Devon Monk: Magic in the Shadows

I am a river

, I thought.

Magic flows through me but it does not touch me.

I took another good breath or two, and magic retreated into a more normal rhythm of flowing up from the cisterns deep beneath the city, into me, and, unused, out of me back into the ground.

The knock at the front door rapped out louder.

I fished the vase and rose out of the sink and put them on the little shelf above the towel rack. The pink rose Zayvion had given me looked a little worse for the wear, but it wasn’t dead yet. Tough flowers, roses. All that sweet beauty with the thorns to back it up. I appreciated that.

I dried my hands on my jeans and strode out of the bathroom. I wasn’t expecting company. Well, except for Zayvion. But he said he’d be back in at seven. We had dinner plans. First-date plans. Let’s-be-normal-like-other-normal-people plans.

The knock rattled out again.

There is one thing I can say about living in the city. There isn’t a Ward or Alarm spell on the market strong enough to keep someone from breaking down your door if they have the will, the way, and a strong enough shoulder.

My baseball bat was under the bed, but I always left a hammer on the bookshelf.

Hammers can do all kinds of damage if they are swung low enough.

Yes, it had been that kind of week.

And the knocking just kept coming.

I stopped in front of the door, took a breath, and held still both it and magic in me for a second. I recited my little mantra:

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

until the order of those words calmed my racing thoughts.

It took about five seconds. My mind, my thoughts, cleared.

Using magic wasn’t as easy as the actors made it look in the movies. It can’t be cast in states of high emotion-like anger or, say, while freaking out because your freaking dead dad is in your freaking head. Every time you use magic, it uses you back. Sure, you could magic yourself a photographic memory for that big test, for that big interview, for that big stock market job. And all it cost you was a nice case of liver failure.

Or the memory of your lover’s name.

Exhale. Good. Calm? Check. I leaned against the doorframe and sniffed. I didn’t draw magic up into my sense of smell, though I was good at that too. Smelling, tracing, tracking, Hounding the burnt lines of spells back to their casters was how I made my living. But I couldn’t smell anything over the oily tang of WD-40 I’d sprayed on the lock the other day.

I peeked through the peephole.

The woman in the hall was dressed in jeans, a knitted vest, button-down blouse, and a full-length coat. Blond, about eight inches shorter than my own six feet, she was a little wet. Portland’s good at wet. The best. But even in the unglamorous warp of the peephole, she looked like a million sunny days to me.

Nola Robbins, my best friend in all the world.

I slipped the locks, which slid smoothly-thank you, WD-40-and threw open the door.

“Oh, thank God,” she said. “I thought I heard you yell.”

“I did. I’m fine. It’s so good to see you!” I practically flew out of my apartment and into her arms.

Nola hugged me, and I caught the scent of honey and warm summer grass even though it was the middle of winter. The familiar comforting scents of her brought up memories of her nonmagical alfalfa farm and old nonmagical farmhouse. I inhaled, filling myself with the scents and memories of pleasant days. I did not want to let her go.

She patted my back, and I gave her one last squeeze.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t think so,” she hedged. “What’s up with the hammer?”

I dropped it on the little table by the door. “Just, you know. It’s the city.”

She shook her head. “You could get a dog.”

“Don’t start with me. Come on in.” I belatedly noticed she had a suitcase with her. “Let me help.”

“I got it.” She strolled into my apartment, wheeling the suitcase behind her.

Out of habit, I looked up and down the hall. No one. Not even a shadow on the wall, watching us. I hoped. I wasn’t the only Hound in the city, and Hounds knew how to be quiet when they wanted to be.

I relocked the door.

“Allie,” she said, scanning my overcrowded bookshelves and my undercrowded everything else. “Have you even unpacked since you moved?”

“Pretty much,” I said. “This is all that’s left.” Or at least it was all I could stand having. Whoever broke into my old apartment had not only tossed everything I owned; he or she had left a scent on it. The stink of iron and minerals, like old vitamins, not only kicked up half-remembered pain, but was also a bitch to scrub out of the upholstery.

And underwear. Not that I tried for long. Some things aren’t worth saving.

Nola shook her head. “What am I going to do with you?” She gave me that sisterly smile that made her look ten years older than me, instead of my age. “How are you feeling? Are those bruises on your neck?”

“Good, and no. Not really. It’s. .” I was going to say nothing, but Nola could see right through my lies. “Well, maybe not fine, but. . you know.” I waved at her to sit on my ratty couch, which she did, and I sat on one of the chairs by the little round table at the window. “What are you doing here?” I asked again.

“You know I’m trying to get custody of Cody Miller?”

I laced my fingers together and rubbed my thumbs over the marks on my right and left hands. Marks put there in part, I was told, by Cody using me as a conduit for magic. A lot of magic.

“Is that his last name?” I asked.

“Yes. I’m running into a little bit of trouble getting him released. He was put in the state mental health hospital for criminal use of magic-forging signatures with magic.” She shook her head. “He must have been eighteen when that happened. They said he suffered a mental break during his trial and has never been the same. But now it’s been determined he needs to undergo more psychological exams.” She shook her head. “They’ve had him for two years; I don’t know what they haven’t tested by now.”

“Wait, Cody’s twenty?”

“Right.” Nola dug in her purse, pulled out a photo of a young man with delicate, almost fragile features. He was smiling, but his blue, blue eyes held the kind of simple intelligence I’d expect from a child.

“He’s twenty on the outside, but not mentally,” Nola said. “I decided I might be able to talk to some people personally, and find out why he hasn’t been released into my custody yet. I’m hoping to take him home with me in the next few days.”

“Want me to see if I can pull some strings for you?”

“Can you?”

I shrugged. “Maybe. I still haven’t talked much with my dad’s lawyers. But Violet basically told me the fate of Beckstrom Enterprises is mine to decide. And I’m sure Beckstrom Enterprises has string-pulling capabilities.” I grinned. “Power in the palm of my hand. Pretty cool, huh?”

“Mmm,” she agreed. “How are you doing with that?”

I opened my mouth to say I was fine, I could handle it, it was no big deal. But there was something about Nola that negated my bullshit ability. I’d never been able to lie to her, so I didn’t even try.

“I’m worried. I’m not sure what I should do. Violet has done a really good job running the business since his, uh. . death. She’s still working on developing magic-technology integrations. She. . she has reasons to keep things running.”

I didn’t tell her Violet was pregnant with the child of my powerful and not-nearly-dead-enough father. My one and only sibling. Violet said Dad didn’t know about the baby before he died. I didn’t know whether he’d hear me if I said it out loud. The idea of having to deal with his ghostly fit when he found out sounded like a joy I wanted to save for later.