Magic to the Bone ab-1

by Devon Monk

He pressed his fingers into the back of my neck and the minty feel of his touch rolled down my body in ever-warming waves until I could really and honest-to-goodness feel myself again.

  “Mmm,” I said. I felt a hundred times better. What was it with those hands of his? “Better,” I said. I stretched and yawned.

  Zayvion was back in scowling mode, unimpressed by my appreciation. “Now, Allie. Hounds.”

  Okay, that got through my amazing stupidness. Hounds. Bonnie-with-a-gun. With Zayvion’s help, I sat away from him.

  “We can’t leave him,” I said. It came out kind of slurred, but Zayvion nodded.

  “Fine. My car’s over here. Come on.” He stood, helped me stand, something I needed and wasn’t proud of, then more or less supported me to his car. I noticed he was limping a bit and was sure I could feel bruises forming beneath his skin on his arms, stomach, and back. If I could draw magic and paint it through the kid’s bones, think of what I could do for a few bruises on a guy I really liked. One little lick of magic should take the sting out of what ailed him. I whispered a poem and told magic to run down Zay’s chest, like warm water, like oil, soothing, heating, mending, and leaving health behind.

  “Not now, Allie.” Zay dumped me in the front seat and slammed the door, breaking my concentration. By the time I had formed a snappy response, he had shut the back passenger’s door and was sliding in behind the wheel.

  “Wait,” I said. “The kid.” So much for snappy.

  “Got him,” Zayvion said. “The cat too.” Then he put the car into gear and got us going forward fast.

  I rubbed at my eyes with stiff, swollen fingers. I hurt, but in a distant way, as if the hurt wasn’t moving fast enough to catch me yet. I looked at my hands. My right hand was an angry scarlet color, like I’d gotten a bad sunburn that went all the way up to my elbow before splitting out into forks of red lightning up to my shoulder. I wondered if I was red all the way up to my temple, where my skin felt burned. I wondered if I had any hair on that side of my head.

  My other hand was normalish color except for the knuckles, wrist, and elbow where bands of black seemed to be forming.

  “Are you okay?” Zayvion asked.

  I pulled myself together and tried to think through the last few events. The afterimages of the magic I had directed, the colors and textures of it painting against bone and flesh—and more, the feel of it coursing through me, filling me and the kid—distracted me for a bit, but I managed to pull my thoughts back. Back to the car, to the rumble of the engine, to the stink of too much garbage in too small a space.

  “I’m fine. I think.”

  “Your hand is burned.”

  I wiggled my fingers. “I don’t think so. It doesn’t hurt, it’s just red.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Not really. How is the kid?”

  “Breathing. Unconscious. What did you do to him?” He glanced over at me, but I didn’t know exactly what I should tell him. Our very strange relationship wasn’t making a lot of sense to me right now. Why was he helping me?

  Come on, Allie. Think it through. Your dad was killed and you need to go to the cops. Just stick with the simple stuff.

  Besides, what I had done to the kid—if I remembered correctly—was heal him. I know I’d tried to needle a permanent image of health and healing on his bones with magic. A lot of magic.

  No one used magic to heal someone like that. The amount of magical energy it took to actually heal flesh came at such a high price that it usually killed the user before the patient recovered. Add to that the horrifically failed attempts through the years that had left people maimed, dead, and insane, and magical healing was as much a pipe dream as floating cities.

  All of which meant what I’d done wasn’t exactly impossible, it was just very, very unlikely.

  Zayvion was still waiting for an answer, so I gave him one. “I found him, by the river.” I cleared my throat and put a little effort into voice projection so I could be heard over the engine. “Someone stabbed him in the chest. He needs a doctor.”

  “I didn’t see any wounds—blood, but no wounds. I looked.” Zayvion geared down, slowing the car. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  The stink in the car seemed to be getting worse. My eyes watered and I wondered if I had enough fine motor skills to roll down the window.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Tired. Cold. But that kid needs a doctor, that cat needs food and probably a rabies shot, and I need to get to the police.”

  “Now’s not a good time for you to be anywhere in the public eye.”

  “Why?”

  “Because your friend Bonnie spent some time talking to the police. She said she was hired to Hound the hit on your dad.”

  “So he was killed by magic?” Even though he had told me that might be the case, I did not know how it could actually happen. The idea of my very careful father being touched, much less harmed, by the magic he had been so influential in regulating made zero sense to me. “How? No one can get through his defenses.”

  “Someone did.”

  “Who?”

  Zayvion glanced at me, those warm eyes still burning with gold. He had tiger eyes, I decided, burning bright.

  “Who?” I asked again. “Who could get through to my dad?” Who could match his magical prowess? Who would he even let his guard down for?

  “You,” he said softly. “Bonnie said it was your signature on the hit.”

  That was a slap in the face. I was very awake now. “What? Oh hells, she didn’t. Who hired her? The cops?”

  He shook his head. “His ex-wife.”

  That narrowed it down to five women. “Which one?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I scowled. “Bonnie’s full of crap. She’d do anything to make my life miserable.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she and I are in a very competitive business and the last time we went head to head, I won. Also she’s a crazy, petty bitch.”

  He glanced at me, then back at the road. He was taking us through the downtown neighborhoods, heading south toward the highway. I was glad it was still raining. It kept most people occupied with umbrellas and hats and trying to stay dry, instead of looking for a woman on the run.

  “The police wouldn’t be looking for you if there weren’t reasonable suspicion, Allie.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “Can you convince me to believe your story instead?”

  I punched him in the shoulder. “Ow!” I yelled. Stupid, stupid. That hurt. My hand was killing me.

  Zayvion acted like he hadn’t even noticed I’d touched him.

  “Hitting me is not the best way to convince me you are not capable of violence,” he said, and I was sure I heard laughter beneath his disapproving tone. “I don’t think it would go over well with the police either.”

  “I did not kill my father. You were there when I last saw him. I accused him of being a jerk, of putting the hit on Boy. I told him I’d go to court to testify against him, and I worked blood magic to make him tell the truth. That was all.”

  Zay was busy navigating the road. “Even so, the police are looking for you. And they’ve put out the Hounds to hunt you down and bring you in.”

  “Why is that a bad thing? I need to go to the cops. I need to tell them what happened. I’m innocent, Zay. I don’t want to hide.”

  The car stopped, and I looked up. We were at a stoplight, and a crowd of people streamed across the intersection through the rain and gray.

  “The police have orders to shoot, if necessary, Allie. You’re considered armed and dangerous. You were right about one thing—it took a hell of a lot of magic to knock your dad down. More to kill him. Unprecedented,” he added quietly.

  The light changed and Zayvion moved the car through the intersection, only to slow for traffic ahead. “The Hounds have been approved to Proxy as much magic use as they need to drag you in.”

  “All the more reason for me to surrender peacefully. I have info
rmation that will clear me.” I was getting into that uncertain how-much-could-I-trust-him territory. I didn’t want to tell him what the kid had told me. That he might know who killed my dad. That he might have been there when it was done. Or at least that’s what I thought the kid had said. But until he was conscious and could answer questions, telling him Cody might be a part of it was only hearsay.

  “What kind of information do you have about your father’s death?” And even though he was quiet, there was that air of authority again. Like he expected people to tell him things because he said so. Like he expected me to do what he thought was best.

  And I guess because that reminded me too much of the sort of things my father used to do to me, or maybe because I’d just had the crappiest day on earth, I suddenly didn’t want to do what he wanted me to do.

  “Information I’d be happy to tell the police.” And not you, not yet, I silently added. “And unless you can give me a better reason than ‘you’re being hunted by Hounds,’ then this is kidnapping, Jones.”

  Zayvion snorted. We had stopped at another light, another intersection. He turned and looked at me.

  “I’m trying to help you.” The baffled smile was real and nothing like my dad.

  “Why?”

  “Because I have . . . friends in the police department. This isn’t an average arrest order. Someone wants you gone from public view, locked away, shut up, dead, if need be. Someone wants to kill you, and whoever it is, they have the money, the manpower, the Influence and drive to make sure you are removed from the picture. They think you know who killed your father.”

  “Why?” My heart was pounding with equal parts fear and anger. Mix in a cup of tired, two spoons of shock, and a heaping portion of way too much magic, and all I could think of was, “Why me?”

  “Because you are Daniel Beckstrom’s only heir and your father was a very shrewd, very bad man in the world of business and the world of magic.”

  “Like that’s news.” I’d grown up hearing about the Hoskil and Beckstrom fight over the patent for the Storm Rods. Grown up listening to the news stories about how my father had outmaneuvered Perry Hoskil, filed the patent in his name alone, and then bought out Perry’s share in what was now Beckstrom Enterprises. That action had ruined Perry Hoskil and made Daniel Beckstrom what he was. I’d grown up hearing other, darker stories of my father’s magic and business deals too.

  But Zayvion had done his job. I was spooked. I always knew my dad had enemies. For some reason, I just never expected to be their direct target.

  “Listen, Allie. The police . . .” He stared out the window, thinking. “Anyone can be bought for the right price. Even people in authority positions. It’s not safe to go to the police right now. I’ll take you anywhere else you want me to. All I ask is that you lie low for a day or two before you approach a lawyer—and yes, I think you should go to a lawyer before you go to the police. Do you have a place I can take you to? Maybe out of the city? Out of your father’s range of influence?”

  Right. Like I, the girl drifter, would have some out-of-the-way cottage on a sunny shore where I lounged and drank fruity rum drinks, waiting for bad guys to give up plotting my demise. My life was starting to sound like something out of the movies, and I didn’t like it one bit.

  “My friend Nola . . .” I didn’t know if I should mix her up in this. What if he was just making this all up? What if he were the one out to hurt me, out to kill me? He could have killed my father. He was there too.

  Okay, now I was just getting paranoid.

  “Who?” Zayvion asked.

  I swallowed.

  “Can you convince me to believe your story?” I asked, “Give me one indisputable reason why I should trust you enough to put my friend in danger.”

  Zayvion eased out of traffic and turned down an alley. He put the car in park, but left the motor running and shifted his whole body toward me. I was ready for him to punch me like I had just punched him. Instead, I got honesty.

  “You should trust me because I’m trying to look out for you. And I don’t want you to be hurt, or to die.”

  He sounded sincere. He looked sincere. Everything about him seemed sincere, but I’d been wrong before. I’d been wrong a lot lately, and people were dying.

  “Really? Why not?” I wanted it to come out strong, accusing, but I just didn’t have it in me. It came out quiet, sad. Maybe even lonely.

  “Because,” he said gently. “I care about what happens to you.”

  He leaned forward, and I thought about leaning away, but then his hand was on the unburned side of my face, and I didn’t want him to stop touching me there, even though he paused. His eyes were still brown and gold, still earth and fire, but the heat warmed me, made me feel welcome, wanted. For the first time in a long time I felt like I was right where I wanted to be, with who I wanted to be with, doing exactly what I wanted to do. That electric tingle flipped in my stomach and rushed along my nerves. I brushed my fingers down his long, lean chest and stomach, then dragged my stiff hand around to his back so I could pull him closer.

  I was bloody, filthy, and stank of a garbage dump on fire. I was pretty sure most guys would consider that a turnoff in a woman. Still, the need to feel his touch, to savor again the richness of his mouth, the heat of his lips, the strength of his body, pushed all other thoughts aside.

  I stroked the arc of his dark cheek with my bloody, bruised fingers and cupped the back of his neck with my hand. I thought I’d have to bring his head down to mine, but that was not the case. He leaned down and kissed me.

  Oh, sweet loves, I wanted him. All of him.

  I breathed in deeply as the kiss lingered. The electric tingles built up and up and poured through me in a wave of luxurious heat. I opened my mouth to him and he moaned, shifting closer, his knees, the stick shift, and his seat belt all stopping him from making much progress.

  I, however, hadn’t buckled my seat belt. I pulled my legs up and shifted in the seat so I could face him. He drew his hand down the back of my left arm and pressed his palm against my ribs. With his help, I crawled over the stick shift and then placed my knees on either side of his seat. I eased down across him and straddled his lap.

  He was built thicker than I’d expected, and there was barely enough room for me to press tightly against his thighs and chest without my back hitting the steering wheel. It was a cramped space, a small space.

  And I liked it.

  He smiled, and I noticed I had left a smudge of dirt, or maybe blood, on his face. I touched his face, and hesitated. He did not. He kissed me again, and the pleasure, the want, the sweet hot need for him radiated through me.

  Oh, I thought. Yes. More.

  Zay’s hand slid up my thigh. His palm, wide and hot, squeezed my hip and I gasped hungrily. Fire followed his thumb as he stroked down the curve of my hip bone. I moaned for him, for the taste of him, for his touch that was hot and cool, mint and magic licking beneath my skin. I wanted him to fill me, to ride this sweet, hot fire I could not quench. Then his hands were gone, fumbling between us, and I thought he was trying to unzip his pants, or unbuckle the seat belt, so I leaned back.

  The car horn blared out—loud, jarring a Klaxon of reality—and we both held very still.

  We just stared at each other and breathed hard and didn’t move. There were things I wanted to say, like “please don’t stop,” and “please don’t go away,” but the suddenness of this, of us, of everything, came crashing down around me.

  I was in the middle of a crowded city crawling with cops and Hounds, running for my life, and had decided that taking a quick sex break was a good idea? The practical side of my mind sent off rockets and warning sirens.

  If Zay was telling the truth, I was in a world of trouble. The cops, Bonnie, and a bunch of other Hounds were looking for me. They thought I was a murderer.

  If Zay was not telling the truth, he himself might be a killer.

  That was not a quality I looked for in a man.

  A
nd this was not a good way to start a romance. No matter how much I wanted it.

  “I can’t—” I started.

  “Mmm.” Zayvion leaned his head back into the headrest and looked away from me, out at the cold and the rain. Finally, he looked back, and his eyes were brown, warm, with barely a spark of gold. He was good. I’d never met a man so in control of his emotions.

  “I know,” he said. “But you asked me why I didn’t want you dead.” He smiled and, even though I was cold and shaking with need for him, he was a perfect gentleman and sweetly helped support me as I lifted off his lap and settled back into my empty seat.

  I needed an attitude adjustment myself, something to get my mind off him, off what it had felt like to be with him. Sarcasm usually did the trick.

  “So. You’re saying you don’t want me dead because you want me in bed?” I said. I thought it would come out a lot funnier than it did.

  “That’s not what I said.” He put the car in gear again and drove down the alley to a cross street.

  “Your kiss said you wanted me in bed.” That was better.

  “You mean the kiss you started?” Zayvion shook his head. “Maybe that’s all you were saying, but I was saying I was open for more than just sex—maybe a real date that didn’t involve blood, bruises, that incredible odor you’re wearing, or unconscious people in the backseat. But if it’s just sex you’re offering, I wouldn’t turn it down.”

  “Right. Is there anything else a man really wants from a woman? Wrap it up in pretty words all you want, Jones. You can’t tell me you’re any different than any other man I’ve dated.”

  “Maybe not. But you are different than any woman I’ve ever known.”

  Oh. That was sweet too.

  “You don’t get involved with women on the run from the law?”

  He paused before answering. “That, actually, is none of your business. You can’t take a compliment, can you? Let me say this as straight as I can. I like you. A lot. Enough to follow you all over this town, even when I’m not getting paid for it—in the rain, I might add. Enough to get you out of town before you’re killed, enough to quit my job, and you have no idea how much hell I caught for that. I like you enough to do what it takes to keep you safe.”