Devon Monk: Magic In the Blood

My father, if any part of him were indeed inside me, was silent as a ghost.

Ha. Not funny.

Violet called a couple times, and I managed to convince her I wasn’t up for visitors and still didn’t want to move in with her. Detective Stotts called and I answered a few more questions for him, still off the record. I was sure there would be a couple official visits to the police department ahead of me. I promised not to leave town.

I didn’t hear from Zayvion. Not a single pink rose.

I watched the news and read the papers, which was probably the first time I’d done either in five years. The kidnappings were mentioned, and so were the deaths of Pike, Lon Trager, and his men. But while Frank Gordon was also implicated in the crimes, his death and the rest of the details-such as my father’s corpse, me being there, the magical ritual Gordon had been attempting, and Zayvion’s involvement in his death-were carefully omitted. It was eye-opening to see all that had been left out. Someone had pull over the media. I wondered if it was the Authority or MERC.

Five days after I’d left the hospital, Violet called again.

“There is going to be a burial for your father. I thought you might want to come this time.” Her voice sounded tight. Like maybe she had been doing her share of crying.

“When is it?” I asked around the knot in my throat.

“Noon today at the cemetery. There will be a small gathering of… important people, and no one else. I thought you might want to know.”

I unclenched my fists and rubbed at my cold left arm with my always-warm right hand. Did I really want to see my father’s dead body again? I stared out at the bleak Portland sky. The ice had melted, but it was still cold and wet, and would likely stay that way until May.

Yes, I decided, I needed this. Needed to see him lowered into the ground. Need to know, once and for all, that he was gone. His body and, I hoped, his spirit.

“I’ll be there,” I said. “Thanks for calling.”

She paused. “It means a lot to me that you’re coming.”

“Sure,” I said. “No problem.” I hung up the phone and spent the next few hours staring out the window and trying not to think too hard about anything.

Just before noon I changed into the only good black I owned-slacks and a sweater-and then called a cab and waited for it to pull up. When I saw it outside the window, I grabbed my umbrella and headed down the stairs.

Just outside my apartment, someone strode down the sidewalk to catch me before I got into the cab.

I looked up, ready for trouble.

Davy Silvers, wearing his hoodie and denim jacket, nodded to me and kept walking. He didn’t say anything but just as he came parallel to me, he handed me a card. I took it, and he continued on.

Very secret agent of him. Except then he sneezed several times and swore, which sort of blew the cloak-and-dagger bit.

I ducked into the cab and told the driver to take me to the cemetery. I tipped the card to read it. Black with white letters: The Pack. But on the back was a handwritten note. “Pike’s last meeting. Two o’clock, O’Donnel’s.”

Great. Just what I needed. A meeting with a bunch of twitchy, nervous Hounds right after I watched my dad’s body get sunk six feet.

Well, at least they were holding it at O’Donnel’s this time. A pub meant beer. And I had the feeling I’d need a lot of that before the day was over.

The cemetery wasn’t that far outside the city, but enough that the push and pull of magic in me eased just the slightest amount.

But driving up to the iron gates made my stomach clench. This was where my father would be buried. Again. For the last time. Death was final. Even for him.

A small gathering of people, maybe twenty-five or so, all in black stood on the crest of the hill in front of the mortuary. They each held black umbrellas against the slight drizzle in the air.

These must be the important people Violet had mentioned.

“Want me to take you up there?” the cabdriver, a thin man who reminded me a little of Anthony, asked.

“Yes.” I smoothed my hair. No one had found my hat or gloves. I had started knitting new ones but hadn’t made much progress. Which meant I was going to have to use my umbrella to keep my head dry.

My umbrella was bright yellow and had little duckies on the edge.

I totally knew how to blend in.

The cab stopped and I paid, took a deep breath, and then got out into the cold air.

Half the people were watching me. People who I had never met-men, women, lots of shapes and sizes and ages. A tingle ran down my back as vague memories of each of them came to me. Tall, temperamental Victor, who always thought his opinion was correct; mousy Liddy, who could tear a man apart with the flick of a finger; big, friendly Jingo, who had a thing for little children and their bones.

I blinked, trying to stop the flow of memories. Memories that were not mine.

I popped open my umbrella so I had an excuse to look away from the crowd for a minute. Yellow duckies filled my vision, and the memories were gone.

But the remaining thoughts that filled my head were mechanical as the workings of a gun.

These important people were magic users. The Authority. People my dad had spent a lifetime hiding from me. All here. Now. Gathered to watch my father’s corpse get lowered into the ground, to be covered in dirt, once and for all.

Holy shit.

I scanned the crowd for Violet, saw her there by the top of the stairs, her guard, Kevin, behind her. She was talking to another woman with red and gray hair pulled up in a loose bun. Maeve.

She and Maeve knew each other?

I was so out of my depth here.

So I did what I did in any social situation that throws me. I faked the hell out of it.

I walked up like I had expected this. Like my dad had told me all about each of them and I knew their secrets. I held my ducky umbrella over my shoulder and practically sauntered, selling all-the-fashionablegrievers-are-wearing-ducks-this-season attitude for all I was worth.

And I took great pains to keep my mind, my thoughts, and the magic that flowed through me very quiet.

The crowd hushed. Not that they’d been talking loudly. But as soon as I was a few steps away, they stopped talking completely.

The other half of the crowd who hadn’t been looking my way turned so they could.

I put on a disinterested expression and scanned the faces. I spotted Zayvion. He stood near Violet and Maeve and a thin, pale kid done up in Goth couture. My heart raced.

The crowd shifted to make room for me, to allow me to walk up through the middle of them if I chose. Everyone waited. Everyone watched me. Like whatever I did next was important.

It is no fun playing a game when you don’t know what the rules are, much less what is at stake.

From the tension in the air, I didn’t think these people were all on the same side exactly. No, this felt more like a strained truce that would remain long enough to see their mutual enemy, or friend, buried.

It probably mattered a lot who I decided to stand by. But it wasn’t a hard choice. I strode up the open pathway through the crowd and climbed the stairs to stand next to two people, Violet Beckstrom and Zayvion Jones. Just to make sure they got my point, I turned to look out at the crowd. We stood, Zayvion on one side and Violet on the other, shoulder to shoulder.

I liked that feeling. Liked the guarded looks of respect, and anger, and curiosity it brought from the crowd.

And no matter how much my logical mind doubted I was making a good choice, since I didn’t even know what the hells I was choosing, my gut, my heart, knew I was right where I should be.

“Is this all of us, then?” I asked in a calm voice.