Devon Monk - Magic to the Bone

Magic.

I could feel it, a slight, warm tingle like I’d just stuck my tongue on a battery. There was magic sealing this wound. I glanced at his face—still unconscious—then leaned down close and sniffed his blood.

Magic had created the wound, and magic had sealed it, perhaps keeping it from killing him. I’d never seen someone use magic like that before, though I supposed doctors might during surgeries. It was a beautiful, simple glyphing, and I wanted to trace it with my fingers and see just what kind of glyph could hold a man’s soul to his bones, but if I did I would have to draw upon magic and Hound him.

Sure, I wanted to know who had felt the need to stab him with a knife and magic several times. I wanted to know if the person who hurt him and the person who sealed the wound were one and the same.

But now was not the time. Any draw I made on magic would light me up like a neon “get me” sign, and I needed that as much as I needed an almost-dead guy and a kitten.

I pulled his shirt back down and considered finding a safer, warmer place for him to rest while I found the cops. I stood and looked around. I thought I’d passed a makeshift tarp strung between rusted shopping carts a minute ago.

“Please don’t leave me,” he said.

The sound of his voice, high, frightened, gave me the instant creeps and sent shivers down my spine.

His eyes, blue as a summer afternoon, were open.

“Please,” he said. “I need you.” He swallowed. “You and the powerful man. The dead man. I know how. I was there.”

The chills just kept coming.

Okay, sure, it might be incoherent babbling. It might be some sort of elaborate trap, though I couldn’t believe anyone would go through staging an almost death here on garbage shore just on the off chance I’d dodge by on my way to the cops. No one needed me dead that much.

So if it wasn’t incoherent babbling, then maybe the guy knew something. If not about my dad’s death, about someone’s death. Maybe someone who was willing to stab him and dump him down here to get rid of him.

It could have been a gun deal gone bad, a drug deal, a fight over a girl, a fight over a boy, hell, he could have been fighting with a girlfriend over who got to keep the cat. Whatever had happened to him, it was none of my business. I wasn’t a cop, wasn’t a doctor, wasn’t anybody who was in any kind of position to help him.

“You stay here and rest,” I said. “I’ll try to get you some help.” I started unzipping Zayvion’s coat, figuring I could at least give him some shelter from the rain while I called the cops and probably the hospital now too.

“No,” he said, his voice lower and somehow older. “Your father, Bed—Beckstrom. I was there when he died. I was you. I did—” He ran out of breath and worked hard—too hard—to pull air into his lungs.

Holy shit.

“What? What’s your name?” I asked him.

When he could talk, when he could breathe, his voice was high again, scared. It was eerie, like maybe I was suddenly talking to someone else behind those baby blues. “Cody. Cody Hand,” he said. “And Kitten. Please? Take us. Away.”

Take him away? Not likely. Haul his pretty blue eyes down to the cops? No problem.

“This is going to hurt,” I said.

“Okay,” he said in a small, childlike voice.

I bent and pulled his arm up over my shoulder and heaved back, getting him to his feet. He moaned and whimpered and breathed in loud, raspy gasps. I gave him a minute to get ready for the fun ahead.

“Ready?” I asked.

“Kitten,” he said. “Don’t leave her.”

Hells.

I half bent and held out the one hand I sort of had free. Luckily, the kitten was either too tired or too sick to back away. I picked her up and stuffed the poor thing down the front of my zipped jacket. If she fell out, there was no way I could go back for her. The kid might be slight of build and short—his head barely came up to my shoulder—but his legs weren’t working too well, his lungs weren’t working too well, and I figured his eyes weren’t working well either.

Still, we hobbled along. I took us closer to the water because trying to pick our way over the slime of garbage and shin-bruising rocks wasn’t doing us any favors.

So I was out in the open with a mostly dead guy on my shoulder and a cat stuffed down my bra.

Living the good life, oh yeah.

It took some time to get anywhere. The kid blacked out once or twice, and I had to wait until he came to before moving on again. The good thing was I didn’t see Bonnie, didn’t hear Bonnie, didn’t smell Bonnie. The bad thing was the rain never let up and the cat peed on my shirt.

I’d wanted olfactory disguise; I’d gotten olfactory disguise. I smelled like garbage, cat piss, and somebody else’s blood. Couldn’t have asked for a better cover. A nicer one, yes. But better? Not in a river full of sewage. And I was pretty sure that not even Bonnie would be looking for two people stumbling along the shore like a couple of drunk hobos. She was looking for sporty-me, rich-girl me, long-coat-and-running-shoes me. Not wet, smelly, old-ski-coat-and-half-dead-guy me.

Things were looking up.

Except I was freezing, sweating, worried, stinking, and tired. Hells, I was tired. If even one of the mattresses scattered across the rocks didn’t look like a whorehouse reject, I would have taken some time to sit, lie back, rest. Dead guy, cat pee, or no.

It occurred to me, however, that I hadn’t a clear idea of where the shore went exactly. My theory was to follow it away from certain death and toward the police in shining armor. But as for how long that might take in reality, in crappy weather with a half-dead guy at my side, nope. Not a clue.

I was pretty sure the kid wasn’t going to hold up much longer. He blacked out more than he stayed conscious, and I spent as much time dragging him as shaking him to wake up. I scanned the shoreline looking for another decent tumble of rocks to climb (shudder) or maybe, (please, please, please) a road or alley that wound up to the streets above.

So when a slope of cliff to my left made mostly of flat-topped boulders appeared, I shook the kid awake again and headed toward land.

It was not easy dragging him up the boulders along the embankment, but I managed without doing much more damage to either of us. The going got easier once we got to the top. A narrow gravel road wended away from the river, blackberries and other brambles crowding it on both sides. I could hear cars and buses growling somewhere ahead of us. The constant cry of gulls faded as the road took a bend, leaving the river to the right of us and the rest of civilization somewhere to the left.

Even though I was breathing hard, and the kid wasn’t breathing nearly hard enough, I could smell the oil and dirt of the city, the salt and hickory of hot dogs getting the grill, the pineapple and smoke of chicken and teriyaki.

I could smell something else too—the copper and lye of magic being cast, spoken, chanted, channeled, used, like a blanket that smothered the city, every crack, every brick. There wasn’t a building or person in the city that wasn’t touched, coated, and shaped by the force of magic. It was in our soil, in our air, and in our blood. We breathed it, we ate it, we used it. And even though it used us back, we wanted more.

In my opinion, the fine line between advancement and addiction had been crossed years ago.

I was close to the edge of the city. Close to the train track that divided North from the rest of Portland. Close to magic.

The wind changed directions again, and I caught the black-pepper smell of lavender. Bonnie. Or another woman who smelled a lot like her. And since I couldn’t draw on magic to investigate the nuances of that smell, I had to assume it was probably Bonnie coming to shoot me.