Magic at the Gate

by Devon Monk

  They were looking at Shame and me, and past us to the Illusion.

  Shame lit a cigarette, blowing smoke away from me, but there was enough wind that I tasted the butane bite of it.

  The crowd let go of their Sight spells, and clapped politely. Ten people, a few more women than men, walked over to us, excited smiles on their faces.

  “I don’t see you on the program,” a pretty young thing said, holding out her brochure.

  Shame nodded, sucking on his cig. “I’m not an official part of the tour. Just happened to be in the neighborhood.” He exhaled, looking neither impressed with his work nor with their reaction to it.

  Which got me curious. Just what had Shame done with the magic he’d used?

  No one seemed the least bit interested in me, except for the two Proxies over with the crowd who were still staring at the beanie on the tollbooth. They both nodded to me, a sort of professional-to-professional thing. They thought I was Shame’s Proxy.

  Well, it could be worse.

  I backed away from Shame’s adoring crowd, who asked him where he showed, and how long he’d been doing this kind of thing. I cast a quick and simple Sight spell, the same spell the tour had used, fingers of my right hand curved into a circle that I pulled up to my eye so I could see through it.

  The pickup truck and wall had become something else—something more. Instead of the bricks hiding the gate, just enough of the bricks were broken out, the gate behind it showing through like a star-filled void. Tendrils of magic floated from the gate, and seemed to create the pickup, which was only half formed. Internal bits of the engine glinted through the holes where chunks of the hood and front half were ripped away and hovering, as if caught in the gravitational pull of the starry void.

  Inside the car, a man pressed down on the accelerator as he kissed the woman next to him, a woman who was dying, her body so faded that glimpses of her bones showed through.

  Illusion on top of Illusion, on top of Illusion. His art was raw, angry, sad, and blazing with magic. Shame had obviously missed his calling.

  What surprised me the most was that through all those layers of magic and Illusion, the emotion was real. The art spoke of destruction, fear, hope, death. And love.

  I felt like I was staring into a Shame I hadn’t met before. A Shame who believed love was possible, even if it was fleeting.

  I let go of Sight, and watched him handle the crowd like he’d done this before. A smile, brush his hair out of his eyes, quick laughter. Then the tour leader called for the group to move on. There was an exchange of business cards, and I think a few phone numbers; then everyone headed up the street.

  Once they were up the block a ways, Shame rubbed his hand over his face, the cigarette smoke trembling in the air.

  “How long can you hold this?” This was no garden-variety Illusion. It was fluid, like the glyph he had cast, and was changing, re-forming, remaking itself as the gate—the real gate into death—ate away at the spells.

  Maintaining that kind of decay rate was crazy. I didn’t see the Refresh, but knew he was paying the price, right here, right now, for the spell to stay in the air.

  “Not long,” Shame said, conversationally. “An espresso—or whatever other stimulant you can score in this neighborhood—might help.”

  I wanted to ask him if he was going to be okay. Dumb question. No one who used magic like that came out of it unscathed.

  “Got any money?” I asked.

  “You’re the rich girl.”

  “Who just came back from death and hasn’t been home to get her credit card yet. Pay up, Flynn.”

  He swore, dug in the pocket of his jeans, and held out a ten.

  “Looks like it’s gonna be coffee,” I said.

  He lit another cigarette off the last one. “Now would be nice.”

  He’d need a lot more than coffee if he had to hold this spell for too much longer. He’d need a doctor.

  I got moving. Crossed the street. No coffee shops here, but there was a fancy import chocolate shop in the building just down the street. I hurried without looking like I was running from or to anything. Traffic was picking up, several bikes zipped past. I kept an eye on the people around me. The fact that Shame had asked me to go alone when he’d just lectured me about magic users bent on destroying the Authority made me a very vigilant woman.

  The chocolate shop was a part of a bigger building. Luckily it was all glass in the front. I pulled open the door, glanced back at Shame, who was pacing, much slower, and stepped into the shop. My left hand suddenly went cold as ice, and I shoved it in my pocket to try to warm it up.

  I could still see Shame through the front window, so I took my place in line. Only then did I actually inhale.

  I’d gone to heaven. The sweet, rich scent of chocolate filled me with thoughts of happier times when a chocolate bar was all I needed to end my troubles. The shop decor ran toward the understated metro European, with deep wall colors and wood and black accents. Chocolates in all shapes and colors perched on tables, heavy wooden shelves, and glass cases, like gifts from angels, wrapped in twine and gold and lace.

  The low tables tucked along one wall had enough space to hold two cups, but that was about it. Still, ten or so people sat at tables, drinking out of tiny cups, or nibbling bars and other decadent delights, while maybe another five were in line with me.

  Everything seemed normal in the shop. Except for one person. A woman stood near one of the heavy shelves on the other side of the room. I might have thought she was looking through the selection of treats, but she was facing the store instead of the chocolates.

  She wore a long heavy coat, leather with lamb’s wool at the seams and collar, hiking boots, and loose slacks. A thick, knobby brown scarf wrapped around her neck so many times it was as wide as her shoulders and made her face look fine and fragile, brown eyes too wide beneath her boy-short hair.

  Even though she held a cup in one hand, something about her set off warning bells. She looked normal. She acted normalish. But if she was so normal, then why were all the hairs on the back of my neck pricking up? I rubbed my hands over my arms, scrubbing away goose bumps.

  “What can I get you?” The girl behind the counter asked.

  Right, Shame needed a buzz.

  “Hot chocolate, no, wait—your drinking chocolate, dark, as much as I can get to go for ten bucks.” I put the money on the counter and moved to the side so the person behind me could look at the goodies in the glass case.

  Also, so I could spy on that woman.

  I took some time staring at truffles, which gave me a good peripheral on her.

  She walked to the door, staring at people—even when they met her gaze—as if they couldn’t see her. She still had her cup in her hand, but held it in such a wooden way I didn’t think she’d even taken a drink out of it. She didn’t go out the door, just stood there to one side of it, staring. Was she looking for someone? Couldn’t she tell she was making people nervous?

  It was like she thought she was invisible or something.

  Instinct told me to stay far, far away from her. But there was something not human about her. As if she was something else entirely, trying to get used to wearing a woman’s body. That was a very creepy thought. And with the gate open just half a block away, a thought I should follow up on.

  The girl behind the counter handed me Shame’s drink. I turned and couldn’t avoid meeting the woman’s gaze. As soon as I did, the mark on my left palm bit down so cold I sucked in a hard breath.

  The woman’s eyes widened and her mouth opened. The cup slipped her grip enough that a little chocolate spilled out over her fingers. “You can’t be both. Alive. Dead.” Her voice was rough, as if she hadn’t used it in a while. She skittered away from the door—and was down the narrow walkway to the restroom in the back before I could even say anything.

  She smelled like burned blackberries. She smelled like the disks. Disks Jingo Jingo had stolen.

  The ice in my palm warmed a
gain.

  It didn’t take a genius to guess she was probably one of the Death magic users working against the Authority.

  I glanced out the window. Hayden, a hulking figure in a bomber jacket and flannel shirt, stood next to Shame. Shame pointed toward the shop and Hayden looked over, but couldn’t see me through the glare on the window. If I’d had my cell, I would have called and let him know there was a crazy lady who might have a disk, and therefore a lead to find Jingo Jingo and the kidnapped Sedra. For all I knew she’d already found a back door out of this place. If I were quick and careful, I could at least make sure she was in the restroom, maybe even get a Tracking spell on her, before bringing in the big guns.

  I strode to the back of the shop. No obvious exit. The only door led to the restroom. Just to be sure, I nudged open the door.

  She stood at the sink, facing the mirror, her cup still perched in her hand like she was expecting someone to put money in it.

  But here’s where weird high-dived into a big ol’ pail of impossible.

  There was no reflection in the mirror. She was only a few feet in front of me. I could see my own reflection in the mirror—I looked surprised and angry, the white streaks in my hair wind-mussed into jagged lines, my skin too pale, my eyes too pale. I set a small Disbursement, quickly drew Sight. All the mirror showed was a light greenish glow in front of me.

  The mark on my palm went so cold I felt like I’d stuck it up a frozen mastodon. I dropped the spell and tucked my left hand to my chest, which my reflection mimicked. I wanted to throw a Tracking spell on her. But what could I throw at someone who didn’t even show up in a mirror? I didn’t even know what she was. Vampires weren’t real. But that was the only explanation I could come up with. What else couldn’t be seen in a mirror?

  The dead, my dead father said from inside my head.

  The woman turned. “Yes,” she said, answering my father, which added a nice extra screamy scoop of holy shit to the whole thing. “That’s right. The dead.” She no longer looked surprised. She looked hungry. “What sort of thing are you? Magic fills you and empties you. Alive with a dead soul.” She squinted, wrinkling her nose. “You carry the dead. I could make use of you.”

  She held out her hand, and I had a sudden need for a sword, a machete, or hell, a gun. I calculated the collateral damage of a ten-dollar cup of drinking chocolate and eliminated it from my go-to weapons list.

  “Who gave you the disk?” I asked, stepping into the room. At this point, I didn’t want to let her out of here. I didn’t know what she’d try to do, and I was pretty sure I had a better chance of stopping her than the chocolate shop employees did. I set Shame’s drink on top of the paper towel dispenser because, hey, that stuff’s expensive. Plus if I had to do a hand-to-hand bathroom grapple with a dead chick, I planned to keep her talking until I found an advantage.

  “Your father, of course,” she said.

  Dad? I thought.

  No, he said. I created the disks, but I have not given them to her.

  “Yes,” she said at the same time. “Oh, yes, you have.”

  “Are you a ghost?”

  “Not anymore. I am alive.” She darted forward, way too fast. My brain did a full and total disconnect. The Veiled. She was a Veiled. I pivoted on my feet, threw up my left hand to block.

  Black flame poured out of my hand, so dark it hurt my eyes, and wrapped her from head to foot. She stopped cold and screamed, though I could not hear her. The flame swallowed all sound, swallowed all light, covered her face, her head, until she was a woman-shaped column of flame. I didn’t know how to control it—didn’t know how I had cast it. Using it felt like I’d just opened a vein. The room spun and went dark at the edges. I couldn’t feel my arm.

  I stuck my right hand out for support. Found the wall. Yay.

  My left arm dropped, numb, useless. I fumbled for the door. I needed out. Needed help.

  Late. Too late. As soon as my hand was down, the flames extinguished.

  She was on me, fast, pushing me against the wall and shoving her thumb into the mark on my palm.

  A shock of cold froze me, froze my blood. I should be shivering, screaming in pain, but I couldn’t move.

  “This dark magic token will do you no good. Mikhail’s time has passed. He will remain in death while we retake life. You were wrong about the histories, Daniel Beckstrom, but oh, so right about your technology. It will change the world. It will give us immortality.”

  Holy shit. She knew my dad.

  Dad reached forward in my head. He put his arms around me and pushed me back into the shadows of my mind.

  No. Absolutely no. I was done with him using me like a doll.

  Let go of me, I yelled. Get your hands off me and get out of my head! I shoved back at him, but he held strong.

  “Truance,” Dad said with my mouth, “this is not the way to immortality. You bear a body, but for how long? When the disk drains, you will have no way to recharge it. You cannot break the laws of magic at no cost.”

  She laughed, a sound like she was hacking up dust. “You, of all people, know there is no cost too high for immortality. There is a way recharge the disk. You would not make something so valuable disposable. All I need is your knowledge.”

  I couldn’t see what was going on, but I felt the build of magic in the room. She was going to cast a spell. She was going to suck my dad out of me just like Greyson had tried to suck him out of me.

  Fine. If she wanted him, she could have him.

  Get out of my head, I yelled again.

  Dad wasn’t listening. He pulled magic through my body. Too hot on the right and too freaking cold on the left. I pushed at Dad again, but he wasn’t giving up control. He was chanting.

  No, no, no.

  Dad stopped chanting—for just a slip of a second.

  Long enough for me to push free, push forward in my mind, push him out of the way.

  I was away from the wall, my body in motion, right hand finishing a glyph I did not recognize, left hand cold and covered in black fire licking like cool silk between my fingers.

  Magic can’t be cast unless you are calm and focused. Even though this wasn’t my spell, and I still didn’t know what the black fire was all about, I had no problem calmly focusing both at Truance’s head.

  The spell hit her in the neck. She grabbed at her throat like she’d just swallowed acid, and stumbled. I was already casting Impact. She croaked out one word that made my ears pop. A rush of wind and magic and voices, too much, too big, too similar to a wild-magic storm, exploded in the tiny room.

  And I mean boom.

  I fell backward, hit the wall. So much for my Impact. I scrabbled up onto my feet, tracing Shield.

  Truance was gone. Nothing left but a ring of black ash, glossy as crow feathers, circling the floor where she had been standing.

  Shit.

  Dad? I thought.

  No answer. Good. Maybe she’d taken him with her.

  I grabbed two handfuls of paper towels and dropped them on the ash. I used my shoe to muss up the ring. I didn’t want anyone seeing this. Didn’t want anyone calling the police, like Stotts, to check on it. Didn’t want a Hound tracking it down. I used another paper towel to pick up the rest, and shoved the wadded ball to the bottom of the trash can. The rest would either fade, or get mopped up at closing.

  I glanced at my watch. I’d lost five minutes. I needed to get back to Shame.

  Dad? I washed my hands, taking time to make sure none of the residue from the spell was on my skin. Then I picked up the cup of chocolate and headed out. Truance was nowhere to be seen. Furthermore, no one looked the least bit bothered, which meant they hadn’t heard the explosion. Magic can be weird like that.

  I crossed the street, letting the walk, the speed, the wind cleanse me, cool me, remind me that my body was mine. Mine. And no one could use me, take me, hurt me again. Halfway to the parking lot, I felt a faint brush in the corner of my mind.

  Dad?

  Feat
her-soft flicker behind my eyes.

  Sweet hells. He was still with me.

  Shame sat on the bumper of a car—a real car, smoking a cigarette. Hayden stood in front of him, his back to the wall where I knew the gate was, his arms crossed over his chest. Hayden was big enough, he was hard to miss, even from a block away. He wiped his hand down his mouth and beard, squinting against the afternoon light as I neared.

  “Here’s your drink.” I handed the paper cup to Shame.

  He took it, sipped, then gulped it down.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Hayden unfolded his arms and stuck his hands in the front pocket of his jeans. “Art,” he said, a little distastefully. “Art is going on.”

  “The gate?”

  He nodded. “Victor.” It was weird to get such short, quiet answers out of him. I looked a little closer. He had dark circles under his eyes, like maybe he hadn’t slept in a few weeks, but otherwise was himself. Still, something seemed off. Either that or I was just feeling a little jumpy.

  “Illusion,” Shame said.

  I glanced at the wall. The pickup was still there, and the plain brick wall. But without drawing on Sight, I couldn’t see the magic that was going on.

  “What happened to you?” Shame asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “You have never known how to lie. What took you fifteen minutes to get a chocolate that is cold enough I can gulp it? Did the Oompa-Loompas go on strike?”

  “There was a woman in the shop.” I stopped talking as a man strolled past to a nearby car, unlocked the door, and got in. “Maybe I’ll tell you later.”

  Shame nodded. I didn’t know why he or Hayden didn’t just cast Mute. For that matter, I could probably cast it, but every inch of me cringed at the idea of using magic right now.