Devon Monk - Magic in the Shadows

“I am a teacher here,” he said. “I understand you know my student, Shamus Flynn.”

I did. And I also knew Shamus didn’t like him. Shamus said he was a freak.

Shamus was a very smart boy.

Plus, Davy had said Tomi was messed up with Jingo. None of this inspired my trust in the man.

“Yes,” I finally said.

“And I understand you’ve been hearing your father. Ever since that unfortunate happening in the warehouse.”

It took me a second to place which unfortunate happening in which warehouse he was talking about. Probably the one after Pike had died, after I’d killed Lon Trager, when Frank Gordon had dug up my dad and tried to use him to open the gates to death.

Unfortunate, indeed.

“Have you?” he asked.

What were we talking about? I was tired, muzzy-headed. What the hell had Chase done to me?

We were talking about my dead dad in my head. Right. Even though I didn’t like this man, didn’t trust this man, he was a teacher in the Authority, and innocent before being found guilty and all that. Even Maeve had told me she wanted him to look in my head and see if my father was really still there.

And after everything Greyson had done to my father, now would be the best time to find out if my dad was still alive, still in my head.

“I’ve heard him, yes,” I said. Could I sound any more like an idiot?

“I’m going to look into your mind, Ms. Beckstrom. To see how much of your father is still with you. Do I have your permission to do so?”

“Do you have to have it?” Well, that was a stupid thing to ask.

“It does make this a more. . pleasant experience.”

“Okay.” I hated that someone I did not know, someone I did not trust, was going to get inside me, feel around.

Sure, I tried to think of Jingo Jingo the same way I thought about having a new doctor. He was an expert. He had my best interests in mind.

I wasn’t buying it.

“Just relax.” He shifted so he could rest his hand on my right wrist, the arm where magic had left its indelible mark.

His fingers were soft. Warm.

Just like Maeve, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes, copper fire glinted in their brown depths.

He reached into my mind-a slick warmth that felt a lot like a finger going down my throat. But instead of gagging, I felt a numbing sensation follow his touch.

My vision shifted. I didn’t know whether it was because he was in the middle of my head, looking around, or whether I had lost control of the magic inside me and had accidentally invoked Sight.

Jingo Jingo no longer looked like a man. Or rather he did. He just didn’t look like the same man. The man revealed to me was skeletal, lean, empty, and hungry as an addict. All around him, tied by candy-colored lines, were the images of ghostly children.

He had a thing for the bones of little children.

I blinked, but the ghosts did not disappear. They shifted and moved, a fog of sorrowful faces and wide, frightened eyes.

Shamus said Death magic was a transference of energy. Did that mean Jingo Jingo, a user of Death magic, was somehow drawing upon, using, or (shudder) harvesting the souls of little children?

I wanted to look away. Wanted to unsee what I was seeing. But Jingo Jingo’s thick fingers were in my head, holding me still. Pinning me down to the mattress beneath me.

“Beckstrom,” Jingo said in his soft baritone, “come to me, Daniel Beckstrom.”

A flutter, soft as a one-winged moth, flickered at the back of my head.

Betrayer

, my father whispered.

Jingo Jingo’s eyes went wide. I saw his fear.

Call me petty, but I liked the look of it.

He withdrew from my mind, pulling away from me both physically and mentally.

He blinked. The copper fire in his eyes was gone. And so were the ghostly children.

He was just a man again. Except I knew he was not.

Still, he smiled that warm smile and hid the fear in his eyes. “You are fine, Allison,” he said. “Your daddy isn’t going to bother you no more. He was something once, but nothing to worry about now. Just a couple echoes of his memories in you. But he’s gone. He’s gone.”

Really? Then why did I feel that flutter in my mind again, still faint, but growing stronger? Why did I smell Jingo Jingo’s sweat? His fear.

I didn’t believe my father was gone. Maybe drained. Maybe broken. But I was pretty sure he was still in me. I was pretty sure I’d just heard him. And I was pretty sure that scared the hell out of Jingo Jingo.

Wasn’t that interesting?

There was a soft knock on the door.

“Come on in,” Jingo Jingo said. He seemed awfully happy for the interruption.

The door opened and Maeve walked in carrying a tray with a bowl and cup on it. I smelled chicken soup and fresh coffee.

My stomach growled.

“Ready for some food?” she asked.

“Please,” I said.

Jingo Jingo took that as his cue to leave. “I’ll leave you to your meal, Ms. Beckstrom.” He pushed up to his feet, filling more space than I thought the room had.

My heart notched up at that, claustrophobia kicking in. I really needed him to go, to leave, to empty out the room and leave me with air to breathe.

Or, hells, he could stay and I’d be happy to leave. He and Maeve could have the room and spend all the time they wanted there.

I pushed the covers down to my legs, thinking now would be a great time to get out of here.

“Could I speak with you?” Jingo Jingo asked Maeve.

She nodded, and expertly deposited the tray over my uncovered lap. “Stay here. Eat.”

No Influence behind it, but such a motherly command it had the same result. Before I could push away the tray, she and Jingo Jingo were out the door, leaving a lot more air and the smell of chicken and vegetables behind to remind me that I hadn’t eaten for what felt like a long, long time.

They shut the door behind them, but that was okay. The room itself was large. It just wasn’t large enough to contain me, Maeve, and Jingo Jingo.

I picked up the fork. It wasn’t soup, but a nice stir-fry that filled the bowl. I took a bite. Salty, savory, with veggies that still snapped with flavor. I ate as quietly as I could, listening to the drift of Maeve and Jingo Jingo’s voices.

Hounds don’t need magic to have good hearing.

“How is she?” Maeve asked.

“Tired. Her father left some memories behind. As is to be expected with the magic Frank Gordon used to resurrect his soul. But Daniel is not in there. I’d go so far as to say he never has been. Nothing but a few of his memories left behind for the poor girl.”

I stopped with a fork full of rice halfway to my mouth. Lies. He was lying to Maeve. He had seen my father in me. And even the tiniest flicker of my father’s presence had made him afraid. Why wouldn’t he want to tell Maeve the truth?

Was he part of Greyson using Tomi? Was he part of my dad’s death? Part of the hit on Boy out in St. Johns that almost got me, Zayvion, and Cody killed?

“Thank you,” Maeve said. “That’s one less thing we’ll have to worry about.”

“My pleasure, always, Mrs. Flynn,” he said.

“If you’d like dinner or a drink, help yourself, on the house.”

“Thank you. But I’m sorry I have to refuse. I have a few errands to attend to before she is tested.”

He said his good-byes, and so did Maeve. I got back to eating.

I don’t know why she waited for so long, but about five minutes later, Maeve knocked on the door. She opened it. “May I?”

“Come in.” I left my fork in the empty bowl and picked up the coffee cup. “This is your place, right? Your inn?” The food and coffee were doing wonders for clearing my head.

She nodded. “Our guest rooms are often used for people recovering from the demands of magic. Though we get our ordinary travelers through the place, too.”