by Devon Monk
Not a stitch of clothes on me. I did not remember getting naked with this man before, though I know I had. Still, getting naked when I was shaking with cold and fever and felt like a steaming pile of something the dog had left on the yard was not exactly how I had pictured our sexy encounter. Even if I could feel the warm exhale of my maybe-ex-boyfriend’s breath high on my thigh.
He inhaled sharply, surprised. “Allie, where did you get that?”
I pulled my hand off of my eyes. What did I have down there that would get that kind of reaction out of him? “What?”
His fingers pressed gently at the edge of the mark on my thigh, the glyph Lon Trager had stabbed into me.
Oh. Right. That. So much for sexy.
And I swear, if I didn’t get into hot water right this damn minute, I was going to shake apart. “Got jumped on bus,” I chattered. “C-cold, Zay. Move.”
He stood, and his wide hands steadied me through the last few steps and then into the warmth of the shower.
I wrapped my arms around my ribs and stuck my head under the water.
“How many aspirin did you take?” he asked.
“Three.”
“Think you can take one more?”
One? I’d chew through a case of them. “Yes.”
Zayvion left. I thought about soap but didn’t want to move from beneath the water’s warmth. Then Zayvion was back. “Here,” he said.
I looked over, realized the shower curtain was open-had been open the whole time. Water was splashing out over towels I had not put on the floor. Zayvion held a cup in one hand and a pill-blue, and not aspirin-in the other.
“What?”
“It’s for migraines. It should be fine with the aspirin. And this is orange juice.”
I stood there staring at the cup like it was made of snakes. I didn’t have orange juice in my house.
He interpreted my expression correctly. “I went out. Thought you’d be up for breakfast.”
“You cooked?”
“If you count bagels and orange juice cooking, yes.”
I took the pill out of his hand, read the tiny ink stamp on it. Brand-name painkiller. Stronger than aspirin. “Buy this?”
“Those, I keep on me. You aren’t the only one who uses magic.”
I popped the pill and drank down the rest of the orange juice. I needed all the energy I could get. I had a breakfast date in an hour, and then a meeting with Pike and the police, and quite possibly a drug and blood magic ex-con to find. I pushed the cup back at him, looked him straight in the eye. “Thanks.” And pointedly closed the shower curtain.
“Do you know who it was? On the bus?” he asked.
Apparently closing the curtain wasn’t enough of a hint that I wanted a little “me” time.
“Trager,” I said. “Lon Trager.” I dunked my head back under the water, shampooed and rinsed my hair, and rubbed soap over my skin. It didn’t sting as badly as the last time I’d washed. I didn’t know if I owed that to Zayvion’s soothing fingers, or if the aspirin was kicking in.
When I came up for air and turned off the water, I still didn’t feel fabulous, but the aspirin and migraine meds had hit really fast. I pulled back the curtain just enough to look out. Zayvion’s wide back was to me. He stared in my medicine cabinet.
“A little space, please?” I asked.
He closed the medicine cabinet. “Do you have a needle?” he asked without turning around. The mirror in front of him was fogged, so I couldn’t see his reflection.
“No.”
“No?”
“Do I look like someone who sews?”
He made a frustrated sound. “Allie,” he said, still not turning around. “I need to unbind that glyph from your leg. Since you aren’t the sewing type, I’ll need to use a knife.”
Well, hello, Mr. Psycho-Killer. What’d you do with my maybe-ex-boyfriend?
“Like hell you will,” I said.
He turned. Yep, that was a knife in his hand.
“If you use that on me, Jones, I will kick your ass with that plunger, fever or no fever.” Sure, I talked a big fight, but right now, all I had at my disposal was a bar of soap and a loofah. Well, and magic.
“What do you know about blood magic?” Zayvion asked. He leaned his hip against my sink and kept the knife low. “Have you studied it?”
“It’s illegal.”
“Have you studied it?”
“No.”
He closed his eyes and scrubbed at his face and then the back of his neck. “Why didn’t your father want you to know these things? He knew you had great potential with magic. He had to know you would use it in ways that were not taught in college. Why wouldn’t he want you to have the knowledge so you could keep yourself safe from shit like this?”
I shrugged one shoulder. “I think he expected me to stay dependent on him for those kinds of things. He never thought I’d leave him, leave the life he wanted me to live. He never thought I could stand on my own two feet without him.”
“And you had to go out there and prove him wrong, didn’t you?”
“I’m just full of disappointments like that. Now put down the dagger and hand me a towel.”
How had my life changed so that I had to say those words before breakfast?
Zayvion put the knife on the countertop, found a clean towel on the linen rack, and handed it to me.
I took the towel, keeping the shower curtain between us. “No blood magic, no lectures, no stabbing, no knives, no nothing until I’m dry and dressed. Get out of my bathroom, Jones.”
Zayvion picked up his knife and walked out of the room.
That was too easy.
I dried quickly, checked that he wasn’t outside the door waiting to jump me, and then went into my bedroom and got dressed. My head hurt, but the chills were gone, leaving me feeling dizzy. I was probably still running a fever, but at least my teeth weren’t chattering.
I found Zayvion at the window in the living room, looking through the curtains. The knife glinted silver-bright in his dark hand. On the round table next to him was the carton of orange juice, some bagels, cheese, and strawberries.
Strawberries in late November. I could get used to this.
“Lon Trager has your blood.” Zayvion turned away from the window.
“I know. I was there when he took it.”
He nodded, as though maybe he was just making sure I remembered it.
Oh. He probably was making sure I remembered it. “And the spell he worked, the one on your leg, will let him draw you to him any time he chooses.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s a form of Binding. That glyph-” He nodded toward my thigh. “-and the blood he took from you are connected by the magic in your blood and the magic in the glyph. If he wanted you, there would be nothing you could do to resist going to him.”
My stomach clenched. I was a dog on Trager’s chain. How damn great was that?
“And you know how to break it?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Will Trager know it’s broken?”
“What?”
“Will Trager know the Binding is broken?”
“If his blood was on the knife or needle, he’ll know. Blood magic is… intimate.”
I’d bet my boots Trager’s blood was all over that damn needle. Great. Not only did I have to deal with blood magic; I’d need to go get screened for diseases too.
“Let me break it,” Zayvion said again.
“No.”
Mr. Zayvion Jones spent most his time looking like a pretty nice guy. He could do that street drifter, shy-boy smile that tugs the heartstrings, and he could do the unflappable Zen Master bit where his patience seemed endless. But right now, Mr. Zayvion Jones was angry-and he did angry like a caged animal.
“No is not an option.” He took a step.
I mentally set a Disbursement-sweet hells, I’d pay for this-and traced a glyph for Impact.
It was not a spell I liked to use, but it was effect
ive. I held off pouring magic into it. Which was not easy.
Zayvion stopped. “Allie. Don’t think I won’t fight you for this. You’re being stubborn and stupid.”
“You said you trusted my stubborness,” I said. “The Binding stays. And you can leave.”
Zayvion became very still, very quiet, as if all his anger and frustration were being drawn into a deep dark hole somewhere inside him. That was a bad sign. You can’t cast magic in states of high emotion. Can’t cast it when you’re angry or panicked.
Zayvion Jones was cool, calm, and therefore more than capable of casting magic. Like I said, dangerous.
When he spoke, he was frighteningly Zen, frighteningly formal. Controlled. Just like at the graveyard.
“My apologies,” he said, “if I have crossed a line. I am concerned for you and your safety. If Lon Trager is willing to risk Binding you with his own blood, he is willing to harm you. And he will do so. He is simply biding his time.”
Biding his time, I guessed, because I didn’t have Pike with me. But I would. This afternoon at the police station. Then me, Pike, Detective Stotts, and the rest of the police force could go pay Lon Trager a visit. With the glyph that was still on my leg as evidence, I’d charge him with magical attack with intent to do harm. A felony. Jail time.
“I know,” I said. “I plan to use that against him.”
“How?”
“I’m going to the police. The MERC.”
Zayvion tipped his head and narrowed his eyes, as if that weren’t an option he had considered. “And what will you tell them?”
“I’ll show them the Binding. That’s a felony. And it’s my evidence to throw Trager’s ass in jail.”
“Do you really think prison will be enough to hold a man like him?”
“This time, I am the evidence. No one’s going to tamper with that. His conviction will stand.”
Zayvion looked at me, his eyes cool gold.
I looked him right back and said, “Unless you want to come down to the station with me, which I believe the police would like since they mentioned they’re looking for you, you need to go now. Good-bye, Zayvion,” I said. “Don’t forget your coat.”
Zayvion’s jaw twitched, and his fingers rolled into a loose fist. But not to cast magic. I checked.
Just in case I was wrong, I didn’t let go of the Impact glyph.
“No,” Zay said as he reached over to the chair he had sat in yesterday. “I don’t think going down to the station with you would be in the best of either of our interests.”
He picked up something on the seat of the chair and placed it on the table.
A single long-stemmed pink rose.
He gathered his coat and draped it over his arm. Walked toward me. I moved to the side so he could pass, out of reach.
He paused in front of me. “Promise me one thing.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Promise me you won’t take on Trager alone. Stay with the police, do as they say, and you should be fine. If, however, you do meet him alone-” He flicked his hand out from beneath his jacket and offered me the hilt of the thin silver dagger. “Use this to break the skin on your thigh and cut the tip off the outermost line on the Binding. Then pull the magic out of it-all of it. Doing that untrained will hurt like a mother. But it should break his hold on you. Give you a chance.”
I took the dagger with my left hand-the hand I was not holding the Impact glyph with. “Thanks,” I said.
“Thank me tonight, over dinner, after you have returned from talking to the police and not from Hounding down Trager on your own.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said.
Angry Zayvion, Zen Zayvion, gently touched the edge of my right cheek, where marks of magic whorled. Even though he was angry, mint soothed through me, easing my ache and racing heartbeat.
“Be careful,” he whispered. “I don’t want to lose you twice.” Then he walked out of my apartment and closed the door behind him.
Chapter Sixteen
The silver dagger was so clear and deep, it looked more like white gold, the blade tucked in a simple leather sheath. I pulled it free of the sheath. From the tip of the blade to the rounded top of the hilt were carved glyphs in the same colors as the metallic swirls on my arm. The center of the blade encased a thin strip of glass beveled in such a way as to control the flow of blood. I had no idea how this blade had been made, but it was clear exactly what its purpose was-to cast magic. Blood magic.
Zayvion Jones just got stranger and stranger.
Other than a couple minor spells, like Truth, I had no idea how to actually cast blood magic. I sure as hell had never used a dagger to uncast a spell on myself. And, yes, that worried me. But not enough to leave the dagger behind.
I put on my leather coat, tucked the sheathed knife into the deep pocket, and put on my gloves, scarf, and hat. I walked over to the table and drew the pink rose up beneath my nose, inhaling the sweet innocence of spring.
What kind of crazy did I have to be to kick out a man who brought me strawberries and roses and a big honkin’ magic glyphed dagger?
I put the rose in a glass of water in my kitchen, grabbed my notebook and nonfunctioning cell phone, and locked the door behind me. I took the stairs down and pushed through the main doors. I paused before hitting the sidewalk. It was still early enough to be dark, but a silvery light reflected from everything around me. A light that had nothing to do with magic.
The stairs, the sidewalk, and every single twig on the trees were covered in a thin coating of ice. The rain had frozen last night, turning the world into something alien and beautiful. And slippery.
I stepped outside. The wind whipped down the street, biting at my exposed skin and shooting painful shivers through me. My fever and headache weren’t gone yet. And sure enough, I’d forgotten to put the bottle of aspirin in my pocket.
Tree branches up and down my street clattered and chimed, a rattle of glass. I put my hands out to the side to keep my balance against the wind and carefully made my way over to the curb, hoping a cab would show up.
The city didn’t get enough frigid weather to warrant the Proxy cost of permanent Deicing spells, so Portland relied on sand trucks to keep the hilly streets passable. A truck must have already made a run down my street, because cars were easing by.
I narrowed my eyes against the row of headlights and spotted a cab coming down the hill. I stepped out and waved it down.
The driver braked and slid to a stop. I got in.
“Have to be half penguin to be out in this weather.” The driver was a big man who sounded like he’d had a bowl of extraperky for breakfast.
“Or just stupid,” I said. “Kickin’ Cakes, please.”
The cab was warm and smelled soapy, like it’d just gone through a car wash with the windows open. The smell turned my stomach, but for the heat, I’d deal with the stink. I tucked my nose in my scarf and closed my eyes.
The cab eased to a top, and Mr. Cheery called back, “Here you go.”
I opened my eyes.
“Thanks.” I dug in my pocket-the one with my blank notebook, not the dagger-and pulled out some cash. I paid him and made my way carefully up the walk to the restaurant.
Kickin’ Cakes was a bar turned breakfast joint, and it still hadn’t quite shed its former identity. A long row of tables down one side of the single story building sat opposite the curved black marble bar to the left. All cooking was done behind that bar, and the restaurant had an art deco feel: tables in chrome and black linoleum, booth and chair seats in turquoise and maroon.
I walked through the front door, and the smell of butter, onions, sausage, and coffee, along with the nutmeg-sweet scent of the signature dish, Kicking Pancakes, greeted me. They were good smells that got through my pain and made me hungry. The restaurant was nice and warm.
And busy, even with the icy roads. I scanned the room for Violet. I spotted a pretty young redhead. Next to her, sitting so he faced the front door, was an
unassumingly plain-looking bodyguard wearing a henley shirt rucked up at the elbows. His name, I think, was Kevin. I knew of him, but if I had met him before, I could not remember it.
Kevin watched me walk in, held my gaze, and nodded to me. I took it as an invitation.
Violet glanced over at me, and since I was nearly at their table, I had to work on not letting my shock show. She was so young, we could have been sisters if she weren’t my father’s wife. And I was pretty sure I’d be the big sister.
Yes, I’d seen her in photos in the papers since my dad’s death, and my friend Nola said Violet and I had met during the time I could not remember. She thought we had gotten along too, which was weird. I had never gotten along with any of my father’s wives.
Violet had a petite build, wore simple but fashionable glasses, and had great cheekbones and a smattering of freckles. She wore a loose sweater, jeans, and sneakers. Put her in a lineup, and I would not point her out as a billionaire widow. She looked radiant, her face glowing and happy despite the dark circles beneath her eyes that spoke of sleepless nights.
“Allie,” she said warmly. “Sit, sit.” She pointed to the chair opposite where she sat on the booth bench against the wall. It put my back to the bar. I could see behind Kevin, and the windows and front door were at the corner of my eye.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Good.” I hadn’t seen her since the coma that had knocked me out. “Better. Thanks. How’s the coffee?”
Kevin was already pouring me a cup out of the carafe from the center of the table. Violet shrugged. “No coffee for me. I’m an herbal tea girl right now.”
“Stress?” I thought about the pressure she must be under now that the duties of running my father’s multibillion-dollar magic and tech integration company had fallen largely into her hands.
“Pregnant,” she said.
The whole restaurant swirled under my feet. “Preg-what? Who?” I looked over at Kevin. He quietly picked up his cup and took a drink. He watched Violet across the cup’s rim, and his gaze carried something-sadness? Jealousy? Then he tipped the cup down and smiled at me. Smiled at me for Violet, I realized.
Oh. I might be fevered, headachy, and struck dumb, but I could see a man who was in love and hadn’t admitted it to himself. Or to Violet.
