Magic on the Line

by Devon Monk

  Sid glanced over at Collins.

  “There now,” Collins said. “That’s the last of the blood. I’m setting these aside and taking his vitals again.”

  “He’s odd,” Sid said.

  “Most people who are good at magic are,” I said.

  “Mind if I look him up?” Sid finally asked.

  “Shocked you haven’t already.”

  “Give me a bit.”

  I finished my sandwich, then wandered back over to check on Davy. Collins was still humming, making notes on his handheld.

  “How’s he doing?” I asked.

  Collins scratched at his eyebrow, then looked up from his notes and over at Davy as if just noticing he was there. “Stable. I think the Syphon might be helping.” He glanced at me. “This is going to take some time, Allison. More than an hour or two. More than a day or two.”

  “How long?” I turned and stared out the window. Normal life was moving along out there, people going about their daily rituals, hurrying to get to normal jobs, normal lunches, normal meetings with normal people. Yes, death and disease happened out there on those sunny streets too. But from here, it all looked simpler, easier, nicer on the other side of the glass.

  “If the Syphon continues to retard the spread of the infection, and the tests give me results of what exact kind of infection we’re dealing with, then I think we’ll be able to calibrate the medication and spells and see a change in the next three days.”

  “Three days,” I repeated. Maybe we should take him to a hospital. “Would you be willing to see him at a hospital?” I asked.

  He set the handheld down. “I could,” he began slowly. “Many of my . . . techniques would not be accepted there. He would receive care, I’m sure, but I don’t know that any of the hospitals in the area have the . . . technology to find an answer for him. He has been poisoned. By magic.”

  “You make it sound like that’s never happened before,” I said distractedly.

  “It hasn’t.”

  I turned away from the window. “What?”

  Collins was carefully lining up all the items on the table, things that looked like blood pressure cuffs and monitors and metal and glass sticks etched with spells and more of those flat plates that contained Syphon, and other medical spells.

  “I don’t want to make assumptions until I see the results of the tests.”

  “But?” I encouraged.

  He turned to face me and folded his hands. “It might be a spell someone cast on him. It might be a spell he cast that went terribly wrong. Even so, those outcomes, to my knowledge, do not result in poisoning or infection.”

  I just shook my head. I was tired, had been pretty sick myself just lately, and probably wasn’t thinking straight.

  “Something has poisoned magic, Allison. Or at least, that is my assumption. The tests will prove or disprove my theories.”

  “You can’t poison magic,” I said. “It’s not like you can just walk up to a lake of magic and pour poison in it.”

  He gave me a look of droll tolerance. “No. I am sure,” he said with thinly veiled sarcasm, “that there is no conceivable way to poison a resource that can be funneled and directed through networks, streams, and collected in cisterns.”

  And wells. That’s what he wasn’t saying. The magic in the wells could be affected—there had been a lot of fights around the wells, and whatever Leander and Isabelle had done at the Life well, sacrificing, killing people, fighting us with magic, could have also poisoned the magic in the well.

  “Oh shit,” I whispered.

  He smiled, watching my lips again, too much bright sunshine for such a horrendous realization. “I would like to run some tests on you, Allison. To make sure you aren’t suffering any effects from the marks you carry.”

  “No,” I said, a little creeped out. Was he coming on to me? Some kind of “hey, let’s play doctor” pickup line?

  “Absolutely not,” I added. “Take care of Davy. That’s what I’m paying you for.”

  “Speaking of payment,” he said, turning back to the items on the table. “I don’t believe we’ve gone over the details.” He picked up something that looked like a scalpel, considered it in the sunlight, and smiled softly before placing it gently back down on the table.

  “I’ll pay you what my dad paid you.”

  “Very well. Very generous, in fact. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll begin running tests on his blood.” He clacked and clicked around with things on the table, and I walked over to one of the comfortable easy chairs we had dragged up to the room. I dropped down in the chair, and sat in it sideways, pulling my feet up onto the seat next to me. Hells, I was tired.

  Jack was pacing now, Sid sitting in the other chair closer to the door, working on his handheld, probably looking up Collin’s background.

  Collins was humming, a soft song, something classical that teased at the edges of my memory.

  Chopin, Dad said.

  That was right. One of the pieces Dad loved. I closed my eyes, just for a minute, listening to the men in the room: Jack’s footsteps, Sid tapping on his keyboard, Collins humming as he handled glass and metal, and Davy’s solid, restful breathing.

  And I fell asleep.

  Chapter Eight

  I dreamed of Zayvion. He was smiling. We were walking on the beach. I felt sand, soft beneath my feet, and his hand in my hand, his fingers wide and warm between mine. Birds flew overhead, so many that they blocked the sun.

  And Zayvion turned to me, pulled me hard against him, and kissed me until heat pooled in my belly and every inch of my skin felt tight and hot.

  The ocean lapped around our feet, ice cold, and when the wind pushed past us, it was cold too. I pulled back enough to look up at Zay.

  Only it wasn’t Zay holding me. It was Eli Collins. He smiled, his eyes slipping from my eyes to my lips. He leaned down, and I couldn’t push him away, didn’t want to push him away.

  Instead of kissing me, he whispered my name against my lips.

  “Allison.”

  The ocean at my feet picked up his words, echoed my name back to me: “Allison, Allison, Allison.”

  And then he said, “Remember me? Remember us?”

  I pushed away from him, but I didn’t have to. Collins was gone. Zayvion stood there. “I love you,” he said. “I always will.” He turned and jogged down the beach, his stride sure, powerful. Running away from me, to a horizon that was on fire, his sword in his hand.

  And then my phone rang.

  I fumbled for it, worried I’d drop it in the water. “Hello?”

  But the voice on the other end was garbled, filled with static.

  “Hello?”

  Someone on the other end was calling my name.

  “Allison. Allie.”

  “Allie,” Jack said.

  I woke with a start. Jack Quinn stood far enough away from me I couldn’t hit him. Smart. I was still curled in the easy chair on the upper floor of the den. And my phone was ringing.

  I dug for it in my pocket. I was stiff from being bent in half. I swung my legs the right way over the chair seat.

  I flipped my hair out of the way and cleared my throat. “Beckstrom.”

  “You have an appointment with Bartholomew Wray,” the male voice I did not recognize said. “Please come alone.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “The same meeting room as before.”

  And then he hung up. I looked at the caller ID and there was nothing but a row of dashes. No numbers, no symbols. I was pretty sure the voice belonged to one of Bartholomew’s goons, but I hated going on nothing but pretty sure.

  “Who’s Wray?” Jack asked.

  Hounds have good ears. It was a useful trait until it was my business they were listening in on.

  I noted Collins had stopped humming as soon as Jack asked about Bartholomew. Jack, and probably Sid, wherever he was in the room, noticed that too.

  “A guy I’ve done some jobs for. Bigwig of some corporation. Very h
ush-hush, cryptic shit.” I held up the phone as if in example. “But not a big deal.”

  Collins was working again, but he wasn’t humming any longer.

  I stood and winced at how stiff my legs and neck were. Sleeping in chairs was hell on my muscles. I stretched, then walked over toward Davy.

  He looked the same, still resting, still like he was in pain, still unconscious.

  “Any change?”

  “Other than this?” Collin pulled the blanket away from Davy’s chest. The mark was growing. Black tendrils reached all the way from one shoulder to the other and had snaked down his right biceps. The lines were dark, twisted and knotted back on themselves.

  I caught the slight stink of tar and infection.

  “Is he still running a fever?” I asked.

  He nodded. “He’s stable, though. No changes. For the better. Or the worse. Well, except for that.” He pointed at the mark before pulling the cover back up over his chest.

  “So this appointment,” he said casually, “how long exactly do you think you’ll be gone?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

  “In that case I would like a deposit on my services before you leave.”

  “What?”

  He stopped fiddling with the dial on the side of a small metal tube on the table. “In case your appointment lasts . . . much longer than you expect.”

  He knows something, Dad said.

  “Walk with me and we’ll talk over the details.” I grabbed my coat from the back of the chair, and strode across the room. Jack was on my heels. I spun.

  “Give me some room, Quinn. This is a private matter.”

  He sized me up, weighed my mood, and took a step back. “I’ll follow you to wherever your meeting is.”

  “I know. But I want someone here with Davy and Collins, twenty-four seven.” I glanced at Sid. “You got that?”

  “I’ve put together a rotation,” Sid said absently. “I’ll take first shift overnight. Jamar said he’d come by tomorrow.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Coming, Collins?”

  “Of course. After you.” He motioned to the door.

  I opened it, walked out into the hall as far away from the echoing stairwell and elevator as I could get.

  “Listen,” I said. “I don’t have my checkbook on me, but I’d be happy to pay you as soon as I get back.”

  He leaned against the wall and pressed his fingers straight down into his front pockets. With his white shirt rolled up to his elbows, and his vest still buttoned, he looked a little too formal for this place.

  “I’ve had very few dealings with Bartholomew Wray,” he said in an unaffected tone. “None of them have been pleasant.”

  “I can handle him. I’ve handled him before,” I said.

  “How long will this appointment last, Allison?”

  “Why do you keep asking me that?”

  “Because if you don’t arrive back here within the specified day, or week, or month, then I will assume you have had your memories wiped, and that will make collection of your debt . . . difficult.”

  I stood there, frozen. I’d always known it was a possibility to be Closed by the Authority. But to Collins, it sounded more like it was a probability.

  “Well,” I said, swallowing until my voice was strong and even again. “We can’t have you going forward without some kind of guarantee of payment. What do you want?”

  He pulled a piece of paper out of his vest pocket and held it out to me. “I’d like you to very clearly state what you owe me payment for. And the amount, if you’d be so kind.”

  I peered at his face, trying to read what the hell he was doing this for.

  “If you forget our arrangement, this will be a beginning again, for us both,” he said.

  “An IOU?”

  “A way for us to remember just what sort of business we are conducting. Never hurts to be safe instead of sorry, does it? So neither of us does anything to overstep our understanding.” He was looking at my lips again.

  I didn’t know why it made me blush. Creepy magical doctor guys were not my type. I so didn’t like him looking at me like I was a fruit that needed picking.

  “Do you know me?” I asked.

  That caught him by surprise. “What?”

  “Have you known me in the past? Have we been introduced? Did we . . . have something?”

  The smile was back, the crazy glint in his eyes. He looked away from my lips. “It has been my utmost pleasure to meet you for the first time, today, Allison.”

  I couldn’t tell whether he was lying. Which bothered me. I was usually pretty good at that sort of thing. We could have known each other. In the dream I certainly seemed more than happy to kiss him. The memories from my years of college were practically wiped out of my head. It was possible we had crossed paths.

  I would know if we had ever dated. Wouldn’t I?

  I snatched the paper out of his hand and pulled my notebook out of my coat pocket and used it as a hard surface to write on.

  I made myself a note, something simple and straightforward that said I owed Collins for medical services for Davy Silvers. I signed my name, and then coded the note in the corner with the symbols I used in my book. The one for I-don’t-know-how-much-to-trust-this-guy and the one for he-knows-about-the-Authority.

  I handed it back to him. “Good-bye, Collins. My money’s good. And I expect your care for Davy to be worth every damn penny.”

  “I shall spare no expense.”

  I took the stairs, not bothering to worry about Jack following me. I knew he’d tail me. Davy and the rest of them had made it very clear they weren’t letting me get into any situation alone. The best I could hope for was that by the time we hit the building, I could talk Jack into staying outside. Because if I couldn’t, I was pretty sure Bartholomew’s goons would take over the negotiations. With their fists.

  Once outside, I inhaled the clean, open air. It was going to be one of those almost-summer days, with just enough wind out of the gorge to keep it from being too hot. So nice. Nice enough to walk, but I didn’t have the energy to trod uphill for a couple miles. I could call a cab, could take the MAX light rail.

  One thing I would not do was let Jack drive me. The phone goon had said I was to arrive alone. I didn’t want to make Jack, or any of the Hounds, more of a target than they already were.

  Why didn’t I own a car? My dad’s business, really mine now even though Violet was running it, had plenty of money set aside for my “expenses.” It was how I was paying my rent, it was what paid for my food, especially since I’d gotten involved with the Authority and wasn’t working steady Hounding jobs—not even for Stotts, who had basically hired me for contract work.

  For that matter, the business probably had cars in its fleet they would have been happy to give me. I so didn’t know how to rock the rich-girl benefits.

  Well, maybe it was time to start. But first, I had to get to Bartholomew’s. Cab would be easiest.

  Even though there was a lot of this block that was still undeveloped, Get Mugged pulled in enough business that I was sure a cab would be cruising for customers. I only had to wait about two minutes. A cab was down one block and I leaned out and flagged him.

  The cab stopped in front of me and I got in the back.

  “Can you take me downtown?”

  “Sure thing,” the driver said.

  He didn’t make small talk, had the radio playing quietly on a talk show or a news station. I wasn’t paying a lot of attention. I was thinking about why Bartholomew wanted to see me, and figured it had to have something to do with how he was going to run the Authority now that he’d fired Victor from being the Voice of Faith magic. Or something about how Jingo Jingo was to stand trial for kidnapping Sedra and attacking other members of the Authority. Indirectly, Jingo Jingo was also responsible for Liddy’s death, Shame having a crystal stuck in his chest, and Zay almost dying.

  To say I didn’t like the man was a gross understatement.
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  I hoped I would have my chance on the witness stand.

  Maybe Bartholomew was going to hold the trial. I thought back on what I’d heard, and didn’t recall anyone telling me there was going to be a trial today. Just to be sure, I pulled the notebook out of my pocket and thumbed through the pages. Nothing. No notes about the trial at all.

  And no notes about Collins, though I didn’t really expect any. If we had . . . history, it would have happened several notebooks ago and those were back in my apartment. I’d check when I had the chance.

  But for now I made notes. Caught up about Chase’s memorial, about Davy, the Veiled, my backpack being stolen. Put some notes in there about Collins and the tension between Zayvion and Victor. Even mentioned Terric hitting on Grant, or maybe it was the other way around, but that they hadn’t spent the night together as far as I could tell.

  By the time I was done, we were pulling up beside the building.

  “Thanks,” I said, handing him the twenty in my pocket. “Keep the change.”

  I got out and watched as Jack drove past. Probably finding a decent place for his stakeout. Or just a decent place to park. Either way, it was good knowing he was only a phone call away. I strode into the building. The smell in the lobby, a slightly soapy odor of whatever it was they used to polish the marble floors, hit me, and my hands started sweating. That scent meant only one thing to me now—danger and pain.

  That’s one of the problems of being tortured somewhere. When you go back to that place your body, your subconscious, remembers the pain, and no matter how reasonable you think you are, fight-or-flight instincts kick in.

  I didn’t bother with the woman perched behind a marble counter, I didn’t stop at the elevators. I took the stairs up and found a sort of meditative pace in the steady fall of stairs beneath me. I could deal with whatever Bartholomew threw at me. And if his pet, Melissa, put so much as a finger on me, I’d break her arms.

  No Truth spell for me today. Or ever again.

  By the time I reached the sixth floor, I was in an ass-kicking frame of mind. Whatever this little meeting was about, I was ready to deal with it.