Magic in the Shadows

by Devon Monk

“So, yeah, I like my vegetables. Don’t love ’em enough to die for them.” He knelt and poked a finger at one of the Hungers. His finger disappeared to the last knuckle inside the flesh, like he’d jabbed a stick into sand. He pulled his finger back. It came out clean.

  Not so much creepy as sort of barf-inspiring.

  It didn’t seem to bother Shamus. “I’m going to stay here and retrieve the rest of the energy they fed on—since a lot of it was mine. Give me your word you’ll stay out of trouble.”

  “Scout’s honor,” I drawled.

  “Close enough.” He traced a spell, one I did not know, into the air above the creature nearest him. The Sight spell I had cast was gone now, and I’d promised not to use any more magic, so I had to settle for the very normal sight of Shamus kneeling over four butchered nightmares.

  He tipped his head back a little and closed his eyes. He whispered something, a single liquid word. Then a look of rapture crossed his face. His heartbeat slowed, and when I turned my thoughts to how he was feeling, I was surprised at the slick, lazy euphoria that filled him. Apparently, this was the upside of using Death magic.

  The Hunger nearest him began to fade. Within two minutes, it was gone, all the remaining energy that made it solid absorbed by Shamus, leaving nothing, not even black blood behind.

  Shamus sighed. Maybe it was my imagination, but he didn’t look quite so pale. Without opening his eyes, he whispered that liquid word again. The next beast began to fade, and a second, stronger rush of euphoria took him.

  If I stayed in touch any longer with his emotions, I was going to get a friggin’ contact high.

  The wind picked up, pushing the misty air around and reminding me that it had been a long day. I was cold. Tired. Wet. I tucked my chin into my collar and exhaled, my breath doing little to warm me up. I wondered if Zayvion and Chase were done running the Hungers down. I glanced over the way they had gone, didn’t see any movements there. Of course, Chase was pretty good at Illusion.

  “Daniel Beckstrom.”

  I spun at the voice behind me.

  The Necromorph crouched on all fours in the shadows behind the metal building. I had no idea how long he’d been standing there, but he was thicker, stronger than when he’d jumped me. I think he’d been feeding well too.

  Shit.

  The wind shifted. I smelled death and blood and burnt blackberry—him—and then strawberries and bubble gum. Tomi’s scents. The murderer shifted up and back, jerking his hand as if he were pulling a rope tight. I heard a very human whimper behind him.

  Tomi stumbled forward into the tepid light.

  I sucked in a breath. Every inch of exposed skin was black and blue or covered in blood.

  “Shame,” I said.

  Shamus didn’t move. Not an inch.

  I took a cautious step back and shook Shame’s shoulder. He was too caught in the rapture. I didn’t know how to break whatever spell he was using.

  Inside my head, my dad had gone very, very quiet. He didn’t seem afraid of the murderer. No, he seemed terrified. And angry. Bad combination for a powerful dead guy who could run my body on remote control.

  “You betrayed me,” the Necromorph growled quietly, but not too quietly for me, not for my Hound ears. I could hear him across any distance. “And now your death will free me.”

  The murderer turned, lost again to the shadows.

  I heard a high, muffled scream.

  Shit, shit.

  Quick mental calculation: Shamus zoned out. Zay and Chase running down the Hungers. I could feel their heartbeats, still fast, still alive. They might even be done killing them by now. They might be back any minute.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Tomi didn’t have time for any minute. I strode around Shamus. Careful not to touch the Hungers, I pulled Zayvion’s machete out of one of the remaining creature’s skull.

  Black ichor clung to the blade and then was absorbed, the faint ribbons of glyphs worked into the steel sucking away the blood.

  Time to find out what this thing could do to a Necromorph.

  I held the machete low against my side and jogged to the back of the building. I sang my Mary Mack song. I needed to keep a clear head. A cool head. And a Disbursement. Needed one of those too. I decided on body ache, afraid to add any more to the headache and push it up into deadly levels.

  Dying was not in my plans for the day.

  If you have a suggestion, I thought to my father, who had been too silent for too long, I’d love to hear it.

  He surprised me by answering. Let him kill the girl. While he feeds on her, he will be vulnerable and you can kill him.

  No.

  The price of one life is nothing to destroying that monstrosity.

  I will not stand by and let one of my Hounds—hells, let anyone—die just so I can get a clear shot at that thing, I said.

  Allison, he warned.

  No. Done. Final.

  I slowed and walked down the narrow path behind the shed, brambles as high as my head forming a wall uphill to the left of me, the shed to my right. A pile of discarded wood—two-by-fours and broken pallets—made the footing tricky. There was no room here to swing the machete. I traced an Impact glyph—something strong enough to blow that thing off his feet—with my left hand and held it there, pinched between my fingers, ready for me to fill it with magic.

  All it needed to do was buy me some time so I could get in better machete-swinging range.

  One metal panel on the back of the shed was rusted and bent open. I glanced in. There was just enough light fingering through cracks at the roofline and seams of the wall panels that I could make out the figures in the otherwise empty building. The Necromorph stood on all fours, rocking side to side, his head low. Tomi sat beside him, her arms extended to chest height, fingers spread wide, shaking, but poised to cast magic. Even in the low light I could see her eyes were wide and blank.

  My heartbeat kicked into fight-or-flight, but my mind went totally clear. I could do this. Take that bastard down and save Tomi. As a matter of fact, I was looking forward to this.

  We could end this. End him. He could be the proof that dark magic is too dangerous, even in good hands. The end of those who seek to open the gates and bring Mikhail back. You and I have the power to change which magic is used and how. We could rule the Authority, if we so wished. My father was a cold fire in the center of my head, raging, babbling.

  Tell me later, I said. When I’m not busy staying alive.

  I stepped quietly into the shed, holding to the shadows alongside the wall, the machete’s blade raised so I could swing quickly.

  The murderer growled, and Tomi whimpered again.

  First, throw the Impact to knock him out. Next, go in swinging.

  It wasn’t a big plan, but it was simple. I liked simple.

  Allison, my dad said. Wait for him to feed on the girl. He will be vulnerable.

  Like hell, I said.

  The thing sunk fangs into Tomi’s shoulder and she yelled, her blood pouring down her arms to her hands. Hands that wove a spell for him.

  I poured magic into the Impact glyph and threw it at him with everything I had.

  No!

  But I wasn’t listening to my dad. I ran, covered the distance between me and the murderer with half a dozen pounding strides.

  The Impact hit its mark and the beast toppled. Tomi crumpled, unconscious. The Necromorph only stayed down for a second before he turned, faced me.

  And smiled.

  Block. Block! Dad yelled in my head.

  I tried. But it is impossible to trace a glyph at a full run, with a clear enough mind to do it correctly, and fill it with magic when your frickin’ dad is yelling at you.

  The Necromorph lunged at me.

  Oh, shit.

  My dad, all cold fire and hate in my head, pushed past me. Shoved me out of the way. A wave of vertigo spun the room. I was chanting, only it wasn’t me chanting. It was my father. Using me. Using my body, my mouth. Again.
/>   For the love of all that’s holy, he had to stop doing that shit.

  He raised my hands, tracing something with my left that made black fire—fire a lot like what I saw Zayvion wield—drip down the blade of the machete.

  The Necromorph jumped, slammed into me. I went down and knocked the back of my head against the ground. I knew it hurt, but it was a distant sort of pain.

  My dad angled the blade, thrust it at the Necromorph.

  The Necromorph dodged out of the way, standing back on two legs.

  I, or rather my dad, scrambled up onto my feet. I wasn’t even breathing hard.

  “Tell me who owns you,” my father said with my mouth. “Tell me who hired you to kill me. Tell me, or this will be your end, Greyson.”

  Greyson? Chase’s ex-boyfriend? The man she thought might be her Soul Complement? The man Zayvion said was dead?

  Holy crap.

  “There is no end for me.” Greyson stretched his neck so the disk implanted in his flesh shone a sickly green. “Not anymore. You have seen to that. You and your technology. But there is still revenge for me. And I will have it through you, Daniel Beckstrom.”

  Greyson opened his mouth, his jaw unhinging so that I could see all of his serrated teeth. He inhaled, and I could feel him drawing like a hard wind in my brain.

  My dad yelled. I had never heard him yell like that before, had never heard myself yell like that before.

  I knew he, we, were in excruciating pain. But I didn’t feel it.

  I pushed to regain control of my body, willing him to move out of the way, to step aside so I could be in the front of my own mind.

  With that thought, I was fully in control of my body, and could feel every aching inch of it. I think I broke a rib.

  It was too damn easy to take control of myself. And I knew why. Greyson somehow had a hold on my dad’s soul and was sucking him out of my head.

  My dad still screamed, but not from inside my head.

  In the dim light of the warehouse, I could just make out the watercolor image of my father wavering in the air between Greyson and me. Dark business suit, gray hair, and eyes too much like mine, his face contorted by agony. He yelled, but even as I watched, he was fading, becoming less and less solid, his screams quieter and quieter as Greyson breathed him in.

  Greyson drank his soul like the Hungers had drunk down magic. The disk at his neck pulsed with magic.

  I was beginning to dislike those damn things.

  With each heartbeat, my father faded, and Greyson slowly changed from the beast he was back into the man he had once been.

  Long black hair fell around his rugged, long-featured face—one a model would kill for. He was taller than me, wide in the shoulders, his beastly form shifting into the scarred and muscled body of an athlete, a runner.

  Yes, he was naked. Yes, even with my dad screaming and Tomi unconscious and possibly dead, I looked.

  Very nice in that department too.

  Allison, my father whispered. He will hunt. Violet. Please.

  Here is the problem with being left in the dark about magic and the people who use it. I wasn’t sure if Greyson draining my father’s soul was a good thing or a bad thing. But I did know this: my father had asked me please only once.

  And I also knew that even if Greyson had been Chase’s lover, he had also killed my dad.

  That did not make us friends, no matter what I thought about my father.

  Fuck.

  I didn’t know how to break Greyson’s hold on my dad, but I might be able to stop him.

  I traced a Hold spell and poured magic into the glyph. I threw it at him. Nothing.

  Well, since magic didn’t work, it was time to get back to basics. I ran past my father’s ghost and swung the machete at Greyson’s head.

  A sharp pain shot across my ribs and I groaned. Yep. Broken.

  My swing fell a little short, pain hitching my reach. Greyson had good reflexes. He twisted away from most of the strike. Just the tip of the blade bit flesh, drawing a deep line of blood across his biceps.

  My father wasn’t screaming anymore. There wasn’t much of him left to scream. Only the very faintest outline of him and two dark holes where his eyes should be were all that remained of his soul. I didn’t know how to get him back in my head, didn’t really want him back. But swinging at Greyson had broken his concentration.

  I knew if Greyson got one more sip of him, he would have absorbed my father’s soul.

  And if Greyson could carry around my father’s soul like I could, then Dad would be awake, aware, just like he was in me.

  I did not like the idea of my father, and all the spells and training he had, being at the beck and call of Murder Boy over there.

  Greyson opened his mouth, unhinged his human-looking jaw.

  No time to think.

  I ran to my dad’s ghost, ran into his ghost and inhaled, occupying the same space.

  I didn’t know how to ask a spirit to possess me. So I did my best to clear my mind and concentrate on allowing my father’s soul, his mind, back into me.

  I am a river and magic flows through me. Your soul is a part of that magic, a part of the magic I carry in me.

  “Come back to me, Dad,” I said with enough Influence, I think even my willful father would respond.

  A cool breeze, soft as a sigh, washed over me. I smelled wintergreen. Tasted leather. My father’s scents. But it was faint. So faint.

  “Dad?”

  No response.

  And still no time.

  Greyson yelled. That wasn’t good.

  I turned. Threw both my arms up to protect my face.

  A massive figure charged out of the shadows and hit Greyson like a one-ton truck.

  Greyson rolled, but the beast kept after him. Greyson finally crumpled beneath the beast. And it was a beast. A very familiar beast.

  Stone growled. His strange pipe-organ vacuum-cleaner croon now had a primal guttural rattle. He did not like Greyson. Not one bit.

  I didn’t know where the big lug had come from, but I was really happy to see him.

  He had Greyson pinned with one stone hand on his throat, and the other shoved in the center of his chest. Stone rocked forward, leaning a little more weight on each hand.

  Greyson yelled.

  So, here’s the deal. I had no problem with Stone making mush out of this guy. Maybe in man form Greyson could not only feel pain, he could also die. He sure hadn’t died in beast form when Stone messed him up before.

  But I didn’t know if my dad was in me. I didn’t know if my dad was in Greyson. And the last thing Dad had asked him was who hired Greyson to murder my father. Greyson had answers to questions I wanted solved. Whether or not my dad’s soul was in me, in Greyson, or finally at rest.

  “Stone, don’t,” I said. “Don’t kill him. Yet.”

  The breathing boulder actually listened to me and eased up a little. Not that it did Greyson much good. He was bleeding, and from the angle of his arm and leg, broken. But bleeding and broken weren’t enough to make Stone let go of him.

  And yes, Greyson’s wounds were already healing, just like they had in the alley, though I didn’t see dark magic filling him. No, just the disk that pulsed green at his neck.

  A shiver ran down my sweaty back. Every instinct in my body told me the man on the floor was inhuman. Something that broke the rules of life and death.

  Yeah, I know. So says the woman who keeps a dead man as a brain buddy.

  Already Greyson looked less human. His face shifted into feral angles, his limbs bent and twisted into the form of the beast.

  Maybe losing his humanity meant he no longer had my father’s soul. Maybe it meant I still had my father’s soul, what was left of it, inside me.

  I’d cheer, but, really, who was I kidding? I had a couple problems on my hands here.

  I shifted my grip on the machete. Cutting Greyson may not stop him, but large injuries seemed to slow him down some. And I was hankering to stab somebody u
ntil they told me what the hell I wanted to know.

  “What did you do to Tomi?” I asked. “What did you do to my dad? Is he still in you? Did you kill him? Again? Did you fuck up Davy? Who hired you? Who put that damn disk in your neck? Why did taking my dad’s soul change you?”

  He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move.

  Yeah, I heard it too. Footsteps coming close to the shed.

  The room suddenly flooded with light. Greyson looked over my shoulder.

  I did too. That was stupid. Luckily, Stone was not at all interested in the light. He stared straight at Greyson and growled again.

  Chase strode into the warehouse through the same hole in the wall I’d gone through. She held an orb, the source of the light, in her left hand. The fingers of her right hand curled around a snakelike glyph that I could see even without Sight.

  “Allie?” she called.

  “I’m fine,” I said even though I wasn’t. Because, really, right now I was a little worried that the kick-ass woman behind me was going to meet her undead, half-beast murderer boyfriend and oh, I don’t know, maybe the conversation would get awkward. If I understood her job description, it was a Closer’s duty, Chase’s duty, to Close people who used magic wrong, who used magic to hurt others. And that meant it was her job to kill Greyson.

  The man she once loved.

  The beast he now was.

  Who might house my father’s soul.

  Who might know who was behind my dad’s death.

  Who might be impossible to kill.

  Holy shit.

  She strode over to me like she didn’t believe a word I’d said. Good instincts.

  Greyson was still sliding into his mutated beast form, the disk at his neck pulsing toxic silver-green with every beat of his heart. He didn’t run, not that he could get out from under Stone’s grip. He didn’t raise his hands to cast a spell. He simply lay there. Watching Chase draw nearer. The rhythm of his heartbeat quickened, and the disk at his neck pulsed faster.

  Pain twisted his face while contortions changed his body.

  Chase caught sight of Stone and Greyson and paused midstride. She seemed to catch herself and finished the march to my side. She dimmed the light to nonnuclear levels and stopped next to me.

  “Greyson?” she breathed.