Devon Monk - Magic In the Blood

Without knowing it, I’d pressed the dagger deep into my thigh again. Holy hells, that was going to scar. So much for wearing miniskirts.

Somehow I had managed to hold on to the Reveal spell. I blinked, looked up. The watercolor people-the Veiled, dead magic users-rushed me. Empty black eyes, mouths open, hands reaching, hungry for my magic.

I scrambled backward, turned my face away from their onslaught, and let go of the Reveal spell. The stink of dead flesh rushed past me, borne on an unnatural wind. And nothing more. No fingers, no eyes, no mouths.

I shuddered, gagged. Took a couple hard breaths. Then I dragged my ass back to where Pike lay.

Trager would now know the Binding was broken. He would now know I was not his little toy. And it pissed me off that I had just destroyed the evidence I had against him-evidence that would have thrown him in chains.

But when I made it to Pike, I didn’t care.

Pike was curled up on his bloodiest left side-Hounding instincts to keep the most vulnerable side of yourself hidden, protected. It meant his good eye-the eye he still had-was toward me.

I brushed my fingers over his neck, searching for a pulse. A sluggish throb sent a slow gush of blood over my fingers.

Deep blood. Lifeblood. Pouring down to the icy street.

Even though I didn’t remember doing it, Nola had told me I healed Zayvion with magic when the storm of wild magic raged over the city. Paying the price for that had thrown me in a coma and erased weeks of my life. It could have killed me.

But if I could do it once, I could do it again.

I calmed my mind, sang my little song, and shoved the panic to the side.

“Pike,” I said. “It’s Allie. I’m here. You’re going to be okay.” I ran my fumbling hands over his chest, his belly, looking for the deepest wound. His entire torso felt like ground beef-wet and pulpy everywhere. Someone had beat him physically and magically. I didn’t even know where to begin.

I took a deep breath and, still holding the knife in one hand, pulled the magic up through my body. It responded better this time, spooling out through me like warm water over burned skin. I didn’t know any glyphs for healing-no one healed with magic. The price was too high. Even doctors used magic only as a tool to assist in healing, not as a means to the end.

I closed my eyes and directed the magic through my fingers and into Pike’s body.

Heal , I thought, putting my will and intent behind the magic. I held an image of him whole and well in my mind, and told the magic to make that happen, make him alive, breathing, healed.

Magic poured into Pike’s wounds, and there were a lot of them. Magic poured through me fast, faster. But instead of wrapping around his bones, spreading through his muscle and veins, mending and healing, the magic poured through him and then sank, useless, into the ground.

I couldn’t make it spread through him, couldn’t make it catch up the pieces of him and knit him back together. It was like he was made of sand, and all the magic I pumped into him drained into the earth without touching him.

No, no, no. What was I doing wrong?

I smelled the fetid rot of flesh again, opened my eyes. The Veiled shuffled slowly toward me. I did not stop pouring magic into Pike.

Pike’s eyelid flickered open. His eye roamed the flat, dark sky and then rolled down and focused on me.

“Al,” he rasped. “Trag used”-he inhaled, a short rattling breath that made his body stiffen-“my blood. To kidnap girls. Trag used Ant to cast like me…” He inhaled again, his one eye wide, as if there were more words trapped behind his broken lungs, as if there were more words trapped in his broken body.

“Doctor,” he wheezed. “Has blood. Yours. Girls.”

My blood? What doctor? What girls? The kidnapped girls?

“Don’t let Trager free-” The painful inhale again.

“Easy, Pike,” I said. “It’s okay. I won’t let Trager free. I’ll take care of everything. You just hold on. Hold on, okay?”

A spasm wracked his body. His hand jerked out, gripped the blade that was still in my right hand. His blood mixed with mine, caught in the finely wrought runnels of the blade and slid down the liquid glyphs, turning the glowing symbols into a dull fire before dripping onto his chest.

“Not Ant’s fault. I… failed… him. Look after”-the painful inhale again-“the kid. The Hounds. They’re family. Mine. Yours.”

“Hey, now. Don’t get all soft on me. You and I can look after the Hounds together, okay? I promise.” I poured magic into him-more, faster.

“Worth it,” he exhaled.

Pike’s one eye stared at me. I did not look away from him. Did not look away from him as the Veiled rushed me and shoved greedy fingers into my skin, burning, hurting, eating the magic out of my flesh. Did not look away from him as the last spark of life drained from his eye. Did not look away from him as he became unnaturally still, vacant, empty. Dead.

Only then did I let go of the magic pouring into him. Only then did I look away from my friend.

As soon as I let go of the spell, the Veiled faded. I stung from head to foot. Felt like my skin had been scraped raw by frozen sandpaper. My thigh throbbed; my chest throbbed. Every breath caught and burned, and, damn it, tears poured down my face.

But I was raging inside, seething. And way past caring about my own pain.

I was angry as hell. Trager was going to pay. Fuck the law. I was going to kill him with my own hands. I pushed up onto my feet, turned a slow circle. I couldn’t smell Trager, but I could feel him like a dirty echo in my bones. He was here. Near. I followed my gut and my rage and walked toward the corner building. The wind picked up again, pulling ice off the skin of the river and slapping me in the face with it.

I felt alive. Focused. If this was the last thing I ever did, it would be worth it.

I strode along the building until I found a door that was partially open. The smell of blood came from that room-Trager’s blood. I tightened my hold on the dagger and calmed my mind. I didn’t hear anyone moving behind the door.

I pushed it the rest of the way open. Two rooms were divided by a wide arch in the center: an office. A large solid desk held down the back wall. Both rooms nicely furnished. Modern. Tasteful.

Except for the dead man with a slit throat on the floor. Lon Trager’s goon. There was a trail of dead people, actually, and if I had to guess how they got that way, I’d bet on Pike. I walked past them all, noting their fatal wounds with satisfied detachment. Slit throat, bullet hole in the head, bullets in the chest, a knife still lodged in the carotid artery. The man with half a head missing, his buddy sporting a matching wound-probably from the big-ass gun in the river of blood on the floor. Six of Trager’s men. The same six that had been on the bus with me.

Fuck , I thought. What a mess. Even though I was not accustomed to being this close to dead people, the numb rage that filled me let me note that I was going to have nightmares about this but also let me not care. All that was important right now was that Trager was not among the corpses. How could Pike have missed him?

Maybe another room, another office. I turned to leave. Heard someone struggling to stand behind me. I turned back around. Lon Trager stood behind the desk. Blood covered one side of his face, turned his crisp white business shirt red.

Looked like he and Pike had both gotten their hits in.

Trager white-knuckled the edge of the desk to stay standing. He held a gun in his other hand, leveled at my chest.

“Bye-bye, Beckstrom.”

I threw myself to one side, yelled at the fresh tear of pain in my thigh. The bullet grazed my left shoulder, and my vision went black for a moment.