by Devon Monk
“I’ll need you to sign this form.” He spun it in my direction and held out the pen for me.
I slipped the form off the desk and sat back to read it all the way down to the fine print. It gave him permission to work a Blood magic Truth spell on me. The fine print was all about how I wouldn’t fight him, sue him, or complain if I found out he had me Closed for what I revealed while I was under its influence.
“No.” I spun it back around in front of him.
His eyebrows notched up. “Do you understand that this form protects us both, and leaves a trail for other people to follow if anything goes wrong?”
“Yes. That’s why I’m not signing it.”
“I’m not certain you are aware of your position here, Ms. Beckstrom.”
“Listen,” I said. “I know you want to work a Truth on me. You want to know what happened out at the prison, and the Life well. You want to know what part I had in the fight and deaths at both places. Fine. I’ll tell you. But I will not sign anything that connects me in writing to the Authority.”
“That seems a strange stance to take since you are so very involved in the Authority, Ms. Beckstrom. As was your father.”
“My father’s dead. I’m sure he signed a lot of papers too, and some of those might have made a nice easy trail for the people who killed him. I Hound for a living, Mr. Wray. When you’re in the business of tracking old spells—often illegal spells—back to the people who cast them, you don’t want anyone to know where you’ve been, what other cases you’re working, or who you let get stabby with Blood magic Truth. I won’t leave a trail that would tie me to you.”
“Very well, then.” He reached down and opened a drawer in the desk. He shuffled past several files and finally pulled out a new form and began writing on it. “This indicates that the unnamed member of the Authority refused to sign but is willing to be questioned.” He paused, while each of the goons in turn left his post and initialed the form; then he handed the form to me.
“Please read it.”
I did so. More of the same legal mumbo jumbo, with the exact same small-print clause as the other form. I nodded.
“I’ll initial that the unnamed read it and that it was witnessed by Mr. Harrison”—he nodded toward Goon One—“and Mr. Ladd”—he nodded toward Goon Two.
Well, at least I had their names now.
He initialed the paper, slipped it back into the file folder on top of his desk along with the other unsigned form, and, after squaring the edge of the paper to properly align with the folder, sat back.
“Mr. Ladd,” he said, “please inform Ms. Whit we are ready for her.”
Goon Two turned and cast your basic Unlock, then opened the door behind him. The door’s angle blocked my view, but in a minute a woman strolled in.
She was tall and big-boned, her sandy hair cut short and messy around her face, which seemed to be dominated by wide lips and a strong jaw, lending her a tomboy look, even though she must have been in her thirties. She had on a cardigan over a tank top and slacks, and running shoes. She wore very little makeup, and smiled appreciatively when she caught sight of me.
“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” she said, striding over with her hand out to shake.
I stood. I was right. We were about the same height. Her hands were calloused enough that I noticed the rough ridges running like rings down her fingers and along her palm. I tried to think of what would make those kinds of wear marks. Came up blank.
“The famous Daniel Beckstrom’s daughter,” she said with a gold-star voice.
“Allie,” I said. “Just Allie.”
“Melissa,” she said. “Whit.” She searched my gaze for recognition, but I had none to give her. Not even Dad flinched at her name. No, he was being suspiciously quiet.
I just nodded.
“Well,” she said, dropping my hand like I’d gone dead. “Are we ready?” She pulled a slick, thin Blood magic blade out of the hip sheath hidden by her sweater.
“Ms. Beckstrom has read the papers and signed off,” Bartholomew said. “You may begin the Truth spell.”
I’d wondered what she had to do with all this.
She glanced around the room, then rolled a chair from next to the table over to my side, positioning herself like a nurse about to take my blood pressure.
“Do you want me to use physical restraints?” she asked.
“What? No. Why would I want that?”
She glanced over at Bartholomew. He shrugged. “It’s within her rights to refuse them.”
“You’re just casting Truth, right?” I asked.
“Yes. But it’s a very . . . detailed spell,” she said. “I wouldn’t think anyone here would have used it. It’s difficult,” she said just in case I wasn’t catching on. “But don’t worry. I do this all the time. Haven’t lost anyone yet. Well, not on accident.” A smile stretched her lips just a smidgen too wide for the sane kind of happy.
I opened my mouth to tell her that maybe she could just hold off on the creepy Blood magic user shtick and let me get my own set of witnesses in the room to make sure nothing went horribly wrong. But with the first stroke of her knife through the empty air in front of me, she caught up the edge of the goons’ spell that was still lying like a heavy cloak over the room and so, too, she caught up my ability to speak.
Another Contrast? The place was just crawling with them.
Then she slashed the knife across her hand, a straight line through the meat of all four fingers—that’s what the calluses were from—and the blood blade drank down her offering of blood, mixing it into the spell she traced. A spell that locked me into the chair as surely as if she’d buckled me in and set a whale on my lap.
Her eyes were glassy, her lips forming the words of the spell even though she didn’t so much as whisper.
She didn’t have to. Magic followed each stroke of her blade, formed to the rhythm of her unspoken words. She closed the spell and Truth took hold like a vise on my head that squeezed at my temples.
Lovely.
“Set,” she said. “Ask her anything you want. She’ll tell the truth.”
I heard the chair squeak as Bartholomew got up and sat on the corner of the desk. He moved my glass of water aside and brushed the condensation off his fingertips and onto his slacks.
“Tell me your name,” he said.
“Allison Angel Beckstrom,” I said.
“Yes.” That was from Melissa.
Huh. So it wasn’t just Truth. She was acting as a lie detector too. I’d never seen the spell used this way before—didn’t know you could use Truth on someone without using at least a drop of their blood, and I had most certainly not let her cut me.
I wondered if Dad knew how this spell worked.
From the uncomfortable shifting of his thoughts in my head—some of which I caught—he did, and he thought it was oversanitized and outdated. A failed attempt to adapt a spell outside a specific discipline, which resulted in an inferior spell with an even higher pain price.
Terrific he had an opinion about it. Less terrific an inferior spell with a higher pain price was currently attached to my head.
“Were you involved in the battle at the Life well a few days ago?”
“Yes.”
Melissa nodded.
Bartholomew rubbed at his cuff links again. Note to self: get into a high-stakes poker game with him. His tells were so loud I needed earplugs just to be in the same room with him.
“Tell me who was there.”
“Everyone?” I asked. The vise on my head was starting to get uncomfortable. Inferior spell, wrong discipline meant the price of pain leaked to me. Faster would be better.
“Yes,” he said.
So much for fast. This was going to take some time.
“Me, Zayvion Jones, Shamus Flynn, Terric Conley.” That covered the current members of the Authority. Now to sum up the ex-members who were there. “Sedra Miller, Dane Lanister, some of Dane’s men, and Roman Grimshaw. Also, th
ere were some dead people there: Mikhail, Isabelle, Leander, and my dad.”
“Your father?” Bartholomew asked.
Out of that entire list, the last four people were Veiled—ghosts of dead magic users who had been possessing the living. And of those four people—Mikhail, who had died years ago and was once the head of the Authority; Isabelle and Leander, who were the most powerful magic users in history, along with being two very sick and twisted souls bent on killing anyone in the way of their plans for ruling magic; and my father, who was a successful businessman—my dad, the most recently dead, was the only one who sparked Bartholomew’s curiosity?
“Yes.” Short, sweet, let’s get this the hell over with.
“Where was your father?”
“Possessing me.”
That got me a long, doubtful stare.
“Is he currently possessing you?”
“Yes.” I was starting to sweat. The pain from the spell was growing stronger, sending out licking tendrils to burn down my neck.
“Let me speak to him.”
“No.” Hey, it was a Truth spell. I had to answer his questions truthfully. I didn’t have to do what he told me to do. If he stacked Influence on top of this little bundle of fun, then things would be different.
But I hadn’t signed up for anything except Truth. At so much as one Influency wiggle of his fingers, I would be so out of here.
“Why won’t you let me speak to him?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
“Why?” The word pressed like he’d just put the heel of his palm against my forehead.
Ouch.
“Because I don’t like him.” Or you. Somehow I managed to shut my mouth before that last came out.
“If I forced the issue?” he asked.
“Do you have a form for that?”
The corner of his lips twitched, but it did not produce a smile. “Yes.”
“I won’t sign it.”
“Perhaps another day,” he said. “Tell me what happened at the well of Life.”
I paused, trying to gather my thoughts. So much had happened that led up to the fight at the well, I wasn’t even sure where to start. Jingo Jingo, one of Portland’s powerful Death magic users, kidnapped the head of the Authority, Sedra Miller. Sedra had been possessed for years (though we hadn’t known it) by Isabelle, who was waiting for Leander to return to life. Probably me stepping through the gates into death to save Zayvion’s soul had done something to let Leander into this world. Not that we’d figured that out before we’d ended up having to buddy up with Roman Grimshaw, the ex-con Guardian of the gates, whom we’d accidentally helped escape from prison, and Mikhail, Sedra’s long-dead lover, who was hell-bent on killing Isabelle and saving Sedra’s soul even if that meant possessing and nearly killing Shame.
Brevity. I needed it.
“When we walked into the room above the well, I saw Sedra Miller and her bodyguard, Dane Lanister. Several of Dane’s men were already dead. Sacrificed, I think, for the spells they were casting so that Leander and Isabelle could both possess Sedra at the same time.”
“Who was with you?”
“I just told you that.”
“Who among you was possessed?”
He had to have heard this before. At least three times, from Shame, Terric, and Zay. I was the last of the people directly involved in the fight to be called in. And they’d all told me they’d gone over the exact same story with him. No surprises were going to come to light from this. We were all telling the truth, under the geis of a Truth spell. Even though it was a crappily constructed spell, it still did the job.
“My dad possessed me,” I said. “Mikhail possessed Shame Flynn, and Leander and Isabelle possessed Sedra Miller.”
“Yes,” Melissa said.
“Continue, and do speak up.” He fingered the cuff links. What? Did he have a recording device hooked up to them? “What happened after you walked into the chamber?”
“Sedra Miller—who was possessed by Isabelle—said she was going to kill us all, and especially Mikhail, whom she knew was possessing Shame. She said that she and Leander were going to rule all magic.”
I swallowed, and took my time to inhale and exhale a couple times. The pain was getting worse, skittering out along my shoulders, but I was good at handling pain. Hounds almost always Proxied the pain of their own spells, unlike most magic users I’d met in the Authority, who hired out for Proxy.
I glanced at Melissa. She was sweating, smiling. I could smell the pain on her and knew she was carrying at least some cost of this spell. It didn’t seem to bother her. As a matter of fact, from the way she licked her lips, and from how dilated her pupils were, it looked like she was enjoying the pain.
Masochist. Probably cast the crappy pain-leaking spell on purpose.
“And what did you do?” Bartholomew asked.
“We fought them, Zayvion, Roman, Terric, Shame-Mikhail, and I. We used magic and our weapons and it almost wasn’t enough. They almost killed us. All of us. Zayvion and Roman were able to take care of the Veiled who Leander and Isabelle dragged out of the well. Shame-Mikhail and Terric fought Sedra-Isabelle and Leander. They were able to force Leander to exit Sedra’s body. He then attacked me. I was already a little busy dealing with Dane, who had brought a gun to the fight along with magic. Leander somehow pulled me out of my body. I almost died.”
I swallowed, tasting the acrid burn of that memory on the back of my throat as if I were still standing in that underground room, filled with magic, the dead and dying, and trying to decide if I should return to my own body or join with Zayvion and be with him forever as one.
“Things got a little blurry for a bit,” I said. “But I know Shame-Mikhail eventually forced Isabelle out of Sedra’s body. That’s how Sedra died. I think Mikhail crossed over into death with her soul. I didn’t see how Roman got away. But I know Leander and Isabelle didn’t just walk into death. I think they might still be loose. Here. Maybe in the city.”
“Yes,” Melissa said again.
“How did Dane Lanister die?”
“I didn’t see it.” That was true. But I knew how he died. Zayvion shot him through the head because Leander had possessed Dane and was using him to remove my soul from my body.
He considered that answer. And I waited for the big questions: why did we let Leander and Isabelle slip through our fingers? Why did we break into the prison filled with magical criminals and not only ended up with ex–Authority members Greyson and Chase dead but also set the spirit of Leander and the ex–Guardian of the gates, Roman, free? Why did we join up with Mikhail—the dead, exiled ex–head of the Authority—and Roman, both of whom were considered enemies to the Authority?
But all he said was, “Very well. Just one more question, Ms. Beckstrom. How long have you been possessed by your father?”
It took me a second to count back. “Six months or more.”
“But your father died eight months ago.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me, how is it he possessed you?”
“How do you not know this? Maeve sent you reports on me, even before I started training with her.”
“If I wanted Maeve Flynn’s information, I would have asked her here and put her under a Truth spell.” He didn’t say it like he was angry, or concerned. Which was what bothered me. This man was above us, all of us here in the Authority. He could, and from that statement would, do anything he wanted to us. And there was nothing we could do about it.
“Tell me how your father possessed you,” he repeated.
The pain kicked up a notch or twelve as it snapped along my ribs. I breathed through it. In through the nose, out through the nose.
“I don’t know how he did it.” Calm, clear. Like I wasn’t hurting enough to scream. Go, me.
“Surely you must have some memory of when and how it happened,” he pressed. “I understand you keep notes. In a notebook, I believe.”
“Dad’s dead body was on a slab. Frank Gord
on, who was a member of the Authority at the time, was using magic, light, dark, Life, Death, and I don’t know what else. I didn’t know it then, and I don’t know now what he was trying to do. Maybe he was trying to bring my dad back to life. Maybe not. I was there trying to save some girls who had been kidnapped and were being used as Proxy victims.
“Dad stepped into my head. I don’t know how. He’s never told me.”
Bartholomew narrowed his eyes, then shifted his look to Melissa.
“Yes,” she said, sounding a little surprised.
Right. Mr. Wray needed a second opinion on whether I was telling the truth. For a man who had risen in power and status over people I considered wickedly deadly with magic, it was a real disconnect to see him needing a second opinion on anything magical.
Maybe he wasn’t good at Truth spells. Or maybe he sucked at magic. I wondered if someone could brown-nose his way up the Authority’s ladder.
“Thank you, Ms. Beckstrom. That will be all for today.” He stood and I looked over at Melissa.
She was practically glossy with sweat, her cheeks hot red. And she was smiling all the way back to her molars.
“How’d you like it?” she asked.
“I didn’t,” I replied, well, truthfully.
“I’m so sorry,” she said with no remorse. “This might sting a little.”
She slashed her knife through the air, breaking the Truth spell. The spell backlashed so hard, a hot line of pain whipped across my chest.
I hissed.
She faked a little surprise. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it would kick like that.”
Lying bitch.
The weight of the spell took a couple seconds to lift, but finally my head, my body were mine to move again. I stood and brushed my hair back behind one ear while I reached for my backpack.
I turned and headed to the door. Goons or no goons, I was not staying here a second longer.
“Ms. Beckstrom,” Bartholomew said.
I paused in front of the goon who was blocking the door. Clenched my hand to keep from throwing magic at him, and turned to look at Bartholomew.
