Devon Monk - Magic In the Blood

If the kid tracked spells even half as easily as he tracked me, he really was a good Hound.

I let the curtains fall back in place and thumbed on the answering machine. Three phone calls. One from a credit card company, and one from my father’s accountant, Mr. Katz, politely reminding me that we had not yet met to go over the next round of papers to settle my father’s estate.

As Katz spoke, I tugged off my sweater. It was wet and smelled of my own sweat and fear. I threw the sweater on the floor on top of my boots, skinned out of my long-sleeved T-shirt, threw that on the pile, and was just unbuttoning my jeans when the third message clicked on.

“Ms. Beckstrom,” said a man’s voice I could not immediately place. “I am sorry to be calling your home number. This is Dr. Frank Gordon, your neighbor. We recently ran into each other at the coffee shop. I have a Hounding job I would like to hire you for. It’s… of a delicate nature. I hope you will call me so we can arrange a time to meet. Please return my call at your earliest convenience.”

Instead of hanging up, he remained on the phone, breathing. Just breathing.

After a minute or so, the call disconnected.

Strange.

Standing in my living room with only my bra and jeans on, I felt a chill roll down my skin. I rubbed my hands over my arms and hissed as my palms crossed raw spots. Sure enough, I had more circles of raw burns on my left arm and shoulder and, now that I looked, on my belly too.

I shivered. There were more sores on my back, my legs. A lot more. I needed to shower again and put more antiseptic on them.

I was hungry. I was tired. And nothing was going to get done if I just stood there in my living room whining. I dragged myself into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. I didn’t care how late it was; it was never too late for hot caffeine.

But first, I wanted to be clean.

I walked into the bathroom, slicked out of my wet jeans, and turned on the shower.

I steeled myself and looked in the mirror.

Lovely. I looked as horrible as I felt.

More circles mottled my skin, down my left arm, my belly, my thighs, and what I could see of my shoulders. I opened my mouth and leaned in. Raw red spots marked the inside of my cheeks and both sides of my tongue.

I looked like I’d just done three rounds with a gang of octopuses and lost.

All the wounds were weeping. I checked the older raw spots. They had not healed, not at all. If anything, they looked bigger, the red gone a ghastly white-blue, like frozen dead flesh, spread out in wider circles. They were still leaking in the center and sore in the middle, though less sore on the edges. I didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad sign.

Fabulous. If the watercolor people got all slaphandsy again, I’d be a giant walking scab.

The bruise on my thigh from Trager’s needle was the same size, still spidery and glyphlike with a red, needlepoint center.

With my crazy color marks wrapping from my right temple to the edge of my breast, down my shoulder, arm, and hand, and with new moist red circles poxing the rest of me like a medieval plague, I looked… strange… foreign… inhuman.

Even my eyes looked darker.

My stomach clenched. That scared the hells out of me.

Time to stop staring in the mirror.

I got in the shower and scrubbed from my scalp to my soles. I wanted to be clean. Really clean. Inside and out. I wanted to be healthy. I wanted to be myself. I didn’t want to be changed by the watercolor people. Or by anything else, for that matter.

The soap stung and burned. I adjusted the water so it was tepid and kept scrubbing. The combination of cool water and pain woke me up a little.

I got out of the shower and did what I could to apply antiseptic spray to my hurts. I left the light on and changed into the only pair of pajamas I owned: flannel with ladybugs and dragonflies. Usually I wore nothing to bed, or a slip nightgown. Tonight I was bringing out the big guns of comfort, though: flannel jammies, woolly socks, and a big mug of coffee that I wished were cocoa. Note to self: buy cocoa.

I shuffled into the living room again.

My front door knob turned. I froze, watching it. The knob turned back and then stopped. It was locked. Whoever was on the other side of the door drew on magic. The prickly discomfort of a spell ready to be cast-a big spell-poured over me like unwelcome rain.

Oh, hells.

I whispered a Disbursement-that little fever I had in store for me was now going to knock me out for a week. I traced a glyph for Shield, hoping that would keep me safe long enough to deal with my intruder.

I picked up the hammer I’d left on my bookshelf when I was hanging pictures, held it in my left hand, magic in my right, and waited.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs, as if purposely trying to be noisy, accompanied by loud, cheerful whistling.

The prickly spell unraveled. Broken before it was cast. Gone. It was hard to hear over the footsteps and whistling, but I think I heard an apartment door open and close somewhere down the hall.

What the hells? A knock made me jump. The knock rapped out again.

I thought about pouring magic into the Shield glyph but decided the hammer would probably solve my problem quicker. I let go of the glyph, switched the hammer to my right hand, and approached the door.

I looked out the peephole.

Zayvion Jones stood on the other side of the door, warped by the bend of glass. He was whistling loudly and holding something that looked like a pizza box in his hand.

He stared straight at the peephole like he knew I was looking at him and, without breaking eye contact, knocked on my door again.

I unlocked the door, opened it.

In front of me, smelling like pine and pepperoni, stood six feet plus of Zayvion Jones.

“Mr. Jones,” I said, trying to think of what had really just happened. “What brings you by?”

His eyebrows hitched up while he looked me over, from my fuzzy socks and buggy pajamas to my wet, uncombed hair. His gaze lingered on the hammer.

“I brought you pizza.”

“I thought our date was tomorrow.”

“It is. This is just a late night snack. I thought you might be hungry.”

Now that he mentioned it, I was starved. The delicious scents of basil, rich cheese, and spices wafted up from the box.

My stomach growled. Loudly. Traitor. Should I trust him? Let him into my house after the day I’d had? I thought it over. Realized I didn’t care. I wanted food, and here it was, hot and delicious, on my doorstep. And Zayvion Jones wasn’t hard on the eyes either.

“Come on in.” I walked away from the door and into the kitchen, putting down the hammer, pulling out napkins, and getting a couple glasses.

Zayvion closed the door behind him.

“Just put it in the living room,” I said. “We can eat there.”

I didn’t hear him walk across the floor, but I did hear him put the pizza down and lift the box lid. I strolled out of the kitchen, napkins and two glasses of apple juice-the only beverage in the house besides water and coffee-in my hand. “All I have is apple juice. Hope that’s okay.”

He moved away from the window. He had taken off his ratty coat and black beanie, hanging the coat on the back of one of the chairs at the round table. He wore jeans and a dark gray sweater that looked like cashmere. The flex and movement of his chest and torso beneath that thin fabric made my heartbeat quicken.

I remembered him, remembered his body. An image flashed behind my eyes. He stood in a doorway, naked except for his boxers, his dark skin tiger-striped with yellow light, his eyes burning gold with passion. He had waited. Waited for me to say yes.

I blinked. And the memory was gone. A sad hunger lingered at the back of my mind and echoed through my body. I wondered if I’d said yes.