Devon Monk - Magic on the Storm

Too hot, too hard, magic rushed up out of the earth and poured down from the sky to stretch and fill my bones, my skin, my body. There wasn’t enough room in my body for me to breathe, wasn’t enough room for me to think.

Meditate , he’d said.

Jingo Jingo was such a joker.

I had to clear my mind. Had to direct-no, channel-no, Ground. I was supposed to Ground, and they were going to direct the magic that ricocheted and fractured, leaping above me, above us, above St. Johns, striking wild, random arcs of lightning and wild glyphs that would tear us all to shreds.

We might be using magic, but it was going to use us right back.

I cleared my mind. Sang my “Miss Mary Mack” song. Lost the line when thunder rolled and rolled, and lightning hit so low I felt it in my molars and thought we’d all go up in a crisp. Picked up at the “silver buttons, buttons, buttons” line and held tight to the disk, which hummed with magic, in my hand over the pile of disks.

The wild magic was not me. The wild magic could not change me. It could pour around me, fill the disk in my hand, and fill the other disks on the ground. It could follow the marks, the paths, the ribbons, magic had painted in my skin, my blood, my bones, and use me as a conduit. Magic could slide through me, soft, gentle, and return to the soil, the stones, the heart of the earth, where it belonged.

The reason St. Johns had been chosen for this suddenly made sense. St. Johns was an empty sieve. Magic would flow through it, and into the channels beyond this neighborhood, and fill all the rest of Portland.

That was, if I could Ground it.

I inhaled, exhaled, tasted the burnt wood and hot ozone of fire. The wind lifted, buffeting, hot in the cold, cold rain.

Grounding wasn’t a difficult glyph to draw, but making magic follow it, and standing there, steady, calm, and completely focused while the magic used me, was what made Grounding hard. I set a Disbursement, hoping to push off some of the pain for later. Maybe I’d catch a flu in a week or so.

If I survived.

I looked up, at the sky roiling with metallic, psychedelic clouds, stirred by the winds like oil on water, pushed into new shapes, into unnamed hues and colors. Lightning struck, and all the colors of magic flashed gold against the black sky. I’d never felt so much magic so concentrated. At least, not that I remembered.

Even the rain tasted of the oily, metallic heat of wild magic, striking sour on the tip of my tongue, and so sweet at the back of my throat.

Lightning struck again. Thunder roared.

Now. I knew I had to cast it now.

I focused, pushed away the awareness of the magic users around me, most of them chanting over the rush of rain and wind, pushed away my awareness of the storm, of the rain, of the wind buffeting my body.

Raised my hand.

This one stroke, this one line, this one curve-I cast each part of the glyph for Grounding with precise, purposeful motion. Nothing wrong, not a tremor, not a pause.

Then I drew upon the magic from the disk in my hand. It hesitated, and for a second, I thought I had screwed up and was going to suck all the magic in the disk into me, into my bones, blood, and flesh. But the magic sprang free of the disk, and I guided it to fill the glyph for Grounding.

Magic poured into the Grounding, and shot ropes of magic over me. Even though I expected that and braced for it, I jerked. The thick, cold cables of the magic clamped over my shoulders and fell like hundred-pound anchors into the soil, where they plunged deep and hooked. I could not move if I wanted to.

I was now officially Beckstrom the storm rod. And I hated it.

Have I mentioned I am claustrophobic? I tried to push my fear out of the way, tried to ignore the clamping restraints of the Grounding holding me down.

This is why I am no good at Grounding. I freak out within the first three seconds or so. Trapped. Too trapped.

I exhaled, focused on the disk in my outstretched hand. I could do this. Not only that, I would do this. Everything depended on me doing this one thing. One thing wasn’t hard. I could do one thing.

Magic leaped into the hands of the users in the circle. I recognized directional glyphs, drawn to attract and guide the magic down out of the sky and into me-or rather into the framework of magic around me, the Grounding I’d just cast.

I breathed evenly, bracing for the onslaught.

Magic would not burn me alive. So long as I didn’t take it into me. So long as I didn’t lose my concentration. These magic users were professionals. They knew what they were doing.

I hoped.

From the corner of my eye, I saw a figure leap out of the shadows. Two figures. Magic flared. Glyphs turned to flame. The pile of disks at my feet caught fire, magic bursting free.

A wall of heat hit me and I yelled, thinking, Ground, Ground, Ground.

No , my dad said. Let go, Allison, let go! He shoved at me, tried to take control, but I was nothing if not made of stubborn. I held my place, kept my cool, even though I was being roasted to the core.

Ground, Ground, Ground.

Look , Dad said. Look around you. Look at the battle.

Battle? My ears were already ringing from the pounding thunder and magic. I couldn’t hear him over all the screaming.

Wait. Screaming?

I hesitated. I was not good at doing what my father wanted me to do. But there was something very wrong.

I looked away from the disk in my palm, holding my concentration in the Grounding spell.

Chaos. The circle was broken. And it wasn’t because of the storm.

Magic user fought magic user in a blur so confusing, I couldn’t make out who was where.

I blinked hard, trying to clear my vision. Magic poured over me, hot, heavy, cold, biting, rushing down the cables of the Grounding spell that I somehow still held.

Go, me.

But all around me the Authority battled.

I searched for Shame in the melee.

And instead saw Greyson and Chase.

No, no, no. Absolutely no. They could not be here. Who would have told them we were going to be here?

Greyson was more beast than man, on all fours, wide head, fangs, and claw, bone and sinew for legs and arms, and burning eyes. Chase cast magic for him, with him, his Soul Complement and his hands. She was tall, but thinner and paler than just a day ago. Working magic with Greyson, or maybe being Soul Complement to a man who was half alive and half dead, carried a hard price-her humanity.

Her hair hung around her shoulders like a black cape, glimpses of her skin flashes of moonlight in a dark night. Her eyes and her lips were bloodred. She no longer wore jeans and flannel, but instead had on a black dress that skimmed her knees and black boots with heels low enough to make running easy. Or fighting.

And that was exactly what she was doing.

And doing very well.

Just like back at Officers Row, Chase was chanting and weaving glyphs in the air and filling them with magic she pulled out of the storm. Multicolored ribbons wrapped down her fingers and up her arm, where tendrils shot out to anchor in Greyson, feeding him. He was headed my way.

Romero, the family-man killer, launched himself at Greyson, the machete in his hand a blur of magic channeled from the sky.

Greyson fought him, fangs bared, then unhinged his huge jowls and sucked down the magic Romero threw at his head.

Chase clapped her hands together once and a gate sprang up. Greyson leaped through it. Chase slammed her hands together again, and the gate disappeared in a blast of black smoke.

I didn’t know how she was doing it. Those gates weren’t allowing any of the creatures that haunted the other side, the Hungers, to break through. But Greyson used them as easily as stepping though an open door.