Devon Monk - Magic in the Shadows

Dirty, useless, worthless

He didn’t have to say the words. He wasn’t the only one who could read thoughts. Dreaming allowed us both to peer in each other’s minds.

How fabulous was that? Just what I always wanted, a breathing-room-only front-row-seat look into my father’s innermost thoughts. Like I hadn’t gotten enough of that when he was alive.

“Yes?” I challenged.

“The entire pack,” he said, skipping over all the less charitable things he was thinking, “of Hounds looking up to you. Idolizing you after that man’s death.” He looked for his name, found it in my head. “Martin Pike’s death. Trusting you to keep them safe and sane now, something even he could not do.”

“Yeah, so?” Well, there was a choice retort. Apparently, I reverted to a ten-year-old when facing down my father.

Neat.

“You are strong enough to lead them,” he said. “Stronger than Martin Pike. Strong enough to keep them, the Hounds and all whom you. . love”-he said the last word like it was made of hot peppers-“safe. That, I am sure of. And I can help you.”

That, I did not want to hear. Not from him. Because there wasn’t a favor my father wouldn’t play to his advantage.

“What do you get out of helping me? You’re dead. Why do you care?”

His hands clenched together, the knuckles yellow beneath his skin. Anger sat in every tight muscle of his body. He did not touch me, though it looked like it hurt him not to.

“I have always cared.”

“Controlling someone isn’t the same as caring.”

He unclenched his hands and closed his eyes. I’d seen him look like that. Right before he was going to blow.

But when he spoke, his words were soft. “The Authority is crumbling. From within. There are those, like Frank Gordon, who seek to bring back Mikhail. People who are convinced his return is foretold.”

“Who is Mikhail, and where did he go?” I asked.

Dad opened his eyes. “He was the leader of the Authority. And he is dead.”

“Oh, could you guys get any creepier? I mean, seriously. Why would anyone think raising the dead is a good idea?”

“I can only guess.”

“Then guess.”

“If he is the one foretold in legends, then his crossover into death will only make him more powerful when he returns to life. He will bring the magic from the other side with him. He will wield the magic of both life and death. Dark magic, light magic, as one. It will be a new era of power in the world. Magic will become something much more than a billable commodity.”

I rubbed at my forehead. “Crazy. Crazy living people trying to raise crazy dead people. And you call these people your friends?”

“No. They were my equals. In everything, Allison. In the drive to dominate. To succeed. To own magic and those who use it. And you are willingly putting yourself into their hands.” He shook his head.

“I’m not listening,” I said. “I have a rule to never take advice from dead people.”

“Since when?”

“Since three seconds ago.”

“Allison, stop being childish. Maeve will test you. The Authority will test you, push you. When that time comes, you must not hesitate to use everything at your disposal to win. To survive what they will do to you. You must use everything available to you. Including me.”

“Whoa, wait.” If he had told me he was the king of Mars, I wouldn’t have been more surprised. “What the hell? You don’t let anyone. .” I didn’t know what I was going to say, but the words

care

and

love

crossed my mind. His eyes widened slightly. I swore and pushed them away. This was worse than that damn blood-to-blood truth spell we’d shared before he died.

“You don’t let anyone so much as

touch

you, much less

use

you. What do you get out of this? Out of me passing those tests?”

“I will live on.”

Immortality. What every egotistic narcissist wanted.

And it was the blunt truth that was both exactly what he was thinking and exactly what he meant, that stopped me cold.

“Listen to me, Allison. The Authority fears you. Fears what I. . what you can become. You are a threat to them. You have always been a threat.”

To us

, he thought, before he pushed that too away. “It is why I have kept you away from them. Hidden. But now that they know what you are, you must not hesitate. When you are tested, you must be willing to kill to survive.”

“I’m not going to kill anyone,” I said evenly. “I am not a killer.”

“Yes,” he said over the top of my unspoken protest, “you are.”

I don’t know if he or if I drew up the memory of Lon Trager, full of bullets, his knife in my leg, my knife sunk so deep in his chest I could feel his heart beating out blood over my knuckles under his skin. Blood poured down the knife, over my body. Trager crumpled to my feet, dead because Martin Pike had shot him. Dead because I had stabbed him. It was real, so real I could smell the blood and sweat again. Bile rose up my throat and I wanted to puke.

“You have killed.” My father’s voice pushed at me. “And you will kill again.”

I could not look away from his eyes, darker than mine, hollowed by a death he would not accept. His own death. There was madness in him, burning with a frenetic hope I had never seen in life.

Life, I suddenly realized, had limited my father’s options and ambition. It had forced him to deal with the all-too-human boundaries of day-to-day minutiae, such as running a business, being married, or other minor irritants like eating and sleeping. But now that he was dead. . -ish, those boundaries no longer applied to him. He was free to do anything his dark, hungry heart desired.

The intensity burned in him like an unholy fire, and I could not look away. It scared the hell out of me.

“To survive, Allison Beckstrom,” he said calmly, in the sort of tone one uses to cast spells. No, in the sort of tone he always used to cast spells on me. “You will do anything. You will use anything at your disposal.” The weight of his words was physical. Each word fell heavier upon me until I couldn’t stand. Could do nothing more than sit there and sweat.

“You will use any magic. Any person. Anything to survive. Even if it means killing. Again.”

He traced a spell with his fingers so quickly, I could not read what it was.

I pulled my hands up and began a Shield spell. Began. I could not remember the correct glyph for Shield. The spell, being half finished and empty of magic, was as effective as if I had waved my hands to stop a hurricane.

My father did not have the same problem. Magic, cold as winter’s caress, followed the glyph he drew and wrapped around my body.The spell tightened, bit into my skin, burned cold like frozen wire twisting around my arms, my stomach, my legs. Everywhere the magic touched went numb.

Binding.

“You,” my father said calmly, “will survive. You will listen to me. You will do as I advise you to do.”

With each short command, the Binding tightened, cutting its own glyph into me. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. But damn it, this was still a dream-my dream. And I was not going to let my father pin me down.

“Go,” I exhaled. “To.” Pause. “Hell.” I pushed hard against the Binding, straining to move my hands, my arms, to push up to my feet, to slap him, to slap myself, to do anything to end this dream.

As easy as pushing aside a mountain, I finally managed to spread my fingers. Then I made a fist. Magic wasn’t the only way to do someone harm. Hells, it wasn’t even the easiest way.

Dad had gone red in the face. Sweat beaded his forehead-it was an effort to keep me Bound-and I took no end of delight in that. This wasn’t as easy for him as he would have me believe.