by Devon Monk
This was a little like the map Stotts had of the city, only a much bigger, much better version.
There were four glowing points on the map. One just on the Vancouver side of the river, one out east, up the gorge at Multnomah Falls, one southeast of downtown, and one west in the hills.
The wells.
There were other lines that glowed too, networks of the pipes and conduits that covered the entire city. The only place with no light was St. Johns, which looked small and neglected, nearly surrounded by the river, and cut as clean as a knife by the railroad where the network of magic ended.
But there were other dark spots like little black holes, little St. Johns, scattered across the map. Most of those were in the heart of the city.
“What are the black spots?” I asked.
“The large area is St. Johns, where there is no magic,” Victor said. “You know the lines are the networks your father worked very hard to implement. And the black spots are where gates have appeared in the last six months.”
“Is that a lot?”
He looked away from the gadget in his hand. “If you had entered the Authority even two years ago, I would have been hard-pressed to show you a dozen recent gate openings.”
I did a quick scan of the map. At least a couple hundred. More, probably, if the map were zoomed in closer.
“There has been an inordinate amount of activity between the realms of life and death, the magics of light and dark,” he said. “It’s been . . . challenging.”
“When did it start picking up?” I sat on the couch, Victor and Maeve to my right. Zay shifted and put his arm around me so I could lean on him. Nice.
“Last September.”
A lot of things happened last September. I’d been shot twice. Dad had been murdered, Mama’s youngest Boy had been hit by magic, I’d saved Cody’s life, met Zayvion, almost died in a wild-magic storm, fell into a coma. For starters.
“Why?” he asked.
I glanced over at him. Curiosity sharpened his gaze. I realized I’d zoned out long enough thinking about my personal September that the silence had become awkward.
“I was remembering September. A lot happened. To me,” I added.
“Your father died,” he said.
I nodded. “I channeled a wild storm and almost killed myself. That was also the month I was shot. I’m pretty sure Dane was one of the people who shot me.”
“He was.”
Victor’s casual agreement was exasperating. “And you never did anything to him? He shot me, and you didn’t even bother to tell me about it?”
I was so not okay with that.
“Dane is Sedra’s right hand, and in many ways equal to the Voices of the Authority,” Victor said. “If he is questioned, we are questioning her. It gets . . . politick. He insisted it was an accident. Self-defense. That you rushed him and tried to kill him and that he was carrying out Sedra’s orders.”
I didn’t remember any of it, so for all I knew, that could be true.
“Did Sedra order him to kill me?”
“She ordered him to stop anyone who was involved with the murder of your father, for inciting distrust among the Authority and agitating the war between factions.”
“Me? She thought I was fueling the wars between the factions? I didn’t even know about the Authority back then.”
“We weren’t sure of that,” he said.
“You could have asked. Hell, my dad had Zay following me around town—you could have asked Zay.”
“Why do you think he was following you?”
“Because my dad hired him.”
“That’s true. But he was also watching your father. To see what he was doing with you. To see what he was using you for.”
Right. I kept forgetting that nobody in the Authority trusted one another. Well, now that sides had been taken, and lives lost, a much clearer idea of who was on what side was emerging. “I don’t think you have all your facts straight,” I said.
“Please.” Victor spread his hands. “Enlighten me.”
“Dane was involved in the murder of my dad,” I said.
Victor was suddenly very, very still.
“He was there,” I said. “He told me he and Greyson killed Dad.”
Maeve cursed. “When did he tell you that?”
“This morning. He said he was going to kill me like he killed my dad.” Saying it made me a little light-headed. I was discussing my own death like it was a speeding ticket I’d barely avoided.
“What else did he say?” Victor asked.
“He wanted to know where Dad is keeping Sedra. He said Jingo Jingo was working for Dad, and that Dad has been telling me things and Closing me since I was five to make holes in my head so he could possess me. Dane thought I knew where Sedra was because Dad told me. He hasn’t,” I added.
I took another drink of coffee. The whole thing made me feel dirty. Used. If what Dane said was true, if my dad had been Closing me since I was five, taking my memories, my life away, I didn’t know what that made me. A toy? An experiment? How much of my life had I lost? How much of me had Dad selectively culled to shape me into what he wanted me to be?
How much of my life had I decided upon? Was I nothing but what my father planned me to be?
Maeve made a tsk sound. “Ah, Allie. You know he could be lying.”
I nodded. I didn’t tell her how much I hoped that was the case. Right now, the idea that magic randomly stole my memories was a lot easier pain to deal with than if my dad had been tearing me into little pieces all my life.
“We don’t know for sure yet.” She stood and walked toward the middle of the room to a deep walnut bureau. “But we will find out, Allie. Won’t we, Victor?”
Victor finally moved. He took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth, his elbows on the chair’s arms. He was looking at the map on the wall, as focused as a sharpshooter waiting for a clean shot.
“Yes,” he said. “We will.”
Maeve opened one of the bureau doors and chose a bottle, then retrieved shot glasses from another shelf. She poured us drinks and cupped the four glasses in one hand, offering the first to Victor, who took it with a nod and shot it back in one go.
I don’t think I’d ever seen Victor drink during a meeting.
That he was drinking now was a clear sign of the state of things.
I took the glass she offered me too, the smoky oak smell rising to my nose. Whiskey. I poured it into my half cup of coffee and sipped. Hot, with that tip-of-the-tongue taste of leather. I wasn’t going to finish the cup—it’d probably just put me to sleep if I did—but the added heat in the coffee was nice.
“Are you sure your father hasn’t told you where Sedra is?” Victor asked.
I cradled the coffee in my good hand. “I don’t think so, but I don’t know. He might have. Back at the inn, before the fight, I think he Closed me.”
Victor made a frustrated sigh and scrubbed his hand over his face before dragging it back over his hair. “You think? Did you tell any of us about this?”
“I told Shame. And Hayden. But there wasn’t time to do anything else. And then we were trying to close the Death well and fighting the solid Veiled, and Dad was talking through me, to you, and . . .” I shrugged. I was doing the best I could. If that wasn’t good enough for him, I didn’t give a damn.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right. There hasn’t been time. But there is time now. I think before we do anything else, we should address the situation with your father.”
Zay had been sipping his whiskey, holding it in his mouth before swallowing. He took down the last of it and set the glass on the table at his elbow.
“Have either of you seen Shame or Terric?” Victor asked.
As if on cue, Shame and Terric came walking through the door.
“Bullshit,” Terric said, ending whatever conversation they’d been having.
“Afternoon, all,” Shame said. “What are w
e drinking?”
“Whiskey,” Maeve said.
“Bless you, Mum. Don’t mind if I do.” He beelined for the liquor cabinet.
“Just a shot is all for you, Shamus Flynn,” she said. “We have a day yet to work.”
Terric walked around the couch on Zay’s side and rolled his eyes before taking one of the empty chairs to Zay’s left.
“Anything we need to know about?” Zay asked.
“You already know that Shame is a complete idiot, so no.”
Shame knocked back two shots and poured another one before his mom called out his name.
“Two shots won’t even warm my bones,” he complained.
“You’ll get by on cold bones, then,” Maeve said. “Did you have any luck at all?”
He turned, two full shot glasses in his hand. “Finding Dane? No. Can tell you where he isn’t. He isn’t a lot of places.”
“Did you document them?” Victor asked.
“That was Ter’s job.”
“I uploaded it,” Terric said. “You should have it.”
Victor opened his nifty little tech device and scanned the screen. “You covered some ground. Good. We’ve also checked the east side and don’t see any sign of him.”
“If he’s smart, he’s out of the city,” Zay said.
Victor nodded. “I don’t think he’ll leave. Not without finding Sedra.”
Shame handed Terric one of the shots and sat next to his mother.
“Shame,” Victor said, “I’ll need your assistance with Allie.”
“What are we doing to Allie?” he asked with a grin.
“We’re going to see if we can’t solve the problem her father has become.”
“I’m coming too,” Zay said.
“Fine.” Victor stood.
“How exactly are we going to solve the problem?” I asked.
“I’ll find him in your mind and remove him,” Victor said.
“Which means he dies, right?” I asked.
Victor tipped his head and studied me. “It may not be so. Your father always seems to have backup plans.”
“But it’s possible?”
“Yes.”
I thought about that for a minute. I didn’t want my dad in my head. Didn’t want him using me. Especially after what Dane had said about him Closing me. But at the same time, I felt a little like I was sealing his fate.
I hope you have a backup plan, I thought to him. He didn’t respond.
“Is it dangerous?” I asked.
“It is.”
“And it hurts?”
“Very much so.”
Since my options appeared to be A: pain of removal, or B: pain of keeping him around indefinitely, I chose A: pain of removal.
Sorry, Dad, but I can’t let you stay. I can’t live like this. Still no reply.
I swallowed my unexpected guilt. “Let’s do it.”
Zay was already on his feet. Terric and Maeve stayed seated. “Will you need to use Blood magic?” she asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” Victor said. “If you don’t mind staying here for when the others arrive?”
“That’s fine.” Maeve still looked exhausted. No, more than that, she looked like she was hurting. Three days wasn’t enough time to recover from what we’d been through. Hell, I could use three months of downtime right about now.
We followed the curve of the wall to a door worked in wood, glass, and iron. Victor opened it. No spells, no thumbprint, just a latch and a push.
The light automatically lit when we stepped into the room, and the soft scent of cherry blossoms filled the air.
It was about the size of one of Maeve’s sitting rooms, but the difference was this room had a door on every wall. Each door was a different kind of wood inset with glyphs worked in glass, lead, and iron, representing different elements and disciplines. Other than the doors, the room had a lush cushioned chair in each corner and square pocket shelves carved into the walls, with a different colored stone or hunk of metal centered on each shelf.
Shame, Zay, and I filed into the room, and Victor shut the door, whispering a sweet lock spell I was totally going to steal from him.
Shame walked over to the black chair ahead and to my right; Zay took the blue chair ahead and to my left.
Victor walked to the door on my right, traced a glyph there, paused, then paced to the next door and traced a different glyph. Setting wards, making it safe to do whatever we were about to do.
Zay frowned, watching Victor, fingers tapping his thigh. Impatient. Angry.
I wasn’t sure what was behind his anger—what we were about to do, or what had happened earlier today.
Victor moved on to the last door to the left and cast glyphs of Death and Earth, then finished the circuit, ending with his back against the door we had come into the room through. There he worked Life magic glyphs. He faced the middle of the room, his hands behind his back.
“Allie, stand in the center of the room,” he said.
I pushed off the wall I was leaning on and stood in the middle, turning to face Victor.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
I nodded. “Let’s get this done.” I wanted Dad out of my head. I wanted him to go quietly to death where he belonged but at the same time felt like I was throwing him to the wolves. Anger, frustration, and sorrow got mixed up in my guilt and, yes, whatever remaining shreds of love I had for the man I’d always wished he could be.
Why couldn’t you have just died the first time you were killed? I thought.
Nothing.
“Four disciplines,” Victor said, putting Influence behind his words, “one magic of light. Let us begin.”
The soft cream walls glowed with spells activating—visible to the naked eye, which was unusual. The magic flowed like a flood of fire and water, then a wash of wind and tumble of earth, spanning the walls, rising to erupt across the ceiling. Magic sank into the floor, blending into a carpet of multicolored ribbons that were linked and woven, just like the marks of magic that wrapped up my arm.
Only a circle in the center of the floor was untouched by magic. The circle where I stood.
“All who stand within this room, speak your name.” Victor looked at Shame.
“Shamus Flynn,” Shame said.
“Zayvion Jones,” Zay said.
Victor looked at me, and I felt his gaze push aside all my worries, all my thoughts. “Allison Beckstrom,” I heard myself say.
Victor waited, his gaze sinking deeper into me. I could feel the tendrils of the magic in the room seeking me out like a root questing for water, wrapping like vines, licking like fire at my ankles, and up, into my body, tasting, testing. It didn’t hurt. But I wanted to move, move away from it before it knew me, before it knew what I was, where I was. Before it forced me to speak—
“Speak,” Victor Influenced.
“Daniel Beckstrom,” I said. Only it wasn’t me. It was my father.
The tendrils of magic darted up, snake quick, and split in two, catching and surrounding me in what felt like a soft cocoon. The magic caught and surrounded my father too.
Even though I was cocooned, I didn’t feel trapped. All my worries had been placed aside, all memories, fears, trivial thoughts, put at rest, leaving me surrounded in peace. There was the “me” in my mind, and over there, at arm’s reach, was the “him” of Dad in me.
It finally felt like I had some breathing room in my own head.
“Daniel Beckstrom,” Victor said, “will you willingly leave your daughter’s mind?”
“You know I won’t, Victor,” I said—he said. Whatever. “There is no place for me to go.”
“Death,” Victor said, “is where you should rightfully be. Shamus?”
Shame strolled over, his hands low at his sides. He walked around to stand in front of me.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Beckstrom. I appreciate your not killing me with the whole disk thing a few days ago. But I’d just be lying if I said I haven’t been looking fo
rward to this for a long time now.”
Shame pointed his finger at my chest. He didn’t touch me; he didn’t break eye contact; he didn’t speak. He slowly traced a glyph in the air. Magic rose to his hand and dragged ponderously through the glyph as if the magic were actually earth, soil, and stone. The glyph became solid, filled with that magic.
The crystal in his chest glowed through his black T-shirt, soft pink, then blue-white, then bloodred, pulsing with his heartbeat. He did not cast the spell, not yet.
It was a taunt, a slow-motion game of dare. Even from the middle of my peacefulness I could feel how furious Dad was. And worried. I wondered if he’d finally met his match.
“You are making a grave mistake, Flynn,” Dad said. “Just like your father.”
Shame’s lips quirked up. “You killed my father, Mr. Beckstrom. And now it’s time for me to return the favor.” He closed the glyph and cast the spell.
Dad stretched out in my mind, taking up more space, too much space, crushing my safe cocoon. He became a thousand hands that patted and crawled over me, digging deep and holding on.
I moaned, but that didn’t stop Shame.
I didn’t know what Victor was doing, didn’t know what Zay was doing. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea at all. I couldn’t look away from Shame’s eyes. Eyes that were no longer green, but pure, heartless black.
He spoke one word: “Die.”
Knife-hot pain slashed through me. I yelled, tipping my face up and trying to force the pain out of my chest, out of my mind, out of my head. The pain doubled, tripled. I couldn’t get away from it, couldn’t make it stop, could not endure. I wanted away from my body, my mind. Wanted away from this pain.
I was stuck. Anchored. Burning from the inside out.
I tasted mint, knew Zayvion must be touching me. I couldn’t feel him through the agony.
I begged for unconsciousness.
The pain raged, grew. Something snapped in me, then snapped again in quick succession, like spine-deep roots ripping out of me, one by one. I blacked out and came to between each blinding flash of pain.
Please, I thought, please stop. I can’t. I can’t.
The gentle fragrance of Earl Grey tea filled me, along with a soothing wash of mint. My cocoon wrapped more tightly around me, holding me, not safe from the pain but keeping some of it at bay.