Devon Monk - Magic in the Shadows

“Yes?”

“You forgot

determined

.”

He helped me with the sleeve I wasn’t having any luck getting into on my own. Damn. Too much wine. Especially now that I was standing, my head was a little muzzy. “And

old-fashioned

,” I said, as he offered me his arm.

“Old-fashioned?” He actually looked offended. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He placed his hand over mine on his arm and stepped closer to me. “May I have the honor of escorting you home, Ms. Beckstrom?”

I giggled. Seriously. Giggled. Bad sign. “Maybe that wine was more than I thought I drank.” Smooth, Beckstrom.

“Just try to relax when we walk out into the main flow of the restaurant.”

I was going to ask him what he meant by that, but then we took two steps away from the table and I got my answer. Like a hammer. A great big answer hammer over the head.

Magic pressed in around me, pushed up through my feet, sunk needle-deep into my skin. The spell that veiled our table had done more than offer us privacy from other diners. It had kept the thick crosscurrents of the restaurant’s long-standing and short-term spells from being so overwhelming. But now, out here, I was most certainly whelmed.

Magic sparked within me, a fire rushing up my bones, urging me to release it, to cast, to use.

I gritted my teeth and exhaled through my nose, resisting the urge to use magic. Not easy after a couple glasses of wine.

“Zayvion?” I said. He must have caught the urgency in my voice.

He didn’t talk, didn’t ask me if I was okay. He set a quick but not rushed pace and guided me out between the tables that roiled with clouds of magic, thick ribbons of it in jewel tones, so strong I could see it shifting like currents of rainbow oil through the air, even without drawing Sight.

Magic prickled beneath my skin, grew hot, hotter, until my entire body was one big sunburn.

I tried to concentrate. Sang a mantra to clear my head.

Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack, all dressed in black, black, black. .

Magic swelled, pressed, begged to be used. And my mental hold on it slipped. Oh, hells.

Mint washed over me, cool, sweet, soothing all the places where magic burned in me. Zayvion, my lightning rod, Grounding me.

The restaurant was behind me now, glowing with so much magic, I could feel the heat of it like a bonfire at my back. We were in the parking lot, in the cold air, the wet air. I took a deep breath, let it out.

My head was no longer muzzy. The magic, and Zayvion Grounding me, had the side effect of making me stone sober. And right now, I was really glad.

“Better?” he asked.

I nodded.

He walked around in front of me, his hand sliding down my arm. “Wait here while I tell the valet to get our car.”

I thought I said okay, but he bent a little to make eye contact. “Okay?” he asked.

“I’m good,” I said. “Fine.”

He didn’t look convinced, but turned and walked away.

Absent his touch, magic pushed in me again. The ground swayed a little beneath my feet, and I decided pacing might help. Taking even breaths, I strolled down the brick pathway that lined the front of the restaurant. The cold air did some good keeping my head clear, and I recited a jingle to stay calm and to keep the magic in me easy.

A movement in the landscaped flower bed to my left caught my attention. I stopped and peered into the brush and ferns. Two yellow eyes as big as my fist stared at me from the bushes. For a second, I thought it was alive, a dog, a cat, or-shudder-that thing from the alley, but the eyes were too large and too perfectly round. Then the wind shifted, brushing through the bushes. I caught a whiff of stone-just damp stone-and I knew what it was. A gargoyle statue.

I leaned forward and pushed a branch out of the way so I could see the gargoyle’s face better.

The statue’s head swiveled, following my hand like a snake follows heat. Magic. Just magic, nothing strange about it. There was enough light that I could make out the creature’s body-big as a Saint Bernard’s, haunches in the back like a dog, longer human arms and human hands with wide, extralong fingers. Its broad face wrinkled back from a generous fanged and smiling mouth along a doglike snout. The huge eyes were almost comical beneath a heavy brow, and pointed ears perked up from its rounded skull. Behind its shoulders, batlike wings spread out and trembled. It looked worried but happy, as if confused at being noticed.

It looked vulnerable. Lonely. It looked too damn lifelike.

Zayvion wasn’t kidding about the artist being a master Hand.

The wind pushed again, stirring leaves, and I let the branches I’d been holding fall back into place.

Just as I pulled my hand away, cool stone fingers reached out and touched my wrist.

Holy shit.

A chill ran down my spine. I looked down, and the creature, no, the

statue

was looking up at me. Huge eyes wide. Pleading. It was frozen in place, hand on my wrist, head tipped at a beseeching angle.

I knew there were spells on this thing; I could smell them. But I could smell something else too, a bitter scent of sorrow. Without wanting to, I also held still and looked at the creature again, trying to convince myself that it was not alive, but just a very clever infusion of magic and art. A chain collar dug into the creature’s neck, the chain spilling down its chest to somewhere at its feet.

I pulled my hand away from the creature and it did not move, did not change position.

I touched the chain at its neck. Stone. Stone and magic. The chain cuffed the creature’s other hand and linked to an iron rod driven into the soil.

It was irresistible, the magic that infused the stone and chain. I drew my finger along the links, marveling at the spell that ran through the iron and stone, a constant conduit to the magic that pooled in the channels that had been laid deep beneath the soil here to feed and maintain the spells on the statues.

At my touch, magic flared along the chain in a sudden wash of heat. I pulled my fingers away, not wanting to interfere with the spell, but it was too late. Magic twisted along the carved glyphs and-I am not kidding-sort of jumped the carved route it should have taken. Like a freak electric arc, magic stalled for a moment and poured through my hand, making the whorls of color on my skin flash neon bright as the magic completed the arc.

The creature jerked, shuddered. Wings flapping, it pulled against the chain.

I pulled my hand away.

I heard the grinding groan, low like a dog’s growl, as metal and stone strained, snapped.

I took a step back, my hands up in a warding position.

But there was no movement in the bushes. Only darkness. Only silence.

The statue was not moving. Its wide round eyes looked at me, blank, unfocused, no longer lifelike. I looked closer and realized the chain had broken at its neck, and now lay upon the ground in front of it, glowing softly blue with unspent magic.

Hells. I broke their statue. Broke the feed of magic to the spells that bound it. Great. I was sure they had monitoring devices on the things for just this sort of problem. Any minute a gardener, sculptor, magic user, or security guard would be out here re-chaining the beast and writing me a fine.

“Allie?”

I looked away from the gargoyle. Zayvion walked my way. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes.” I walked over to him. When I was near enough: “I think I might have broken the statue.”

Zayvion gave me a long look, decided I wasn’t lying, and followed me back to where I had been standing. He brushed the bushes away and peered into the darkness. “What statue?”

I moved up beside him and looked. Bushes, dirt, iron rod, broken chain. No statue. The soil where it had crouched just a moment ago looked scraped clean, tended, as if someone had run a rake over it. Or claws.