Magic on the Line (17 page)

“I can’t turn it down, Allie. I can’t walk away from that kind of knowledge. But Kevin had his concerns too and I’ve written up a contract that Mr. Wray signed. It specifies what information they can remove if I am ever to be Closed. My memories of working with the Authority and the people of the Authority will be taken, but my research with magic and technology integration will not be. It’s the chance of a lifetime.”

I couldn’t believe that she was calmly weighing the risks and then writing up contracts to outline how exactly someone should give her a lobotomy. That kind of practical, logical, unemotional decision making was beyond me.

“There’s nothing I can say to change your mind?” I asked.

“I can’t see how the risk outweighs the benefits of knowledge.” She took my hand. “And I might just step down after a month or two. But I am going to do this, Allie. Even if it’s just for a short time. I want to.”

“Things weren’t as bad before Bartholomew came into town,” I said trying to give her something. And while that was true, it was also true that things hadn’t been good for the Authority for as long as I’d been involved. “I do not agree with his methods or his decisions. I don’t trust him. At all.”

I wanted to say more, to tell her everything that had happened, that had been happening. But some of what had happened involved my dead dad’s support and help. Violet was a very smart woman. It wouldn’t take her long to start asking me questions, poking holes in the sequence of events. It wouldn’t take her long to begin wondering if my dad was still alive.

And I did not want to put her through that pain again. He was dead-ish. But she had loved him very much. If she knew his soul or whatever, still resided in my head, would she start developing tech to try to house the undead? And what would the Authority do with that kind of technology?

“I will proceed as cautiously as I can.” She smiled. “And really? I don’t think my life will be that much different. I’ll go down to the lab during the day, and spend the rest of my time raising little Daniel.” She started walking. “That’s pretty much how it would be even if I weren’t working with the Authority. It’s all good.”

“I hope it will be,” I said as we walked back toward the meeting room. But I knew, with every stitch of my being, that it wouldn’t.

Violet strolled into the room. I paused in the doorway. As Kevin walked past me, he whispered, “I’ll watch her. You and I need to talk.”

He didn’t pause, just kept walking. I was pretty sure no one would have seen him speaking to me.

A few people headed over to talk with Violet. Terric was still surrounded by a crowd, as was Melissa Whit. Jingo Jingo wasn’t there. I wondered if I could look up where he was staying. Maybe I could go solve the problem that was Jingo Jingo on my own.

I turned and started down the stairs. Maybe Violet and Terric were handling this the right way. Staying calm, being logical. Playing the game Bartholomew wanted to play.

Bartholomew wasn’t a permanent fixture in Portland. He was the Watch for the entire region, so it made sense that someone somewhere would need his attention soon. It was possible Violet was right to think of this as a one- or two-month gig.

My gut told me different. My gut told me this was just the beginning of a very bad thing.

Chapter Ten

I
strode across the lobby and pushed open the door. The snap of fresh air felt good, the rumble of traffic rolling past, the distant drumbeat of a car radio, all filling me with that decidedly elusive feeling of normal. It might also help that I could not feel one tiny bit of my father’s awareness in my head.

It wasn’t much, but, hey, any silver lining in a head full of clouds.

Jack was probably on the sidewalk somewhere, or the street, watching me. I just stood there for a second thinking things through. I couldn’t talk to Terric until he got away from the crowds. Violet didn’t want to listen to me. Kevin said he’d talk to me later.

So who did that leave?

I could go try to find Victor or Maeve.

Or Shame. He had to be spitting mad about his mom.

Unless he’d been Closed and Bartholomew was just lying to me.

I started walking, my hands in my pockets. No, Terric would know if Shame had been Closed—they were tied tight both from being Soul Complements and whatever that crystal in Shame’s chest had done to bring them closer. Terric would sense it if Shame had had part of his memories removed.

So where was Zayvion during all this?

Maybe keeping Shame from trying to kill someone?

I pulled out my phone, dialed Zay’s number. It rang. No one picked up. That was odd, but not unheard of. I’d seen him turn his phone off before.

Okay, Shame. I dialed. It went straight to voice mail. So not helpful.

“Want a ride?” a familiar voice asked.

I looked over. Jack was leaning against the corner of the building.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Wherever you are.”

He put his cell phone in his pocket and started walking up the street away from me. I caught up to him.

“So, how’d the meeting go?” he asked.

“We are not going to speak about it.”

“That so?”

“It’s confidential, Jack. The kind of confidential that costs lives.”

He smiled. “Still think we can’t handle your big problems, don’t you? There’s nothing you can get mixed up in that I haven’t seen, Beckstrom.”

“I’m just quirky that way,” I said. Let him think it wasn’t a big deal. So long as he didn’t get too involved in my business and the Authority, he might live long enough to keep that I’ve-seen-everything talk going.

His car was down a side street. We waited for a break in traffic to cross the road.

A flash of green caught my eye. At first I thought it was a reflection of traffic in the store window across the street, but then I saw it again, a little more to the left of the window.

A woman stood there. She was coughing, her arm curved over her mouth to keep from spreading germs. With each cough, sparks of green flecked around her, like maybe a dozen bees wove through the air.

And then I saw the hazy watercolor form of a Veiled pulling itself up and out of her, like someone trying to shed a tight coat. First the chest, then the head, then finally, the arms and legs, hands and feet. All the while the woman coughed.

When the Veiled stepped fully out of her, it seemed solid, or at least more solid than it should be. The woman clutched at her chest, and bent over, taking in huge deep breaths. The Veiled started walking down the street.

“Do you see that?” I asked.

Jack scanned the street. “What?”

“The . . . that . . . hells.” If he could have seen it, his reaction wouldn’t have been “what?”—it would have been “what the fuck?”

“Tell that woman”—I pointed—“I need to talk to her.”

I jogged across the street, headed for the Veiled. I managed not to get hit, though three cars laid on the horns and brakes.

The woman was going in the opposite direction from the Veiled. Even without Sight, I could see it—him—walking down the street. It moved a little faster than a normal walk, as if each step were on ice, gliding it forward more than a normal step would. He did not look back at me, did not seem bothered by the people around him.

I calmed my thoughts and set a Disbursement. I wanted to stop him, and find out if he was solid like the Veiled whom Leander had commanded, or if he was something else. Any kind of Veiled could be dangerous. I wasn’t going to take any chances of facing one down alone, nor was I going to let him walk the city and hurt someone.

I drew the glyph for Hold, easy, basic, should work, even at a distance, even on a Veiled. Then I drew the magic from beneath the ground. It was hot, painful, burning, licking. I gasped, froze in my tracks. My vision clouded, the edges buzzing with black, closing down. I couldn’t see the Veiled anymore. Couldn’t see the buildings around me.

Allie,
my dad said.
Don’t!

And then I was pretty sure I didn’t. Because I passed out.

I woke up staring at an elderly woman’s face. She had the most amazing manicure, with little bunnies painted onto the space of each peach-lacquered fingernail. Spring colors, I supposed, all wrapped around her tiny bright green cell phone. She was talking on the cell, answering a lot of yes and no questions, and giving a street address.

Strange.

“Oh, she’s awake now. Are you all right?” she asked.

What I was, was lying on the sidewalk, a handful of people gathered around looking down at me. There was something soft under my head that shushed like a nylon jacket when I nodded.

“I’m good. I’m fine.” I worked on sitting and all the faces blurred a bit, then settled back into focus.

“You really shouldn’t move,” the nice lady said.

“No, I’m fine.” I touched the back of my head. It was bleeding. “Seizures,” I lied. “I’ll be fine.”

One of the men in the crowd suffered a sudden attack of chivalry and helped me up onto my feet. The lady on the phone told whoever was on the other line, 911 I’d guess, that I was fine, mobile, and didn’t need an ambulance.

Which was all good and well, but didn’t change the fact that I’d totally lost track of the Veiled. What had hit me?

Magic,
Dad said.
You channeled it, and it knocked you out.

Okay. That wasn’t good. What had I been pulling on magic for? I’d been following the Veiled, right? I looked around and didn’t see him. What I did see was magic— spells hung on the sides of buildings, personal spells clinging like ribbony spiderwebs around people. Soft neon-colored glyphs, jagged, flowing, pulsing with magic. Rigid Refresh spells in deep golds, silver, and copper attached to walls, street meters, cars, as if they were riveted there. I should not be able to see magic without casting Sight. I should not be seeing it right now at all.

Am I using magic?
I asked my dad.

He did a strange sidestep thing in my head, paused for a moment, then said,
No.

Can you see what I see?
I asked.

A different sort of sidestep, and then I felt his presence next to me, as if he were standing over my shoulder and leaning down to say something in my ear.

You can see magic? You shouldn’t be able to see it with your bare eyes.

I know that. Maybe a side effect from hitting my head?
I tentatively probed the back of my head with my fingers. My hair felt like a bloody, tangled mess. There was a knuckle-sized lump there, and everything around it hurt. Yuck. I needed to have someone look at it. Maybe see a doctor. At least take a pain pill.

I think a doctor is a very good idea,
Dad said in a calm, encouraging tone.

Why are you being so helpful?
I asked.

Allison, you have a head wound. I live in your head.

True. But I didn’t want to see a doctor. I wanted to go find that Veiled, or maybe get a cab and go home and take a nap.

I looked around for Jack. He was striding my way, no spells clinging to him, though a sort of dark shadow surrounded him, like someone had outlined his entire body in charcoal.

“Come this way,” he said. And then he did something Hounds simply do not do. He touched me. He took my arm and led me away from the last few people who had lingered to see if I was okay, and walked with me briskly down the block and across the street.

“You okay?” he asked, still not letting go of my arm.

“Hit my head. It’s bleeding.”

We were across the street now and Jack’s car was there. “Get in.”

He let go of me and walked around to the driver’s side of the car. I pulled on the door handle and happened to glance at my arm. A black charcoal stain covered my arm in a handprint-sized area. The same charcoal that had been surrounding Jack.

I knew Hounds didn’t like touching people because Hounds didn’t like leaving their scent on someone to track them by. But this was more than scent. Wasn’t it?

I got in the car and sniffed my sleeve. It smelled like whiskey and smoke—Jack’s smells—but only faintly. I rubbed at my sleeve to see if I could wipe the charcoal mark off. No luck. But that mark didn’t cling to my fingertips or otherwise smear or travel.

It didn’t seem tangible. It seemed more like magic. Or the residue of magic that had been on his hands.

“Did you cast magic on me?” I asked. I looked over at Jack.

He was watching me like someone watches a wild animal. With extreme caution. “No. Let me see your head, all right?”

I turned my head and tucked my chin. “Right on the crown,” I said. “But you might want gloves. I think I’m still bleeding.”

I heard a click of a flashlight button depressing, and then he moved my hair out of the way with something that was not his fingers. A comb maybe.

“Looks to be just a lump and a cut. Not too deep. Not worth stitches, I don’t think. But it is not bleeding, it’s gushing.” The flashlight clicked again and Jack unzipped his jacket pocket. “Here, press this on it.”

I turned back around and took the clean dark blue handkerchief he offered me and pressed it to the back of my head.

“Where to next?” he asked. “Hospital?”

I thought about it. Bed sounded good. But I needed to find Shame. Terric had asked me to, and I didn’t know if that meant Shame was hurt or needed help.

“Let me call someone,” I said. I pulled out my phone, dialed.

“What?” Shame asked. Oh, he was not happy. Not happy at all.

“Where are you?”

“Home. Why, Bartholomew sending you out to drag me in?”

“No. I need to see you. For my own reasons.”

“Fine.” He hung up.

Well, he was in a cheery mood. “Can you take me out to Maeve Flynn’s inn?” I asked.

Jack started the car and pulled out into traffic. “You want to tell me why your head’s bleeding?”

“Did you find that woman?”

“Yes. But she refused to wait until my unconscious friend could talk to her.”

Nice. Sarcasm. The perfect side order with my headache. “Did you get her name?”

“No. But I could find her if I had to.”

Hounds. Loved their attention to detail.

“Your head?” he asked.

“I passed out.”

“Why?”

“I used magic and it kicked my butt.”

“Did you set a Disbursement?”

“Yes. I did everything the way I normally cast magic. And I blacked out.”

“What were you casting? Why were you casting it?”

“I could tell you it’s none of your business.”

“You could.” He didn’t say anything else.

“Do you see anything strange about the city?”

He chuckled. “You’re going to have to be a hell of a lot more specific.”

“Do you see magic?”

“The results, the effects, yes. Illusions, that sort of thing.”

“No. I mean, can you see the spells? Right now, without Sight, can you see . . .” I glanced at the road we were traveling down, noted a big fat Attraction spell hugging a storefront. “Can you see that Attraction over there? How it’s sort of gray blue with sparks of gold at the center?”

He looked. Looked at me, then looked back at the store. “No.”

I didn’t say anything. Then he said, “Can you?”

I nodded, which hurt my head, but didn’t change the fact that I could still see magic.

“Have you always seen magic like this?” he asked.

“Not without Sight.”

“Want to go back over what kind of magic you were casting before you hit your head and why?” he asked.

“Want to risk having my words pulled, painfully, out of your brain by people who don’t want you to know this stuff?”

“Those people in the car with us?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Then talk,” he said.

“I was casting a Hold.”

“At who?”

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

“What, like Davy talking to Pike?”

“Sure,” I said, looking over at him and trying to get a read on whether he believed. “Like that.”

“Davy thinks he saw him,” Jack said. “Heard him. More than once. I wouldn’t believe in ghosts unless I saw them with my own eyes.”

“Then you won’t believe what I’m saying, but I saw a ghost step out of that woman I told you to follow.”

“Like in the alley with Davy?”

“Yes.”

He drove for a bit, silent.

“Why Hold?” he finally asked.

“I wanted to stop it so I could get a better look.”

“Does magic work on ghosts?”

“Not always. Sometimes.”

“And a ghost stepping out of someone is unusual behavior?” he asked.

See, this was what I liked about Hounds. They could take the impossible, the improbable, the outrageous, bend their minds enough to entertain an acceptance of the possibility, and then ask what the indicators, habits, and behaviors of the thing were—all necessary bits of information for having to track something down, or track a spell back to it.

“She was coughing,” I said. “And then the ghost stepped out of her and went walking down the street.”

“Why worry about a ghost?”

“I thought it might use magic.”

He laughed. “You really did hit your head.”

“I thought it might use magic before I hit my head.”

He glanced over at me with the smile still on his face. “You’re serious?”

“Very.”

He just shook his head and watched the road. “I knew you were crazy, Beckstrom, but I didn’t think you were certifiable.”