Magic to the Bone ab-1

by Devon Monk

  Of course, I’d been wrong before. Actually, I’d been wrong a lot, lately.

  Like that was going to stop me.

  I mentally intoned a mantra, pulled magic into my fingertips, set a Disbursement—a headache or stomach cramp should do it—and pulled one of the easiest, most childish stunts of any first-time magic user.

  I snapped my fingers in front of her face and set off a glyph that flashed like a two-second strobe light.

  The great thing about childish tricks is that almost no serious adult ever expects them.

  Bonnie jerked, blinked.

  I hit her in the face. Hard enough to make my hand hurt and remind me that I really should get to the gym more often. Hard enough to give me about six seconds to start running.

  These long legs of mine can do a lot with six seconds. Instead of turning and running—a great way to get shot in the back—I dodged past her and ducked into an alley, found a side door of a building open, and ran into the fluorescence of what looked and smelled like a print shop. I thought about grabbing a bottle of toner to rub over myself so I could throw her off my smell, but that kind of trick wouldn’t fool a good Hound.

  I didn’t know how hard those pain pills had rattled her brain, or how good a Hound Bonnie still was, and I had no desire to find out.

  I looked through the windows at the street, didn’t see Bonnie, and figured she was halfway down the alley by now. I needed to get somewhere, anywhere, fast.

  I pushed through the door and stepped into the flow of foot traffic. With a silent apology to Nola, I dumped my neon pink-and-green backpack in a trash can, moved my leather book and my cash from my coat pocket to my jeans pocket, and threw my coat into the first doorway to my left. I crossed the street, ran down a few side roads and jogged through a collection of shops, including a drugstore, candy store, and knitting shop.

  How had my life suddenly gotten so complicated, and why hadn’t I just taken up knitting as a hobby?

  I caught a glimpse of short-and-blonde—she’d taken off her ski cap, probably to use it to wipe the blood off her nose. She was on the corner a block away. I ducked into the next shop—stationery and cards.

  I hurried over to the older man behind the counter. I was wet enough that my shoes squished water when I walked. Must have hit some puddles on my run over here.

  “Could you call me a cab?” I asked with all the pretty-please I could manage.

  He gave me a considering look over his bifocals, and I realized I was a mess. His eyes strayed to the newspaper on the countertop, then back to me. He pulled a phone out from somewhere behind him—I was a little iffy on the details because I was keeping my eyes on the street beyond the windows.

  “Sure you don’t want me to call the police?” he asked.

  Just then a black-and-white cab pulled up and stopped at the light.

  “Yes. No. I got it—there’s a cab. Thanks.”

  I ran out of the store and ducked into the backseat of the taxi.

  The cabbie was a heavy man with bloodshot brown eyes and a knitted hat with a red pom-pom on top. “What’s your hurry, miss?”

  “Just trying to stay out of the rain,” I said, a little out of breath.

  “Doesn’t look like you’re doing a very good job of it.” He pulled out into traffic. “Don’t you own a coat, young lady?”

  “Forgot it at home,” I said. “It’s been a day of disappointments.”

  He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “Where to?”

  “What? Oh.” I had no idea. Where should I go? I had no safe harbor in this town. “Do you go outside city limits?”

  “I do if you show me your two hundred dollars in cash.”

  “Right.” I only had about fifty left on me. I so should have pulled all my money out while I had the chance. Something to remember the next time I was being chased by a crazy gun-toting tackle-back sore-loser drug-sucking cheerleader. I rubbed at my eyes.

  “Okay, how much to get me to St. John’s?”

  “Fifteen bucks should get you there.”

  “Best offer I’ve had all day.” I leaned back and watched the city go by. I tried not to think too much but my mind kept returning to my dad’s death. Every time it did I went sort of numb and random bits of conversations and fragments of my childhood drifted through my thoughts. I tried to think of happy times we had together, and honestly couldn’t drag even one image forward. Even the pancake breakfast hadn’t turned out well.

  He had always been a distant, foreboding figure in my life, and when he loomed near he was the voice of judgment, of disapproval. A figure of authority and fear. The only time I saw him smile was when he was trying to get someone to do something his way. And, of course, people always did.

  Except me. I’d done anything I could to not follow his wishes. And now, here I was, running for my life, cold and miserable and hoping I could beg one more day of refuge on the worst side of town. I’d done a bang-up job of making a success of myself, hadn’t I?

  Maybe I should have gone back and been a part of his company like he said. Maybe I could have been a better daughter. I pushed those thoughts away. It wouldn’t have changed what happened today. Nothing I could have done would have changed it.

  Or at least that’s what I tried to tell myself.

  Chapter Seven

  The taxi came to a smooth stop.

  “Here it is, miss. As far as I go.”

  Seemed like I’d been hearing that a lot lately. I unlocked my arms from over my chest. I was wet. Cold. Wearing nothing but a thin sweater and jeans. What had I been thinking, throwing away my coat? Sure it would make it a little harder for Bonnie to spot me in a crowd, but if she tripped over me because I passed out from pneumonia, it was going to be a dead giveaway.

  I dug in my pocket for cash, found a twenty. I knew I was overpaying him, but didn’t want to take the time to ask for change.

  “Thanks.”

  The driver took my money without ever looking away from the rearview mirror. “You gonna be okay?”

  I nodded. “Got family down here. I’m good,” I lied. I got out of the car, and into the rain. The taxi was already driving away by the time I’d taken two steps.

  I wasn’t kidding about the pneumonia thing. I felt all shaky and cold inside, and my head was stuffed and numb. Maybe I really was getting sick.

  Maybe I grieved a death in the family by going catatonic. Wouldn’t that be lovely?

  North Portland is no place to wander around while confused or injured. Why then, I wondered, had I been making a point of doing just that?

  Because I had no one in my life I could trust. And the one sure thing—the hate-hate relationship between my father and me—was gone now too. I wanted to run from town and curl up in front of Nola’s fireplace so bad, it hurt. Instead, I kept my ears and nose open, and headed toward Mama’s place. She had a phone. I could call Nola. Call the police. And if not that, at least Mama had a gun.

  A man strolled out from under the overhang of a half-plaster, half-brick bar, and made good time crossing the distance to me. The heavy odor of pine wafted through the rain. Zayvion.

  He fell into step beside me, and I didn’t even look over at him. I didn’t know how he knew to find me, or that I’d be here right now, but I was glad.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  I sniffed. “About what?”

  “Your father.”

  Silence.

  “Allie, I don’t think it’s safe for you in the city right now. Do you have somewhere else you can be for a while?”

  I stopped, turned to look at him. “You don’t think it’s safe? What do you know, Zayvion Jones? What do you know about my father, what do you know about me, what do you know about that bitch who’s trying to kill me?”

  He tipped his head a little to the side. “Which bitch?”

  “A whacked-out Hound named Bonnie who thinks it’s fun to mess with people who have just had family members die on them.” I was angry, frustrated. I wanted to scream.
Wanted to hit someone. I wanted to cry. And if Zayvion knew stuff I didn’t—if he had an idea how my father died, or why Bonnie wanted me, I needed to know.

  He shrugged off his coat—a dark blue ski-appropriate thing with ratty edges and cuffs—and held it out for me. “Why don’t we start by getting you warm.”

  “I’d rather have answers.”

  “Mmm.” He walked around behind me and I slid my arms into the coat while he held it for me. “You can have both.”

  I shivered at the heat lingering in the fleecy interior. It smelled like Zayvion—like his strong pine cologne and the warm, male scent of sweat and soap. It was good, really good, to be so near him. I remembered our kiss, how surprising and right it had felt. He confused me. But not so much that I wanted him to leave me alone.

  His coat fit well enough I could zip it and didn’t have to roll up the sleeves.

  Zayvion stuck his hands in his jean pockets and somehow didn’t look cold in the rain. He still wore the black wool hat, and had on a sweater with a turtle-neck under it, so maybe he didn’t feel the biting cold of the morning like I did. Or maybe it wasn’t all that cold out.

  Maybe I was in shock.

  Nah.

  “I heard about your dad’s death on the news this morning,” he said. “It’s on all the channels, the radio, the papers. I’ve been looking for you to make sure you’re okay.” He started walking toward Mama’s and I fell into step with him, because that’s where I was planning to go too.

  “And you came here to tell me to get out of town?”

  “I think it would be a good idea.”

  “Do you know who hired Bonnie Sherman?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know who Bonnie is. The Hound you were talking about?”

  “The Hound with a gun who likes the idea of me and dad meeting again real soon.” I tried to make it sound all tough-cop, but instead it just sounded like I was confused and a little hysterical.

  Zay was silent a bit. Finally, “I don’t know anyone named Bonnie Sherman. But your dad made a lot of enemies over his long business career. A lot of people might want you dead. You are, after all, the heir to his business and fortune, unless he’s named Violet in his will.”

  “Who?”

  He gave me a sideways look. Realized I was not joking. “His wife.”

  “Oh.” I’d stopped keeping track after wife number three. “So I could inherit a fortune. That’s not news. What else, Zayvion? Did Dad tell you something? About me? Something I should know?”

  “He didn’t confide in me, Allie. I was just a guy he hired to tail you.”

  “Just?”

  “Just. But sure, I kept my eyes open when I was around him. Listened. He was a careful man. Didn’t let things slip, didn’t let his emotions show. It’s not like he ever sat with me over coffee to share secrets. He wasn’t that kind of guy.”

  “No,” I said, “he wasn’t.”

  We walked a little farther, and a truck passed by, the unmuffled engine loud and slow.

  “I did wonder if something was happening in the company,” Zayvion said once the truck had passed. “Like maybe he was going to launch a new product?” He said the last as a question, as if I, of all people in the world, would know anything about what my father was doing.

  “I hadn’t seen him in seven years.” It came out dead flat, and sounded sad, even to me. It sounded like I regretted it. Regretted my father was such an asshole I couldn’t love him no matter how much I wanted to.

  I sniffed again and was really glad it was raining hard, ’cause when I wiped my face, I didn’t have to explain that the tears were from anger, not sorrow. Okay, maybe sorrow too, but at least I didn’t have to explain it.

  My nose was getting all stuffy and snotty, and that wasn’t going to do me any favors, since I really needed to be able to smell if I was going to stay ahead of Bonnie. I swallowed hard and bit at the inside of my cheek and thought calming thoughts.

  You’re a tough girl, Allie, I told myself. Suck it up. There will be time to cry later.

  “Going to Mama’s?” Zayvion asked.

  “Need to use her phone to call the cops,” I said.

  “To report Bonnie?”

  “Yes. And everything else. I figure just because I haven’t gotten a summons, it doesn’t mean they won’t want to know what I know about my dad’s death.”

  Much better. No sniffling or sad, sobby words. Just calm, confident, practical choices. The Queen of Matter-of-Fact, that’s me.

  “Hmm,” he said.

  I looked over at him, but he didn’t say anything more.

  I stopped walking. “Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with my father dying, Zayvion.”

  He pressed his lips together and nodded, like he was sort of expecting me to say something like that. I watched him very closely, looking for any hint of falsehood, in his words, his voice, his body, his scent.

  He reached out and caught my hand, and held it while he looked me straight in the eye. The need to draw nearer to him, to feel the pressure of him against me was overwhelming. So much so that I wondered if there were more than just attraction here—if maybe there were something magical going on between us. I couldn’t sense a spell, or Influence of any kind from him. But I ached to be closer to him. I stood my ground, a little worried. It wasn’t like me to trust so quickly.

  “I didn’t kill him.” He paused and I knew, as strong as blood magic Truth, that he was not lying to me. “I don’t know who did yet. When I find out, I’ll tell you.”

  He did not step back, did not let go of my hand, and the contact, of another human being, of flesh and heat and comfort, was enough to bring the tight, tearful feeling back in my chest.

  I knew I should pull away, but I didn’t want to.

  “You were with him after I left,” I said, so softly it was almost a whisper.

  “I know. And I’m sorry.”

  My heart beat so hard I thought maybe he could hear it. “Me too,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure if I was sorry I’d accused him, or sorry my father was dead.

  Gone.

  I took a deep breath and cleared my throat. “So you don’t think it was just a heart attack?”

  “No. They would have mentioned that in the paper.”

  “Do you think magic was involved?”

  He looked down at his shoe, but still held my hand. “Maybe. How much do you really know about your father’s business? His past?”

  “Not much. When I was a kid, I didn’t pay any attention to those things. Then when I was older . . . well, he never sat down with me over coffee to share secrets either.”

  Zayvion’s eyes were soft with compassion. Neither of us said any more. I guess we didn’t have to. He squeezed my hand one more time and then let go. The sudden absence of him was cold and sharp. I didn’t want him to go—to go away too.

  Wow. I was a mess. But a thought occurred to me.

  “Don’t you have a cell phone?”

  Zay shook his head.

  “But I thought you called that ambulance for Boy.”

  “I did. From the bar down the street.”

  I stuffed my hand in Zayvion’s coat pocket. “You have something against cell phones?”

  “No. They just break when I use them.”

  I walked up the two wooden stairs to Mama’s restaurant. I paused with my hand on the doorknob. “Break?”

  “Must be my magnetic personality.” He smiled, and I knew it was an act.

  “Don’t do that,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Lie like that.”

  Zayvion held very still. He looked surprised, then thoughtful. “I’m sorry,” he said, and that I knew he really meant. The calm Zay, the Zen-Zay came back.

  “I don’t care why you don’t have a cell,” I said. “I don’t have one either.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Can’t afford the bill.” Huh. That sounded kind of weird coming from a woman who was about to inherit
a fortune. I needed to change the subject before my mind went running down a thousand different what-ifs again. “You’re not following me around, are you?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Now I am. You have my coat.”

  I rolled my eyes and pulled open the door to Mama’s.

  Boy was behind the counter, and I got to thinking that, except for really early this morning, I’d never seen him away from his post. This time he wasn’t drying cups, he was reading a paper.

  Great.

  The thick smell of onions and olive oil and garlic got through my stuffy nose and did some work clearing my sinuses.

  I walked into the restaurant, noted two men at a table to my right, and a woman—not Bonnie—at a table to my left. They didn’t glance my way as I walked in, so I didn’t spend any more time looking at them.

  Boy looked up though. Looked up, and looked shocked.

  The question was, why? Because I was walking in, or because Zayvion was walking in behind me?

  “Morning, Boy,” Zayvion said. “I’ll have a coffee. Two?” he asked me.

  I shook my head. “I just need to use the phone. Is that okay?”

  Boy scowled at Zayvion and didn’t answer.

  I was at the counter now, in front and to one side of Boy so I had a good view of half the room. Zayvion was directly in front of Boy, holding out a dollar like he was daring Boy to take it and get the coffee he hadn’t bothered to pour yet. Something was wrong. Boy smelled like fear, and his breathing was a little too fast.

  “Where’s Mama?” I asked more quietly.

  Mama came out of the kitchen, right on cue. If I didn’t know how much she hated technology of every kind, I’d say there was a hidden surveillance system set up. She looked like she was in a rush, her hair pulling free from a clip, her apron stained with flour and grease.

  “I told you to go away,” Mama said as she hurried behind Boy. She pointed at me. “You. Out.” Then she pointed at Zayvion. “And you. Out. Out of Mama’s restaurant.”

  She was breathing too hard too. She looked worried, maybe afraid. I’d never seen her afraid. Not even when Boy lay dying on her countertop.