about two days, I’d pay for this little magic jaunt with a doozy of a headache. Right now, all I wanted was ten minutes of my father’s time. And maybe his blood.
The elevator door opened.
I escaped the coffin on pulleys and walked across the lush burgundy carpet to the single rosewood reception desk, where a fresh-faced eighteen-year-old D cup manned the phone behind a sleek computer console.
“May I help you?” she asked.
I leaned down and put my hand on the edge of her desk, which hurt, but also got me a clear shot at eye contact, something essential for Influencing. “I hope you’re having a wonderful day.” I smiled and mentally intoned a boost of magic into my words.
Her eyes were light brown and lined with green makeup that looked really nice on her. She was pretty, innocent-looking, and with that hint of Influence behind my words, she already resembled a deer caught in a floodlight. No wonder why Dad hired her. He always picked the ones who were easy to bamboozle.
“I’d like to see Mr. Daniel Beckstrom now,” I said. “Please show me in.”
“Of course. This way.” She gave me a giddy smile and practically skipped down the hallway—no easy feat in heels on carpet—eager to please under the sway of Influence.
Hells. How could I go months resisting the lure of using Influence, and as soon as I was in the same building with my father, it was the first thing I did? I swore and tried to do some damage control.
“Are you sure he has time?” I asked. “I could wait to see him.”
“Oh, no. Of course he has time for you.” She glanced over her shoulder and nodded, and I worried that she might run into a wall. “This is it.” She looked forward again, and managed not to hit her head on the wide, dark wood door of my dad’s office. She held the door open for me and smiled like I was a rock star on tour.
“Thanks,” I said.
She practically gleamed.
I stepped into my dad’s office.
Time, seven years, to be exact, can change a lot of things. The furniture, all steel, wrought iron, and smoked glass, had been upgraded, maybe the carpet had too, but there was still an acre of black marble desk spread in front of the panoramic view of the city, including the river and mountain, when it wasn’t raining so hard. And standing behind that desk, immaculate in a suit that cost more than the building I lived in, was my dad.
My height or better, my dark-hair, pale-skin looks or better, he held a cup of coffee in one hand and seemed genuinely startled to see me walking toward him. I was going to play that advantage for as long as I had it because the man hadn’t gotten to the top of the magic harvest and refinery technology business thinking slow on his feet.
“Allison,” he breathed.
“You’re killing a five-year-old kid in North Portland with an Offload the size of a small city. If you don’t pay for a doctor to mitigate a Disbursement spell, set a Siphon, and everything else, including hospital stay, rehab, and mental and emotional damage for the boy, then his family is going to drag you through court and publicly expose Beckstrom Enterprises’ reckless Offloading practices. My testimony will be in their favor.”
He blinked a couple times, then looked away from my face to the rest of me, slowly taking in my cheap clothes and bruised hands. The corner of his lips tightened like he’d just bitten into something sour.
I’d seen that look on his face ever since I turned nine and told him I wanted to play jazz tambourine when I grew up.
“What happened to her?” he asked someone behind me. I looked back, and who should stroll in through the door but my old buddy Zayvion.
“She Hounded a hit and forgot to set a Disbursement spell,” he said.
I put two and two together and shook my head in disgust. “You bastard. You work for my father?”
“One contract.” He held up his hands like maybe I was going to hit him. He had good instincts. “I did one contract for him.”
“For what? To spy on Mama?”
“To look out for you, Allison,” my dad said.
Oh.
What girl doesn’t want to hear those words? What girl doesn’t want to believe her daddy is always going to be there to look after her and keep her safe?
But I could taste the honey-sweetness of magic and Influence behind his words, could smell the bitter tang of something that was not sincerity in his tone. He wanted me to believe him. Too much.
“Really,” I said.
“I heard you had been Hounding up on the north side of town,” he said. “There have been so many cases of illegal Offloads over there, I was worried you’d get hurt.”
> He sounded sincere. He looked sincere. This, from the man who had manipulated and Influenced every choice I’d ever made in my life. For all I knew, a man who still believed he could continue doing so.
“Bullshit,” I said. “Save it for the court, Mr. Beckstrom. I’ll see you there.” I intended to spin around and exit dramatically, but I hurt too much. Even the bottoms of my feet were swollen. So I settled for a long, dignified stroll toward the door.
“Allison,” my dad said gently. “It is the truth, even if you are too stubborn to believe me. It has been a very long time since you’ve seen how things work around here. Laws have been passed—you know that. There are more checks and balances and outside watchdogs Hounding the details of business and magic transactions than there ever were before. We use magic sparingly at this company—at all levels—and Proxy the Offload through approved channels, such as the penitentiaries and prisons.”
I wasn’t buying it. I just couldn’t fit the idea of a kinder, gentler man inside the skin my father owned. I kept walking.
“If it would help you to believe what I’m saying,” he said, “you have my permission to draw Truth from me.”
That sort of magic involved blood, and drawing Truth, in particular, only worked between people who carried the same bloodline. I hated blood magic. Then again, I felt a powerful need to stab somebody right about now, and a girl shouldn’t turn her back on opportunity.
“Fine.” I walked back to his desk and held my palm out for a needle. I hoped he wouldn’t have one on him because the ornate letter opener on his desk looked more my speed. He must have caught some hint of that in my gaze. He raised one eyebrow and pulled a very thin, very gold straight pin out of his lapel and dropped it onto my hand.
I held it with my fingers and intoned the mantra for Truth. I placed my other hand on the desk. The desk frame was iron and carved with the patterns that allowed access to the magic held in the building’s storage network. I intoned a mantra to call the magic up through his desk and into my hand, and felt the electric tingle of magic against my palm. I pricked my middle finger, wove a glyph in the air with my bleeding finger, careful not to let the blood fall, and said a few more words. Then I took hold of my dad’s hand and pricked his finger. He leaned across his desk and so did I. We were both tall enough that we could place our fingers together, palm to palm, blood to blood.
This was the closest to him I’d been in the last fifteen years. It was the longest he’d actually touched me too. He smelled of wintergreen and something musky and pleasant, like leather. The scent of him triggered memories and feelings from a time when I was young enough and stupid enough to believe he was a good person. A time when I thought he was my hero.
“Did you, or your company, Offload into North Portland or onto a child during the last six months?” I asked.
“No.” His gaze held mine, and that word vibrated in my chest as if I were the one who had spoken it. He was telling the truth as he believed it.
“I don’t want to believe you,” I said.
He nodded, feeling my truth as I had felt his.
“I’m sorry, Allie.” His regret, of things between us, things neither of us could find a way to speak of, filtered back through our blood. Other memories stirred within me. Memories of his infrequent and surprisingly deep laughter, of his hand briefly touching my forehead when I was sick, of the time he made pancakes on Sunday morning.
I pulled my hand away from his. The spell broke. That was as much truth as I could stomach.
I stuck my bleeding finger in my mouth and felt like I’d just lost a game of chicken.
My father pulled a soft white handkerchief out of his suit jacket. He offered it to me. I shook my head. There was no way I was going to leave any more of my blood with him. Truth was the mildest of the blood magics.
I squeezed my thumb tight against my bleeding finger and put my hand in my coat pocket.
Dad pursed his lips again, disapproving, and pressed his finger against the cloth.
“I don’t know how you rigged a Truth spell,” I said, “but I know your signature. I Hounded it on that Offload. I don’t make mistakes.”
“Come now,” he said. “You are not infallible. None of us are.” He smiled, but there was no warmth in his eyes.
“I am reporting you and Beckstrom Enterprises to the authorities,” I said.
“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” He tossed his handkerchief on the desk between us. “But I’d like you to reconsider. You’ve had your fun, Allie. You’ve proved you can survive on your own without any help from me. And you’ve had time to cool off—we’ve both had time. There is still a place for you in this company. I think you should think about where your talents and training can best be used and applied.”
He smiled again and those light green eyes of his sparkled. He was happy, his voice comforting, encouraging, safe. I wanted to hug him and tell him I missed him and ask him why he couldn’t just be my father instead of my boss. I wanted to let him make all the hard things in my life go away. And something felt very wrong about that.
“Come home, honey,” he said, with the unmistakable push of Influence behind his words.
I was tired, hungry, cold. I hurt, inside and out, and yeah, I woke up every day afraid I might have lost a little more of my memory, and that magic was taking a harder toll on me than I thought, and that I wasn’t going to make rent on my crummy apartment. Maybe my dad knew all that. Knew I was broke, and scared, and alone. But what he didn’t know was that I would happily endure fear and uncertainty, and even pain, if it meant I could live my life free from his manipulation.
“No. Thanks.” It took everything I had to say those two words, to push them past the weight of Influence he’d just used on me.
And those two words were enough.
His face flushed dark, angry. “I have asked you politely, Allie. Don’t think I won’t force the issue.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” I dropped the pin on his desk.
“There are legal actions I can set into motion. If you agree to come back to the company now, it will save us both a lot of time and effort.”
I nodded. My dad was all about efficiency. And things going his way. I’m sure he knew exactly how he was going to make my life miserable since I’d said no to him. “See you in court.”
I walked across the room, past Zayvion, to the door. Made it this time. Got all the way to the receptionist’s desk, then across the half mile of burgundy carpet to the elevator that was wooden and small, too small, far too small, but fast, and even a fast coffin was better than my slow feet right now.
Once I hit the lobby, I broke into a jog, needing to be through the lobby in a hurry and gone from here, away from my father who seemed to have found a way to lie in a blood-to-blood Truth spell—something I’d never thought possible. I wanted away from the memories of what I wished he could be, and away from the reality of what it meant to fight him for my life. Again.
I pushed through the big glass-and-iron doors and stopped outside the building, under a dark awning that caught the rain. The cab was not waiting, and I remembered Zayvion told me he’d paid the guy.
Great.
I couldn’t decide where I should go next or what I should do.
The police sounded like a good idea, if I could find someone who wasn’t bought off by my dad. A lawyer sounded like a good idea too, but had the same drawback.
With any luck, Mama had already called the cops and told them I was Hounding the hit back. With any luck, they would already be starting their investigation.
Someone had put a hit on Boy, and I knew my dad’s signature was on it. His real signature, not a fake. He had a part in this regardless of the Truth spell.
Maybe I hadn’t asked the right question. Maybe someone had erased his memory of what he’d done. Memory manipulation was against the law, and deservedly so for how dangerous it was. No, I couldn’t imagine him ever letting someone mess with his mind.
>
He must have found a way to lie, to manipulate the Truth spell so even blood magic couldn’t detect it.
That terrified me, but I believed he could do it.
He was good at magic, my dad. One of the best.
I couldn’t figure out what he would gain from putting such a heavy hit on such a little kid, though. It didn’t make sense.
Zayvion strolled up and stopped next to me, standing so close we were almost touching. His heavy pine cologne smelled really good now, not nearly as strong as before. People wrapped in dark coats and scarves moved around us in a hurry. Zayvion didn’t say anything, didn’t move. Just stared out at the muddied traffic and hazy gray rain like I did. Strangely, knowing my father hired him to tail me made things a little easier—at least I understood why he was following me around.
“Still on the clock?” I asked.
“Nope. Quit today.” He held up a check, tucked it in his coat pocket. “I don’t get involved in family disputes.”
“Right,” I said.
He was quiet, still, patient. I decided I liked that about him.
“Buy you lunch?” he asked.
“Not hungry.”
More quiet, except for the traffic and constant city sounds. A cab pulled up, and it made sense I should take it home. Instead, I just stood there while a short blond woman in a dark green trench coat appeared from the next building and scurried into the backseat. She looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on where I might have seen her before. I clenched my fist around the little book in my pocket where I wrote the things that I didn’t want to forget. I needed to record the hit on Boy and the meeting with my dad so I could add them to my files.
