Devon Monk - Magic to the Bone

Cute. I didn’t know she had a cat.

“Where shall we start?” Nola asked. “Your birthday. Do you remember me calling and telling you to come out and visit me?”

I frowned. “I don’t think—no, I don’t think so.” I picked up the spoon and was surprised at how heavy it was.

“I left you a message because you weren’t at your apartment. You later told me you were Hounding a hit up in St. John’s.”

The room got hot all of a sudden and twirled like a merry-go-round. I wanted to puke. I think I dropped my spoon. Somewhere in that gut-wrenching chaos were my memories of St. John’s, but no matter how far into it I leaned, I could not snag the bronze ring and retrieve them.

“Here now,” Nola said.

She was above me. I was lying again, covered in sweat. But at least the room had stopped spinning. She put a cool cloth on my forehead and I reveled in the simple, soothing pleasure of it. Okay, maybe I wasn’t feeling as good as I thought I was.

“You’re fine,” she said. “I’ll go slower. We have plenty of time to straighten this out. Plenty. Sleep now. Sleep.”

And I did.

The next day, or at least I hoped it was the next day, I woke early. Tendrils of anxious dreams slid away, leaving me with nothing but a hollow feeling of loneliness. My arm no longer had the IV hooked to it, so I decided to go take a bath.

I pushed the covers back, levered up, and rested a while before making my way slowly, hand on the walls for balance, into the bathroom. I sat on the edge of the tub and rested until I stopped trembling, then finally stood and stripped naked.

The image in the mirror was a shock. Whorls of metallic ribbons marked me from temple to fingertip on my right, rings of black banded my fingers, wrist, and elbow on my left. The blood magic scars on my left deltoid were slashes of red.

A ragged, pink scar as wide as my hand puckered just below my ribs on my left, and a thumb-sized circle sat just below my collarbone.

Wow. So much for wearing a bikini.

I leaned against the sink and stared at my eyes, trying to fit this reality of the new me with the knowledge of the old me. My eyes were still pale green like my father’s, I still had short hair, though it looked like I needed a cut soon, and I was a little on the thin side. Still, I was me.

“This is it,” I whispered. “This is me now. I can deal with it.”

There was a knock on the door. “Allie?”

“I’m going to take a bath,” I said.

“Need any help?”

I did. And I knew Nola would be happy to be of assistance. But what I needed even more than her help was my life back, or at least a sense of normalcy. And that meant sucking it up and taking care of things myself as much as I could.

“I got it so far.”

She waited outside the door. I took a deep breath and made it back to the tub. I crawled into it and eased down onto the cold ceramic. I turned on the spigots until the water poured out hot.

“I’ll get breakfast started and bring you some towels,” Nola said through the door.

“I can do it,” I lied. Luckily, she was already gone.

Turns out I did need help getting out of the tub, getting dried, and getting dressed. I also needed some help back to bed. Even so, I felt pretty good about my accomplishment for the day.

I leaned back against the pillows Nola propped between me and the headboard of the bed, and breathed hard until my heart stopped beating so fast.

“A couple more days like this, and I’ll be ready to run a marathon.”

“How about you get through a meal without passing out first?” Nola said.

“Spoilsport.”

She smiled. “I have oatmeal for breakfast. What kind of tea do you want?”

“No coffee?”

“Let’s start with tea.”

“Fine. Do you have mint?”

Nola frowned. “Mint? Are you sure?”

“I think so. Why? Don’t I like mint?”

She shrugged. “You’ve never asked me for it before, but maybe you developed a taste for it recently.”

I thought about that, tried to remember if I drank mint tea, but no clear image came back to me. What came to me was an emotional memory of the comfort, ease, and pleasure mint could offer. For whatever reason, I liked mint and I missed it. A lot.

“I guess,” I said.

Nola patted my leg and strolled out of the room.

She spent the rest of the day giving me back what memories she could. Not much of it made sense, but I carried an unconscious knowledge, an afterimage of it all deep in my subconscious. My emotional memory was intact. I remembered the grief, the anger, the fear, the pain, if not the actual events themselves.

My father had died.

I’d been shot. Twice.

Accused of murder.

Cleared of that accusation by Mama’s and Cody’s testimony.

I had drawn upon magic so hard that it had been permanently burned into my skin, my bones.

I healed someone.

I’d totally missed out on my birthday. No presents, no party, no song.

I had missed my father’s funeral.

And I might even have fallen in love with a man named Zayvion Jones.

I had done so much, and lost it all.

Nola didn’t seem to think it was something out of the ordinary for me to deal with, but I didn’t think I had ever lost this much memory at one time before. That magic I’d done—the last thing in Mama’s kitchen that Zayvion had apparently told Nola about—had nearly killed me.

If you used magic, it used you too, and I had used the hell out of it, probably without setting a Disbursement. It was just my luck that my price had been twofold, physical pain—a coma—and massive memory loss.

I hoped I had made the right choice. I hoped that if I still knew what I had known then, I would make the same choice.

Wishing I’d done something different—maybe not used magic so much, maybe not gone up to St. John’s, maybe not gone to see my dad, maybe not tried to help Cody—would only drive me insane. And most of the time I felt too close to crazy already.

About a week through my recovery, when I had graduated to the couch and could get around the house slowly on my own, I sat in the living room and picked up my little blank book.

Nola was in town, talking to some people about becoming a caregiver for Cody. She felt strongly that getting him away from any place that had magic would be best for all concerned. And from what she’d told me about him, I agreed.

I opened the book. The first few pages had my name, birthday, and medical allergies listed. Some other things too, like the number for the police, for the hospital, my address, and Nola’s. Filling most of the pages after that were the notes I had taken before my birthday.

From the date of my birthday forward were only a few sparse notes outlining Mama’s call to me, the Hounding job I’d done on Boy, the trip I’d made to see my dad. My hands shook at that, and my throat felt tight, but I kept reading. I had notes that covered the blood magic Truth spell my dad had lied about, my suspicions about Zayvion, my desire to go to the police and testify against my father.

And that was it.

Nothing more.

All the rest of the pages were blank.

I thumbed through them, all of them, looking for any other note, any other word.

Blank. Blank. Blank. Dozens and dozens of stupid, white, empty pages. Why hadn’t I written more? What was wrong with me? I always kept good notes. Always. Why wasn’t there something in there about the magic marks? About healing? Why wasn’t there something in there about how I really felt about Zayvion?

I threw the book across the room, and immediately felt stupid for doing so. I rubbed at the headache behind my temples.

So I’d screwed up and hadn’t taken notes. Deal with it, I told myself. Freaking out wouldn’t put words on the page. Making a vow to do better from now on might do some good.