Magic in the Blood

by Devon Monk

  I pulled out the painkillers, tipped four tablets into my palm, and then swallowed them down. Next I uncapped the Bactine and squirted the antiseptic over each of my raw marks. It helped some—took the sting out—but the cold rivulets of antiseptic that snaked down my body made me shiver.

  I blew out the candle and took the aspirin with me into the bedroom. If I was going to get through tonight, I would need to chew down at least another eight of these things.

  I didn’t keep prescription painkillers in the house for a reason. Being a Hound and using magic for a living made it way too easy to fall into abusing substances for pain relief.

  I dressed in an extra layer, a soft cotton long-sleeve shirt so that the raw marks wouldn’t get scratched by my wool sweater, and wore a pair of tights beneath my jeans for the same reason.

  Next on were wool socks, a black scarf my friend Nola knitted for me, a spare pair of leather gloves, and the only other coat I owned: a short black leather trench. It wasn’t as warm as my other coat, but it would keep me dry. I pulled on a new slouchy knit hat.

  Back in the living room I picked up my journal, and my wallet, and after locking the front door behind me, I strolled back down the hall and stairs to catch the bus to the meeting.

  I looked good. Very secret agent-ish.

  I made it to the bus stop just as the bus pulled up and found an empty seat near the door. For the next twenty minutes of stop and go, my headache thrummed along merrily. The painkillers weren’t doing squat so I went over everything that had happened today and what I understood about it.

  A lot, and not much.

  I was apparently being haunted by my father. He wanted me to look for dead people or dying people, or the just plain dead. If he wanted me to “seek the dead” by doing something stupid like killing myself, he was so outta luck. Still, he had said those words with Influence, so even while I was sitting on the bus tapping my foot impatiently, my mind kept going back to his words, to the need to seek the dead that he had put on me.

  Thanks a lot, Dad.

  Meanwhile, Zayvion, who I still had feelings for and really shouldn’t trust, all but told me he was part of a secret group of magic users who went around killing people. I should tell the cops about them, about him, but first I needed to find out what he knew about my father’s death. I didn’t want to tip off the people who might be watching me that I had caught on yet—people, for all I knew, who might be involved in where my dad’s body was. I wasn’t going to do anything drastic until Zayvion gave me the information I needed. If I could find my dad’s body, make sure he was all buried and happy, he might stop haunting me.

  So much for me not believing in ghosts.

  But I wasn’t the only one. Grant believed in ghosts and was all buddy-buddy with the kooks who hunted them. Okay, maybe not kooks, since I myself had seen some weird shit today. But I was so not going to let any ghost chasers check out my apartment. After all, I’d seen my dad in the freaking middle of a freaking intersection today—I didn’t think this ghost problem was limited to my shower.

  And even though the watercolor people must be ghosts, they were different from my father’s ghost. For one thing, they didn’t speak and use Influence on me. For another, they had those empty black eyes. And they could pull apart perfectly good, perfectly strong spells and eat them.

  Freaky with a capital “eeky.”

  Sure, my dad had touched me in my bathroom, and I’d smelled his familiar, living scents, but his touch hadn’t hurt, hadn’t left marks. The watercolor people’s touch sucked.

  Literally.

  So maybe there was more than one kind of ghost running around the city.

  Pike had said he’d talk to me at the meeting. And since he ran with the cops I figured he might know as much or maybe even more than Zayvion.

  The bus stopped in Ankeny Square. Today wasn’t Saturday, so the open air market that usually drew people to this area, even in bad weather, was not set up, leaving empty parking lots, a handful of old and renovated brick buildings, and, beyond more buildings toward the east, the Willamette River.

  I got out and took a good sniff of the place. Dirt, diesel, oil fumes, river, and the stink of people, restaurants, and garbage. Too many smells for me to know if I were being followed by anyone.

  The wind was still blowing, gustier here, so I crossed the busy street at a good clip, walked up to the building, and walked in.

  A thick, heavy cloud of smells hit me as soon as I stepped into the building that was currently occupied by several clothing stores, restaurants, and other retail outlets. Got a nose full of incense, hot dogs, candles, soap, garlic, frying oil, espresso, and more.

  Why in the world would Hounds want to meet in a place that was so overloaded with smells? It didn’t make any sense. But the more I thought about it as I wandered around, the more I realized it actually made a lot of sense. Too many smells was a better cover than no smell at all. I couldn’t distinguish any one person’s scent. I simply could not Hound without magic here. It was the perfect way to ensure a level playing field, a way to disguise our scents from each other.

  Tricky.

  And since Mr. I’m-not-awake hadn’t told me where, exactly, they were meeting other than on the lower level, it made this whole thing into one big smelly treasure hunt.

  If only my head weren’t hurting so much, I might actually have enjoyed wandering down the mazelike hallways, lit with “vintage” (i.e., dim) lighting, and passageways that led to bricked up doorways or maintenance closets. This was no place to be wandering around tired, hurting, and irritated.

  So what was I doing? Yeah. D. All of the above.

  Anyone could be lingering in the shadows. Anyone could be waiting behind the jogs of brick walls. It looked like the kind of place Trager’s men would hang out. How great was that?

  “Beckstrom?”

  I slowed my pace. A man, the owner of the voice, stepped out from where he was indeed hanging out behind a jog in the wall. He was a little shorter than me, thin in a smoked-leather sort of way. His face was sallow and clean shaven, his blue eyes startled pinpoints beneath light brown hair combed back slick. He had that ruddy bloodshot look to him that spoke of too little sleep, too much whiskey, and too many years of chain-smoking.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “This way.” He turned and walked halfway down the hall and then leaned his shoulder into the wall to pushed open a door I would not have noticed on a casual stroll by.

  He kept walking through the door. I paused on the threshold. A narrow corridor stretched out from here, dirt floor to either side of an uneven wooden walkway. The walls were bare studs with a random scattering of drywall nailed into place. At the end of the corridor was another hall that ran to the right, toward the river, though we were belowground and there were no windows to confirm I had my bearings straight.

  Was there any chance he actually wasn’t a Hound and wasn’t taking me to the Hound meeting? The way my day had been going, yes. Yes, there was a high probability he could be anyone taking me anywhere for any reason. Right down Lon Trager’s gullet, even.

  “Where are we headed?” I called out, still standing in the doorway.

  He glanced down and back at me like I was stupid. “Hound meeting.”

  Okay. Was that so hard? I shut the door behind me and followed my whiskey-drinking white rabbit all the way down the corridor and then down the next, which opened up—and I mean there was no door, just a wide-open wall with the rough edges of bricks sticking out like bad teeth—to reveal a room beyond.

  “Vintage” didn’t begin to describe this room.

  Stained wallpaper that may have once been yellow and green but now leaned toward brown and browner covered the three walls, curling back in the corners and torn at the seams. The lighting was a huge brass and glass chandelier that was probably worth a small fortune, and the floor of the room was covered by several layers of threadbare rugs that looked like they’d grind down to dust if you put too much weight on
your heels.

  Old-timey. Funky with the stink of mold and rotted wood. And likely the cheapest, crappiest meeting space in Portland. While one part of my mind took in the room, the other part of my head was tallying the people and details.

  Ten people in the room, six men and four women. Most of them stood against the walls, equidistant from each other like they were holding down territory. At the table, which was four sawhorses supporting a plank of plywood in the middle of the room, sat Pike. Anthony, still in his gray hoodie, glared at me from the far right corner, where he was getting his slouch on. Other than my guide, Whiskey Guy, who wandered over to my left to claim an empty spot of wall, I didn’t recognize anyone else.

  Okay, this was where my jaded outlook on being a Hound kicked in. It was easy to identify a Hound in a room—all you had to do was find someone who looked completely antisocial, yet became too curious too quickly, and of course was hiding an additction.

  “Allie Beckstrom,” Pike said in his gravely voice, “meet the Pack. I’m only gonna go through this once, so pay attention. That’s Sid Westerling.” He pointed to the first man standing on my right.

  Heavyset and blond enough to have Norwegian ancestors, Sid wore wire frame glasses and looked like he should be sitting behind a computer, not sniffing down spells. I guessed him for prescription painkillers. He nodded a hello. “I think you and I worked the Spatler case a few years back.”

  I frowned, dug for the memory, found it. “Right. You were fast.”

  He grinned and tucked his thumbs in the sides of his Dockers. “Yes, I was. Still am.”

  “That’s Dahlia Bates,” Pike said, indicating the woman who sat on a metal folding chair next to Sid.

  She was motherly looking and had short hair colored from a box that was probably called Glorious Sunset. She exhaled like she thought holding her breath would make her invisible. Or maybe she just hated the stink of mold as much as I did. Downers, I guessed. Maybe Valium.

  “Davy Silvers.”

  A young man, thin, also sat in a metal chair, the back of his head resting against the brick wall, dark circles beneath his closed eyes. His skin was a little too pale and green. Out of the bunch, I figured he was the one who answered the phone when I called.

  He lifted one hand in a wane hello but did not open his eyes. Alcohol. Probably something else in the mix too.

  “Anthony Bell.”

  I glared at Anthony, who still stunk of the sweet cherry scent of blood magic and drugs, probably coke or speed. He sniffed and spit on the floor. Nice.

  “Theresa Garcia.”

  She stood slightly away from the wall and, from my vantage, studied me from just above Pike’s left shoulder. She wore a suit jacket and black slacks over her solid build. Her hair was pulled back in a braid. She couldn’t be over five feet tall but looked like she could wrestle a bull elephant to the ground. Her hazel eyes were sharp and inquisitive, and she did not break eye contact. I figured her for hard core exercise and maybe the occasional weekend bender.

  “Tomi Nowlan.”

  A girl who looked like she was twelve going on twenty-one leaned hip and shoulder against the wall, and chewed gum. Her dark hair was tucked behind her ears but a lot of bangs hung in a heavy curtain to edge her eyes. She had on a hoodie and low-waisted jeans that showed a thin glimpse of hipbone where three thin razor scars shone white against her white skin. Her belt was wide and black, anchored by a heavy silver buckle shaped like a doggy bone. She gave me a flat stare, blew a big pink bubble, and bit it with her back molars. A cutter.

  “Beatrice Lufkin.”

  Beatrice was also standing, wearing jeans and a nice beige sweater. Walnut colored hair stuck out in wild curls barely kept in check by her wide flower-pattern headband. Her eyes were too large in her round, freckled face, but she smiled, revealing dimples, and surprise, surprise, she seemed genuinely happy to see me. “I’ve hoped to meet you for some time now,” she said. “You’ve done some really great jobs in the city.”

  “Thanks,” I said, feeling like I might have a chance at making friends with her. I guessed her drug of choice was probably weed, mushrooms, and wine coolers.

  “Jamar Legare.”

  Jamar was at least three inches taller than me and wore his mustache and beard in a circle around his mouth, his dark curls shaved close to his scalp, and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses that did nothing to hide his deep brown eyes. He had on a jean jacket with a hoodie under it and seemed comfortable surveying the room, one thumb tucked in his front pocket.

  “Afternoon,” he said.

  I nodded to him. Tough call, but I’d guess alcohol.

  “Jack Quinn.”

  Whiskey Guy, the closest person on my left, was in the middle of lighting a cigarette. He gave me a brief nod.

  The prospects of me having my own bit of wall to lean against were pretty low, since the room wasn’t very large, something made worse by the low ceiling. Everyone was scattered to maximize the distance from each other. So I just stood to one side of the door, nearest Whiskey Guy—I mean Jack—and blond Sid on the other side of the door to my right.

  “Davy,” Pike said, “is this it?”

  Davy, the Hangover Kid, opened his eyes and looked around the room. “Yep. Everyone who said they’d come.”

  I was right. He was the one who answered the phone.

  Okay, so my theory that Hounds didn’t know one another had been seriously thrown out the window in the last minute or so. It looked like all these people knew one another and knew other Hounds working in the city. Maybe I was the only one disinclined to hang out. Maybe in my push to be free of my father and his expectations, I’d taken the concept of solitary into every other aspect of my life. Maybe Hounds hung out all the time at special Hound bars, had Hound parties, and, hells, did Hound job-share and babysat one another’s Hound kids.

  “Anyone have any news?” Pike asked.

  No one spoke. Not even me. I had no idea what they considered news. Did ghosts count? Being hunted by a blood and drug lord? Magic assassins?

  “Anyone have any complaints about an employer?”

  Silence.

  “How about leads on jobs?” he asked.

  Nothing.

  At this rate, the meeting was going to be over in about thirty seconds.

  Pike pulled a small notebook and pen out of his shirt pocket. “Who’s working where?”

  Sid cleared his throat. “Gotta job with the cops. Don’t know where yet.”

  Pike noted that in his book and then looked expectantly at motherly Dahlia next to Sid.

  “Nothing that I know of,” she said.

  “Davy?” Pike asked.

  Davy didn’t even bother opening his eyes. “The college wants me to run the halls for a couple days. Probably do it this week.”

  “Do it sober,” Pike said.

  Davy shook his head like he’d heard that before and hadn’t listened last time either.

  Anthony spoke up. “I’ll be wherever you are, old man.”

  Pike noted something in his book. From the motion of the top of his pen, I was pretty sure he’d just written “ass.”

  Theresa the elephant wrestler said, “I’m still on retainer with Nike.” She shrugged. “It’s been quiet.”

  “Good,” Pike grunted. “Tomi?”

  “Jesus, Pike,” the cutter girl said, “do we have to do this every week?”

  “Every week you show up. Every week you want someone to know where the hell you are and who the hell you’re putting your life on the line for.”

  She chewed, blew, popped. I noticed Davy’s body language changed, and Tomi glanced from beneath her heavy bangs over at him, at his still-closed eyes, at his just-a-little-too-shallow-to-be-relaxed breathing, at his hands that had clenched, probably unconsciously, into fists.

  She bit her bottom lip and looked away.

  “I have a private client,” she said in a dull tone. “In the West Hills. That’s all I’ll say.”

  Davy’s fis
ts went white at the knuckles.

  “Bea?” Pike asked, shifting the tension in the room.

  “Me?” Beatrice smiled, and those dimples nipped her cheeks. She nodded, her wild curls bouncing. “I’m still pulling morgue duty for at least the rest of the month. And if I get killed there, at least you’ll have plenty of witnesses on the slab. If you can get them to talk!” She giggled.

  My eyebrows shot up. Okay, she wasn’t all freckles and sweet strawberries and cream like she looked. I made a mental note: never underestimate Beatrice. Or anyone else in the room for that matter.