Devon Monk - Magic In the Blood

“I’ll show them the Binding. That’s a felony. And it’s my evidence to throw Trager’s ass in jail.”

“Do you really think prison will be enough to hold a man like him?”

“This time, I am the evidence. No one’s going to tamper with that. His conviction will stand.”

Zayvion looked at me, his eyes cool gold.

I looked him right back and said, “Unless you want to come down to the station with me, which I believe the police would like since they mentioned they’re looking for you, you need to go now. Good-bye, Zayvion,” I said. “Don’t forget your coat.”

Zayvion’s jaw twitched, and his fingers rolled into a loose fist. But not to cast magic. I checked.

Just in case I was wrong, I didn’t let go of the Impact glyph.

“No,” Zay said as he reached over to the chair he had sat in yesterday. “I don’t think going down to the station with you would be in the best of either of our interests.”

He picked up something on the seat of the chair and placed it on the table.

A single long-stemmed pink rose.

He gathered his coat and draped it over his arm. Walked toward me. I moved to the side so he could pass, out of reach.

He paused in front of me. “Promise me one thing.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Promise me you won’t take on Trager alone. Stay with the police, do as they say, and you should be fine. If, however, you do meet him alone-” He flicked his hand out from beneath his jacket and offered me the hilt of the thin silver dagger. “Use this to break the skin on your thigh and cut the tip off the outermost line on the Binding. Then pull the magic out of it-all of it. Doing that untrained will hurt like a mother. But it should break his hold on you. Give you a chance.”

I took the dagger with my left hand-the hand I was not holding the Impact glyph with. “Thanks,” I said.

“Thank me tonight, over dinner, after you have returned from talking to the police and not from Hounding down Trager on your own.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I said.

Angry Zayvion, Zen Zayvion, gently touched the edge of my right cheek, where marks of magic whorled. Even though he was angry, mint soothed through me, easing my ache and racing heartbeat.

“Be careful,” he whispered. “I don’t want to lose you twice.” Then he walked out of my apartment and closed the door behind him.

The silver dagger was so clear and deep, it looked more like white gold, the blade tucked in a simple leather sheath. I pulled it free of the sheath. From the tip of the blade to the rounded top of the hilt were carved glyphs in the same colors as the metallic swirls on my arm. The center of the blade encased a thin strip of glass beveled in such a way as to control the flow of blood. I had no idea how this blade had been made, but it was clear exactly what its purpose was-to cast magic. Blood magic.

Zayvion Jones just got stranger and stranger.

Other than a couple minor spells, like Truth, I had no idea how to actually cast blood magic. I sure as hell had never used a dagger to uncast a spell on myself. And, yes, that worried me. But not enough to leave the dagger behind.

I put on my leather coat, tucked the sheathed knife into the deep pocket, and put on my gloves, scarf, and hat. I walked over to the table and drew the pink rose up beneath my nose, inhaling the sweet innocence of spring.

What kind of crazy did I have to be to kick out a man who brought me strawberries and roses and a big honkin’ magic glyphed dagger?

I put the rose in a glass of water in my kitchen, grabbed my notebook and nonfunctioning cell phone, and locked the door behind me. I took the stairs down and pushed through the main doors. I paused before hitting the sidewalk. It was still early enough to be dark, but a silvery light reflected from everything around me. A light that had nothing to do with magic.

The stairs, the sidewalk, and every single twig on the trees were covered in a thin coating of ice. The rain had frozen last night, turning the world into something alien and beautiful. And slippery.

I stepped outside. The wind whipped down the street, biting at my exposed skin and shooting painful shivers through me. My fever and headache weren’t gone yet. And sure enough, I’d forgotten to put the bottle of aspirin in my pocket.

Tree branches up and down my street clattered and chimed, a rattle of glass. I put my hands out to the side to keep my balance against the wind and carefully made my way over to the curb, hoping a cab would show up.

The city didn’t get enough frigid weather to warrant the Proxy cost of permanent Deicing spells, so Portland relied on sand trucks to keep the hilly streets passable. A truck must have already made a run down my street, because cars were easing by.

I narrowed my eyes against the row of headlights and spotted a cab coming down the hill. I stepped out and waved it down.

The driver braked and slid to a stop. I got in.

“Have to be half penguin to be out in this weather.” The driver was a big man who sounded like he’d had a bowl of extraperky for breakfast.

“Or just stupid,” I said. “Kickin’ Cakes, please.”

The cab was warm and smelled soapy, like it’d just gone through a car wash with the windows open. The smell turned my stomach, but for the heat, I’d deal with the stink. I tucked my nose in my scarf and closed my eyes.

The cab eased to a top, and Mr. Cheery called back, “Here you go.”

I opened my eyes.

“Thanks.” I dug in my pocket-the one with my blank notebook, not the dagger-and pulled out some cash. I paid him and made my way carefully up the walk to the restaurant.

Kickin’ Cakes was a bar turned breakfast joint, and it still hadn’t quite shed its former identity. A long row of tables down one side of the single story building sat opposite the curved black marble bar to the left. All cooking was done behind that bar, and the restaurant had an art deco feel: tables in chrome and black linoleum, booth and chair seats in turquoise and maroon.

I walked through the front door, and the smell of butter, onions, sausage, and coffee, along with the nutmeg-sweet scent of the signature dish, Kicking Pancakes, greeted me. They were good smells that got through my pain and made me hungry. The restaurant was nice and warm.

And busy, even with the icy roads. I scanned the room for Violet. I spotted a pretty young redhead. Next to her, sitting so he faced the front door, was an unassumingly plain-looking bodyguard wearing a henley shirt rucked up at the elbows. His name, I think, was Kevin. I knew of him, but if I had met him before, I could not remember it.

Kevin watched me walk in, held my gaze, and nodded to me. I took it as an invitation.

Violet glanced over at me, and since I was nearly at their table, I had to work on not letting my shock show. She was so young, we could have been sisters if she weren’t my father’s wife. And I was pretty sure I’d be the big sister.

Yes, I’d seen her in photos in the papers since my dad’s death, and my friend Nola said Violet and I had met during the time I could not remember. She thought we had gotten along too, which was weird. I had never gotten along with any of my father’s wives.

Violet had a petite build, wore simple but fashionable glasses, and had great cheekbones and a smattering of freckles. She wore a loose sweater, jeans, and sneakers. Put her in a lineup, and I would not point her out as a billionaire widow. She looked radiant, her face glowing and happy despite the dark circles beneath her eyes that spoke of sleepless nights.

“Allie,” she said warmly. “Sit, sit.” She pointed to the chair opposite where she sat on the booth bench against the wall. It put my back to the bar. I could see behind Kevin, and the windows and front door were at the corner of my eye.