Devon Monk - Magic In the Blood

Of course there was the whole angry ex-con thing that made me a little hesitant to put all my attention and concentration into casting a spell too.

But for this, to Hound my father’s signature, it was worth the risk. I whispered a mantra, just a little childhood jingle to settle my mind- Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack, all dressed in black, black, black -and set a Disbursement for the price of using magic. A head cold-maybe a headache-would hit me in a couple hours. I was starting small, with a little spell to pull a little magic into my sight, so I could see glyphs my father had drawn on the wall, or see the jerk who thought throwing an Illusion in my face would be funny.

I traced the glyph of Sight in the air with the fingers of my right hand. A few months ago, I would have been very conscious of tapping into the stream of magic that pooled naturally beneath the city, or the stored magic held in the special network of heavily glyphed lead and glass conduits that ran beneath the sidewalks and in and over the buildings.

But now I had all the magic I needed inside me, constantly replenished from the stores beneath the city. I was a sponge and magic filled me.

Handy, that.

Magic flowed warm and thick down my neck, pouring like heated oil over the curve of my breast and down the length of my right arm to settle hot against my palm. I traced the final lines on the glyph for Sight and pushed magic out of my fingertips into the spell.

Like pulling a blindfold from my eyes, the world was suddenly too bright and too clear.

Vivid lines of color shot through the air, draped like lace shrouds over buildings, flickering at the corners of streets, clinging to people who moved in the distance. Magic was everywhere in the city. From spells for bad breath to intricate and subtle Influences luring consumers into shops, glyphs of individual spells lingered in the air, crouched on the soil, and stuck to the glass, steel, and stone of the city.

This was what I imagined it would be like to see on a more microscopic level-to see the germs that lingered long after a hand had touched a surface, long after a kiss, an exhale.

I scanned the empty lot, looking for a spell big enough to pull off the graffiti trick. A few faint, old spells lay on the ground, mostly protections to let the owner know if someone was messing with the chain-link fence. All of those were used up, and useless as tissue paper in the rain.

There was no sign of foolery. That worried me.

I looked at the brick wall, where magic had just a moment ago dripped in pale, chalky warnings. Warnings of death. Brick, just brick. There was no sign of magic being cast-no sign of my father’s signature.

I leaned closer and inhaled, scenting rain, cold and clean, and the sharp counterpoint of dirt and mold. I could taste gasoline, the soap from the dry cleaners down the street, and the bitter hint of coffee that had roasted hours ago.

I traced a glyph for Smell and poured magic into it. I leaned in closer to the wall, close enough that I could press my palm against it without straightening my arm. Close enough my lips almost brushed the rough brick. Closed my eyes and inhaled again.

Just the faintest sour scent of leather flavored my tongue, but it was there-the smell of leather and wintergreen. My father’s scents.

I opened my eyes and backed the hells away from the wall. I was breathing heavily, sweating despite the rain. And as I stood there with Sight still covering my eyes, I realized everything-the wall, the street, the city-had fallen beneath a fog of pale watercolors.

Ghostly images of people, who I knew had not been standing on the street a second ago, appeared.

Holy shit. This was not a good time to be hallucinating.

None of the watercolor people seemed particularly aware of me or of the traffic that moved by. Some seemed more solid than others, and they were interacting-talking, strolling, holding objects in their hands I couldn’t quite make out. Some were only the faintest blur of movement at the corner of my eye. Others moved so near me, I could count the buttons on their shirts.

And all of them smelled like death-rank, fetid flesh.

Okay, this was scaring me now.

I blinked hard, but the watercolor people did not go away. Clarity. I could cast a spell of Clarity to strip the street of illusions.

I muttered a Diversion and pulled on magic.

All the watercolor people stopped. All the watercolor people looked at me with black, soulless, hungry eyes. All the watercolor people could see me. Then they started toward me slowly, as if they were moving underwater.

Oh, hells, oh, hells. Magic leaped readily to me-too quickly, too much, a flare of heat burning up my arm. I suddenly found myself working hard not to use magic, lest I burn up.

Calm, calm. I am a river. It wasn’t working, because, hey, magic won’t do what you want it to do if you’re freaking out. Magic flushed through me, too hot up my right side, too damn cold down my left. Still, the watercolor people drew near.

I looked for my father among them-hells, I expected him to be leading the march. But I did not see him, did not recognize any of these people/ghosts/ illusions/whatever they were.

And then it wasn’t a march anymore. As if broken from a chain, the watercolor people sped forward, fast, faster than anything human, a blur of transparent colors anchored by bright, hollow eyes that were too far away and suddenly way too damn close.

I tried to yell, but they were on me. Hands grabbed and stroked, dug into my skin, and pulled misty tendrils of magic out of me. They stuffed fistfuls of magic into their mouths, moaned, and slapped at me for more.

Everywhere they touched, magic rose and broke through my skin, like blood gushing free into their hands. I swayed, dizzy from the loss of magic, and pushed at their hands while I stumbled backward.

I yelled. The watercolor people followed me back until I was flat against the chain-link fence. Ghostly hands dug deeper for magic, burning down to my bones.

Then I did what I usually do in tight situations. I got angry.

No more Mr. Nice Girl. I had magic-magic they were pulling out of me, magic they were feeding on-and I was not about to be anyone’s all-you-can-eat buffet.

I let go of the magic bolstering my sight and smell, ending that flow of magic so I could recast something to protect myself. I needed to pull magic into a new spell, something that could kick watercolor ass-what the hells could kick watercolor ass? A mop? A hose? But as soon as I let go of magic, before I even started to trace a new glyph, the world snapped back into place.

The real world was the real world again. The watercolor people were gone.

“Allie?”

I traced a Hold glyph so fast, it was cocked and ready to fire before my heart had a chance to slam one more beat against my chest.

I didn’t pour magic into it.

Good thing too. Grant, the owner of Get Mugged, stood outside the door of the coffee shop in a T-shirt and flannel shirt, cowboy boots, and dark jeans tight enough to show he had bragging rights.

The only thing he was doing was getting rained on and looking worried.

I didn’t blame him. I’d be worried if a wild-eyed woman were pointing a Hold spell big enough to stop a rhino in midcharge at me too.

He slowly raised his hands to about chest high, while I stood there breathing hard, and blinking harder, and trying to think straighter.

“Easy, now. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

What I had seen-the glyphs and the watercolor people-was not here. Or at least they were not here anymore. I sniffed and couldn’t smell death. Couldn’t smell the leather and wintergreen of my dad, couldn’t smell anything except the city, coffee, and Grant’s cologne that hinted at vanilla and something deeper, like bourbon and sex.