Magic to the Bone ab-1

by Devon Monk

  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 renting 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.

&n
bsp; “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.”

  “Try me,” I said. I was an old pro at family hurting family.

  “When you say your father was the one, I believe you. But you were wrong.”

  I so wasn’t going to let her blame me for this. I gave her a cool stare.

  “James was wrong for what he did,” she said. “Too much pride, that Boy. Too much greed. My heart bleeds that he hurt my Boy. And kill your father.”

  There it was. Admission. No apology, but at least she had the decency to acknowledge that she thought James had killed my dad. I just hoped she would speak her mind like this on the witness stand.

  “But he is family, you know?” she said. “Family. Still, I do what is right. Tell police. Watch them arrest my Boy, take him away in chains. And my heart bleeds for him. For my poor, prideful Boy.”

  “Is that the only reason you turned him in? Because it was the right thing to do?”

  Then she did a strange thing. She looked away, looked at the floor, looked uncomfortable. “Yes.”

  She was lying. I could smell the sourness of it on her. And when she looked back at me, her expression clearly stated that she would say no more.

  I let it go. Maybe Nola could tell me more. Maybe Zayvion too, if I ever found him. Or maybe someday, when we both had time to recover our lives, I could convince her I was someone she could talk to.

  “Is Boy home from the hospital yet?” I asked.

  She laughed, a short, sharp bark. “Where have you been, Allie girl? Boy come home month ago. He is strong. Back in school.”

  “Good,” I said, and I meant it.

  The hard edge in Mama’s eyes eased. “Yes. Good. You go. This no place for you now. No place for your kind.”

  She stepped up to me, touched my right hand. The magic beneath my skin settled at her touch, the constant, roaring pressure of it eased.

  “You find your place,” she said. “Who you are. Who you should be. You find your people. Family.”

  She turned. “Go,” she said over her shoulder. She strode off into the kitchen and started yelling at one of her Boys to clean the floors.

  Boy with the gun still had his hand under the counter. I decided not to push my luck with him or his gun, and left. Mama was right about one thing. I had some searching to do. To figure out who I was. And who I intended to be.

  I stepped outside and walked as quickly as I could through the rain to the curb. I wasn’t feeling very well, the mix of smells suddenly too strong for me to stomach. I was tired too, which wasn’t much of a surprise. My stamina still wasn’t all that great.

  Rain poured harder.

  I could walk a few more blocks to the bus stop. But a cab was pulling through traffic, and I waved and whistled and caught the driver’s attention. He did a passable, if illegal, U-turn, and pulled up beside me. By this point, rain was pounding down so hard, I couldn’t see the buildings on the other side of the street. I reached for the door handle.

  A man’s hand reached down at the same time, and I was overwhelmed by the heavy stench of iron and old vitamins.

  “Allow me, Ms. Beckstrom.”

  I jerked away and stepped back. The man wore a hat and long coat, but was plain-looking, totally forgettable in a crowd. I knew his type. I’d grown up around them.

  And I knew his smell.

  This bastard had tried to hurt me. Somehow, in some way I could not remember.

  “The war is coming,” he said. “Time to choose your side.”

  Before I could do so much as think about drawing on the magic within me, before I could even whisper a mantra, or scream for the cops, he opened the door, left it open, turned, and walked away.

  What in the hell was that all about? War? What war?

  The cabbie powered down the passenger window. “You getting in, lady?”

  I could say no. There was a chance that man had somehow booby-trapped the cab. Or I could say yes, get in the cab, and get the hell away from here.

  I voted for speed over certainty.

  I climbed in the backseat, and shut and locked the door. Going to my new apartment might be a bad idea. Maybe he’d bugged the car. Maybe he knew the license plate and was following me.

  Yeah, well let him follow me. He’d get the surprise of his life if he showed up at my apartment, because I would kick his ass with every ounce of magic I had in me. The war didn’t have to come to me; I was more than happy to go to it if I had to.

  “The Forecastle.”

  The cab moved out into traffic, and even though I watched, I saw no other sign of the man. I paid the driver and got out in front of my new apartment, walked inside, and waited awhile, dripping on the floor, looking out the window at the street. Wet trees, wet buildings, wet shops. Wet people walking up the hill with wet grocery bags. Nobody stopped. Nobody looked my way.

  Maybe that had just been some sort of warning.

  For something I could not remember.

  Great.

  I headed up the stairs to my apartment. I was so very done with not knowing what the hell was going on. After hiring some movers to bring my few unbroken possessions to my new place, I’d go out and start looking for answers. And I had a good idea of who to ask first—Mr. Zayvion Jones.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I found Zayvion at the deli we’d had lunch in, and smiled at remembering that we’d had lunch there. He was sitting toward the back of the room, maybe at the same table we’d sat at, staring out the window at the gray, rainy street, his bowl of soup untouched, his coffee cup full. He did not look up as I walked in.

  The sight of him, the smell of pine, did good things for my memory, shook loose a few flashes—his smile, the taste of garlic on his lips, his eyes, burning bright. I was pretty sure I’d had it bad for this man. Might even still have it bad for him.

  I walked over to his table, and got halfway there before he glanced up.

  His face blanched and his eyes went wide. “Allie?” he whispered, like I was a ghost he didn’t want anyone to know he could see.

  “Zayvion, right?” I asked.

  “Yes.” He got back a little of his Zen and stood. “Please. Please, sit down.” He held out his hand toward me, but didn’t touch me as he held his other hand toward the seat. I felt like visiting royalty.

  “Thanks.” I eased down, careful of the scars over my ribs that still hurt, especially in the rain, especially in the city where magic pooled and flowed.

  He sat across from me, and I watched as he worked really hard to clear his face of all expression. While he was doing that, I was trying to fit him to the stories Nola had told me. That he had saved my life more than once. That he had tried to save me in the end. That we had been lovers and I had almost killed myself to save him, even though I thought he had betrayed me.

  That last part just didn’t sound like me. I wasn’t the type of person to give myself up to grand, noble sacrifices.

  And this Zayvion looked like he hadn’t shaved in a couple days, and like maybe he had been wearing the same T-shirt for too many weeks in a row. This Zayvion looked like maybe he’d been spending too much time drinking and not enough time sleeping.

 
“How are you?” I asked.

  His eyebrows shot up and he let out a nervous laugh. “I’ve been okay. How are you?”

  “Tired,” I said, “but that’s getting better every day. Nola told me everything she could.”

  “Memory loss?” he asked. “I’m sorry.”

  I shrugged and pushed my anger about it away. “Things happen. You use magic, it uses you, and I’ve been magic’s bitch for a long time.” I gave him a weak smile, and he nodded encouragingly.

  “Do you remember anything?” he asked.

  “Flashes. A few images. A lot of strong emotions without a lot of clear ideas as to why I feel that way.”

  “But Nola told you about your father?”

  I nodded. “And about Cody, James, Bonnie, and Mama. She told me about the, uh . . . Violet’s research,” I said a little more quietly, aware that the disks were still largely unknown, and as far as I knew, not entirely recovered. “And that James is up on murder charges. He’s just the tip of this tech-stealing thing, isn’t he?”

  Zayvion blinked and sat back. He did a good job of covering his surprise, and even did a good job lying. “No. I don’t know what would give you that idea.”

  What gave me that idea was Mama refusing to look me straight in the eye. What gave me that idea was the ominous war-is-coming bastard who opened the cab door for me. What gave me that idea was Zayvion being so quick to deny it, even though I could smell the lie on him.

  Fair enough. I could play along until I figured things out. I had lost my memory, not my brains. I dropped the subject and moved on.

  “Nola told me Cody cleared my name,” I said. “She’s trying to get a judge to allow him to come live with her on the farm. She has his cat.”

  “I didn’t know she was doing that,” he said. “I think that’s a good idea. Really good.”

  I did too—it would keep him safely out of the reach of magic, safely out of the reach of people who would try to use him like James had. Maybe safely out of whatever may or may not be about to happen in this city.

  “She told me my father’s funeral was a few weeks ago, while I was still in the coma.”

  “It was closed casket,” Zayvion said. “All his ex-wives attended except for your mother. There were yellow roses and red peonies everywhere. Violet cried.”