Devon Monk - Magic to the Bone

I hesitated. Heard sirens between the explosions of thunder. Watched as Bonnie squeezed off the last bullet, watched as it sang true toward my heart.

Heal or kill?

I guess Zayvion had it right when we first met. I just didn’t have killing in me. No matter how much I wanted to.

Heal, I thought, and I poured magic into Zayvion, guiding the bullet out of the wound in his head, guiding the magic, like ribbons of thread, ribbons of energy, to knit flesh, to mend bone, to whisk away old blood and soothe swelling. Fast, faster, before the magic consumed me, consumed the last of my mind, my memories, my soul. Fast, faster, before the bullet reached me, piercing my flesh. Fast.

Lightning struck, so close I felt the heat of it lick beneath my skin, and shuddered with a heady mix of agony and pleasure. I was too hot, too cold. Then pain bulleted through my chest. I fell.

I couldn’t feel my hands. I couldn’t see the magic anymore. I couldn’t move. But I saw Zayvion open his eyes. Saw his lips form my name. Saw him push up from the floor and reach for me.

And I saw Mama turn to James and hold up a hand filled with the magic of St. John’s. Saw her wield a very complex, very strong Holding spell. Hopefully, she’d take James in to the police. Hopefully, she would make sure Cody got somewhere safe. Hopefully, she would do the right thing.

Zay reached me. He touched my face, though it looked like it hurt him to do so. I love you, his lips said.

And I knew he did. I loved him too, despite it all.

Don’t go, he said.

But I did not know how to stay. The storm was in me, taking me apart, pulling me away.

This, I decided, was a pretty good way to die.

Magic filled me and filled me, and like a dam filled too full, I broke. I was swept up and up until I rode the storm clouds, free and distant from all the world and pain below.

“ Allie?” It is strange to hear your name when you think you should be dead.

I tried to answer.

“Allie?” Same voice. A soft voice. A woman’s voice.

“Allie?” Nola. That was her name. Nola was looking for me.

I moved my mouth (I had a mouth!) and opened my eyes (eyes!). Light, low and yellow, shone on Nola, on Nola’s pretty face above me.

She smiled and her eyes watered. “Welcome home, honey. Drink some water.” She put a straw to my lips, without asking—typical Nola—and I drank. That was an exhausting thing to do, and I fell gratefully back to sleep again.

It is a weird thing to wake up in a bed you don’t remember falling asleep in. Daylight was filtering in through the shades on the window, so I at least knew what bed I was in—Nola’s cozy guest room. I could not remember getting here.

As a matter of fact, the last thing I remember was getting up and wanting a cup of coffee. Because it was my birthday, and I was twenty-five today. And since I was miles from where I last remember being, I was going to assume I’d had a hell of a night, drank my ass off, and ended up out here at Nola’s partying.

My head hurt like I had the granddaddy of all hangovers, and my mouth tasted horrible. I couldn’t remember anything about my birthday though. I rubbed my hands over my eyes, caught a flash of colors.

My right hand was ribboned in peacock-feather colors of metal, and my left hand was tattooed around every knuckle. A faint memory flickered at the back of my mind, but I could not draw it forward.

Hells. Lost memories meant I’d been using magic—maybe Hounded too hard and had my short-term memory pay the price for it.

What kind of idiot was I? Add to that the IV tube in my left arm, and it was pretty safe to assume I’d really done something stupid.

Nola walked into my room with an armful of sheets.

“Morning,” I said.

She jumped and had to catch the sheets before they hit the floor. I grinned.

“Allie,” she said. “You’re awake!”

“Yes. What’s got you spooked?”

Nola put the sheets down in the spare chair and hurried over to sit on the bed next to me. Her tanned skin was flushed red and her eyes looked bloodshot, like maybe she hadn’t gotten much sleep lately.

“How are you feeling? Don’t try to sit. Let me get you water. Do you know where you are?”

Okay, now she really had me worried. I’d never seen her rattled.

“Slow down,” I said. “One thing at a time. I hurt some. Did I use a lot of magic recently?”

She nodded.

I exhaled in relief. “Okay, that explains the memory loss. Is today still my birthday?”

“Oh, honey.” She brushed my hair back from my forehead and her cool fingers felt good. Why did I wish they felt like mint?

“Your birthday was three weeks ago.”

“Wow,” I said. “Did I have a good time?”

Nola laughed, but she was crying too. “No. It was a miserable birthday.”

“Except for my cool tattoos?” Making jokes when I’m scared and the world is falling apart, and I can’t remember anything and just want to cry, is one of my strong suits.

“Tattoos?”

I held up my hands.

She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and wiped at her face, then blew her nose. “Those aren’t tattoos, honey.”

I knew that. I just wanted her to tell me what they were, because I had absolutely no idea.

“I’m going to get you water, and you are going to drink. You are also going to try some broth. While you do that, I’ll try to help you remember . . . remember everything.”

“I don’t want any broth,” I said.

“Too bad. And Jupe is going to stay here and keep an eye on you until I come back.”

I looked over and, sure enough, the big ox came trotting into the room and rested his head on the edge of the bed.

“Stay,” Nola said, to me as much as the dog.

I was so glad she was bossing me around, because it meant she thought I really was going to be okay. But I wasn’t as convinced. I felt sore, inside and out.

Emotions flooded through me—fear, anger, sorrow, loss—in a confusing wave. Even though I hate crying, and had no idea why I wanted to cry right now, I could not stop the tears that ran down my face.

It made me angry that I was crying for no reason, or maybe for a reason I couldn’t recall. And being angry only made me cry harder.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. If I’d had the strength, I’d pound the walls. But I couldn’t even muster the energy to sit up.

When I heard Nola walk toward the room, I averted my face and stared at the curtains. I wiped at my cheeks with my strange, multicolored hand, a hand that did not look like my own. Sorrow tightened my chest, but I took three deep, calming breaths. I could do this. I could survive finding out what I didn’t know anymore. I could survive losing bits of my life, and bits of myself. I’d done it before and been okay. Mostly.

“Let’s get you sitting,” Nola said. She leaned over me and I looked up at her. Even though I figured my eyes were puffy and red, and my cheeks and nose were all blotchy, she did not say a word about it. She didn’t make comforting noises, or tell me she was sorry. She was just her normal, strong, matter-of-fact self. “You’re not broken,” she said, “just a little bruised.”

She was the best friend ever.

It hurt to sit, hurt more to stay sitting, but with Nola’s help, I managed.

“You okay?” she asked.

I was shaking, sweating. “I’m good.”

She put a tray over my legs and set a cup of broth, a spoon, a straw, and a carefully folded white napkin on it. There was something about the neatness of the napkin, pressed cloth, spotless white, that tickled the back of my mind. Then the sensation was gone.

“So.” Nola kicked off her boots and sat on the bottom of the bed, leaning against the footboard. Something down on the floor mewed. She got off the bed, and sat back down with a little gray kitten in front of her. The kitten picked its way across the quilt, exploring the folds and batting at the ridges.