Devon Monk - Magic to the Bone

Zay shook his head, a small smile on his lips. “Small magic in you. I’d wondered. And, I’ll point out, you didn’t tell me about that either.”

I shrugged. “I’ve tried telling people that I can hold magic, that I have always had a flicker of it in me. No one believed it.” Not even my own mother, I thought to myself.

“Well, it makes sense for why you can carry magic now. And why it hasn’t killed you.”

“But why is it so strong now?”

“I think Cody synched you.”

“Synched?”

“Old magic term, back in the days before it went public.”

I had cut a chunk of lasagna and paused with it halfway to my mouth. I didn’t know magic was discovered more than thirty years ago. That wasn’t taught in any of my history classes, and certainly wasn’t a common belief. As far as I knew magic had been discovered thirty years ago.

Zay negated that fact like he expected me to know it. Expected me to believe magic had been around for a lot longer than everyone thought.

“The problem with synching,” he continued, “was that a person could become so in rhythm and tune with magic that they would either become lost to it, or become a part of it. Neither of those things are good. People who are receptive to the frequency of magic can sometimes carry magic within their bodies for short periods. On a small scale, a very small scale, there was some success with this. But anyone who tried to carry more magic than enough for a simple spell—”

“Burned themselves out,” I said. “Physically, or mentally. We studied something like that in school, but they called it ‘forbidden’ and nothing else. They refuse to teach any more about it.”

He nodded. “Too many people were harmed or killed trying it. No one’s been able to isolate which combination of genetic quirks enables a person to actually house magic.”

“You think Cody can hold magic?”

“No. But I think whatever he did to you, or through you, triggered your ability to house magic on a much larger scale. But not without a price.” He pointed at my hand.

And for the first time, I felt self-conscious of it. I curled my fingers closer around my fork, and couldn’t believe I felt bad. It was just a mark. A burn. I’d been burned before.

But never like this, never with so many colors, never so sensitive, never so . . . beautiful. Did liking a disfiguring mark make me a freak? Did being ashamed of it make me any better?

I scooped a bite of noodles and sauce into my mouth. “It burned,” I said. “But it hasn’t really hurt, just itches sometimes. Do you think it will fade like a burn?”

“I think that depends.”

“On what?”

“On if you ever use magic again.”

“Listen, I like Nola and all that stuff she stands for, but I am not going to turn magic-free just because I got a little burn.”

“Good,” he said. “You have a great ability, Allie. It would be a shame to see you give it up.”

I took a swig of grape soda. “I think I can cover the marks with makeup.”

“I suppose, but I don’t think you should.”

“Why?”

“I think it’s beautiful. Exotic. Powerful.”

I looked up into those tiger eyes and saw the fire burning behind them.

Oh.

“I like the sound of that,” I said.

“Good.” He went back to eating, but there was a palatable heat between us. I started thinking about that bed of his, starting thinking about those sheets.

“The bands on your left hand will probably stay,” he finally said.

“Okay. I give up. How do you know these things?”

I hadn’t expected him to answer. I especially hadn’t expected him to tell me what sounded like the truth.

“I’ve studied magic my entire life. My . . . my job involves . . . being aware of all the ways magic can manifest. Knowing how it is used, legally and illegally.”

“Wait. Did you just tell me you’re a cop?”

“No.”

“FBI? CIA? Is there a division of government that oversees magic use?”

“Not exactly.”

“So you’re part of what? A secret society of, oh, here let me guess, uh . . . Buddhist monks who believe it is their divine calling to run around telling people how to use magic.”

“I’m not a Buddhist.”

“Well, if you’re even half of what I just accused you of being, you are most certainly a vigilante.”

“Most certainly?”

“Seems pretty clear to me. Is there a secret handshake to get into your little fraternity?”

“Yes.”

I studied his face, calm, neutral. He’d be hella good at playing poker. “Bullshit.”

He smiled. “The lines on your right hand and arm won’t go away either,” he said.

“Okay, so let’s pretend that I believe you are a part of a secret society of magic cops.”

“Okay.”

“And let’s pretend I know that magic has been around for hundreds, thousands of years.”

“Okay.”

“Have you ever seen this before?” I held up both hands, my right hand a webwork of opalescent lines, the left banded in black at each joint.

He reached, took both my hands by the fingers, studied the backs of them, then gently turned them over to study the palms.

“This.” He traced the palm of my right hand like a fortune-teller. The gentle strokes sent heat that had nothing to do with magic rushing up my thighs. “This is where magic marked and claimed you. When you use magic, you feel it moving through these lines.”

I nodded.

“It is magic’s gift to you. This,” he said, running his fingers gently between the fingers of my left hand, his touch softly circling each joint, “is where you denied its effort to absorb you. When you use magic, you may lose feeling here first, and if you use it too much, or too quickly, that sensation will travel from your hand, to your arm, and eventually could stop your heart. It is the price you pay for the gift.”

“Positive energy.” He lifted my right hand slightly. “Negative energy.” He lifted my left hand.

“Power and restraint.” He drew my hands together. “Very sexy.”

Great. I was a battery. Well, at least he had a nice way of saying it.

“Sexy,” I mused. “Are you un-slowing down our relationship, Jones?”

“Maybe. How un-slow do you think you can handle it?”

This had to be the lamest relationship I’d ever been in.

“Ground rules,” I said. “This is just for tonight. No promises means no complications and no complications means no dumping in the morning.”

“I can live with that.”

“You still hungry?” I asked. He had not taken his hands off of mine, and still held me as if I were something he did not want to disappear.

“Not for food,” he answered.

Oh, baby, sweet-talk me all night long.

I pulled my hands out of his. “Good. I’m done too. Let’s go see if your bed’s big enough for the two of us.” I strutted off, and lifted my tank top up over my head and then off. I don’t know what it was about him, but he made me want to get naked in a hurry.

He jogged up beside me and gently drew his hand up my back before wrapping it around my waist and walking with me to the bedroom.

I figured this was going to be hot and quick, maybe a little fun, or a little rough. But Zayvion had different ideas.

He locked the door and walked to the dresser. I, standing alone, kicked off my running shoes and made my socks into little balls that I stuffed inside my shoes.

“Zay?” I asked.

“Mmm?” He opened a drawer and I heard the rattle of matches in a box, then the scritch of a match being lit. He lit the candle on the dresser.

“You want me to help with that?”

“No, I’m almost done.”

Okay, so this, maybe, was the downfall of having a perfectionist for a lover.