by Devon Monk
“Soon,” he said. “But first I thought you and I could talk. Come to an understanding. An agreement. Like family.”
Okay, that got me. I blinked and looked harder at him. He didn’t look much like any of the women my father had married, or at least none whom I could remember. And he was the polar opposite to my dad—shorter, darker, thinner. The person he most resembled was Mama.
“Family? How exactly does that work?”
His smile flashed into a grin. He looked like an animal about to strike, something hungry and quick.
“Snake man, Snake man, bake a cake man,” Cody whimpered.
Oh, hells no.
Snake man. The man who killed my father. The man who somehow made Cody forge my signature. The man who threw a spell strong enough to kill someone and had apparently not paid the price for it. Holy shit.
Cold sweat spread over my skin. I took a drink of water, hiding my reaction as best as I could. If he could kill my dad at a distance and still be alive, I figured he could kill me close-up. I glanced around the room, looking for an escape, a weapon. But gun-happy Bonnie was still behind me. I assumed Zay was too, since I couldn’t see him. I couldn’t see a knife, a fork, or a heavy pan within reach. For a working kitchen it was painfully clean of any dangerous implements.
“You and I are kindred spirits,” James continued. “You hated your father. I hated your father. You wanted him dead. I wanted him dead. You wanted his business to stop taking advantage of the poor and the innocent, like my poor little brother, and I wanted his business to recognize the original creator of the Beckstrom Storm Rods and pay back the money he has made off the technology he stole.”
I put two and two together and came up empty. “You wanted my father to pay Perry Hoskil for the storm rods? Perry Hoskil has been dead for ten years.”
“I know,” James said. “Perry Hoskil was my father.”
Which meant Mama had slept with Perry Hoskil. I glanced at her. “Mama?”
She looked up, pressed her lips together, and nodded.
It didn’t make sense. Why would Mama go along with James in this crazy scheme? But at least I was finally able to see all the holes in the puzzle. James was the bastard child of Perry Hoskil. There had been a fierce court battle years ago over who had proprietary ownership of the patents and production of the Storm Rods—the technology that had allowed magic to be harvested not only from the rare magic-charged storms, but also from the reserves of magic that pooled deep in the earth. The two men who claimed they had the rights to the rods were partners in the invention of the technology. Those men were Perry Hoskil and my father. But my father had gone behind Hoskil’s back and filed the patent in his name alone, claiming proprietary ownership of the technology.
Perry Hoskil had lost the case. Most say he was bribed out of pursuing further litigation. Most also said he took to drinking and drugs, and he was found years later, dead of an overdose in some garbage heap on the worst side of town. Maybe on this side of town. Maybe even right here where I was standing.
I didn’t think anyone knew he had a son. But then, I wouldn’t expect Mama to share that information with the world.
She had shared it with at least one person though—James.
“Okay,” I hedged. “You want to sue Beckstrom Enterprises for royalties due. I still think you need a lawyer for that.”
He was no longer smiling. “I’ve talked to dozens of lawyers. I’ve talked to judges. They won’t do shit for me.” He paced over to where Mama stood and back to the sink. “They say there is no winning back that money. No getting the money due me. No getting back the technology that is rightfully mine. Beckstrom has had the law tied around his filthy fingers for years, and there isn’t a lawyer he can’t buy off.” He paused and smiled at me. “Couldn’t buy off. Things are different now, aren’t they? Now that Daniel Beckstrom is dead.”
If he was waiting for a reaction out of me, he didn’t get it.
The lights flickered again, three quick times, and I only had to count to ten before I heard the answer of thunder. My arm was really starting to ache, and the ache was spreading. The closer the storm came, the more I felt like I was coming down with the flu.
“But now that you’re here,” James said, “you can see that a little justice is finally served.”
“I’ll do what I can,” I said, trying to sound reasonable. “But I’m under suspicion for killing him, and until my name is cleared, you may not want to do business with me.”
“It will be a very short business relationship,” he said. “You sign over your shares of Beckstrom Enterprise to Mama, and you can go your own way and live your life.”
The lights flickered again, throwing the kitchen into darkness long enough that the other Boys were looking a little worried.
I counted to eight. Thunder.
“You’ll still have to convince Violet’s lawyers that I didn’t sign my shares over under duress,” I said. I was stalling, looking for an out. Waiting for a good bolt of lightning to really knock the power out for more than a second. “People think I killed my father. They are not going to honor a contract I sign when I’m not in my right mind.”
“You’ll convince them that you’ve snapped out of your killing passion. That you regret your hasty, terrible actions. You’ll turn yourself in to the police and declare you want to pay back your father’s debt to the Hoskils. Then you’ll live a nice long, unpleasant life behind bars.”
“And if I talk?” I knew there had to be an “or else” in there somewhere. I didn’t really care what it was. But I needed time. The itch and ache in my arm were growing worse, like needles of fire stabbing through every pore. I didn’t know what kind of tricks James had up his sleeve, but I could hold magic within me. A lot of it now. And I was banking James didn’t expect me to be able to use it here.
He walked toward me, stopped just out of arm’s reach. “This isn’t a game,” he snarled. “There are a lot of lives on the line, a lot of people tired of Beckstrom’s stranglehold on magic. Tired of hard-and-holy Beckstrom saying who can use magic and how and why and when.
“No more. We will wage war, bring it to the streets if we have to. You are nothing but an inconvenience to these people, and to me. You will sign your rights over to Mama. Zayvion will turn you in to the police. And I will hold a gun at that young man’s head until I hear you are safely locked away. Your other option is to say no to me. Instead of killing you with magic, like I killed your father, I will kill you right here with my bare hands, for fun.”
The lights flickered and went out.
I swung for James in the darkness, missed, and heard Bonnie swear. I ducked and made a blind run for Cody. Thunder roared, so close, so loud, that I did not hear the gunfire that threw the room in staccato light.
Someone hit me from behind and I fell to the floor, slamming my head and shoulder against the cupboards. I knew who it was—could recognize the pine scent of him no matter how dark the room was, knew his body intimately. I pushed him away. He felt like deadweight.
Lightning flashed, pouring through the single window of the room. In one moment I saw Zayvion, face-down on the floor, unmoving, a dark pool spreading out from under him. He had thrown himself at me and gotten a bullet in the back of the head. Panic threatened to freeze me.
No. No. No.
I caught a glimpse of Cody pressed against the refrigerator, curled in a ball, his hands over his ears, before darkness fell again. I rolled away from Zay’s unmoving form and threw my body over Cody’s. The spark of gunfire lit Bonnie’s face. Her laughter, and the sound of bullets, were swallowed again by thunder.
She stopped shooting. Probably to reload. I got on my knees and whispered a mantra. Magic lifted, painful, but clear and pure from deep within me.
I was incredibly aware of everyone in the room. Cody’s terror, all the Boys’ anger, Bonnie’s fury. James was halfway across the room and coming to kill me. I was also incredibly aware that Zayvion was not breathing.
&
nbsp; There was one other person in the room—Mama. To my magic-filled eyes, she glowed with pure, untapped magic. North Portland magic. St. John’s magic. Here. Magic no one knew existed. Magic shielded by an elaborate Diversion glyph so old it mimicked the natural geology around it perfectly, hiding, cloaking the pure store of magic beneath this part of the city. Someone was maintaining that spell. And that someone was Mama.
Maybe James had threatened to expose the unharvested magic if Mama didn’t go along with his plan. No, if James knew about magic beneath St. John’s, he would have sold off rights to it to the highest bidder. The idiot was killing people for bits of silver and didn’t even know he was sitting on a gold mine.
Lightning and thunder rode each other’s backs, and I knew I had to make a choice—use magic to stop James, to stop Bonnie, to stop the Boys. Use magic to save Cody. Use magic to heal Zayvion.
I never was very good at making snap decisions. So why choose one thing? Why not do it all?
I pushed up to my feet.
Light, I thought, and magic rose to my command. The room flooded with a harsh white glow. A glow that radiated from my right hand, and made it feel like it was on fire. My left hand was already numb, and the lack of feeling pushed up to my elbow so that my whole arm hung useless at my side, but I didn’t care. I was determined to stop this mess once and for all.
Stop, I thought, and that worked too. Magic spooled out of me to wrap around everyone in the room and hold them still. Even Zayvion’s blood stopped flowing. I could feel the labored pressure of his heart trying to beat, the strain of his lungs trying to fill.
I was burning up, too raw and too hurt from the last time I used magic. But there was a pleasure in the pain, a siren desire to use the magic before it used me up. And I could. I could heal Zayvion. I could crush James’ throat, blind Bonnie, knock out the Boys, force Mama to tell me everything she knew. I could do anything. Anything I wanted.
And all I wanted was for this not to be happening. For Zayvion to be alive. Maybe for one last chance to tell him I really thought we were good together and wished we could have made it work. To tell him I had hoped he would be the one person in my life who wouldn’t betray me. To tell him I hoped he had an explanation for being here, being a part of James’ plan to take over Beckstrom Enterprises and kill my father, and that maybe he was still on my side.
I hesitated. Heard sirens between the explosions of thunder. Watched as Bonnie squeezed off the last bullet, watched as it sang true toward my heart.
Heal or kill?
I guess Zayvion had it right when we first met. I just didn’t have killing in me. No matter how much I wanted to.
Heal, I thought, and I poured magic into Zayvion, guiding the bullet out of the wound in his head, guiding the magic, like ribbons of thread, ribbons of energy, to knit flesh, to mend bone, to whisk away old blood and soothe swelling. Fast, faster, before the magic consumed me, consumed the last of my mind, my memories, my soul. Fast, faster, before the bullet reached me, piercing my flesh. Fast.
Lightning struck, so close I felt the heat of it lick beneath my skin, and shuddered with a heady mix of agony and pleasure. I was too hot, too cold. Then pain bulleted through my chest. I fell.
I couldn’t feel my hands. I couldn’t see the magic anymore. I couldn’t move. But I saw Zayvion open his eyes. Saw his lips form my name. Saw him push up from the floor and reach for me.
And I saw Mama turn to James and hold up a hand filled with the magic of St. John’s. Saw her wield a very complex, very strong Holding spell. Hopefully, she’d take James in to the police. Hopefully, she would make sure Cody got somewhere safe. Hopefully, she would do the right thing.
Zay reached me. He touched my face, though it looked like it hurt him to do so. I love you, his lips said.
And I knew he did. I loved him too, despite it all.
Don’t go, he said.
But I did not know how to stay. The storm was in me, taking me apart, pulling me away.
This, I decided, was a pretty good way to die.
Magic filled me and filled me, and like a dam filled too full, I broke. I was swept up and up until I rode the storm clouds, free and distant from all the world and pain below.
Chapter Sixteen
“ Allie?” It is strange to hear your name when you think you should be dead.
I tried to answer.
“Allie?” Same voice. A soft voice. A woman’s voice.
“Allie?” Nola. That was her name. Nola was looking for me.
I moved my mouth (I had a mouth!) and opened my eyes (eyes!). Light, low and yellow, shone on Nola, on Nola’s pretty face above me.
She smiled and her eyes watered. “Welcome home, honey. Drink some water.” She put a straw to my lips, without asking—typical Nola—and I drank. That was an exhausting thing to do, and I fell gratefully back to sleep again.
It is a weird thing to wake up in a bed you don’t remember falling asleep in. Daylight was filtering in through the shades on the window, so I at least knew what bed I was in—Nola’s cozy guest room. I could not remember getting here.
As a matter of fact, the last thing I remember was getting up and wanting a cup of coffee. Because it was my birthday, and I was twenty-five today. And since I was miles from where I last remember being, I was going to assume I’d had a hell of a night, drank my ass off, and ended up out here at Nola’s partying.
My head hurt like I had the granddaddy of all hangovers, and my mouth tasted horrible. I couldn’t remember anything about my birthday though. I rubbed my hands over my eyes, caught a flash of colors.
My right hand was ribboned in peacock-feather colors of metal, and my left hand was tattooed around every knuckle. A faint memory flickered at the back of my mind, but I could not draw it forward.
Hells. Lost memories meant I’d been using magic—maybe Hounded too hard and had my short-term memory pay the price for it.
What kind of idiot was I? Add to that the IV tube in my left arm, and it was pretty safe to assume I’d really done something stupid.
Nola walked into my room with an armful of sheets.
“Morning,” I said.
She jumped and had to catch the sheets before they hit the floor. I grinned.
“Allie,” she said. “You’re awake!”
“Yes. What’s got you spooked?”
Nola put the sheets down in the spare chair and hurried over to sit on the bed next to me. Her tanned skin was flushed red and her eyes looked bloodshot, like maybe she hadn’t gotten much sleep lately.
“How are you feeling? Don’t try to sit. Let me get you water. Do you know where you are?”
Okay, now she really had me worried. I’d never seen her rattled.
“Slow down,” I said. “One thing at a time. I hurt some. Did I use a lot of magic recently?”
She nodded.
I exhaled in relief. “Okay, that explains the memory loss. Is today still my birthday?”
“Oh, honey.” She brushed my hair back from my forehead and her cool fingers felt good. Why did I wish they felt like mint?
“Your birthday was three weeks ago.”
“Wow,” I said. “Did I have a good time?”
Nola laughed, but she was crying too. “No. It was a miserable birthday.”
“Except for my cool tattoos?” Making jokes when I’m scared and the world is falling apart, and I can’t remember anything and just want to cry, is one of my strong suits.
“Tattoos?”
I held up my hands.
She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and wiped at her face, then blew her nose. “Those aren’t tattoos, honey.”
I knew that. I just wanted her to tell me what they were, because I had absolutely no idea.
“I’m going to get you water, and you are going to drink. You are also going to try some broth. While you do that, I’ll try to help you remember . . . remember everything.”
“I don’t want any broth,” I said.
“Too bad. And
Jupe is going to stay here and keep an eye on you until I come back.”
I looked over and, sure enough, the big ox came trotting into the room and rested his head on the edge of the bed.
“Stay,” Nola said, to me as much as the dog.
I was so glad she was bossing me around, because it meant she thought I really was going to be okay. But I wasn’t as convinced. I felt sore, inside and out.
Emotions flooded through me—fear, anger, sorrow, loss—in a confusing wave. Even though I hate crying, and had no idea why I wanted to cry right now, I could not stop the tears that ran down my face.
It made me angry that I was crying for no reason, or maybe for a reason I couldn’t recall. And being angry only made me cry harder.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. If I’d had the strength, I’d pound the walls. But I couldn’t even muster the energy to sit up.
When I heard Nola walk toward the room, I averted my face and stared at the curtains. I wiped at my cheeks with my strange, multicolored hand, a hand that did not look like my own. Sorrow tightened my chest, but I took three deep, calming breaths. I could do this. I could survive finding out what I didn’t know anymore. I could survive losing bits of my life, and bits of myself. I’d done it before and been okay. Mostly.
“Let’s get you sitting,” Nola said. She leaned over me and I looked up at her. Even though I figured my eyes were puffy and red, and my cheeks and nose were all blotchy, she did not say a word about it. She didn’t make comforting noises, or tell me she was sorry. She was just her normal, strong, matter-of-fact self. “You’re not broken,” she said, “just a little bruised.”
She was the best friend ever.
It hurt to sit, hurt more to stay sitting, but with Nola’s help, I managed.
“You okay?” she asked.
I was shaking, sweating. “I’m good.”
She put a tray over my legs and set a cup of broth, a spoon, a straw, and a carefully folded white napkin on it. There was something about the neatness of the napkin, pressed cloth, spotless white, that tickled the back of my mind. Then the sensation was gone.
“So.” Nola kicked off her boots and sat on the bottom of the bed, leaning against the footboard. Something down on the floor mewed. She got off the bed, and sat back down with a little gray kitten in front of her. The kitten picked its way across the quilt, exploring the folds and batting at the ridges.
