Devon Monk - Magic to the Bone

I turned on the shower and shucked out of my shoes and clothes. I ached in weird places and itched. The back of my throat hurt, so the Offload from the spell I’d worked on the kid was starting to kick in.

I used the toilet, then washed my hands. I glanced in the mirror and winced at the red mark by my eye that fingered out like thin red lightning, down the arc of my cheek to my ear, along my jaw, then down my neck. At my shoulder it spread out even more, webbing down my arm to finally merge into a more solid red from my elbow to my hand. It was like the mother of all burns, but when I touched it, it didn’t hurt, didn’t feel hot, didn’t feel any different than my non-red skin. My left arm wasn’t red at all, just ringed by black bruises that were beginning to look like black tattooed bands around my knuckles, wrist, and elbow.

Maybe I did need a doctor. I’d heard of magic leaving marks, especially back when it was first being discovered and used thirty years ago. But those marks were open wounds that quickly festered, resisted medical intervention, and claimed the lives of the wounded. There had been a lot of trial and error before magic was considered mostly safe to use.

My father had been on the forefront of making magic accessible and relatively safe to the general populace. The iron, lead, and glass lines he patented, the Storm Rods that pulled magic out of the infrequent wild storms, the holding cisterns beneath cities—he’d had a hand in all those things.

So while magic was not harmless, most people believed that if they limited their use, or hired a good Proxy service to handle the price and pain, then the benefits outweighed the cost.

I moved my arms around, flexed my fingers, wrist, elbows. A little stiff, including the stupid blood magic scars on my left deltoid, but nothing serious. No open wounds.

I decided to take a wait-and-see approach. I stepped into the hot water and moaned.

Heaven.

I let the water sluice over me for a good ten minutes, my eyes closed, breathing in the warm and clean of it all. Then I stopped soaking and started scrubbing. All of Nola’s things were natural, organic, and nonmagic. Her soaps smelled like oatmeal and honey, her shampoo eucalyptus. I used every soap she had available and came out of that shower feeling one hundred percent warm, clean, and sleepy.

Nola knocked on the door. “Allie?”

I wrapped the towel around myself and opened the door.

Nola handed me a folded pair of sweatpants, a T-SHIRT, and panties.

“The underwear are new—I’ve never worn them. The pants will be too short, but the T-shirt should be comfortable. Want to talk?”

“Sure. Am I sleeping in the coatroom?”

Nola’s mouth quirked up. “Yes, you are sleeping in my quaint and comfortably cozy guest bedroom.” She stepped into the bathroom and gathered up my filthy clothes.

“Nola—you don’t have to. I can get them in the wash.”

“So you have more time to think about the things you’re going to self-edit before you talk to me? I don’t think so. I want every detail. Especially the ones involving that man out there. I’ll get these washing and meet you in your room.”

She shut the door and I slipped on the clothes she had brought me. The sweats were too short, but I rucked them up to my knees and they were comfortable. The T-shirt was soft, roomy, and had a giant cartoon cow sleeping in a field of daisies on the front of it. Not my style, but I didn’t care. I was dry, warm, and grateful nobody was shooting at me.

Still, when I walked out of the bathroom rubbing the towel over my head, thinking short hair had some advantages—it dried fast—I was a little uncomfortable to come face-to-face with Zayvion. It’s not like we were dating, not like we’d done anything more than get a little handsy in the car. But still, the sweatpants-slob look is something I usually save until after the first month of seeing someone.

“Um,” I said.

“I was just heading to the bathroom,” he said. Those Zen eyes were calm, unreadable.

“Right.” I moved out of the way, both disappointed and relieved he hadn’t said anything about the cow outfit.

“Nice cow,” he said just before he shut the door.

Terrif. I padded off to the bedroom, and took a deep breath before actually stepping through the door. The room was small, but if I focused on the one wall that was almost all window, and kept the door open, I was pretty sure I was tired enough I could handle my claustrophobia and get some sleep. I didn’t care that it wasn’t even five o’clock yet. I was tired.

Nola knocked on the door frame and walked into the room. “So. Tell me what’s been going on.”

I pulled the handmade quilt down and crawled up to the head of the bed. Nola sat on the foot of the bed. She was still wearing her overalls, but had kicked off her boots. She held something in a towel in her hands, and at first I thought it was a cup of tea. Then it meowed.

“You mean Jupe hasn’t eaten her yet?” I asked.

Nola petted the kitten’s little gray head. “No. Poor thing. She finished off an entire can of tuna. When did you get a kitten?”

“She’s not mine. I found her when I found the kid.”

“Talk to me about it.” Nola scooted across the bed so she could lean against the footboard and sit with her legs crossed up. The kitten mewed again, and Nola put her in her lap and petted her. The kitten fell asleep midpurr.

I heard the pipes in the old house thrum and figured Zayvion was taking a shower.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” I said. How was I supposed to condense the last two days—days that felt like months—into something that made sense? Where should I even start?

“How did your dad die?” In typical Nola fashion, she cut right to the heart of the matter.

I told her I didn’t know. I told her I’d gone to see him that day, which she was surprised to hear. I told her I’d threatened to take him to court, which she was not surprised to hear. I told her about Mama and her sons, about the youngest Boy being hit, and the Hounding job that led me to my father. I told her about Bonnie chasing me, and the kid and cat I stumbled over buried in the garbage at the river. I told her the kid had been so hurt I thought he was going to die.

She listened, and only interrupted when things got confusing. She didn’t offer opinions, encouragement, or criticism.

Then I hesitated. “This part gets a little foggy. Someone had used magic like a bandage on the kid’s wounds and I tried to sort of sustain that spell. I think I might have healed him. With magic.”

She sat there and stared at me like I’d just told her I’d vacationed on the moon. “Can that happen?” she asked.

“I’m pretty sure it did.”

“Have you ever done that before?”

“No. I’m not even sure I could do it again. It was strange, Nola. When that kid touched me, he did something to—with the way I use magic. To the way I perceive it. Like he took off my blindfold and I could see so much more. See the possibilities of what I could do. . . .” I stared at the wall behind her, trying to find the words to explain the experience and coming up with nothing. I must have stared a little too long because Nola sounded worried.

“Okay, that’s it. You’re going to see a doctor.”

I blinked. Looked back at her. Tried out my winning smile. “I’m fine. I don’t feel any different except for these.” I held up my hands. “Please don’t call a doctor, Nola, I really am okay.”

She didn’t look convinced. “We’ll talk about it in the morning. What about Zayvion?” How did he get involved in this?”

“Dad hired him to watch me. He said he quit the day I saw my dad.” I didn’t say the day my dad died. I guess it still hadn’t sunk in—that he was gone. It just felt like how it always was between us: him off somewhere hoarding money and power, and me trying my best not to be anywhere near him.