Devon Monk - Magic to the Bone

It made me ache in a strange and pleasant way, like a hunger I could not sate.

And somehow I knew the answer to that hunger was in the city.

Nola drove me to the train, stood in the icy rain, and held me tightly. “Be careful. I’ll call you when I get the new phone installed. Then I expect you to call me every day.”

“I’ll try,” I said. We’d come up with a new plan of me calling and telling her about my day. Sort of a backup to my little book and the computer at home. “If you ever want to get out of the dark ages and maybe actually buy a computer, I’ll send you e-mail too.”

Nola rubbed my back one last time, then let me go. “I’ll think about it. Good luck, honey. I’ll see you soon.” She climbed back into the truck with Jupe.

I picked up the new backpack she had given me and the duffel that had some extra clothes I’d bought, my knitting stuff, and Zayvion’s letter in it. I wore a warm, knee-length coat I’d bought in town, and the gloves and scarf Nola knitted. I wasn’t so much trying to hide my marks as just trying to stay warm against the bitter cold.

I got on the train and waved to Nola and Jupe. It was time to try to make my real life my real life again. To do that, there were a couple of people I needed to see. And one of those people lived in St. John’s.

In my old life—the life I remembered—things had a way of going wrong a lot.

It looked like my new life was going to be a lot like my old life.

I stood just inside the doorway of my apartment, and could not force myself to take one more step.

What my landlord had been reticent in telling me over the phone was that my apartment had been ransacked. My living room looked like it had been hit by a hammer-happy demolition crew. Everything was ruined.

He hadn’t reported it to the police, which was no big surprise. The surprise was that there was another smell in my room more powerful than the stink of old magic. I had smelled it before—iron and minerals, like old vitamins—but I couldn’t remember who or what smelled like that. I broke out in a cold, terrified sweat. Who or whatever belonged to that smell had scared the crap out of me. Were they, or it, here? Had they or it recently been here? I didn’t hear anyone in the apartment. I didn’t sense anyone in the apartment.

Magic stirred within me, pushing to be free of my tenuous control over it. I breathed through my mouth, trying not to smell, trying not to freak out, and trying to think calm thoughts so the magic would not slip my grip. Coming back to the city—back to where magic flowed beneath my feet, filling me up and pouring through me to the ground again like a circular river—had been hard.

So far, I could control the magic, or at least let it flow through me and not use it. So far.

I exhaled, and told the magic to rest, to be calm, slow, like a summer stream. That helped some. Enough that I could look around the room and see how much of my physical life I’d lost—most of it.

But I still could not force myself to step in—into the stink of old magic, into the panic-inducing odor of iron and old vitamins.

I needed out of here. Fast.

I left the room and locked the door behind me. I took the stairs down and strode out into the chill of late afternoon. It wasn’t raining for a change, but it was going to be dark soon. I wanted to yell. To rage at the entire, stinking, unfair world. To hit someone. Anyone.

Magic lifted. Sensuous heat licked up my arm, promising power.

No. The last thing I needed to do was something magical.

I tipped my head back and stared at the gray sky, trying to get a grip. I counted to ten. Twice. I thought calm thoughts.

Then I tried to be reasonable. I had nowhere to go, but I was not sleeping in that dump tonight.

I hailed a cab and let my nose—literally—lead me to several apartment buildings to the west. It meant a couple of extra hundred a month in rent. I’d find a way to swing it. I couldn’t live in that crappy apartment anymore. It was time for a new start. A blank slate.

The third apartment complex I tried was called the Forecastle. The building didn’t stink of magic, had no elevators, and was renting out a third-floor one-bedroom. What more could a girl want?

It was only five o’clock, still close enough to normal business hours that I didn’t feel bad pounding on the manager’s door.

It took a minute, but I finally heard footsteps, then the lock being turned.

“Yes?”

The manager was a heavy man, bald, wearing jeans and a button-down shirt. He smelled like chicken broth, and he was short. Short enough that his wide, round face was level with my boobs.

Great.

He stared at my chest, but I had to give him some credit because he managed to pull his gaze up and actually look me in the eyes.

“I’d like to rent the one-bedroom, and I’d like to stay in it tonight.”

“It doesn’t work like that, lady. I’ll need to do a credit check, get some references. Why don’t you come back tomorrow.” He took a step backward.

He was going to slam that door in my face. I was going to be stuck with nowhere to go tonight unless I wanted to sleep in my wrecked apartment, or a women’s shelter.

Oh, screw that.

The one thing we Beckstroms did well was Influence people. And even though I’d sworn off using it, I felt justified in breaking my vow. This was an emergency.

“Please?” I put a little Influence behind my words, just the slightest amount, because I wasn’t sure what all the magic coursing through me would do.

What it did was sting. My right arm felt like I’d just wrapped it in Band-Aids and ripped them off all in one go. My left arm felt heavy and cold.

I drew a sharp breath.

Well, that hurt.

I tried again, more carefully. “My apartment was broken into and I can’t stay there. My credit isn’t all that great, but I have money in the bank that will do first and last, and a month in advance if you need it.” That was better. Just the barest breath of Influence behind the words. My arms didn’t hurt as much. I concentrated on only Influencing him to give me the benefit of the doubt, not to fall senseless beneath the power of my words.

“My name’s Allie Beckstrom,” I added.

That got him moving.

“Oh,” he said. He studied my face more closely, then nodded and nodded. “Oh. I didn’t recognize you. Come in. We’ll get the papers filled out and I’ll show you the apartment.”

He opened the door and I stepped in.

“Bad couple of months you’ve had,” he noted casually as he dug through a messy stack of papers on a desk. “With your father and all.”

“Yeah,” I said, “it has been.”

I looked around the room and noted a couple photos of men and women in police uniforms on the wall, including one of what seemed to be a younger version of the man in front of me.

“Are you a police officer?” I asked.

He pulled out a clipboard and clamped some forms onto it. He handed me the clipboard and dug around on the desk for a pen.

“Was. Retired. You thinking about renting for a year? I can give you a break on the price if you agree to stay that long.”

I kind of liked the idea of renting from someone who would know how to look out for trouble if it came.

“A year sounds good. I can use all the breaks I can get.” I took the pen he offered and began filling out the form. I was happy to discover that I could complete it without having to refer to my little book.

He showed me to the apartment, a moderate-sized but well-kept place with windows that looked out through the branches of the trees lining the street, and over the busy street itself. Not much noise came through the windows, even though I noted a bus stop just a few blocks up the hill.