Devon Monk: Magic In the Blood

“Me too.”

“How are you feeling?”

“The doctor said I need to take a painkiller and get some rest.”

“I’m not surprised. Would you like me to take you home, or should I call your legal counsel?”

“Neither. I called a cab.”

He looked off across the lobby. “I do need to talk to you, Allie. It can be off the record, if you’d prefer.”

“Now?”

“As soon as I can. And if you want your lawyer there, I can arrange that too.”

I held on to the plastic bag of my clothes, took a deep breath and stood up from the wheelchair, careful not to let him see how much that effort hurt.

“Will you tell me why you wanted to talk to Zayvion?”

“So you remember that?” he asked. “I can’t disclose that information. Police business.”

“Is he in jail?”

“What?” Stotts stopped in front of the sliding glass door, so the door hung open and then jerked in and out of the wall, trying and failing to close.

“Is Zayvion in jail?”

“No. I am curious as to why you think he might be.”

“I… just… I don’t know. After the last couple days, nothing would surprise me anymore.”

We started walking again.

“He’s not up on any charges,” Stotts said. “He was just… a person of interest in a case I’ve been following.”

The outer door opened, and wet, Oregon December wrapped around me. I was so not going to like the walk to his car.

“I’m over here,” he said. And I guess that’s one benefit to being a police officer. You get to park close to the hospital.

I walked as quickly as I could, shivering the whole way to his car, and got in.

Stotts got in the driver’s seat and turned on the car so the heater was running. “Could you tell me the order of events as you remember them?” he asked. “Off the record.”

And I realized Stotts looked tired too. There had been several deaths in the city-many of them because of magic. And all of those fell under his jurisdiction.

So I spent the drive reciting the events. I started with Trager on the bus, something Stotts didn’t look surprised about. I must have talked to him about it earlier, like when I was Hounding for him.

I left out the Veiled. Left out the Death and Life glyphs outside Get Mugged. Left out the Hound meeting. But I told him all about the blood magic spell drawing me to Pike in Ankeny Square. Told him what Pike said-that he thought Anthony had been used to kidnap the girls-and told him about me finding Trager and his men. I included all the details I could remember, including the knife I had on me-which I told him I’d gotten from a friend. I told him about the gun I saw at Trager’s and that I thought it might have been Pike’s.

Then I told him about the warehouse. Anthony, the Life and Death glyphs, the girls (but not their ghosts), and Frank having my blood and wanting to use it for some strange magical ritual I did not understand.

By the time I was done, we were parked outside my apartment building and my throat was sore.

“What about your father’s body?” he asked.

I blinked. Something in my head skittered, as if avoiding the light.

“What?” I asked.

“In the warehouse. Do you know what Frank Gordon was using your father’s body for? Do you know what the plate on his chest was for?”

I swallowed. “I don’t remember that at all.” Stotts looked a question at me, but maybe my shock showed. “All right. When you do remember, if you do, I’d like to hear about it.”

I nodded. My ears were ringing with a thin high tone. My dad’s dead body had been in that warehouse. Frank Gordon had been using it for something. Something involving Life and Death glyphs and the girls he kidnapped.

Was it too much to think my father’s ghost might have been there too? My stomach clenched in remembered fear. He had been there. Even though I couldn’t remember it, my gut, my emotional memory of the fear, told me he had been there.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” I whispered.

Stotts nodded. “Yes, I do.”

“Do you think my father’s ghost was there?”

“I don’t know,” he said evenly. “Do you?”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t remember?”

“No.”

We sat there, in silence, the car engine still running, which was burning gas, but it kept the heater warm. It was raining outside, and suddenly this little space, this crowded car wasn’t nearly big enough for me. I needed out. I needed to breathe.

“I’m going home now.” I pulled on the door handle.

“Let me walk you in.”

“No. I got it. Really. I just want a shower and bed. Thanks for the ride.”

“Call me if-”

I cut him off. “I will. I’ll call if I remember anything else.”

“I was going to say, if you need anything.”

Oh.

“Thanks.” I got out of the car and shuffled across the sidewalk. Someone, probably my landlord, had thrown rock salt on the sidewalk and stairs, so it wasn’t even slippery anymore. Just wet.

I held my breath and dug in the plastic bag of my clothes. The clothes were stiff and damp with sweat and blood, but my hand came out a lot cleaner than I thought it would. I pulled the key out of my coat pocket and I let myself in the building. I took my time climbing stairs until the third floor showed up.

My head spun with thoughts of my father. His ghost had touched me twice. Had he touched me again in the warehouse? Had he done more than just touch me?

Even though I could not remember, there was an echo, an emotional memory. My father had done something to me. Something bad.

And I knew, without a doubt, that whatever it was, it was permanent.

What did you do to me, Dad? What did you want to use me for?

That skittery feeling at the back of my head triggered again, like a moth wing beating at the top of my spine-like something moving away from my concentration, dodging my notice.

I made it to the third floor and stopped. Down the hall by my door, stood a woman. She looked older than me by fifteen or twenty years, her faded red hair streaked with gray and pulled back in a loose bun. She had on a forest green wool coat and high heel boots.

I’d never seen her before, but she held up a hand and waved.

“Allie?” she asked. “Are you Allison Beckstrom?” Her voice had the slightest accent that made me think Ireland or Scotland.

And sure, it might be really dumb to tell a stranger who I was, but damn it, I was tired. And a little spooked. I just wanted to get home, and she was in my way.

“I’m Allie Beckstrom.”

She closed the distance between us and stuck out her hand. “My name is Maeve Flynn. I knew your father.”

I shook her hand, aware that mine wasn’t very clean.

Her hand was warm and strong, and she shook mine firmly enough I could feel the bones beneath her flesh, but not so hard as to hurt. She had working hands, a little calloused, but her nails were professionally polished with a soft pink gloss.

“Business partner?” I guessed.

“No. More of an acquaintance than anything else,” she said. “He and I didn’t agree on many things, though neither of us were shy about our personal opinions on the use of magic. He wasn’t pleased you went into Hounding, you know.”

“I’m not at all clear why you are here to see me. Is there something I can help you with?”

She looked up into my eyes-I was taller than her by several inches even though she was wearing heels and I wasn’t. Her eyes were the same color as her coat.

“Your father was a vicious and determined man. In life. And in death. I came by to see how badly he has hurt you.”

“Excuse me?”

“I am a member of the Authority. I am here to see that his death, his spirit, has not harmed you.”