by Devon Monk
‘‘Both. Now are you going to stop complaining and try something new’’—she pointed to the skeins of yarn—‘‘or are you coming out to help me clean the chicken coops?’’
‘‘When you put it that way, how can I turn down knitting?’’
‘‘I’ll get my needles,’’ she said. ‘‘We can do a little before lunch.’’
She jogged up the stairs to her bedroom and the kitten padded into the room. It eyed the skeins of yarn and mewed. I pulled out the end of a string and dangled it over the edge of the couch. The kitten belonged to Cody. Nola said she’d found her out in the field the day after Zay and I had left.
‘‘How did it go with the attorneys?’’ I said, loud enough for my voice to carry.
‘‘Good,’’ she yelled down. ‘‘We’re closer to convincing the authorities that Cody would be well served out here.’’ She headed back down the stairs, a tapestry tote in one hand. ‘‘The sheriff has decided to get involved. He says it’s because he’s concerned for all of the citizens under his jurisdiction. I think he sees a golden opportunity for some media exposure.’’
The kitten bounded all of six inches and attacked the thread dangling in my hand.
Nola made a sour face and plunked down on the couch next to me. ‘‘I don’t like the sheriff’s interest, but his involvement was like pouring grease on gears. It looks like I might even have Cody out here as soon as this summer, if all goes well.’’
‘‘And if it doesn’t?’’ I asked, tugging back on the string and fishing the kitten up onto her hind feet.
‘‘You know me. I am not the kind of woman who gives up on the people she cares for.’’
Oh. She meant me, too. ‘‘Thanks,’’ I said.
She pulled out two long, wooden needles and a ball of light blue yarn. ‘‘Ready?’’
I tossed the skein of yarn under the coffee table for the kitten to chase, then picked one of my yarns, the mint green-colored one, and nodded. ‘‘Let’s do this.’’
‘‘Good. First, make a slip knot.’’
Nola had an annoying habit of being right.
About two weeks later, when she and I had both finished a set of gloves and knitted matching scarves, I knew it was time for me to go. The rains of September were now November sleet, and the ground stayed frozen all day.
It was time for this bird to fly south. Well, north and west, really, to Portland, before the snows made it hard to get over the pass.
I made some phone calls. First to my bank, and found out I’d had a sizable deposit transferred into my account at the beginning of the month. When I asked them to trace it back, they said it was from Daniel Beckstrom’s estate.
And yeah, that creeped me out. Even dead, my dad was trying to influence my life. And at the same time, it was probably one of the nicest things he’d ever done for me. I was so damn broke right now, not to mention the new debt for the hospital stay before Nola and, as she told me, my stepmother Violet bullied people to get me transferred out here, away from magic, and into Nola’s capable hands.
Of course, I had not forgotten I was late on rent. Months late now.
I called my landlord, and he had my apartment locked up. Hadn’t sold my stuff because my stepmother had made out a check to cover rent through next month.
I’d have to pay her back, maybe even thank her for that. If I ever talked to her again.
But what really sent me back toward the city, more than the threat of snow, more than the restlessness, was magic. Even though there was no magic here at Nola’s, I still carried a small magic within me. Except it wasn’t small anymore. At night it shifted within me, slow and gentle, stretching, stroking, growing. I felt pregnant with it, heavy with it, but unlike what I imagined carrying a child was like, magic filled my whole body: my bones, my muscles, my organs, my skin. I could smell it. Taste it. See it. Hear it.
It made me ache in a strange and pleasant way, like a hunger I could not sate.
And somehow I knew the answer to that hunger was in the city.
Nola drove me to the train, stood in the icy rain, and held me tightly. ‘‘Be careful. I’ll call you when I get the new phone installed. Then I expect you to call me every day.’’
‘‘I’ll try,’’ I said. We’d come up with a new plan of me calling and telling her about my day. Sort of a backup to my little book and the computer at home. ‘‘If you ever want to get out of the dark ages and maybe actually buy a computer, I’ll send you e-mail too.’’
Nola rubbed my back one last time, then let me go. ‘‘I’ll think about it. Good luck, honey. I’ll see you soon.’’ She climbed back into the truck with Jupe.
I picked up the new backpack she had given me and the duffel that had some extra clothes I’d bought, my knitting stuff, and Zayvion’s letter in it. I wore a warm, knee-length coat I’d bought in town, and the gloves and scarf Nola knitted. I wasn’t so much trying to hide my marks as just trying to stay warm against the bitter cold.
I got on the train and waved to Nola and Jupe. It was time to try to make my real life my real life again. To do that, there were a couple of people I needed to see. And one of those people lived in St. John’s.
In my old life—the life I remembered—things had a way of going wrong a lot.
It looked like my new life was going to be a lot like my old life.
I stood just inside the doorway of my apartment, and could not force myself to take one more step.
What my landlord had been reticent in telling me over the phone was that my apartment had been ransacked. My living room looked like it had been hit by a hammer-happy demolition crew. Everything was ruined.
He hadn’t reported it to the police, which was no big surprise. The surprise was that there was another smell in my room more powerful than the stink of old magic. I had smelled it before—iron and minerals, like old vitamins—but I couldn’t remember who or what smelled like that. I broke out in a cold, terrified sweat. Who or whatever belonged to that smell had scared the crap out of me. Were they, or it, here? Had they or it recently been here? I didn’t hear anyone in the apartment. I didn’t sense anyone in the apartment.
Magic stirred within me, pushing to be free of my tenuous control over it. I breathed through my mouth, trying not to smell, trying not to freak out, and trying to think calm thoughts so the magic would not slip my grip. Coming back to the city—back to where magic flowed beneath my feet, filling me up and pouring through me to the ground again like a circular river—had been hard.
So far, I could control the magic, or at least let it flow through me and not use it. So far.
I exhaled, and told the magic to rest, to be calm, slow, like a summer stream. That helped some. Enough that I could look around the room and see how much of my physical life I’d lost—most of it.
But I still could not force myself to step in—into the stink of old magic, into the panic-inducing odor of iron and old vitamins.
I needed out of here. Fast.
I left the room and locked the door behind me. I took the stairs down and strode out into the chill of late afternoon. It wasn’t raining for a change, but it was going to be dark soon. I wanted to yell. To rage at the entire, stinking, unfair world. To hit someone. Anyone.
Magic lifted. Sensuous heat licked up my arm, promising power.
No. The last thing I needed to do was something magical.
I tipped my head back and stared at the gray sky, trying to get a grip. I counted to ten. Twice. I thought calm thoughts.
Then I tried to be reasonable. I had nowhere to go, but I was not sleeping in that dump tonight.
I hailed a cab and let my nose—literally—lead me to several apartment buildings to the west. It meant a couple of extra hundred a month in rent. I’d find a way to swing it. I couldn’t live in that crappy apartment anymore. It was time for a new start. A blank slate.
The third apartment complex I tried was called the Forecastle. The building didn’t stink of magic, had no elevators, and was renti
ng out a third-floor one-bedroom. What more could a girl want?
It was only five o’clock, still close enough to normal business hours that I didn’t feel bad pounding on the manager’s door.
It took a minute, but I finally heard footsteps, then the lock being turned.
‘‘Yes?’’
The manager was a heavy man, bald, wearing jeans and a button-down shirt. He smelled like chicken broth, and he was short. Short enough that his wide, round face was level with my boobs.
Great.
He stared at my chest, but I had to give him some credit because he managed to pull his gaze up and actually look me in the eyes.
‘‘I’d like to rent the one-bedroom, and I’d like to stay in it tonight.’’
‘‘It doesn’t work like that, lady. I’ll need to do a credit check, get some references. Why don’t you come back tomorrow.’’ He took a step backward.
He was going to slam that door in my face. I was going to be stuck with nowhere to go tonight unless I wanted to sleep in my wrecked apartment, or a women’s shelter.
Oh, screw that.
The one thing we Beckstroms did well was Influence people. And even though I’d sworn off using it, I felt justified in breaking my vow. This was an emergency.
‘‘Please?’’ I put a little Influence behind my words, just the slightest amount, because I wasn’t sure what all the magic coursing through me would do.
What it did was sting. My right arm felt like I’d just wrapped it in Band-Aids and ripped them off all in one go. My left arm felt heavy and cold.
I drew a sharp breath.
Well, that hurt.
I tried again, more carefully. ‘‘My apartment was broken into and I can’t stay there. My credit isn’t all that great, but I have money in the bank that will do first and last, and a month in advance if you need it.’’ That was better. Just the barest breath of Influence behind the words. My arms didn’t hurt as much. I concentrated on only Influencing him to give me the benefit of the doubt, not to fall senseless beneath the power of my words.
‘‘My name’s Allie Beckstrom,’’ I added.
That got him moving.
‘‘Oh,’’ he said. He studied my face more closely, then nodded and nodded. ‘‘Oh. I didn’t recognize you. Come in. We’ll get the papers filled out and I’ll show you the apartment.’’
He opened the door and I stepped in.
‘‘Bad couple of months you’ve had,’’ he noted casually as he dug through a messy stack of papers on a desk. ‘‘With your father and all.’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ I said, ‘‘it has been.’’
I looked around the room and noted a couple photos of men and women in police uniforms on the wall, including one of what seemed to be a younger version of the man in front of me.
‘‘Are you a police officer?’’ I asked.
He pulled out a clipboard and clamped some forms onto it. He handed me the clipboard and dug around on the desk for a pen.
‘‘Was. Retired. You thinking about renting for a year? I can give you a break on the price if you agree to stay that long.’’
I kind of liked the idea of renting from someone who would know how to look out for trouble if it came.
‘‘A year sounds good. I can use all the breaks I can get.’’ I took the pen he offered and began filling out the form. I was happy to discover that I could complete it without having to refer to my little book.
He showed me to the apartment, a moderate-sized but well-kept place with windows that looked out through the branches of the trees lining the street, and over the busy street itself. Not much noise came through the windows, even though I noted a bus stop just a few blocks up the hill.
I liked it.
I spent the first night of my new life sleeping on the floor, curled up beneath my coat, duffel bag under my head for a pillow, happier than I had been for days.
The next day I took the bus to St. John’s.
I didn’t know why, but crossing the railroad track always put me in a better mood. There was something good about this rotten side of town. Something invisible to the eye, but obvious to the soul.
I stepped off the bus, and waited as it drove past before crossing the street. It was raining lightly, a misty sort of rain, and I kept close to the buildings, using their awnings to try to stay dry. The air stank of diesel, dead fish, and the salt-and-hickory smell of bacon and onions being fried.
A shadow moved in the doorway to my left, and I glanced over expecting . . . someone. There was no one there. Except for an abandoned shopping cart, the doorway was empty.
Great. This was not the place to be if I was suddenly going to get all jumpy and start second-guessing myself.
Suck it up, I told myself. You can do this.
I tucked my hands in my coat pocket and walked up the two wooden steps to Mama’s door.
The clatter of dishes being washed rang out from the kitchen and the moist heat of the restaurant wrapped around me. At the tables to my right and left were an even split of men and women, maybe ten in total. No one I knew, or at least no one I remembered.
Ahead of me, with his hand still beneath the counter on his gun, was Boy.
Nola told me I’d been shot. Once by a man Zayvion said broke into his apartment. Once by an old Hound enemy of mine, Bonnie. She did not mention me ever being wounded by Boy, but Zayvion had given her only sketchy details about that night we’d all met in the kitchen.
It wasn’t like I could go through my life jumping at shadows. Or guns.
I could do this. I had to do this if I wanted my life to be mine again.
That bravado got me across the room and standing in front of Boy.
‘‘So,’’ I said, pleased that it came out low and casual. ‘‘Is Mama here?’’
‘‘Allie girl?’’
I looked to the right.
Mama stopped washing a table, wiped her hands on a towel, and strode over to me.
‘‘Why you come here?’’
‘‘I need to ask you a few things.’’
She glared at me, but I stood my ground.
‘‘Fine.’’ She caught my elbow and walked me toward the door, as far away from Boy and her patrons as she could get.
‘‘You don’t belong here, Allie girl. Not now. Not anymore.’’
I wasn’t convinced I’d ever really belonged here. But I’d always felt welcome. And even though Nola told me Mama had finally gone to the police and told them about James’ killing my father and putting the hit on Boy, it was apparent my welcome was worn through.
‘‘Maybe not,’’ I said. ‘‘But I never thought you would just stand by and let James hurt Boy like that. How could you look away while he suffered? He was just a little kid. He could have died.’’
Mama pulled herself up, gaining maybe half an inch on her five foot two frame.
‘‘You think I know what James does?’’ She was angry. It was the first time I had ever heard her call any of her sons by their name. ‘‘You think he tells me the things he does? Tells me the people he does it with? You don’t know. Don’t know what it is like for family to hurt family.’’