Devon Monk - Magic in the Shadows

Positive and negative. Me using magic, and it using me. The joy and the pain.

I broke the Fire, and cast Sight so I could see through the darkness.

The Necromorph hadn’t blocked the spell because he didn’t have to. He just drank it down. The fire, the magic, everything. All my Light magic fed him. And all the leeches hanging off him got longer and fatter, and the Veiled sucking on them moaned.

Okay, here’s the thing. I had not woken up thinking I was going to be facing down certain death, nor the creepy Rastafarian dog-man from hell.

Which is probably why one look at the squirming mess of magic leeches writhing over him made me stop and stare instead of pay attention to other things, like, say, the Veiled who had suddenly decided to pay attention to me.

Shit.

The Veiled rushed. Fast. Too fast for any living thing.

And the Necromorph was right behind them.

The Veiled’s fingers clutched my coat, my hands, my arms, pressed under my skin, hooked magic out of me, and drew it into their mouths with huge smacking gulps.

Dad had protected me from them before. But he was silent. Inert as a lump of lead.

I was on my own.

And if I wanted the Veiled not to eat me, I had to stop using magic.

Which meant I had nothing but my fists as weapons.

Violet was right. I so needed self-defense training.

There was no way I was going to get out of this unbroken. But I damn sure was going to get out of it alive.

I dropped the spell, dropped the magic. Like a dark curtain falling on a bright screen, the real world came back.

I was breathing too hard and hurting everywhere. My head, my bleeding and possibly broken shoulder, my chest, my skin. There had to be a weapon I could use, but all I had was the journal in my pocket.

That would do. I put my hand around the book, ready to pull it out and throw it at him, or maybe jamb the pointed corner into his eye.

“For innocence to remain,” the Necromorph said, “no price is too high.” It was strangely soft, more man than creature.

And I swear, it sounded like an apology.

Nice, but a little too late.

He lunged at me.

I twisted at the hip, aimed the book and my fist at his face with everything I had.

And slammed my hand into a rock wall. I think I broke a finger. Or five.

A roar filled my ears. Not my own. Though I yelled too.

No, this sound was huge. The murderer was howling in pain.

That was no rock wall I’d slammed my fist into. That was a gargoyle.

Stone tore into the murderer with hands and fangs. Four ground-shaking blows from Stone sent the Necromorph to the ground, bleeding black. He was broken. More than that, he was pulverized.

I thought it was over.

I think Stone thought it was over too.

But even without holding Sight, I could feel the magic gathering beneath my feet. Feel it pooling, growing, and pouring toward the murderer.

I traced a quick glyph for Sight.

Holy shit. It wasn’t magic, or at least it wasn’t magic as I had ever seen it before. It was like a shadow of magic, indigo, violet, bloodred, dark and seeping. Rising up through the soil and pushing into the Necromorph’s body while the disk in his neck pulsed and glowed the same shadowy colors as the magic.

He twitched. Jerked. Stood back up.

Holy shit. He was dead. Had been dead. But he was not dead anymore.

I pressed against the wall. Stone growled. The Necromorph looked at me.

“You will not stop me.” Then he took off running, bleeding, fast and fluid and silent, a slice of moonlight in the shadowed night, despite the wounds Stone had given him. Stone was right behind him, just as fast, but each footfall landed like a heavy engine shaking the night.

Yes, I could have stood there and watched the rest of the gory details. But I was going to get the hell out of there while the getting was good.

I ran uphill toward my house. I didn’t care if that would be the first place anyone would expect me to go. I needed to get away, get out of there, run, run, run before the nightmares caught up with me.

I was halfway home when I heard footfalls behind me. Human footfalls. Running.

“Allie?”

I knew that voice. Davy Silvers. Hound. But I couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. Not for him. Not for anyone.

Davy had two things on me. Legs and youth. He caught up to me before I reached the doors to my apartment.

“Wait,” he said. “Wait. Hold on.” He tugged on my sleeve and it hurt like hell. It took everything I had not to punch him in the nose.

I stopped, spun on him.

“What is your problem?” I yelled.

He stumbled back several steps and held up both his hands. He was sweaty, his face too pale in the streetlight. “I heard you scream. Heard the fight back there. Then you were running, but there’s nothing behind you but me. You have blood on your face.”

Maybe. I had anger too. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop following me around?” I said. “You could have been killed.”

He folded his arms over his sweatshirt and tucked his hands in his armpits. “You’re hurt,” he repeated stubbornly. “Do you want me to call an ambulance or take you down to the hospital myself?”

“Listen,” I said, trying to calm down, trying to pull my wits back on, one word at a time. “A guy jumped me. I hit my head on a wall fighting with him. I’m fine.”

Davy was a Hound. One things Hounds are good at is spotting bullshit.

“Okay, we can go with that for now,” he said. “At least we both agree you’re hurt. Ambulance or front seat of my car?”

“Neither. I’m going home.”

I started toward my apartment a block up the hill. Davy followed me. Out of swinging range.

Smart boy.

“Go home, Davy.” The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving me shaking and tired.

“I am. Just not my home.”

We walked a distance from each other all the way up to my building. By the time I reached the stairs, every ache, pain, and scratch was reporting for duty.

I hurt inside and out. And magic was pointing a headache at my brain that already made my molars ache. The wind was too cold, even with my heavy coat on. That meant I had a fever. Great.

Still, if I showered, took some aspirin, and slept for a month or so, I’d probably come out of this with only minor scars. I stopped in front of my door.

“Davy-” I looked over my shoulder.

Davy’s face was washed in the blue light of his cell phone, which he closed and stuffed in his pocket. “Yes?”

“Who were you calling?”

“Zayvion Jones.”

My brain tried to figure that one out, and came up empty. And I mean static-on-the-TV empty.

“What?” I said. “Why? How do you even have his number? Why are you still following me?” My voice rose up and up with each question, even though I didn’t want it to.

It’s called panic. I’m good at it.

“You’re hurt, and you stink of so much used magic, it’s like you rolled in a pile of shit and spells. Some of them are. . stuck to you. I don’t know how to fix that.” He shrugged. “Zayvion did things for you back in the warehouse. He did things I’ve never seen a doctor do. With magic. So if you’re not going to let me take you to the hospital, I’m going to get someone here who can help. Help get the magic off you, or help me pick you up and shove you in the trunk of my car so I can take you to the emergency room. Either way.” He shrugged again.

I tipped my face up to the sky and exhaled. “You can’t tell me-”

A movement at the roof level of the building-a head poking over the edge and looking down-caught my eye. Stone gripped the edge of the building and tipped his wide head sideways, considering me for a minute before pulling his head out of my line of vision.