Magic on the Storm ab-4

by Devon Monk

  Jingo Jingo stepped closer to me and ran his hand down my arm, petting my right shoulder and stroking down to my fingers, which he caught up. It was weird, creepy, invasive. I gave him a look that let him know exactly what I thought about that.

  “You’re gonna stand here.” He guided me around the pile of disks so I stood facing Sedra.

  Sedra looked calm and cool as an ice sculpture. Which is to say she looked like she always looked.

  Well, that and wet. Lightning flashed, painting ragged glyphs across the sky, and for a second, less than that, I thought I saw something else in her, something under her skin that was dark, twisted.

  Panic shot through me. I looked at the other users gathered. There was something wrong with their body language. Too many sideways glances, meaningful looks. Even Liddy, my teacher in Death magic, looked tense, as if she was waiting for her cue.

  Sedra might be the head of this parade, but I was pretty sure some of the band didn’t want to march.

  “All you need to do is hold this,” Jingo Jingo continued. He bent, dug through the piles of disks. They were all the same. I didn’t know what he was looking for. He finally selected one and placed it in my palm. “And meditate.”

  Meditate? Oh, yeah. That would be no problem in the middle of a wild-magic storm surrounded by a circle of users-all better trained than me, all giving one another hateful looks-with a big pile of free magic at my feet.

  Okay, yes, granted, you had to have a clear mind to actually cast magic, and high emotion destroys the concentration it takes to access magic. But meditation takes time to do well. So if my ability to meditate was what was going to save the world, or at least save Portland, then I was pretty sure we should all think about moving to Seattle.

  “Meditate,” I said. “Right, then what?”

  Jingo Jingo stood in front of me. I could smell his fear, bitter and sharp on the back of my sinuses. And something else-the candy sweet of excitement, anticipation. He licked his lips. He was looking forward to this, anxious, eager. “Then, you are going to do the right thing, Allison Beckstrom. And you won’t need me to tell you what that is.”

  He stepped back, putting rain and space between us. Lightning flashed again and thunder broke the sky to pieces. I had zero chance to tell him how incredibly unhelpful he had been.

  Some teacher. Going silent on me when I most needed a clear answer. Bastard.

  Okay, I had my disk. It was heavy and cool in my hand. And I had my sword. It was heavy and cool on my back. It shouldn’t, but just the presence of Zayvion’s blade made me feel better, like a part of him was with me, telling me, calmly, to stop thinking so hard, and just kick some ass.

  And that was exactly what I planned on doing. I was about to meditate like no one had ever meditated before.

  Yes, that sounded stupid.

  I took a deep breath, spread my feet so I wouldn’t fall over when the winds picked up.

  Just as I began to close the outside world away from my senses, the storm tore open the sky, the air. And the magic beneath the earth rushed into me, and burned through me.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Too hot, too hard, magic rushed up out of the earth and poured down from the sky to stretch and fill my bones, my skin, my body. There wasn’t enough room in my body for me to breathe, wasn’t enough room for me to think.

  Meditate, he’d said.

  Jingo Jingo was such a joker.

  I had to clear my mind. Had to direct-no, channel-no, Ground. I was supposed to Ground, and they were going to direct the magic that ricocheted and fractured, leaping above me, above us, above St. Johns, striking wild, random arcs of lightning and wild glyphs that would tear us all to shreds.

  We might be using magic, but it was going to use us right back.

  I cleared my mind. Sang my “Miss Mary Mack” song. Lost the line when thunder rolled and rolled, and lightning hit so low I felt it in my molars and thought we’d all go up in a crisp. Picked up at the “silver buttons, buttons, buttons” line and held tight to the disk, which hummed with magic, in my hand over the pile of disks.

  The wild magic was not me. The wild magic could not change me. It could pour around me, fill the disk in my hand, and fill the other disks on the ground. It could follow the marks, the paths, the ribbons, magic had painted in my skin, my blood, my bones, and use me as a conduit. Magic could slide through me, soft, gentle, and return to the soil, the stones, the heart of the earth, where it belonged.

  The reason St. Johns had been chosen for this suddenly made sense. St. Johns was an empty sieve. Magic would flow through it, and into the channels beyond this neighborhood, and fill all the rest of Portland.

  That was, if I could Ground it.

  I inhaled, exhaled, tasted the burnt wood and hot ozone of fire. The wind lifted, buffeting, hot in the cold, cold rain.

  Grounding wasn’t a difficult glyph to draw, but making magic follow it, and standing there, steady, calm, and completely focused while the magic used me, was what made Grounding hard. I set a Disbursement, hoping to push off some of the pain for later. Maybe I’d catch a flu in a week or so.

  If I survived.

  I looked up, at the sky roiling with metallic, psychedelic clouds, stirred by the winds like oil on water, pushed into new shapes, into unnamed hues and colors. Lightning struck, and all the colors of magic flashed gold against the black sky. I’d never felt so much magic so concentrated. At least, not that I remembered.

  Even the rain tasted of the oily, metallic heat of wild magic, striking sour on the tip of my tongue, and so sweet at the back of my throat.

  Lightning struck again. Thunder roared.

  Now. I knew I had to cast it now.

  I focused, pushed away the awareness of the magic users around me, most of them chanting over the rush of rain and wind, pushed away my awareness of the storm, of the rain, of the wind buffeting my body.

  Raised my hand.

  This one stroke, this one line, this one curve-I cast each part of the glyph for Grounding with precise, purposeful motion. Nothing wrong, not a tremor, not a pause.

  Then I drew upon the magic from the disk in my hand. It hesitated, and for a second, I thought I had screwed up and was going to suck all the magic in the disk into me, into my bones, blood, and flesh. But the magic sprang free of the disk, and I guided it to fill the glyph for Grounding.

  Magic poured into the Grounding, and shot ropes of magic over me. Even though I expected that and braced for it, I jerked. The thick, cold cables of the magic clamped over my shoulders and fell like hundred-pound anchors into the soil, where they plunged deep and hooked. I could not move if I wanted to.

  I was now officially Beckstrom the storm rod. And I hated it.

  Have I mentioned I am claustrophobic? I tried to push my fear out of the way, tried to ignore the clamping restraints of the Grounding holding me down.

  This is why I am no good at Grounding. I freak out within the first three seconds or so. Trapped. Too trapped.

  I exhaled, focused on the disk in my outstretched hand. I could do this. Not only that, I would do this. Everything depended on me doing this one thing. One thing wasn’t hard. I could do one thing.

  Magic leaped into the hands of the users in the circle. I recognized directional glyphs, drawn to attract and guide the magic down out of the sky and into me-or rather into the framework of magic around me, the Grounding I’d just cast.

  I breathed evenly, bracing for the onslaught.

  Magic would not burn me alive. So long as I didn’t take it into me. So long as I didn’t lose my concentration. These magic users were professionals. They knew what they were doing.

  I hoped.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw a figure leap out of the shadows. Two figures. Magic flared. Glyphs turned to flame. The pile of disks at my feet caught fire, magic bursting free.

  A wall of heat hit me and I yelled, thinking, Ground, Ground, Ground.

  No, my dad said. Let go, Allison, let go! He shoved at
me, tried to take control, but I was nothing if not made of stubborn. I held my place, kept my cool, even though I was being roasted to the core.

  Ground, Ground, Ground.

  Look, Dad said. Look around you. Look at the battle.

  Battle? My ears were already ringing from the pounding thunder and magic. I couldn’t hear him over all the screaming.

  Wait. Screaming?

  I hesitated. I was not good at doing what my father wanted me to do. But there was something very wrong.

  I looked away from the disk in my palm, holding my concentration in the Grounding spell.

  Chaos. The circle was broken. And it wasn’t because of the storm.

  Magic user fought magic user in a blur so confusing, I couldn’t make out who was where.

  I blinked hard, trying to clear my vision. Magic poured over me, hot, heavy, cold, biting, rushing down the cables of the Grounding spell that I somehow still held.

  Go, me.

  But all around me the Authority battled.

  I searched for Shame in the melee.

  And instead saw Greyson and Chase.

  No, no, no. Absolutely no. They could not be here. Who would have told them we were going to be here?

  Greyson was more beast than man, on all fours, wide head, fangs, and claw, bone and sinew for legs and arms, and burning eyes. Chase cast magic for him, with him, his Soul Complement and his hands. She was tall, but thinner and paler than just a day ago. Working magic with Greyson, or maybe being Soul Complement to a man who was half alive and half dead, carried a hard price-her humanity.

  Her hair hung around her shoulders like a black cape, glimpses of her skin flashes of moonlight in a dark night. Her eyes and her lips were bloodred. She no longer wore jeans and flannel, but instead had on a black dress that skimmed her knees and black boots with heels low enough to make running easy. Or fighting.

  And that was exactly what she was doing.

  And doing very well.

  Just like back at Officers Row, Chase was chanting and weaving glyphs in the air and filling them with magic she pulled out of the storm. Multicolored ribbons wrapped down her fingers and up her arm, where tendrils shot out to anchor in Greyson, feeding him. He was headed my way.

  Romero, the family-man killer, launched himself at Greyson, the machete in his hand a blur of magic channeled from the sky.

  Greyson fought him, fangs bared, then unhinged his huge jowls and sucked down the magic Romero threw at his head.

  Chase clapped her hands together once and a gate sprang up. Greyson leaped through it. Chase slammed her hands together again, and the gate disappeared in a blast of black smoke.

  I didn’t know how she was doing it. Those gates weren’t allowing any of the creatures that haunted the other side, the Hungers, to break through. But Greyson used them as easily as stepping though an open door.

  One more clap, and the gate was open again, this time on the other side of the circle. Near Sedra and Maeve. And me.

  Greyson tore out of the gate, and ran fast, too fast, a nightmare of bone and fang and claw. He launched at Sedra.

  Sedra stood, cool and angry, hands raised in a block I’d never seen before. Greyson hit the block, and I swear I felt the thrum of that impact at the base of my skull, over the thunder, over the wail of magic in the storm, over the sounds of battle.

  Maeve stepped up to Sedra’s defense. She wielded a long knife in each hand, blood covering her fingers and the blades as she cut glyphs into the air. She threw magic at Greyson. It wrapped him in dark lightning, filling the air with the sweet smell of cherries. Greyson sucked the magic down. Which was exactly what Maeve had wanted. Still connected by blood to her blade, and her will, Maeve yanked on the spell, tearing a brutal scream out of Greyson.

  Greyson stumbled. Gave up his advance on Sedra and turned on Maeve instead. He leaped.

  “No!” I yelled. I tried to take a step. The Grounding spell rooted me, anchored. I couldn’t let go of the spell, couldn’t break it.

  Come on. Let go, undo, leave me now, go away, go away, stop.

  Lightning struck, so close, rain sizzled. Thunder popped an ear-busting explosion and I tasted blood at the back of my throat.

  Wild magic filled me, licked across my skin, catching fire down the ribbons of my arm and hand. Wild magic grew roots in me, different from the Grounding spell. I had felt this before. I suddenly remembered it now. The last time I’d tapped into a wild-magic storm and nearly died.

  The crystal, my dad said. Or I think he said it. It was hard to hear anything over the thunder, the yelling, the fighting-worse because someone, I think the Georgia sisters, was supporting the dome of magic, keeping all the sounds we made inside.

  I pushed my left hand into my pocket and pulled out the crystal. Deep fuchsia, the crystal was hot, glyphs carved inside it fluctuating with the magic I carried. I didn’t know how the crystal was going to help.

  Direct the magic into it; use it to Ground. It is organic, unlike the disks, Dad said. It can act as a Grounder.

  Okay, so all I had to do was recast the Grounding spell onto the crystal. One crystal to handle what me and a hundred disks were barely managing?

  It’ll explode, I said.

  It will hold long enough, Dad said.

  Long enough?

  For the storm to pass.

  Maybe that was his idea of success. As a matter of fact, it probably was. I didn’t know what his stake in this was, except Violet’s safety.

  Put the crystal on the disks, he said.

  And that made sense. The excess magic in the crystal would bleed off into the disks, and they could help carry the load of wild magic.

  But the Grounding spell wrapped me in concrete. It took everything I had to bend my knees and hold my hand out over the pile of disks. I opened my fingers, tipped my palm. The crystal fell, tumbling down and down. It struck the disks and a sweet, harmonic tone echoed back from the rain.

  And then the world exploded.

  My hands flew up without thought. Well, without my thought. Dad took over and cast a hell of a Shield spell. That kept me from burning to the bone. But it did not keep me from being thrown back ten feet, and landing flat on my back.

  Someone above me, in the light, shadows, rain, wild magic, held a hand down for me.

  “Move!” It was Victor, my teacher, Zayvion’s teacher. He grabbed my hand and rocketed me onto my feet.

  All the training I’d done on the mats came into play. I found my balance and footing in the wet and confusion, and got out of the way fast. Victor had pulled me to one side of the battlefield.

  I hurt-my skin stung from the magic burns, or, for all I knew, from lightning strikes. But even with all hell coming down, I did not draw Zay’s blade and go in swinging.

  I didn’t know whom we were fighting, other than Greyson and Chase, and I didn’t know why. Everyone was throwing magic and weapons around. This had gone from a fight against the storm to a fight against one another.

  “Stay out of the way.” Victor turned and ran into the fray.

  I wasn’t going to do anything until I knew my hands, my body, were my own. I shook my hands, making sure my dad was not using them. It creeped me the hell out when he did that.

  You’re welcome, his sardonic voice said in the middle of my head.

  Shut up. And leave my body alone.

  This isn’t your battle, he said. There is so much more you were meant for. So much more you and I could do to make this right. Death isn’t the end, nor life the beginning.

  Save it for the encore, I thought. I am a part of this. My friends are in there.

  You do not know who your true friends are.

  I ignored him because, really? Busy trying to figure out how to lend a hand here, and the last time I’d let him tell me who my friends were, I was six. I set a Disbursement, headache, and traced a glyph for Sight. The entire field opened up like I’d just flipped the switch on a floodlight.

  The scene was gruesome.


  Several things were happening at once. On the compass points of the field, four people had backed off, and now stood with their hands above their heads and forward, feet spread for balance, in some kind of weird yoga pose that was actually sustaining the flow of magic into the shield. The Georgia sisters were three of them-I could tell because they each stood with one hand on their staff, and one extended skyward-and I think Carl, the brother twin, was the other. They were wet, shaking, and chanting, though I couldn’t hear their words, and held their focus and concentration with grim robotic determination.

  Inside that circle that reached to a domed height maybe six stories above us, at least as high as the trees, was magic. Wild magic pounded in the sky beyond the bubble and fluttered around the bubble like a bee to nectar.

  I didn’t know what it looked like on the outside, but I could guess. I guessed that it looked like a storm, a regular thunderstorm. Even the best magic users wouldn’t be stupid enough to try to tap into the wild magic to cast spells like Sight. So all they’d see was multicolored lightning rolling across the sky in vaguely glyphlike shapes. There were probably strikes in other parts of the town, caught by the Beckstrom Storm Rods, but the flow of magic here would be mostly invisible. Magic is so fast, it cannot be seen by the naked eye. And with plain old ordinary lightning blasting through the sky, I doubted anyone even knew what was going down behind the dome of Illusion in St. Johns.

  So long as the four magic users held their concentration and kept the dome intact, this would never hit the news.

  Inside the circle was a battlefield. Mostly, it looked like the magic users had chosen two sides. The one against Chase and Greyson and the one for them. With this many people fighting for Chase and Greyson, it was no wonder Greyson had escaped.

  And with this many people on their side, I considered them against me, and responsible for Zayvion’s lying unconscious. I knew which side I belonged on. The side with Maeve, Victor, Hayden, Sedra, Dane, Shame, and Terric.

  Chase and Greyson worked together, Liddy standing close by them, and not doing anything to stop them.

  Over and over Chase called up gates for Greyson to leap through. He tore into magic users, pinning them, and drinking the magic out of them. He was mostly man now, wearing pants and no shirt, but still a wild thing, all muscle and pale skin, his hair long, his eyes more human than they had been, but still filled with an animal’s intelligence. No, the intelligence of a killer.