Magic to the Bone (23 page)

Authors: Devon Monk

BOOK: Magic to the Bone

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‘‘It’s easy. Just like they show in the movies. Pat his pockets.’’

He was so not joking.

I twisted in my seat and looked back at the kid. He really did look better. No, he looked fine. His skin was pale, but he had a healthy pink across his cheeks and he was sleeping so hard he was snoring. Didn’t look like a mastermind magic forger to me. Looked like a sweet kid who fell on hard times.

I braced my foot on the floorboard and pushed up and around so I was sitting on my knees. I reach around the bucket seat to feel the front pocket of his jeans. No wallet in the first one and, thankfully, no garbage worse than what I was covered in, and no hint of magic. I reached back a little farther to check his other pocket.

The stupid kitten pounced, all claws and teeth and hissing fury, and tore the hell out of my left hand.

I yelled and shook my hand until the ball of fur tumbled to the floor, where it trembled and mewed and looked pitiful.

‘‘Are you hurt?’’ Zayvion asked.

‘‘No.’’ I lied. My hand looked like I’d lost a fight with a killer rosebush. The cuts and punctures probably weren’t very deep, but that cat had been scratching around in filth and garbage.

Great. On the run for my life, I try to do a good deed and now I need a tetanus shot. Maybe something for rabies, too.

Stupid cat. Good things did not come in small packages—mean things did.

I sat forward in my seat again. I tucked my bleeding hand under my tank top, hoping the cotton would help to stem the blood flow, but my sweat, cat piss, garbage, and river water made the cuts hurt more.

‘‘Anything?’’ Zayvion asked.

‘‘Nothing in his front pockets and I am not rolling him over to pat his butt. Think about it, Jones. What are the chances of me running into some infamous, escaped forger left for dead along the river on the one day I would go down there to stroll through garbage?’’

‘‘Amazingly low.’’

‘‘Exactly,’’ I said. ‘‘And besides, he doesn’t look old enough to be an infamous forger. He’s only a kid.’’

‘‘True,’’ he said. ‘‘And that cat doesn’t look like it can do any harm. It’s only a kitten.’’

‘‘Bite me, Jones.’’

That got a smile out of him. ‘‘That sounds promising.’’ He glanced over at me and I met his look, straight on. Dared him to offer.

He looked like he was about to, but said, ‘‘I can get the kid to a hospital and have him checked out. They’ll run his fingerprints and see if he’s on file or missing from anywhere. But first, I’m getting you out of town. You said you had a friend?’’

And it wasn’t like I could make up a phony address. I really had nowhere to go except to Nola’s. And besides, magic or no magic, Hounds, or no Hounds, Nola could take care of herself, and I was tired and feeling more bruised and achy by the minute.

‘‘Head east.’’

‘‘How far?’’

‘‘Burns.’’

‘‘Your friend lives three hundred miles away?’’

‘‘You said you wanted to take me outside my father’s range of influence. I don’t think he has much pull in cow country.’’

Zayvion grunted. ‘‘Good thing I have a full tank.’’

I leaned my head against the window. ‘‘When the skyscrapers turn into barns, and the barns turn into mountains, and the mountains turn into rangeland, wake me up.’’ I didn’t intend to really fall asleep.

But I did anyway. It just wasn’t my day.

Chapter Eight

I
’d like to say my dreams were troubled. Filled with grief and anxiety-driven images. But I did not dream, did not even feel like I had really gone to sleep until a bump in the road knocked my head a little too hard against the window and I snorted awake.

Oh, so ladylike of me.

Zayvion was a quiet driver. No music, no tapping his fingers, no chewing gum, or yakking on the cell phone. He chuckled when I woke.

I turned my head, my neck stiff from leaning in one position too long. The marks from the tips of my right fingers to my temple were cool and tender, both hands still stiff and swollen, especially the left one with its black bands and cat scratches. Otherwise I seemed very much whole.

‘‘The last skyscraper was at least four hours ago,’’ Zayvion said. ‘‘Lots of barns, miles of fences, cows off the road, cows on the road, horses, rusted cars, and a few hundred bars.’’

‘‘Why didn’t you wake me up?’’

‘‘I didn’t know you wanted to stop for a drink.’’

‘‘Ha-ha. Were you just going to drive until we ran out of road?’’

‘‘No.’’ He glanced my way, looked back at the road. ‘‘I thought I’d wake you up once we got to Burns. We’re almost there.’’

It wasn’t raining on this side of the Cascade Range, but daylight was sliding into the golden tones of late afternoon. The rangelands spread out around us in wide expanses of dusty green and sun-baked browns, sagebrush and juniper dotting the land all the way out to the roll of mountains on the horizon. It wasn’t the wet and green that most people pictured when they thought about Oregon. What few houses we passed were surrounded by battered lawns that eventually stretched out into tracts of land gone brown beneath the advance of autumn.

And yes, we were getting close. Within a couple of miles to the turnoff that would take us up the dirt and gravel road to Nola’s farm, which was good. Even though I’d been soaking in it for hours, I still hadn’t gotten used to the stink of the garbage. I noticed Zay had cracked his window for a little fresh air. Right now, I wanted a shower more than almost anything in the world.

‘‘It’s the first road after we cross the Silvies River.’’

Zayvion frowned. ‘‘Silvies marks the edge of the grid in Burns, doesn’t it?’’

‘‘You know a lot about magic for a guy who stalks people for a living.’’

‘‘Call it a hobby,’’ he said.

‘‘Stalking or magic?’’

‘‘Both. What does your friend do out here?’’

‘‘Farm,’’ I said laconically. ‘‘Not everyone wants to live their lives plugged into magic. Some people like to do things the old-fashioned way—electricity, gas, phone, but no magic.’’

Zay grunted, but didn’t look at all convinced. He slowed the car as he approached the willow-lined river.

I’d forgotten how pretty the countryside was. Even though it wouldn’t be all that hard to make magic accessible, the people of Burns had voted against it. It felt quieter here, in more ways than one, and made it seem like we were worlds away from the noise, the crowd, and the worries of civilization.

‘‘See that bridge?’’ I asked.

Zay nodded at the one-lane with wooden guardrails that spanned the river.

‘‘That’s the edge.’’

‘‘Of what?’’

‘‘Of your world, Zayvion Jones.’’

‘‘My world?’’

‘‘The magic and stalking world.’’

We were almost at the bridge and I knew it was coming, the line, the break, the edge where magic flowed up against, and then fell silently over, pouring into the Silvies and never touching the other side.

I was ready for it. Ready for the stomach-flipping lurch as magic released me from its hold and pushed us through to the other side, water and magic rushing beneath us. Zay drove onto the bridge.

I laughed, releasing the pent-up pressure in my chest. I was light-headed and it had nothing to do with holding my breath. Breaking out of the reach of magic felt like pressing around a corner on a really smooth roller coaster. I wanted to throw my hands in the air and yell.

‘‘Oh,’’ Zay said. ‘‘Shit.’’

So maybe he didn’t like it as much as I did. Maybe he wasn’t ready for the prickly sensation over his skin that felt like every hair was standing up straight. Maybe he didn’t like the weight and pressure of magic drifting away from his head and chest.

Some people didn’t like roller coasters either.

‘‘You okay?’’ I asked.

Zay’s hands clenched the steering wheel so tightly that I could see the yellow of his knuckles. ‘‘I didn’t know.’’

‘‘That magic wasn’t easily accessible everywhere?’’

‘‘Why anyone would want to live without it.’’

We were on the other side of the bridge now, and Zayvion still took it slow, even though the road on this side was in as good, maybe even better, condition than the road on the other side of the bridge.

‘‘Some people choose to live without electricity or indoor plumbing. Some people choose to live without eating meat. Some people choose not to handle magic twenty-four seven, not to gather it, channel it, trap it, harvest it, eat it, breathe it, use it, and hurt for it.’’

Zayvion nodded. ‘‘I didn’t say it was a bad thing. I just said I didn’t understand before.’’

‘‘Before the bridge? You have been over bridges, haven’t you?’’

He gave me a dirty look. Portland was full of bridges—you couldn’t go anywhere without crossing water in that city. ‘‘I haven’t been off the grid for a long time.’’

‘‘Really? I thought you only came to the city recently.’’

‘‘I never said that.’’

‘‘So you’ve lived in the city for years?’’

‘‘I never said that either.’’

‘‘Zayvion.’’ I was getting annoyed now. ‘‘I know you worked for my father, but I don’t know anything else about you. Would it hurt to open up and tell me a little about yourself?’’

He didn’t say anything for a while, and that worried me.

Finally, ‘‘There’s not much to say. I’m an only child, my parents live on the coast. I’ve done freelance work.’’ It sounded like a well-practiced book-report recitation. As revealing as a grocery list.

He stopped talking, so I got him started again. ‘‘What kind of work?’’

He shrugged. ‘‘Whatever I could get.’’

‘‘Spying?’’

‘‘If it pays, I can do that.’’

‘‘You’re not answering me.’’

‘‘Well, I followed you around for your father. I’ve had a couple other jobs along those lines.’’

‘‘You’re a PI?’’

He smiled. ‘‘No. You have to go through training for that, report to the regulatory agencies, keep good records.’’

‘‘Let me guess, you hate paperwork?’’