Devon Monk - Magic on the Storm

“Everywhere. Everyone knows that.”

“Well, everyone is wrong. Wild storms can be quantified. Maybe not accurately predicted, but there are indicators. You learn this in college.” I gave him a hard look that didn’t work. I’d never asked him if he’d gone to college or, for that matter, if he was old enough to go to college. And honestly, even if he had, magic was not a required course. He could have a degree in Wiffle ball for all I knew.

“So you do storm quantifying in your spare time?” he asked.

“I don’t have to quantify them,” I said. “I have a gut feeling, like I also said back there. I know there’s a storm coming. I can feel it in my bones. Hounds are like that. We’re geared to sniff out things other people can’t sense.”

He shut up, and it took me a second to figure out why. Oh, right, he had been feeling the pain from other Hounds.

“Have you talked to your doctor?” I asked.

“About what?”

“About the aftereffects you’re still suffering from your injuries.”

We were almost at the hospital now, the winding twists up the hill between forest and jogging paths emptying out into a maze of twenty-story buildings and parking centers that gave off a little bit of vertigo, even though they were nestled back into the hill around them.

This late at night, the lights of Portland and the river below spread out between the trees like diamonds against velvet.

“It’s not like that,” he finally said. “Not a pain that medicine can fix.”

“And you know for sure it’s only when Hounds are hurt?”

He shrugged one shoulder.

“That’s not an answer.”

“Then what answer will make you get off my back?”

“The real one.”

“Fine. I know it’s only when Hounds are hurt.”

“Can you tell which Hound is hurting?”

“Usually. I just. . I just know. It’s like their scent, their blood and pain, is imprinted in my head.” He rubbed his face with his left hand. “I can tell when you’re hurt too.”

“Really? Right now?”

“No. It fades. I felt it when you got hit by magic back there. I don’t feel it now. Are you still hurting?”

“Not much.” I eased the car into the underground parking structure. “Is it only pain brought on by magic?”

That gave him pause. “I don’t know. I haven’t told anyone else about it, to, like, test it.”

“Well, I’m not going to slam my hand in the door or anything.” I found a parking spot-there were plenty open this time of night-and turned off the engine. “Did you tell Stotts the truth about that spell? You weren’t just making it up?”

He exhaled a short breath. “That’s the last time I try to do you a favor. Yes, of course I told the officer of the law the truth. Whoever cast that spell deserves to get slapped with a ticket or get thrown back into casting basics 101. That was weird magic.”

“Just checking.”

“What? That I know how to do my job?”

“That you’re okay. Magic can do more than just mess with your body. It can mess with your head too.” I meant it to come out nice. No luck. It sounded condescending.

Great.

Davy opened the door and got out of the car. “You can go to hell.” He slammed the door shut.

I took a deep breath and rubbed at my eyes. That was stupid. But I didn’t know what else I could tell him without putting him in danger of losing his memories.

And frankly, magic did mess with your mind. It took away my memories. I was pretty sure it had changed Davy in some way. Blood magic, in particular, left scars. I knew that because I had them.

Which made me worry about the other things magic might be doing to him, and doing to me. That flare of magic in the park had left me feeling a little shaky inside.

If magic was acting strange, something both Davy and I had felt on the way to the park, and if magic was draining the wells, then what did that mean for me? I carried magic inside me. How much magic was going to get sucked out of me?

I didn’t know. But what I did know was I had been stupid to talk to Davy like that. And I needed to mop up the mess I’d made of our friendship.

I got out, locked the doors, and dialed Zay again while heading after Davy. I wanted to tell Zayvion a gate had been opened, and that I’d caught a whiff of Greyson at the park.

Davy stormed toward the elevators in the middle of the parking structure. There was no way I’d get in that tiny tin can on pulleys.

The phone rang in my ear, but Zay still didn’t pick up.

Yes, that was beginning to worry me.

“Davy. Wait.” I picked it up to a jog, and was happy to feel my body respond. After too many months of magic kicking my ass, all the workouts and training were finally giving me my strength back.

Davy did not wait. He punched the elevator button, his back to me.

The doors opened just as I reached him. I hung up the phone.

One look inside that wooden interior and all I could think of was nails in a lid. My palms broke out in a sweat and my stomach clenched. I couldn’t stop myself from taking a step back.

Davy walked in, turned around, and gave me a flat stare.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. It was a stupid thing to say. See you inside.” It came out in one big nervous rush. Just looking at the elevator, with the added bonus of the parking structure’s ceiling feeling like it was pressing down on my shoulders, was giving me the willies.

He didn’t say anything. The doors closed and I shook my hands out, trying not to give in to the urge to shriek a little.

The faster I got into the hospital, the faster I got out of this crowded space.

I strode down the concrete ramp, and back up again, taking the route a car would take to get out of the parking deck. That put me on ground level pretty quickly. I saw a bus coming from farther up the hill, and made it across the street to the glass entry doors of the hospital. Unfortunately, the magic-trauma unit was on the thirteenth floor. I might be able to avoid the elevators in the parkade, but walking up thirteen flights of stairs seemed ridiculous, even to me. I knew I’d have to take the elevators. I hated that.

Davy was probably already on the skywalk four floors above me. Probably almost at reception to find out which room they’d put Bea in.

I wiped my sleeve over my face, dabbing away any blood that might be there. The cut had stopped bleeding, which was something at least, but my face still felt tight.

I made my way down the tile hallway, and past a few unmanned desks, carpeted waiting areas to my right and left edging the tile like manicured lawns, flat-screen TVs showing parks, waterfalls, and wildlife.

It was quiet tonight. I passed only two people, a man in scrubs and a woman with a backpack who looked like she hadn’t slept for a few weeks.

I turned the corner to the elevators and pushed the button. While I waited for my own personal hell to creak to a stop, I recited my mantra to calm my mind. I took several deep breaths. Pretty soon, the floor swung a little under my feet. Right, hyperventilating did not equal calming breaths.

The bell pinged and the elevator door slid open. I could do this. I could step into that tiny space that didn’t feel big enough for my legs, my chest, my lungs. I could duck down and not have the ceiling hit me, hold my breath, and squeeze in there between the walls, scraping my shoulders on either side.

Sweet hells, I hated this. I bit my bottom lip, and forced-and I mean literally forced-my foot to take a step forward. That got me two steps; then I closed my eyes, held my breath, and took the third.

I turned around, punched the button for floor thirteen, and positioned myself in the exact center of the elevator. I stretched my arms out to either side, so I could hold back the walls when they started closing in.