"Magic In the Blood" - читать интересную книгу автора (Monk Devon)

Chapter Sixteen

    The silver dagger was so clear and deep, it looked more like white gold, the blade tucked in a simple leather sheath. I pulled it free of the sheath. From the tip of the blade to the rounded top of the hilt were carved glyphs in the same colors as the metallic swirls on my arm. The center of the blade encased a thin strip of glass beveled in such a way as to control the flow of blood. I had no idea how this blade had been made, but it was clear exactly what its purpose was-to cast magic. Blood magic.

    Zayvion Jones just got stranger and stranger.

    Other than a couple minor spells, like Truth, I had no idea how to actually cast blood magic. I sure as hell had never used a dagger to uncast a spell on myself. And, yes, that worried me. But not enough to leave the dagger behind.

    I put on my leather coat, tucked the sheathed knife into the deep pocket, and put on my gloves, scarf, and hat. I walked over to the table and drew the pink rose up beneath my nose, inhaling the sweet innocence of spring.

    What kind of crazy did I have to be to kick out a man who brought me strawberries and roses and a big honkin’ magic glyphed dagger?

    I put the rose in a glass of water in my kitchen, grabbed my notebook and nonfunctioning cell phone, and locked the door behind me. I took the stairs down and pushed through the main doors. I paused before hitting the sidewalk. It was still early enough to be dark, but a silvery light reflected from everything around me. A light that had nothing to do with magic.

    The stairs, the sidewalk, and every single twig on the trees were covered in a thin coating of ice. The rain had frozen last night, turning the world into something alien and beautiful. And slippery.

    I stepped outside. The wind whipped down the street, biting at my exposed skin and shooting painful shivers through me. My fever and headache weren’t gone yet. And sure enough, I’d forgotten to put the bottle of aspirin in my pocket.

    Tree branches up and down my street clattered and chimed, a rattle of glass. I put my hands out to the side to keep my balance against the wind and carefully made my way over to the curb, hoping a cab would show up.

    The city didn’t get enough frigid weather to warrant the Proxy cost of permanent Deicing spells, so Portland relied on sand trucks to keep the hilly streets passable. A truck must have already made a run down my street, because cars were easing by.

    I narrowed my eyes against the row of headlights and spotted a cab coming down the hill. I stepped out and waved it down.

    The driver braked and slid to a stop. I got in.

    “Have to be half penguin to be out in this weather.” The driver was a big man who sounded like he’d had a bowl of extraperky for breakfast.

    “Or just stupid,” I said. “Kickin’ Cakes, please.”

    The cab was warm and smelled soapy, like it’d just gone through a car wash with the windows open. The smell turned my stomach, but for the heat, I’d deal with the stink. I tucked my nose in my scarf and closed my eyes.

    The cab eased to a top, and Mr. Cheery called back, “Here you go.”

    I opened my eyes.

    “Thanks.” I dug in my pocket-the one with my blank notebook, not the dagger-and pulled out some cash. I paid him and made my way carefully up the walk to the restaurant.

    Kickin’ Cakes was a bar turned breakfast joint, and it still hadn’t quite shed its former identity. A long row of tables down one side of the single story building sat opposite the curved black marble bar to the left. All cooking was done behind that bar, and the restaurant had an art deco feel: tables in chrome and black linoleum, booth and chair seats in turquoise and maroon.

    I walked through the front door, and the smell of butter, onions, sausage, and coffee, along with the nutmeg-sweet scent of the signature dish, Kicking Pancakes, greeted me. They were good smells that got through my pain and made me hungry. The restaurant was nice and warm.

    And busy, even with the icy roads. I scanned the room for Violet. I spotted a pretty young redhead. Next to her, sitting so he faced the front door, was an unassumingly plain-looking bodyguard wearing a henley shirt rucked up at the elbows. His name, I think, was Kevin. I knew of him, but if I had met him before, I could not remember it.

    Kevin watched me walk in, held my gaze, and nodded to me. I took it as an invitation.

    Violet glanced over at me, and since I was nearly at their table, I had to work on not letting my shock show. She was so young, we could have been sisters if she weren’t my father’s wife. And I was pretty sure I’d be the big sister.

    Yes, I’d seen her in photos in the papers since my dad’s death, and my friend Nola said Violet and I had met during the time I could not remember. She thought we had gotten along too, which was weird. I had never gotten along with any of my father’s wives.

    Violet had a petite build, wore simple but fashionable glasses, and had great cheekbones and a smattering of freckles. She wore a loose sweater, jeans, and sneakers. Put her in a lineup, and I would not point her out as a billionaire widow. She looked radiant, her face glowing and happy despite the dark circles beneath her eyes that spoke of sleepless nights.

    “Allie,” she said warmly. “Sit, sit.” She pointed to the chair opposite where she sat on the booth bench against the wall. It put my back to the bar. I could see behind Kevin, and the windows and front door were at the corner of my eye.

    “How are you feeling?” she asked.

    “Good.” I hadn’t seen her since the coma that had knocked me out. “Better. Thanks. How’s the coffee?”

    Kevin was already pouring me a cup out of the carafe from the center of the table. Violet shrugged. “No coffee for me. I’m an herbal tea girl right now.”

    “Stress?” I thought about the pressure she must be under now that the duties of running my father’s multibillion-dollar magic and tech integration company had fallen largely into her hands.

    “Pregnant,” she said.

    The whole restaurant swirled under my feet. “Preg-what? Who?” I looked over at Kevin. He quietly picked up his cup and took a drink. He watched Violet across the cup’s rim, and his gaze carried something-sadness? Jealousy? Then he tipped the cup down and smiled at me. Smiled at me for Violet, I realized.

    Oh. I might be fevered, headachy, and struck dumb, but I could see a man who was in love and hadn’t admitted it to himself. Or to Violet.

    “Whose?” I repeated, looking at Violet.

    She took a sip of her tea. “Mine. And your father’s.”

    Wow.

    At my expression she said, “I’m four months along. We had, well, just before he was killed.” She didn’t say any more, which was good. I was having a hard time sorting this out, and picturing her in bed with my father wasn’t helping any.

    Kevin had the right idea. I picked up my coffee cup and took a drink. Hot, bitter. I wished it were something stronger.

    Violet, who was about my age, was pregnant with my father’s child.

    One part of me hoped maybe she was wrong-that it wasn’t my father’s child. That maybe it was Kevin’s or some one-night stand she’d had. But Violet was a smart woman-the brains behind most of the newest tech coming out from my dad’s company. If she believed it was my father’s child, then I was certain it was.

    “Wow,” I said. “Are you happy?”

    “I am. It was a… shock. I didn’t find out until after. He never knew.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I am. Happy.”

    “You and my dad were okay together?”

    “Allie, I loved your father. Despite the age difference. I was the one who chased him.”

    It didn’t take magic for me to know she was telling the truth. I didn’t know what she had seen in him. My father was a controlling, driven, frequently angry man. But maybe this-the child-was what she had wanted.

    “Congratulations?” I offered.

    She laughed, a short, happy sound. “I’m sorry. Just… the look on your face is hilarious. Haven’t you ever wanted a little brother or sister?”

    Oh. Sweet. Hells.

    “When I was a kid, maybe. I’m old enough to be this kid’s mother.” How was that for tactful?

    But Violet laughed. “I know. Weird, isn’t it? That’s part of why I wanted to tell you before anyone else. Only Kevin and my doctor knows. I thought you should have a chance to get used to it a little before the gossip columns pick it up.”

    “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

    She slipped her fingers behind her glasses and pressed against her eyes. She was still smiling. “What else am I going to do? It is what it is. I’ll figure it out as I go. That’s life.” She readjusted her glasses and placed her hands on the tabletop.

    Kevin’s fingers stretched slightly, almost but not brushing her hand before he pulled away. I don’t think Violet noticed.

    For all her laughter, Violet sounded tired. Maybe even a little weepy. In her shoes, I’d be a big fat pile of panic.

    “I’m happy for you,” I said.

    “Really?”

    “Yes. And I’m happy for our family.”

    Sweet hells. I’d just told her we were family. Must be the fever. I mean, I did think I could like her someday-not as my stepmother but maybe as a friend. And if that kid was my father’s child, then he or she had my father’s blood-my blood. That made us family whether I liked it or not.

    Violet smiled and her eyes got a little teary. “Thank you.”

    She reached over and gave my hands a squeeze just as the waiter showed up for our orders.

    “Are you ready?” he asked.

    “Sure.” I ordered a stack of pancakes, sausage, and eggs. Violet went for eggs, toast, and fruit; Kevin chose the omelette and a side of bacon.

    As soon as the waiter left, Violet spoke up again. “There are a couple more things I want to talk to you about. Nothing quite so… life changing, I think. First, I want you to take this.” She pulled a cell phone out of her purse. “It’s the same number as the one you have that isn’t working. It’s top-of-the-line.”

    I opened my mouth and she held up a finger. “This is coming out of Beckstrom Enterprise’s budget, and it should. I want to be able to get a hold of you easier, Allie. So do other people in the company. Ethan has been trying to talk to you for days.”

    “Who?”

    “Ethan Katz. Our accountant. He needs to go over some things regarding your father’s estate with you.”

    I took the phone. Slick, black, and small. I flicked it open; the screen lit. So far so good. We’d see how long it lasted. I put it in my jacket pocket. “Thank you,” I said. “For some reason, I’m not having much luck with phones lately.”

    Kevin shifted slightly. “Batteries going bad on you?”

    “How’d you guess?”

    He shrugged. “If this phone doesn’t hold up, I have some other ideas.”

    Just as I thought. This man played in the magic sandbox with the big boys. Good for Violet. At least she’d have someone who could kick some magical ass and keep her, and my little sibling, safe.

    The waiter came back with our food, and no one apologized for digging in. Kevin was attentive to Violet in small ways I don’t think she noticed. Without her asking, he refilled the water of her tea and turned the jam carousel so that the huckleberry was within reach. They moved easily in each other’s space. Something at least I and, when Kevin caught me watching, he was very aware of. I wondered why he hadn’t told her he had feelings for her.

    Maybe it was the recently murdered husband and unplanned pregnancy thing? Did they even make a greeting card to profess your love under such circumstances?

    Yeah, they probably did. It was probably on the shelf next to the “sorry to hear you got groped by your dad’s ghost, but running him down in the street isn’t the way to pay him back, and by the way, dead people don’t like you” card.

    “I don’t know how much thought you’ve put into this,” Violet said. “But I want you to have a part in guiding your father’s business.”

    “Interesting. So you don’t like Beckstrom Enterprises?”

    “No. I think your father wanted you to step in.” She held up one hand and it cut off my smart-ass reply.

    When did I start responding to hand signals? Note to self: work on that.

    “I know running the business may not be your goal in life. With the present board and competent heads of all the divisions, things are going fine. Daniel didn’t run the company single-handed, though that’s what he would have liked everyone to think. He hired incredibly qualified and capable people.”

    “Sounds like all the bases are covered. What do you want me to do?”

    “I want you to think about it. Do you want to follow your father’s footsteps and take the company down the path he chose? Do you want to take the company in a new direction? You have a majority of the vote, Allie. Even if you don’t want to do anything different from what is already happening, you need to at least lend your voice to the company’s future. People are waiting to hear what you have to say.”

    Holy shit. I don’t know why I hadn’t ever looked at it that way, but she was right. I had the reins of my father’s dirty, vicious, greedy company in my hands. To make, or break.

    Violet ate the last of her toast and stared down at her nearly empty plate.

    “Sick?” Kevin asked quietly.

    “No.” She smiled up at him, and he was very good at not letting her see what her smile did to him. “Just happy I can eat breakfast again.”

    He nodded and went back to sipping coffee, watching the door, and ignoring my pointed looks.

    Okay, so I wasn’t just going to grind my father’s company into the ground. Violet, and my soon-to-be sibling, depended on it. Not only that, she had cutting-edge magic technology copatented with Beckstrom Enterprises, and I would hate for the control of her own technology to be taken out of her hands. And I bet there were a lot worse hands it could fall into.

    “Let me think about it,” I said.

    “Good. That’s all I’m asking. So. How are things with you and Zayvion Jones?”

    I carefully did not let my reaction show. “What do you mean?”

    “I saw the security tape of you and him in the elevator. Looked like things were getting serious between you. Are you still seeing each other?”

    Note to self: find security tape and figure out what she’s talking about.

    “We’re going to dinner tonight,” I said.

    She smiled. “I think you would be good together.”

    “Wait-you know him?”

    Kevin had gathered her plate and stacked it on his and then taken mine and done the same. Violet leaned back on the padded bench and tucked one leg up beneath her, cradling her tea in her hands. She looked over at Kevin, and he nodded.

    Well, well. They shared secrets. How interesting.

    “He’s a part of the group your father was involved in,” she said. “I’m not directly involved, but I am aware of the things that fall beneath their concern.”

    “Could you be more vague?”

    Kevin brushed off his hands over the plates. It looked like he was getting rid of crumbs, but what he was really doing was casting a very subtle Mute spell.

    Holy hells, he was good. This plain-looking guy with eyes that were too big and a chin that was too small was suddenly up there on my list of people I wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley.

    That Mute spell would allow us to talk, and the people around us wouldn’t even notice they couldn’t understand what we were saying.

    “Zayvion,” Violet said, “is a part of the Watch. A branch of the Authority. Has he told you this?”

    “We haven’t had a lot of time to chat.” Which wasn’t entirely true. Zayvion had not told me he was a part of anything called the Watch. He had mentioned secret magic vigilantes. Maybe it was the same thing?

    “The Authority is a private organization of people who do what they can behind the scenes to keep magic, and the people who use it, safe. Zayvion works for them.”

    “And my dad was a part of this too?”

    Kevin answered. “He was a voice in the Authority. He had influence and sway among the members.”

    “Members like you?” I asked.

    He nodded. “Members like me.”

    “So you’re telling me there is a secret society of magic users, and that Zayvion Jones, and both of you, are involved in it to some degree.”

    “Yes,” Violet said.

    “Why tell me now? Why should I care?”

    “I never agreed with your father keeping it a secret from you,” she said. “Some of the board members in Beckstrom Enterprises are also members of the Authority. I am not foolish enough to think you won’t eventually find out. I’m telling you now because your father’s death sent shock waves through that community.”

    “But if I’m not a part of that community, what does it matter to me?”

    “Shock waves is a polite term,” Kevin said. “Your father’s voice held wide-reaching power and influence over the order of the group and the direction it was going. Not everyone agreed with him. Now that he is gone, sides are being taken. It is very likely there will be a… confrontation. And you, Allie, are a prime target. Beckstrom’s child. Beckstrom’s blood. Culpable.”

    “Whoa,” I said.

    But Violet spoke over me. “And that is why we would like you to move in with me. With us, at the condo. The magical wards and locks are beyond compare, unbreakable, and Kevin is an excellent guard. Please, Allie. For your safety. Until this… confrontation blows over.”

    It had been less than an hour since we’d admitted we might be family, and now she wanted me to move home with Mommy? There was no way she was talking me into coming home. That place had too many memories I would rather forget.

    “No,” I said. “No thanks. Absolutely no.”

    Violet gave me a hard look, and I raised my eyebrows, trading her stare for stare.

    She finally looked away. “You are so like him. Stubborn.”

    I let that slide. See how nice I was to the pregnant woman?

    I looked over at Kevin. “Is Zayvion ‘watching’ me? Hunting me? Is Zayvion following me around to decide if I’m a danger to magic or to myself? Spying on me for the Authority?”

    Kevin blinked. His eyebrows knitted and he leaned forward a little. “Why do you ask?”

    “Just a yes or no will do.”

    He didn’t smile, but he looked amused. “No.”

    I watched his body language, which he patiently let me. He was hard to read. A lot like Zayvion, but without the Zen bit. Still, he didn’t smell like he was lying.

    And if he was any good at reading body language, he just saw how relieved his answer made me. Hells, I had it bad for Zayvion. Something deep inside me feared his interest in me was nothing more than a game of who got to keep the magic. Something deep inside me wanted us, Zayvion and me, to have a chance for something more. A lot more.

    “Do you know who is watching me?”

    “No.”

    Two for two.

    “Do you know who Zayvion is watching?”

    “Probably. If you want to know, you should ask him.”

    Fair enough.

    “But let me tell you this,” he said. “There are dangerous people and dark magics in this city, Allie. More than you can handle on your own. You should reconsider Mrs. Beckstrom’s offer.”

    Mrs. Beckstrom? Wow, he was in serious denial. And he didn’t have to tell me about dangerous people-I had an appointment with Pike and the police to take down Trager today.

    “I’ll keep it in mind.” End of conversation. “Thanks for the phone, Violet. And for breakfast. Call me if you need me.” I stood and put money on the table.

    “Allie, I got it,” she said.

    “No. I’ll pay my part.”

    And instead of acting like my dad and refusing to let me stand on my own, pay on my own, she just nodded. “I programed my number into your phone,” she said. “Just in case.”

    Just in case I said no and didn’t move in with her. See what I mean? Smart.

    “Don’t forget to make an appointment with Mr. Katz,” she said. “His number’s in there too.”

    “I’ll see what I can do.” The spiderweb tingle of the Mute spell brushed over me as Kevin deftly unwove it. I walked to the door without looking back.

    Okay, that hadn’t gone quite how I expected. Violet was pregnant. And secret magic vigilantes-the Watch, the Authority-were out to get me because I was my father’s child.

    If I believed Kevin and Violet.

    And I did.

    All the more reason to meet with Pike, go to the cops, and tell them about Trager attacking me and wanting Pike. Then the police could take care of Trager, and Pike could retire, and I could go on a date tonight and get information out of Zayvion so I could find a way to keep myself safe that didn’t involve moving in with my father’s widow.

    I wondered if I could hire a bodyguard like Kevin. Wondered if Zayvion would be my bodyguard. Right, like I wanted him all over me every second of the day. A wash of heat flushed through me at the thought of that. Okay, maybe the idea had some merit. Even if he said no, he’d know someone I could hire, at least until this “confrontation” blew itself out.

    I made my way along the sidewalk, careful over the rock salt and ice. I didn’t see any cabs.

    The phone in my pocket rang. I jerked and almost slipped. I fumbled the phone out of my pocket, expecting to hear Violet’s voice on the other end.

    “Hello?”

    “Allie, this is Detective Stotts. I’ve been trying to reach you. I thought this number wasn’t working.”

    “It wasn’t,” I said. “What’s up?”

    “I need you to come down to the station as soon as you can.”

    Dread knuckled into my stomach and twisted. “Why?”

    “Martin Pike is missing.”

    “Are you sure? He was helping a friend on the east side. Anthony Bell’s mother.”

    “We contacted her. She hasn’t seen him for several days.”

    “Days?” Hells, I’d seen Pike just yesterday. Home improvements, my ass. Unless Anthony’s mom had a reason to lie. Which she might. Crap. “I’ll be there soon,” I said.

    I pocketed the phone and took three steps toward the curb.

    A sharp pain snapped electricity up my thigh. The pain shot through my stomach and then sawed up beneath my ribs. Something solid clamped my breastbone and tugged like an iron hook, biting hard and finding purchase.

    Heart attack?

    The pain faded, but I could not move, could not lift my feet. Could not swallow or blink.

    The smell of sweet cherries wrapped around me, filled my nose, my mouth.

    Blood magic.

    “Come to me,” a man’s voice whispered.

    A wash of sexual pleasure rolled beneath my skin, following the path of the pain. The pleasure blended with the echos of pain, creating a new sensation. Bitter and sweet. Oh. I wanted that. Wanted to feel that again. I didn’t know where the voice was, or who it was, but I would do anything to hear it again.

    “Ankeny Square.” Words were cherry sweet in my mind, cherry sweet in my mouth, and they felt good. So very, very good. I shuddered.

    The street, the city around me faded at the edges, blurring like a dream. I was panting now, too hot in the icy air. I held my breath, waiting, aching for the voice to speak again.

    “Come to me.”

    And then the presence of the voice was gone. I was left empty, alone. But able to move.

    Ankeny Square. I had to go to Ankeny Square.

    I stood on the curb until a cab pulled up. I told the driver to take me to Ankeny Square. I tugged off my scarf, my hat, my gloves. I was hot, too hot. The hook in my chest throbbed and cut, an uncomfortable pleasure. The stroke of pain on my thigh spread heat across my hips and made me squirm.

    “Can you go faster?” I asked the driver.

    I didn’t hear his answer.

    The icy city slid past the window. I pulled off my coat and stripped out of my sweater. In jeans and a T-shirt, I still couldn’t shake the heat, couldn’t ease the lovely pain. What was wrong with me?

    I leaned my head against the cool window and closed my eyes.

    Was I dreaming? The vibration of the cab’s engine transferred through the glass, and sweat stung my eyes and salted my lips. No, this was too solid, too real for a dream.

    Why was I was going to Ankeny Square? Because I had to. Because the voice told me to.

    Wait. I was following a voice?

    Heat snapped out from the hook in my chest and zagged down to my thigh. The pain slithered over the rise of my leg muscle, soft threads of heat licking down the inside of my thigh.

    I bit my bottom lip to keep from moaning.

    This wasn’t right.

    This was blood magic. What had Zayvion said? Blood magic was intimate.

    Trager. It was his blood magic, his glyph on my thigh, his voice calling me. It was his touch I wanted. His touch he was making me want.

    Shit, shit, shit.

    Inhale, exhale. Pain, desire. The blood magic glyph on my thigh throbbed with wicked pleasure. Magic in my blood rose in response, pushing to be free, to be used. No, no, no. That would be bad.

    Blood magic bit, tugged, chest and thigh, a luscious ache that overwhelmed my senses. I hated it, and I wanted it. Wanted more of it.

    And all the while a small part of my mind screamed at me to stop, to wake up, to run away. I leaned away from the window. Blinked hard. Focused on the seat in front of me.

    I will not go to him. I will not be his toy on a string, his dog on a chain. I exhaled as another wave of pleasure shuddered through me. I will not let him use me.

    I needed help. I needed my phone.

    Pain, pleasure. I inhaled, tasted sweet cherries, and then held my breath as the blood glyph cinched tight again.

    My hands shook. I pulled the phone out of my pocket, managed to open it.

    Dead.

    Maybe I’d pulled out the wrong phone.

    I reached back into my pocket, and my fingers brushed over the dagger. Zayvion’s knife. He had said I could use it to break the Binding. I exhaled. A stroke of heat pulsed through me again. I closed my eyes, waiting for it to pass.

    Sweet hells. Intimate didn’t cover it. Blood magic was far more than that. It was sexual. Orgasmic. Needful. No wonder people got hooked. And if they mixed it with drugs… Hells.

    “This is it,” the driver said.

    I opened my eyes. Dawn was trying to wedge night aside. In the low light of streetlamps, the freestanding arched columns and cobbled bricks of Ankeny Square shone blue, black, and gold.

    It was too early for any of the shops to be open yet.

    My fingers were wrapped around the door handle.

    Stop it, Allie, I told myself. Don’t open the door. Tell the cabbie to take you home. Tell the cabbie to call the police.

    The hook in my chest tugged, and I bit my lip to keep from gasping. I had to get out of the cab. Had to go. Go to Trager.

    I left money on the seat. Left other things there too, I think. My hat. My gloves. I got out. Stood there, trembling in pain and need in the ice-covered square. The cab pulled away.

    The hook in my chest tugged again. Forced me to take a step. One step closer to Trager. To what I wanted.

    No, what I didn’t want.

    I still had my jacket. Still had the dagger. Breathing hard, I pulled out both phones and opened each in turn. Dead and dead. Okay, that left me, the knife, and magic.

    I could do this. I could break this hold. But if I pulled on magic to fight Trager, the Veiled would try to eat me. And it didn’t matter how strong I was. I didn’t think I could fight off dead magic users while I was trying to take down one of the most notorious drug and blood dealers in the city, who had his hook in my chest and thigh.

    So much for magic. Okay, that left me and the knife.

    I took the dagger out of my coat pocket and drew it free of its sheath. Light caught at the slim edges, pooled in the glyphwork that flowed from the hilt, down the blade, across the glass center, and slipped off the razor edge, glowing in the same metallic shades as the marks on my arm.

    I didn’t know how to break the Binding. Couldn’t remember what Zayvion had told me to do. Fine. There were other things a sharp blade could be used for. Things like self-defense. And kicking ass. I gripped the hilt like I knew how to use the thing and scanned the square for Trager and his goons. A shadow detached itself from the pillars. He-I was sure it was a he-started toward me with a slow, limping gate.

    I inhaled, sorted through the smells of ice and asphalt, and got a noseful of hickory and soap. And blood. Lots of blood.

    “Pike?” I breathed.

    He continued his slow, slow walk. Damn him. He had Hounded Trager without me, without the police. He’d broken his promise. Gone vigilante. I was so going to kick his retired ass.

    “Pike?” I said a little louder. Still no answer. The hook in my chest stung and throbbed, until I took another step. Closer to Pike. That worked for me, so I kept walking, trying to focus on Pike and not the strokes of pleasure and pain. I picked my way across the icy uneven cobbles.

    Pike trudged forward, swaying drunkenly. And the closer I came to him, I knew why.

    A gory portrait out of a bad dream, Pike was covered in blood. A meaty, sloppy mess was all that was left of where his left eye should be. His cheekbone stuck out of his skin. His left arm swung and grinded with a loose gristle-over-bone sound. His T-shirt was so wet with blood, there was nothing of the original blue left. The front of his jeans were so heavy with blood, each grueling step he took toward me left behind a dark, wet footprint.

    He wasn’t breathing very well. Or very much.

    “Oh, no. Oh, fuck, Pike,” I said. “Where’s Davy? Who’s watching you? Covering your back? Who has a fucking phone?” I tried to jog the remainder of the distance, tried to reach him.

    Just as I was almost close enough to touch him, pain exploded in my chest. No pleasure this time. Hot spikes rattled over my ribs, each one in turn until I thought they’d break. I groaned.

    Pike grunted, tipped his working eye up to look at me, and then folded down to his knees. His exhale wheezed with horrible wetness.

    I stood above him, close enough to touch him but unable to move, unable to bend in the vise grip of pain and the damn Binding. I listened as his breathing grew more shallow. I didn’t know how he was getting any air through all that wetness.

    In the still air of the morning, where traffic moved in the distance like a muted dream, I could very clearly hear the soft snicking of Pike’s blood falling onto ice and stone.

    I pushed against the pain, the need, against the Binding that held me frozen. I couldn’t even move my fingers.

    Then the pain eased and I could move. But I wasn’t the one in control of my legs any more.

    I took a step away from Pike, a step past him. Trager. The asshole was dragging me to him. Making me leave Pike behind. Another step. Two.

    I fought the pull of the Binding, leaned back against it. Yelled as the hook shifted to catch at my lungs. I couldn’t leave Pike, couldn’t leave him dying behind me.

    I still had the dagger. By damn, I was going to use it. I forced my hands up, trembled as I turned the knife to my chest, aiming for the hook. I had to use both hands to hold it steady, to press it against my chest. The tip slipped through the thin fabric of my shirt, nipped gently at my skin.

    I took another step, heard the deadweight thunk as Pike fell the rest of the way to the ground. I couldn’t turn to look at him. I pressed the dagger harder, broke the skin over my breastbone.

    Wait. Something was wrong with this. Magic dagger or not, if I shoved a knife through my heart, I wouldn’t be around long enough to do anything else.

    Holy hells.

    Think, Allie.

    The glyph. The Binding on my thigh. I could cut the bastard’s magic out of me.

    I took another step and shifted the grip on the blade. Before Trager could make me take another step, I slid the tip-okay, more than just the tip, the whole damn length of the blade-across my thigh.

    The knife sliced effortlessly through the heavy denim of my jeans. It sank into my thigh like heated glass. I yelled. Felt like barfing. Instead I jerked the blade out of my leg. I tugged at the hole in my jeans, ripping it open. I blinked sweat out of my eyes and looked down at the glyph.

    What I saw was blood, my blood, pouring down the pus green venous ridges of the Binding glyph. I had to pull the magic out of it. Zayvion had said that. Pull the magic out.

    But I needed magic to do that. Needed magic to see what I was doing.

    Fuck it all.

    I tried to calm my mind. I whispered a mantra over and over: Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack, all dressed in black, black, black… I set a Disbursement-I was so done with having a headache and fever and went for a nice head cold this time. I jerkily traced the glyph for Reveal over my thigh and drew magic up out of my body to pour into it.

    Magic responded strangely. It skittered beneath my skin like a rock over a pond instead of flowing smoothly. It took all the concentration I had to guide the magic into the spell I’d cast.

    And doing that made everything hurt.

    Trager yanked on the hook in my chest.

    But my leg wasn’t working so good. I stumbled forward and fell.

    It is amazing how it doesn’t matter how much pain I’m in, I can always feel one more thing. I hit the ground hard, banged my elbow, my hip, scraped the side of my face. Managed not to hit my head, break my hold on the Reveal spell, or impale myself on the knife.

    Go, me.

    I curled inward, fetal position, and wished I could stay there forever. Then pushed up to a sitting position. Made it too.

    The Reveal I cast showed me the Binding’s true nature. The glyph on my thigh glowed pus green and oozed black. I’d never seen anything like it. One part of my mind-the part I was trying very hard not to listen to-was screaming. The other part was getting pissed off.

    Calm, Allie. Stay calm.

    Pike rattled out a long, thin breath.

    I inhaled, scented the rotten flesh stench of the Veiled, who undoubtedly had invited themselves to my little private hell. I didn’t take time to search for them. I knew they were there, around me, on their slow march.

    Fast. I needed to work fast.

    I opened my mouth, leaned toward my thigh, and inhaled the scent and signature of the spell. I knew Trager had cast it, but my Hounding senses sorted through the spell’s subtleties. And, most important, let me trace the actual manner in which the spell had been cast.

    With the knife in my right hand, I pressed my right fingers at the top of the glyph and traced it, dragging my fingers through the blood, drawing a new layer of pain along its twisted route.

    Ow, ow, ow. Someone was whining like a kicked puppy. That someone was me.

    My fingers probed at the spell, pushed at it.

    There. Where the thinnest tendril of the glyph stretched out to connect to the knotted lump in the center. The Binding originated there.

    Keeping my right fingers on the point of origin, I brushed my left fingers more lightly out from there, followed the twists and knots until my fingertip rested on the exit point of the spell-the last line drawn before the spell had been stabbed into me. That point was deep in the gash I’d made with the knife.

    Good news, I told myself. I didn’t have to make a second cut.

    I gritted my teeth and stuck my fingers into the wound. Holy shit, that hurt. My fingers slipped across a very thin, glasslike thread in my flesh. That was the Binding, cast in blood magic, which had somehow turned solid beneath my skin. Or maybe blood magic always turned to glass. I didn’t know. And I didn’t care.

    I pinched at the slippery thread, caught it between my thumb and fingernails. Then I tugged. The Binding slithered beneath my skin, unwinding with barbed pain along the path of its design.

    Good, but not good enough.

    I tugged harder, groaned. The glyph unwound some more. I could see the solid glass thread as it exited my skin, but as soon as it hit the air, it dissolved into ashy black smoke. And of course the harder I pulled, the more it hurt.

    Pike was dying. The Veiled were closing in. I didn’t have time to be subtle. I clenched my teeth and yanked. Fire scraped across my thigh, up my belly, shocked across my nerves. Pain gouged my chest and stabbed my heart and lungs. I yelled and yelled. Stars burst at the edges of my vision.

    But I didn’t stop pulling.

    My vision narrowed. The only sound I could hear was the pounding of my blood. My world reduced to two things: pain and sheer determination not to stop pulling on the spell.

    The Binding shattered, rising in the air like wisps of smoke from a sudden fire. I broke out in a heavy sweat, like a bad fever breaking. I was still sitting, my left hand pulled as far from my body as it could reach, the final ashes of the spell drifting away on the sweet-cherry-scented breeze.

    Without knowing it, I’d pressed the dagger deep into my thigh again. Holy hells, that was going to scar. So much for wearing miniskirts.

    Somehow I had managed to hold on to the Reveal spell. I blinked, looked up. The watercolor people-the Veiled, dead magic users-rushed me. Empty black eyes, mouths open, hands reaching, hungry for my magic.

    I scrambled backward, turned my face away from their onslaught, and let go of the Reveal spell. The stink of dead flesh rushed past me, borne on an unnatural wind. And nothing more. No fingers, no eyes, no mouths.

    I shuddered, gagged. Took a couple hard breaths. Then I dragged my ass back to where Pike lay.

    Trager would now know the Binding was broken. He would now know I was not his little toy. And it pissed me off that I had just destroyed the evidence I had against him-evidence that would have thrown him in chains.

    But when I made it to Pike, I didn’t care.

    Pike was curled up on his bloodiest left side-Hounding instincts to keep the most vulnerable side of yourself hidden, protected. It meant his good eye-the eye he still had-was toward me.

    I brushed my fingers over his neck, searching for a pulse. A sluggish throb sent a slow gush of blood over my fingers.

    Deep blood. Lifeblood. Pouring down to the icy street.

    Even though I didn’t remember doing it, Nola had told me I healed Zayvion with magic when the storm of wild magic raged over the city. Paying the price for that had thrown me in a coma and erased weeks of my life. It could have killed me.

    But if I could do it once, I could do it again.

    I calmed my mind, sang my little song, and shoved the panic to the side.

    “Pike,” I said. “It’s Allie. I’m here. You’re going to be okay.” I ran my fumbling hands over his chest, his belly, looking for the deepest wound. His entire torso felt like ground beef-wet and pulpy everywhere. Someone had beat him physically and magically. I didn’t even know where to begin.

    I took a deep breath and, still holding the knife in one hand, pulled the magic up through my body. It responded better this time, spooling out through me like warm water over burned skin. I didn’t know any glyphs for healing-no one healed with magic. The price was too high. Even doctors used magic only as a tool to assist in healing, not as a means to the end.

    I closed my eyes and directed the magic through my fingers and into Pike’s body.

    Heal, I thought, putting my will and intent behind the magic. I held an image of him whole and well in my mind, and told the magic to make that happen, make him alive, breathing, healed.

    Magic poured into Pike’s wounds, and there were a lot of them. Magic poured through me fast, faster. But instead of wrapping around his bones, spreading through his muscle and veins, mending and healing, the magic poured through him and then sank, useless, into the ground.

    I couldn’t make it spread through him, couldn’t make it catch up the pieces of him and knit him back together. It was like he was made of sand, and all the magic I pumped into him drained into the earth without touching him.

    No, no, no. What was I doing wrong?

    I smelled the fetid rot of flesh again, opened my eyes. The Veiled shuffled slowly toward me. I did not stop pouring magic into Pike.

    Pike’s eyelid flickered open. His eye roamed the flat, dark sky and then rolled down and focused on me.

    “Al,” he rasped. “Trag used”-he inhaled, a short rattling breath that made his body stiffen-“my blood. To kidnap girls. Trag used Ant to cast like me…” He inhaled again, his one eye wide, as if there were more words trapped behind his broken lungs, as if there were more words trapped in his broken body.

    “Doctor,” he wheezed. “Has blood. Yours. Girls.”

    My blood? What doctor? What girls? The kidnapped girls?

    “Don’t let Trager free-” The painful inhale again.

    “Easy, Pike,” I said. “It’s okay. I won’t let Trager free. I’ll take care of everything. You just hold on. Hold on, okay?”

    A spasm wracked his body. His hand jerked out, gripped the blade that was still in my right hand. His blood mixed with mine, caught in the finely wrought runnels of the blade and slid down the liquid glyphs, turning the glowing symbols into a dull fire before dripping onto his chest.

    “Not Ant’s fault. I… failed… him. Look after”-the painful inhale again-“the kid. The Hounds. They’re family. Mine. Yours.”

    “Hey, now. Don’t get all soft on me. You and I can look after the Hounds together, okay? I promise.” I poured magic into him-more, faster.

    “Worth it,” he exhaled.

    Pike’s one eye stared at me. I did not look away from him. Did not look away from him as the Veiled rushed me and shoved greedy fingers into my skin, burning, hurting, eating the magic out of my flesh. Did not look away from him as the last spark of life drained from his eye. Did not look away from him as he became unnaturally still, vacant, empty. Dead.

    Only then did I let go of the magic pouring into him. Only then did I look away from my friend.

    As soon as I let go of the spell, the Veiled faded. I stung from head to foot. Felt like my skin had been scraped raw by frozen sandpaper. My thigh throbbed; my chest throbbed. Every breath caught and burned, and, damn it, tears poured down my face.

    But I was raging inside, seething. And way past caring about my own pain.

    I was angry as hell. Trager was going to pay. Fuck the law. I was going to kill him with my own hands. I pushed up onto my feet, turned a slow circle. I couldn’t smell Trager, but I could feel him like a dirty echo in my bones. He was here. Near. I followed my gut and my rage and walked toward the corner building. The wind picked up again, pulling ice off the skin of the river and slapping me in the face with it.

    I felt alive. Focused. If this was the last thing I ever did, it would be worth it.

    I strode along the building until I found a door that was partially open. The smell of blood came from that room-Trager’s blood. I tightened my hold on the dagger and calmed my mind. I didn’t hear anyone moving behind the door.

    I pushed it the rest of the way open. Two rooms were divided by a wide arch in the center: an office. A large solid desk held down the back wall. Both rooms nicely furnished. Modern. Tasteful.

    Except for the dead man with a slit throat on the floor. Lon Trager’s goon. There was a trail of dead people, actually, and if I had to guess how they got that way, I’d bet on Pike. I walked past them all, noting their fatal wounds with satisfied detachment. Slit throat, bullet hole in the head, bullets in the chest, a knife still lodged in the carotid artery. The man with half a head missing, his buddy sporting a matching wound-probably from the big-ass gun in the river of blood on the floor. Six of Trager’s men. The same six that had been on the bus with me.

    Fuck, I thought. What a mess. Even though I was not accustomed to being this close to dead people, the numb rage that filled me let me note that I was going to have nightmares about this but also let me not care. All that was important right now was that Trager was not among the corpses. How could Pike have missed him?

    Maybe another room, another office. I turned to leave. Heard someone struggling to stand behind me. I turned back around. Lon Trager stood behind the desk. Blood covered one side of his face, turned his crisp white business shirt red.

    Looked like he and Pike had both gotten their hits in.

    Trager white-knuckled the edge of the desk to stay standing. He held a gun in his other hand, leveled at my chest.

    “Bye-bye, Beckstrom.”

    I threw myself to one side, yelled at the fresh tear of pain in my thigh. The bullet grazed my left shoulder, and my vision went black for a moment.

    Trager fell back in the chair behind the desk, breathing hard. He wasn’t moving. The gun clattered to the floor.

    I pulled myself together and strode across the room, boots slapping in the blood of dead men. I walked around the desk and stopped in front of Trager. He watched me but did nothing more than breathe hard and hold still.

    “You killed Pike,” I said.

    Trager, the bastard, smiled. “Won’t be my last.”

    With a strength I didn’t think he had, he lunged at me, a wicked knife in his hand.

    Oh, hells, no. He wasn’t the only person with a knife in the room.

    I gripped the dagger in both hands and thrust all my weight behind it.

    Pain rattled through me again. Trager had aimed low, stabbing my thigh.

    I, however, hadn’t. The dagger sank into his belly, catching against a scrape of rib on the way in. Trager went limp, heavy, his body dead weight against me, until all that held him up was my grip on the dagger in his gut.

    “Yes,” I said, “it will.”

    He gurgled and stank. I stepped back, pulling the dagger out as hard as I could. Then I watched him fall to the floor and move no more.

    I was covered in blood. My blood, Trager’s blood, Pike’s blood.

    Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was still screaming and screaming. This was a nightmare, and I wanted out. There was a dead man on my shoes. A man I had killed.

    Killed.

    But in the front of my mind, I was too furious to care.

    I pulled my feet out from beneath Trager’s dead weight and then knelt and shoved him over so I could see his face. The dagger wound added to the blood already on his shirt. I was no expert, but it looked like Pike’s bullets, which had left three clean holes through his shirt directly over his heart, had done just as much damage-maybe more-as my knife in his gut.

    I swore. Killing Trager, feeling him die in my hands, hadn’t changed my anger. And it hadn’t done a damn thing to bring Pike back. I stood and stared down at Trager, trying to make sense of it all. Pike had come to kill Trager, who had been waiting for him. Pike said Anthony had Pike’s blood-probably sold it to Trager in exchange for blood magic and drugs.

    But Pike had said something else. The girls and a doctor. A doctor had my blood. I didn’t know which doctor. But I knew how to Hound. And I sure as hell knew what my own blood smelled like. All I had to do was track it-track the magic in it-and I’d have the last piece in this puzzle.

    “Jesus Christ,” a voice said behind me.

    I swung around, dagger at the ready.

    Davy Silvers, the hangover kid, stood in the doorway.

    His eyes and nose were red, his cheeks splotchy. He’d been crying. He smelled faintly of alcohol and puke. He’d obviously been following me.

    “You’re up early,” I said.

    “Not early enough. Lon Trager?”

    “Dead.”

    He glanced down at the bloody knife in my bloody hand and then looked me up from shoe to face.

    “Did you kill him?”

    I wiped the blade across the least gory leg of my jeans, staring Davy straight in the eye as I did so. “He was dead when I got here,” I lied.

    I had to give the kid credit. He didn’t look away. He shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet, as if every inch of him wanted to turn and run from what he saw in my gaze. Still, he stood his ground.

    “Good.” His voice caught. “Wish I was here to see it.”

    Boy had a vengeful streak. That would probably serve him well in this business.

    “Pike?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

    He just shook his head. “I called 911.”

    I nodded. “When the police arrive, tell them I was here. Tell them I didn’t see everything, but I’ll give them my statement. If Detective Stotts shows up, tell him I’m Hounding a lead on the case I worked for him, but tell only Stotts that, got it?”

    “Yeah.”

    “And if you follow me, Davy Silvers, I will kick your ass. Even if I have to come back from the dead to do it. Understand?”

    He swallowed and nodded, and then moved out of my way.

    Smart boy.

    I strode out of that damn room, out into air that smelled too much like blood. I pulled a small amount of magic into my sense of sight and smell. And strode off toward the trail of magic in my blood that hung like a ghostly fire in the air.