Devon Monk - Magic to the Bone

The police weren’t willing to announce suspects yet, but they were working some strong leads and wanted information anyone had in connection to the case.

The rest covered my father’s life, his highly publicized dispute with Perry Hoskil over the invention and patenting of the Beckstrom Storm Rod that had changed magic distribution throughout the world, his playboy lifestyle, his six wives, one child, and the humanitarian causes he’d been involved with over the years—causes I knew he’d only taken on for the tax write-off.

Neat. Tidy. The entire life and death of a man who was a mystery I had never been able to puzzle out, summarized in a thousand words or less by a stranger.

I stuck the paper in my backpack. I should really go to the cops now. I didn’t have much information, although I had been at his office earlier that afternoon. I could tell the police I was there and what we talked about. I could tell them Zayvion Jones had followed me up to his office and could corroborate my story.

As a matter of fact, Zayvion had been in dad’s office longer than I had. I rolled around the idea of Zayvion being a hit man, capable of murder. The image of him when Mama had yelled came to me. He’d seemed angry then, dangerous. But not murderous. Still, I suppose it was possible. The article didn’t say how he’d died. But I hadn’t smelled blood on Zayvion when he’d come out of my dad’s building, hadn’t smelled the sour heat of anger or violence on him, nor spent magic.

Zayvion struck me as the kind of person who was good at keeping his cool. Even so, he’d seemed a little jumpy at the deli. And he had spent a lot of time looking out the window at the street.

I rubbed my eyes. Okay. Go to the police, tell them I thought my dad was involved in a hit on Boy, then tell them that I knew nothing about my dad’s death even though I’d chosen yesterday of all days to visit him, and sure, I’d been angry at him, and yelled at him and stabbed him while I was there.

Didn’t that make me sound like a wonderful daughter?

So much for a trip into the countryside. I’d be stuck in the city, maybe even jail, for the next couple of weeks at the least.

Great. I tightened my backpack straps and left the coffee shop. The police station wasn’t that far away and the walk would probably help, right? Maybe help my day feel more normal, mundane—like the day everyone else was having, or at least those people who hadn’t just found out their father was dead.

I glanced up at the sky. No blue, just clouds blackened with rain. A drop hit my forehead, then another landed on my bottom lip. Then the sky let loose a heavy rain.

Lovely.

About two blocks into my march, it occurred to me that I could call a cab or catch a bus. I had money in my pocket. But I just kept walking, getting more soaked by the minute.

A woman with very blue eyes strode over from beneath a building awning and stopped in front of me. She was shorter than me, stocky like maybe she’d done some time on the football team back in college. She stank of lavender and was pretty in a desperate I-used-to-be-a-cheerleader sort of way.

“Allie Beckstrom?” my stalker asked, her voice all daisies and lollipops.

“Excuse me?” I said, like I didn’t hear her right.

“Remember me? We ran into each other on the Lansing job.”

I did remember her. She and I Hounded a hit someone had put on a banker maybe a year ago. She’d been hired by the bank; I’d been hired by the banker’s son. I successfully traced the hit back to someone inside the company. Turned out my client’s father was threatening to go to the authorities about the corporate magic-use policy. The bank had been “test marketing” low-level Influence and Glamour—spells designed to attract investors—and they’d proxied the use onto the stockholders without the stockholders’ permission.

I had gotten an arrest out of it, and the case caused yet another flurry of legislation that fell short of managing business magic. Still, the people who hired Bonnie had not been happy with how it all turned out, nor with her.

“Sure,” I said. “Bonnie Sherman, right?”

“Yes!” She smiled wide enough to flash me her back molars, a sight I could have done without. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Her eyes were too wide, her breathing too fast. Even without magic I could smell the hunger on her. She was so hot for a fight I could almost taste the adrenaline on the back of my throat. She was also on something and I figured it was painkillers. One of the other drawbacks to being a Hound—it hurt, often and a lot.

I am not stupid. I know when things are about to go down.

“You working for the cops?” I asked casually while I drew upon the magic I stored in my bones, a magic I was certain she could not detect.

“Oh, sure,” she said. “The cops, and lots of other people. I’ve incorporated, even hired my first employee—an office boy to take care of phones and filing. And you? How is every little thing, rich girl?”

“Well, my dad just died. And I’m on my way to the police to tell them everything I know about it. I’ve had better days.”

She puckered her lips in an unconvincing pout. “That’s so sad.”

“Yes, it is,” I said. “How about you make my day better by getting out of my way?”

She laughed. Not like she was amused, more like she was crazy.

Then she took a step closer to me.

Terrif.

It wasn’t like I was in top form right now. I still hurt from Hounding Boy—a lingering ache like I’d just gotten over the flu. So I really didn’t want this to get physical. My other option was Influencing her to do what I wanted. It would be easy, seductively so. Which was exactly why I had sworn never to use it again, although I wondered if I should make exceptions for when I was face-to-face with crazy.

“I was asked to bring you in, Allie. So you and I are going to walk a little ways and spend some nice, friendly time together, just like best friends in case anyone is watching.” She was nodding, like I was a naughty child and she was explaining the rules of good behavior. “And you’re not going to run. You know why? Because I have a gun, and I’d really, really like to shoot you. ’Kay?”

Shit.

“Since when do the police want witnesses bleeding on their floor?”

“Oh, that’s funny. I’m not taking you to the police, silly girl. There are other people who are interested in seeing you. People who wouldn’t care if I dragged you in kicking, bleeding, or dead. Neat, huh?”

She flashed that crazy cheerleader smile again and I noted she needed some work on a filling toward the back.

“So let’s stop standing in this rain, ’kay? And go for a little walk, ’kay?”

Here’s the thing. Magic can’t be cast in anger, or any other high emotion, including panic or fear.

Here’s the other thing. I wasn’t afraid of her. For all I knew she didn’t really have a gun—I sure couldn’t smell one—and if she did, I didn’t think she had the guts or the skill to pull the trigger.

Of course, I’d been wrong before. Actually, I’d been wrong a lot, lately.

Like that was going to stop me.

I mentally intoned a mantra, pulled magic into my fingertips, set a Disbursement—a headache or stomach cramp should do it—and pulled one of the easiest, most childish stunts of any first-time magic user.

I snapped my fingers in front of her face and set off a glyph that flashed like a two-second strobe light.

The great thing about childish tricks is that almost no serious adult ever expects them.

Bonnie jerked, blinked.

I hit her in the face. Hard enough to make my hand hurt and remind me that I really should get to the gym more often. Hard enough to give me about six seconds to start running.