Devon Monk - Magic In the Blood

Blood magics hurt. Blood magics scarred. And mixed with drugs, blood magics could be the highest high ever obtained.

Which is why they were illegal except for during certain medical procedures performed by well-trained and well-regulated doctors.

It was very difficult to sniff out and separate the mix of blood cast in this spell. Every person’s blood carried its own unique scent, but the differences were so minute, it would take a better Hound than me to untangle all of them.

I stepped into the elevator, into the tiny space with no air and no room, walls closing down around me, magic clogging my nostrils, burning my throat, hurting my lungs.

Pain. Violence. Glamour. They didn’t see anyone on the elevator with the girl because the attacker had been hiding. In plain sight. But he had been there. He had been right here.

I knelt down, pressed my palm to the floor. She had fallen here. She had been frightened here. Hurt.

This is where the true center of the spell was located. In the faint burnt ash of the caster’s handiwork, I could finally recognize the signature.

A Hound had cast this spell.

A Hound I knew.

Pike.

I didn’t want to believe it. I traced the lines of the spell again. Inhaled again. Hickory, just like Pike; the glyph drawn just like Pike’s signature. And the blood, at least one of the bloods involved, was Pike’s. I was sure of it. He’d been bleeding this morning. I’d had plenty of time to learn the smell of his blood.

Damn.

But the sweetness that lingered in the spell, I had never smelled on Pike. It was the tang of sweet cherries, blood magic. Maybe Pike wasn’t doing house repair. Maybe he’d been bleeding for another reason. Maybe Pike was teaching Anthony, who always smelled like cherries, how to use blood magic.

But why would Pike kidnap the girl?

Maybe he didn’t think he was kidnapping her. He might think he was saving her. Saving her like he couldn’t save his own granddaughter who had been about her age. Saving this girl before Lon Trager could get his hands on her.

Or maybe Trager had already found Pike, cut his wrist, and told Pike this was the favor he owed him. I didn’t like any of those ideas, didn’t want to tell Stotts that my friend might be behind the disappearance of these girls.

My heart thumped against my chest as I looked over my shoulder at Stotts.

A wave of watercolor people gathered behind him. They took one slow step, two, slid past Stotts, slid through Stotts, hollow blackness where their eyes should be, mouths open and hungry, hands reaching out for me. For my magic.

“Shit!”

“What?” Stotts said. “Allie? What’s wrong?”

The watercolor people lunged.

They filled the elevator, smelling like fetid death. Cold fingers stabbed me and I yelled at the pain. Fingers pulled magic off my bones like meat from a turkey. They stuffed the magic in their mouths and moaned for more.

I yelled again. Fingers slid into my mouth, sucked at my tongue and inside my cheeks. The taste of raw, rotted meat filled my mouth. I rocked back on my heels, hit my head on the elevator wall. I pushed at them, at their hands, but it was like pushing air. I let go of the glyphs for Sight, Smell, and Taste. I wanted, I needed a spell, another spell. Something to make them go away.

As soon as I let go of magic, the watercolor people were gone.

I breathed in short, shallow gasps. Everywhere they had touched me burned. And they had touched me-all of me-inside and out.

“Allie?” Stotts said from somewhere far away.

I needed air. I needed to be out of this elevator.

I got up to my feet and ran out of the elevator, ran past Stotts, ran across the garage. I heard footsteps behind me, chasing me, but I didn’t stop until I slammed into the concrete railing at the edge of the garage. Air. Space. I was going to puke.

I leaned over the edge.

A fist grabbed the back of my coat and yanked so hard I landed on my ass on the floor. I groaned. Too much. It was too much. I rolled up on my knees, and then I lost everything in my stomach.

“Shit,” Stotts said from close above me but not too close.

I heaved and heaved, trying to get the taste of death out of me, trying to get their rotten touch out of me, trying to forget them reaching inside of me and pulling me apart.

Why didn’t magic ever take away the memories I wanted to lose?

A hand, Stotts’ hand, pressed gently on my back. “Here,” he said.

I swallowed until I was sure nothing more was coming up and sat back. Stotts kept his hand on my back, a comforting weight. He offered me a handkerchief, and I took it, wiped the tears from my eyes, blew my nose, and used the last dry corner of the cloth to wipe my mouth.

“Think you can stand?” he asked softly.

I wondered if he had kids. He seemed like an old pro at this.

I stood, and his hand came under my elbow to help support me. “I’m fine,” I said. “I’m good.” My legs, however, didn’t believe me. Exhaustion rolled over me, and I stubbornly locked my knees to stay standing. Even so, I was trembling.

“You’re doing just fine,” Stotts said. He helped me walk maybe six or seven steps away from the mess I’d made. I was breathing hard, like I’d just climbed Mt. Hood. Darkness closed in at the edges of my vision, and the whole garage slipped away down a far tunnel.

“I’m going to help you sit. That’s good,” Stotts said from somewhere farther away than the ringing in my ears. “Now I’m going to help you lie down. That’s good. I’m going to go get the car. I will be right back. You are going to stay right here. No trying to jump off the building again, okay?”

Jump off the building? Did I look like I was in any shape to jump off the building?

As soon as I could open my mouth, I was going to ask him what he meant.

Maybe I blacked out. I don’t know. The next thing I knew, his hands-warm, human, living hands-helped me up.

“I’m going to help you into the backseat so you can lie down.”

“No,” I mumbled. What do you know, I could talk. “The front. The front’s fine.”

“Are you sure you can sit?”

“I’m feeling better,” I said. Even I could tell my voice was gaining strength. He helped me into the front seat, closed the door. The weight of the car shifted as he got into his seat. He twisted to pull something out of the back and then handed me a blanket.

“Thanks,” I said. I draped the blanket over my lap and leaned my head against the headrest. I was feeling stronger, but the magic that usually filled me so full was distant, dulled. I felt empty but not in a good way.

The watercolor people had done more than just eat the magic of my spell. They had pulled the magic out of me, and magic was having a hard time filling me back up.

The absence of it, the absence of its weight and motion, made me feel raw inside. Knowing those people could do that scared the hell out of me.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Tell me what happened.” The engine was running, and the heater was on full blast, but we were not driving anywhere yet. “Tell me what you saw. Could you trace the spell?”

I nodded. “It was still strong. Even after three days.”

“Do you know who cast it?”

“I want to Hound the other site before I say.”

“We aren’t going to Hound the other site. Not with you trying to leap tall buildings back there.”

“I wasn’t going to jump.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Listen.” I took a deep breath. Pike told me to confide in Stotts. Even though I was feeling a little shaky about Pike’s loyalties at the moment, he was right about one thing-Stotts knew about magic and magical crimes. If anyone in this city would know what those watercolor people were, it might be him.