Devon Monk - Magic In the Blood

Pike said he thought Trager used Anthony to cast those spells, but I didn’t think Anthony was that good. He’d have to be a Hand-an artist who could forge magical signatures-and I didn’t think Anthony knew magic well enough to do that.

Frank, however, looked like he might be very good at forging someone else’s magical signature. Looked like he might be very good at all things magical. Hells, even my dead father said he was a very powerful man. Powerful enough to use my father. Powerful enough to be screwing around with the gates of life and death.

So I had it wrong. Trager was working for Frank, not the other way around. Working to help Frank with this horror-house magical ritual bullshit.

“He is working dark magic, Allison,” my dad said. “It is forbidden. Magic that has been mutated by death belongs in death. He is using my body ,” he growled, “and the magic in it, not the magic beneath the city. He is using my body to open the gates to the dead. To free those who hunger.”

Holy crap. Zayvion was right. Why hadn’t my dad taught me this stuff years ago? Dark magic. Those who hunger. I didn’t even know what they were, much less what they could do.

I was so screwed.

“So now,” Frank said, “I will ask you once, politely, to come here and lie down on this table.” He smiled and pointed to the empty table next to my father’s corpse. “Please.”

“No,” I said.

“No,” my father said at the same time. Well, at least we were in agreement on one thing.

The doctor shook his head. “I am so sorry to hear you say that.”

He flicked his fingers fast and subtly enough he’d give Kevin a run for his money.

His spell radiated so much magic-dark, strange, twisting magic that moved on its own like snakes slithering through the air. I could see it, even without the Reveal spell. It was a huge spell. Strong enough it could knock a hole through a brick wall. And Frank had thrown it with no more trouble than flicking a speck of dust from his shirtsleeve.

From the corner of my eye I saw Anthony shudder in pain.

What kind of price did dark magic carry? How much more could Anthony take?

I held up the knife in one hand and wove Shield in the other, drawing magic from deep within my bones and pouring it into the Shield. I braced for the impact.

Instead my dad appeared in front of me and threw himself in harm’s way. For me. It was the most selfless, noble thing I’d ever seen him do.

Unfortunately, it didn’t work.

Frank’s spell slammed past my father’s ghost, slammed past my Shield, slammed past the bloody dagger I carried, and hit me like a train falling off a mountain.

The force of Frank’s spell threw me across the warehouse. I tucked and rolled. Managed to land flat on my back hard enough to knock the wind out of me. Seriously, I should take self-defense classes one of these days. Maybe I’d find a way to stay out of these situations.

But, hey, at least I didn’t eviscerate myself with the knife. Trouble was, I’d lost my grip on the knife. It was no longer in my hand.

My dad stood above me. “I will not see you fail in this.”

Way to talk me up, Dad. That disapproving scowl told me I was in for a world of hurt.

He knelt. Shoved his hand in my head. My vision went white for a second. I blinked. The warehouse was back, but I couldn’t see my father. I saw myself-through my ghost father’s dead eyes-on the floor of the warehouse.

No wonder Davy had been scared of me. Blood covered my face, following the strange leopard pattern burn marks from dead magic user fingers. Not pretty. Not even close to pretty. My eyes were too wide, hard and pale as cheap emeralds. I had a bad cut under one cheek and my lips were swollen. My hair was a mess. I looked wild. Angry. I looked like I was going to kill someone.

No coincidence, that. My father was pushing into me, into my head, taking me over. Oh, hells, no. There was no way I was going to let him possess me.

Problem was, I didn’t know how to stop him.

I pushed with my heels, scrambling backward, scooting my ass across the floor but unable to get away from him, unable to get to my feet.

“Get away!” I screamed. “Get away!”

“You were meant for this, born for this,” Dad chanted. “Your blood and mine. Beckstrom blood. The power you carry, the knowledge I carry. I have always known we would do great things, you and I. I have waited for this day.”

And over my dad’s babbling that grew louder and louder inside my head, I heard Frank’s footsteps across the wooden floor.

Frank bent, reached through my father-right through him-and I moaned, because it stung me too, like Frank was reaching through me.

“Open your mind to me,” my father said.

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” I said.

Frank smiled. “Oh, you can. You can be everything I need.”

He pulled me up through my dad and onto my feet. Stuck a needle in my arm.

Possessive ghost. Dark magic. Blood magic. Probably drugs on that needle.

Holy shit, could this get worse?

The pain in my body eased some, leaving my head a little foggy and slow. That would be the drugs. Sensual heat rose up my legs, and I tasted sweet cherries on the back of my throat. And that would be the blood magic.

Fabo.

Allison , my father said from inside my head. Accept me. Let me use your power. I can stop him. Stop him from doing this to you. To us.

“No,” I whispered as Frank pushed me forward in a grip I could not shake. The drugs weren’t helping my coordination any. Everything felt sluggish. Dreamlike. Slow.

“Out. Get out,” I said.

“It will all be over soon,” Frank said. He wrapped his arm around my ribs and held me up, because my legs weren’t working so good. He shoved me over to my father’s corpse. I threw myself to one side, but Frank was strong and didn’t lose his hold on me.

“Be still ,” he said. The needle wound in my arm pulsed at that word. I could not move. No matter how much I wanted to.

Shit, shit, shit.

Frozen in place, I watched Frank let go of me and pull my left arm out over the plate on my dad’s chest. A slash of pain bit my left palm as Frank drew a knife-a pretty little thing a lot like Zayvion’s-across my hand. He tipped my hand over the plate, letting my blood fall freely into the licorice mist.

He then poured blood out of the vial over my hand and over the tip of the knife he had used to cut me.

I might be frozen, but I could still breathe, could still smell. And that was not my blood in the vial-it was my father’s.

Hatred rose like bitter bile and stung the back of my throat. The weird thing was it wasn’t my hatred-it was my father’s. He hated Frank. And hated that Frank was using him.

Using him to break open the gateway between the world of the living and the world of the dead. Using him to finally connect the magic of the living with the magic of the dead.

Horrors of what breaking the barrier between life and death and letting magic flow freely between the two swam through my mind-my dad’s mind. Somewhere beyond that horror, I heard the cold, angry thoughts of my father wishing he were the one doing this exact ritual but with Frank’s corpse on the table instead.

And it was then that I realized Frank was right about one thing. My dad did know how very useful I would be. And even now, in death, he was thinking about his missed chance of using me for his own ends. Thinking that he who opened the gates would be the one who controlled them.

I wanted off this crazy train. If I were going to get out of this room, get away from my father, from Frank, now would be a great time to do it. Except I couldn’t feel my feet. It’s hard to run when you have no idea where your legs are.