Devon Monk - Magic In the Blood

“What?”

“It’s for migraines. It should be fine with the aspirin. And this is orange juice.”

I stood there staring at the cup like it was made of snakes. I didn’t have orange juice in my house.

He interpreted my expression correctly. “I went out. Thought you’d be up for breakfast.”

“You cooked?”

“If you count bagels and orange juice cooking, yes.”

I took the pill out of his hand, read the tiny ink stamp on it. Brand-name painkiller. Stronger than aspirin. “Buy this?”

“Those, I keep on me. You aren’t the only one who uses magic.”

I popped the pill and drank down the rest of the orange juice. I needed all the energy I could get. I had a breakfast date in an hour, and then a meeting with Pike and the police, and quite possibly a drug and blood magic ex-con to find. I pushed the cup back at him, looked him straight in the eye. “Thanks.” And pointedly closed the shower curtain.

“Do you know who it was? On the bus?” he asked.

Apparently closing the curtain wasn’t enough of a hint that I wanted a little “me” time.

“Trager,” I said. “Lon Trager.” I dunked my head back under the water, shampooed and rinsed my hair, and rubbed soap over my skin. It didn’t sting as badly as the last time I’d washed. I didn’t know if I owed that to Zayvion’s soothing fingers, or if the aspirin was kicking in.

When I came up for air and turned off the water, I still didn’t feel fabulous, but the aspirin and migraine meds had hit really fast. I pulled back the curtain just enough to look out. Zayvion’s wide back was to me. He stared in my medicine cabinet.

“A little space, please?” I asked.

He closed the medicine cabinet. “Do you have a needle?” he asked without turning around. The mirror in front of him was fogged, so I couldn’t see his reflection.

“No.”

“No?”

“Do I look like someone who sews?”

He made a frustrated sound. “Allie,” he said, still not turning around. “I need to unbind that glyph from your leg. Since you aren’t the sewing type, I’ll need to use a knife.”

Well, hello, Mr. Psycho-Killer. What’d you do with my maybe-ex-boyfriend?

“Like hell you will,” I said.

He turned. Yep, that was a knife in his hand.

“If you use that on me, Jones, I will kick your ass with that plunger, fever or no fever.” Sure, I talked a big fight, but right now, all I had at my disposal was a bar of soap and a loofah. Well, and magic.

“What do you know about blood magic?” Zayvion asked. He leaned his hip against my sink and kept the knife low. “Have you studied it?”

“It’s illegal.”

“Have you studied it?”

“No.”

He closed his eyes and scrubbed at his face and then the back of his neck. “Why didn’t your father want you to know these things? He knew you had great potential with magic. He had to know you would use it in ways that were not taught in college. Why wouldn’t he want you to have the knowledge so you could keep yourself safe from shit like this?”

I shrugged one shoulder. “I think he expected me to stay dependent on him for those kinds of things. He never thought I’d leave him, leave the life he wanted me to live. He never thought I could stand on my own two feet without him.”

“And you had to go out there and prove him wrong, didn’t you?”

“I’m just full of disappointments like that. Now put down the dagger and hand me a towel.”

How had my life changed so that I had to say those words before breakfast?

Zayvion put the knife on the countertop, found a clean towel on the linen rack, and handed it to me.

I took the towel, keeping the shower curtain between us. “No blood magic, no lectures, no stabbing, no knives, no nothing until I’m dry and dressed. Get out of my bathroom, Jones.”

Zayvion picked up his knife and walked out of the room.

That was too easy.

I dried quickly, checked that he wasn’t outside the door waiting to jump me, and then went into my bedroom and got dressed. My head hurt, but the chills were gone, leaving me feeling dizzy. I was probably still running a fever, but at least my teeth weren’t chattering.

I found Zayvion at the window in the living room, looking through the curtains. The knife glinted silver-bright in his dark hand. On the round table next to him was the carton of orange juice, some bagels, cheese, and strawberries.

Strawberries in late November. I could get used to this.

“Lon Trager has your blood.” Zayvion turned away from the window.

“I know. I was there when he took it.”

He nodded, as though maybe he was just making sure I remembered it.

Oh. He probably was making sure I remembered it. “And the spell he worked, the one on your leg, will let him draw you to him any time he chooses.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a form of Binding. That glyph-” He nodded toward my thigh. “-and the blood he took from you are connected by the magic in your blood and the magic in the glyph. If he wanted you, there would be nothing you could do to resist going to him.”

My stomach clenched. I was a dog on Trager’s chain. How damn great was that?

“And you know how to break it?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Will Trager know it’s broken?”

“What?”

“Will Trager know the Binding is broken?”

“If his blood was on the knife or needle, he’ll know. Blood magic is… intimate.”

I’d bet my boots Trager’s blood was all over that damn needle. Great. Not only did I have to deal with blood magic; I’d need to go get screened for diseases too.

“Let me break it,” Zayvion said again.

“No.”

Mr. Zayvion Jones spent most his time looking like a pretty nice guy. He could do that street drifter, shy-boy smile that tugs the heartstrings, and he could do the unflappable Zen Master bit where his patience seemed endless. But right now, Mr. Zayvion Jones was angry-and he did angry like a caged animal.

“No is not an option.” He took a step.

I mentally set a Disbursement-sweet hells, I’d pay for this-and traced a glyph for Impact.

It was not a spell I liked to use, but it was effective. I held off pouring magic into it. Which was not easy.

Zayvion stopped. “Allie. Don’t think I won’t fight you for this. You’re being stubborn and stupid.”

“You said you trusted my stubborness,” I said. “The Binding stays. And you can leave.”

Zayvion became very still, very quiet, as if all his anger and frustration were being drawn into a deep dark hole somewhere inside him. That was a bad sign. You can’t cast magic in states of high emotion. Can’t cast it when you’re angry or panicked.

Zayvion Jones was cool, calm, and therefore more than capable of casting magic. Like I said, dangerous.

When he spoke, he was frighteningly Zen, frighteningly formal. Controlled. Just like at the graveyard.

“My apologies,” he said, “if I have crossed a line. I am concerned for you and your safety. If Lon Trager is willing to risk Binding you with his own blood, he is willing to harm you. And he will do so. He is simply biding his time.”

Biding his time, I guessed, because I didn’t have Pike with me. But I would. This afternoon at the police station. Then me, Pike, Detective Stotts, and the rest of the police force could go pay Lon Trager a visit. With the glyph that was still on my leg as evidence, I’d charge him with magical attack with intent to do harm. A felony. Jail time.

“I know,” I said. “I plan to use that against him.”

“How?”

“I’m going to the police. The MERC.”

Zayvion tipped his head and narrowed his eyes, as if that weren’t an option he had considered. “And what will you tell them?”