Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
BERKLEY UK
Devon Monk has one husband, two sons and a dog named Mojo. Surrounded by numerous colourful family members, she lives in Oregon. She has sold more than fifty short stories to fantasy, science fiction, horror, humour and young adult magazines and anthologies. She has been published in five countries and included in a year’s best fantasy collection. Visit her website at: www.devonmonk.com.
Rush hour traffic below my apartment window breathed a deep note behind the rise and fall of winter wind. Rain tapped like pinpricks against glass. The only noise besides my rapid breathing was the cold water pouring into the bathroom sink.
That, and my dead father’s voice.
“Allison.” My father’s voice again. Distant, as if he strained to pitch it across a crowded room, a crowded street, a crowded city.
I was the only one in my apartment. And my father was really dead this time.
I’d gone to his funeral that morning and seen him buried—literally watched as his body was lowered into the grave. There was no mistake, no corpse stealing, no weird magical rituals this time. This time, he didn’t have a second chance, third chance. He was well and truly gone.
“Allison.”
“Oh, for cripes’ sake,” I said—yes, out loud—to my empty apartment. “You have got to be kidding me. What the hell, Dad?”
The bathroom mirror in front of me showed my panic. I was still a little too pale from the recent hospital stay, which made the opalescent mark of magic look even brighter where it wrapped from my fingertips up my right arm, shoulder, and onto the edges of my collarbone, jaw, and temple. My dark hair was mussed from kissing Zayvion Jones a few minutes before in the kitchen, but even though one eye was obscured by hair, a shadow stained my eyes. That shadow, I knew, was my father.
He wasn’t in the room. He was in me.
This was going to put a crimp in my date tonight.
You must, my dead father said in my ear, less than a whisper, more than a thought.
Must nothing. Not this time. Not ever again.
“No. No way,” I said. “No to whatever you were about to tell me. Listen,” I said, cool as a 911 operator talking someone down from a ledge, “you’re dead. I’m sorry about that, but I am not going to let you possess me. So follow the light, or go to the other side, or hang around your own house and haunt your accounting ledgers or something. You do not get to stay in my head.”
Nothing.
But I knew my dad. Nothing was not a guarantee he was gone.
How did one dispossess oneself, preferably before one’s hot date in a few hours? The only thing that came to mind was vampires and thresholds and not inviting them across. I doubted vampire stuff would work on my disembodied father. He might have been a soulless bastard, but he was not an actual vampire, since vampires, as far as I knew, did not actually exist.
And even though I was putting up a brave front, it was hard to ignore the fist-hard thump of my heart against my ribs, the salt of cold sweat on my lips.
“Daniel Beckstrom,” I said, putting all my focus and concentration on the words, giving them the weight of my will, “leave my mind, leave my body, and leave me alone. I do not give you permission to be a part of me.”
Sweat ran a line down my temple. I watched my eyes. Watched as the shadow drew away from my pinprick pupils, dissolving outward like clouds retreating from the sun, until a thick ring of night edged my familiar pale emerald irises.
I blinked, and even the ring of darkness was gone.
Gone.
I exhaled to slow my breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. I was fine until I swallowed. The taste of wintergreen and leather rolled down the back of my throat. My father’s scents. In my mouth. In me.
He wasn’t gone. Not at all. He was still there somewhere, a moth-wing flutter, soft and fast, behind my eyes.
I had thought that flutter was just another side effect from all the magic I’d used lately, another price to pay for trying to save those kidnapped girls and trying to save Anthony.
Bloody memories came to me unbidden: the warehouse with the abducted girls tied down by knotted spells; the kid, Anthony, broken and bloody on the floor. My friend Pike’s mutilated face, his remaining eye fever-bright as he held my hand and made me promise, made me swear to look after the ragtag group of Hounds he called family. Just like he called me family. And my father’s corpse …
I pushed that memory away. The girls were dead or returned to their families. Anthony was back with his mom, or maybe in juvie; I wasn’t sure. Pike was gone. Dead.
Just like my father should be.
My hands had been under the rush of cold water for so long, they’d gone numb. I pulled them out of the water, fumbled the vase and rose I’d been holding. The vase clattered into the sink. I turned off the water and scrubbed my forehead with cold, wet fingers, trying to stop the flutter in my skull.
“We didn’t like each other when you were alive,” I muttered to my father. “You think living in my head is going to change that?”
Find the disks, my father said from the far side of my head.
I resisted the urge to pour mouthwash in my brain.
“Forget about the damn disks. You’re dead, Violet said the police are looking for the disks, and I don’t want you in my head. Go away.”
The flutter scurried off to the back of my brain, so far from my conscious thought that I couldn’t feel it anymore.
And there it was: the official least-comforting thing that had happened all day. Dad was not only in my head, but he could speak to me, understand me, and hide from me.
How fabulous was that?
The only bright side? My father, the most powerful magic user I’d ever known, had actually done something I’d ask him to do. Which was a first. But the thought of him curling up cozy in my brain made me want to stab a hot spork through my head.
Since I didn’t have a spork handy, I leaned over the sink and scooped up a palmful of cold water and pressed it against my face. There had to be a better option than a violent sporking. There had to be a way to get rid of my dad.
Think, Allie. There has to be someone who can figure this out.
I was going to see Maeve Flynn tomorrow so she could start teaching me the things about magic the Authority didn’t like regular people to know about. Secret things, like there was a secret group of magic users—the Authority—who ran their own kind of justice in this city and went around deciding who would and wouldn’t be allowed to use magic. Secret things my father had been involved with—including the disks that made magic portable and nearly painless. Dad had been a part of the Authority, and he had been killed because there was some sort of magical war brewing among them.
And Zayvion, who was most definitely a part of the Authority, had lobbied to get me admitted into the group for training with Maeve. I wasn’t convinced it was the best option, but since my choice had been join or have all my memories of how to use magic taken away from me, I’d joined.
Being possessed by a dead relative sounded like something right up Maeve’s alley.
Okay, so I’d talk to her about it and see what she could do.
Now I just needed to get through my date with Zayvion Jones. I so did not want my dad in my head on my first real date with the man I was pretty sure I might love.
Maybe I should cancel.
Zayvion didn’t carry a cell, and I didn’t know his home number. That’s the problem with dating a secret magic assassin, a Closer: you don’t call them, they call you.
So, the date was on. I’d tell Zayvion I had a chaperone. Maybe he could help me figure it out.
Step one: shower. Would my dad feel me naked? Don’t think about that.
Step two: dress. Would my dad see me naked? Really don’t think about that.
And step three: go on a date with Zayvion. Would my dad know what I felt about Zayvion? Would he hear what I thought about him? Would he feel me hot and needful for him?
Probably. ’Cause I’m just lucky that way.
A knock on the door rang out so loud, I yelled and spun, fingers poised to draw a Hold spell. No one in my bathroom. The knock had come from my front door, not my bathroom door.
Magic flared through my bones, my hold on it slipping. The sensuous heat of magic pushed against my skin, stretching me, straining to get free, and I had to exhale to make room for it to move. It pressed heavy in me, a sweet pain, promising anything, everything, so long as I was willing to pay the price for it.
I felt the moth-wing flutter of my dad in my head, his curiosity at the magic inside me.
“You touch it, and I’ll use it to end you,” I said through my teeth.
The curious little moth became very, very still.
Good. At least he could tell when I was not kidding around.
I very carefully spread my fingers apart and then closed them into fists, consciously resisting the temptation to draw the Hold glyph, to cast magic. Because no matter what magic promised, every time I lost control of it, magic used me like a disposable glove at a proctology exam.
I am a river, I thought. Magic flows through me but it does not touch me.
I took another good breath or two, and magic retreated into a more normal rhythm of flowing up from the cisterns deep beneath the city, into me, and, unused, out of me back into the ground.
The knock at the front door rapped out louder.
I fished the vase and rose out of the sink and put them on the little shelf above the towel rack. The pink rose Zayvion had given me looked a little worse for the wear, but it wasn’t dead yet. Tough flowers, roses. All that sweet beauty with the thorns to back it up. I appreciated that.
I dried my hands on my jeans and strode out of the bathroom. I wasn’t expecting company. Well, except for Zayvion. But he said he’d be back in at seven. We had dinner plans. First-date plans. Let’s-be-normal-like-other-normal-people plans.
The knock rattled out again.
There is one thing I can say about living in the city. There isn’t a Ward or Alarm spell on the market strong enough to keep someone from breaking down your door if they have the will, the way, and a strong enough shoulder.
My baseball bat was under the bed, but I always left a hammer on the bookshelf.
Hammers can do all kinds of damage if they are swung low enough.
Yes, it had been that kind of week.
And the knocking just kept coming.
I stopped in front of the door, took a breath, and held still both it and magic in me for a second. I recited my little mantra: Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack, all dressed in black, black, black … until the order of those words calmed my racing thoughts.
It took about five seconds. My mind, my thoughts, cleared.
Using magic wasn’t as easy as the actors made it look in the movies. It can’t be cast in states of high emotion—like anger or, say, while freaking out because your freaking dead dad is in your freaking head. Every time you use magic, it uses you back. Sure, you could magic yourself a photographic memory for that big test, for that big interview, for that big stock market job. And all it cost you was a nice case of liver failure.
Or the memory of your lover’s name.
Exhale. Good. Calm? Check. I leaned against the doorframe and sniffed. I didn’t draw magic up into my sense of smell, though I was good at that too. Smelling, tracing, tracking, Hounding the burnt lines of spells back to their casters was how I made my living. But I couldn’t smell anything over the oily tang of WD-40 I’d sprayed on the lock the other day.
I peeked through the peephole.
The woman in the hall was dressed in jeans, a knitted vest, button-down blouse, and a full-length coat. Blond, about eight inches shorter than my own six feet, she was a little wet. Portland’s good at wet. The best. But even in the unglamorous warp of the peephole, she looked like a million sunny days to me.
Nola Robbins, my best friend in all the world.
I slipped the locks, which slid smoothly—thank you, WD-40—and threw open the door.
“Oh, thank God,” she said. “I thought I heard you yell.”
“I did. I’m fine. It’s so good to see you!” I practically flew out of my apartment and into her arms.
Nola hugged me, and I caught the scent of honey and warm summer grass even though it was the middle of winter. The familiar comforting scents of her brought up memories of her nonmagical alfalfa farm and old nonmagical farmhouse. I inhaled, filling myself with the scents and memories of pleasant days. I did not want to let her go.
She patted my back, and I gave her one last squeeze.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. “Is something wrong?”
“I don’t think so,” she hedged. “What’s up with the hammer?”
I dropped it on the little table by the door. “Just, you know. It’s the city.”
She shook her head. “You could get a dog.”
“Don’t start with me. Come on in.” I belatedly noticed she had a suitcase with her. “Let me help.”
“I got it.” She strolled into my apartment, wheeling the suitcase behind her.
Out of habit, I looked up and down the hall. No one. Not even a shadow on the wall, watching us. I hoped. I wasn’t the only Hound in the city, and Hounds knew how to be quiet when they wanted to be.
I relocked the door.
“Allie,” she said, scanning my overcrowded bookshelves and my undercrowded everything else. “Have you even unpacked since you moved?”
“Pretty much,” I said. “This is all that’s left.” Or at least it was all I could stand having. Whoever broke into my old apartment had not only tossed everything I owned; he or she had left a scent on it. The stink of iron and minerals, like old vitamins, not only kicked up half-remembered pain, but was also a bitch to scrub out of the upholstery.
And underwear. Not that I tried for long. Some things aren’t worth saving.
Nola shook her head. “What am I going to do with you?” She gave me that sisterly smile that made her look ten years older than me, instead of my age. “How are you feeling? Are those bruises on your neck?”
“Good, and no. Not really. It’s …” I was going to say nothing, but Nola could see right through my lies. “Well, maybe not fine, but … you know.” I waved at her to sit on my ratty couch, which she did, and I sat on one of the chairs by the little round table at the window. “What are you doing here?” I asked again.
“You know I’m trying to get custody of Cody Miller?”
I laced my fingers together and rubbed my thumbs over the marks on my right and left hands. Marks put there in part, I was told, by Cody using me as a conduit for magic. A lot of magic.
“Is that his last name?” I asked.
“Yes. I’m running into a little bit of trouble getting him released. He was put in the state mental health hospital for criminal use of magic—forging signatures with magic.” She shook her head. “He must have been eighteen when that happened. They said he suffered a mental break during his trial and has never been the same. But now it’s been determined he needs to undergo more psychological exams.” She shook her head. “They’ve had him for two years; I don’t know what they haven’t tested by now.”
“Wait, Cody’s twenty?”
“Right.” Nola dug in her purse, pulled out a photo of a young man with delicate, almost fragile features. He was smiling, but his blue, blue eyes held the kind of simple intelligence I’d expect from a child.
“He’s twenty on the outside, but not mentally,” Nola said. “I decided I might be able to talk to some people personally, and find out why he hasn’t been released into my custody yet. I’m hoping to take him home with me in the next few days.”
“Want me to see if I can pull some strings for you?”
“Can you?”
I shrugged. “Maybe. I still haven’t talked much with my dad’s lawyers. But Violet basically told me the fate of Beckstrom Enterprises is mine to decide. And I’m sure Beckstrom Enterprises has string-pulling capabilities.” I grinned. “Power in the palm of my hand. Pretty cool, huh?”
“Mmm,” she agreed. “How are you doing with that?”
I opened my mouth to say I was fine, I could handle it, it was no big deal. But there was something about Nola that negated my bullshit ability. I’d never been able to lie to her, so I didn’t even try.
“I’m worried. I’m not sure what I should do. Violet has done a really good job running the business since his, uh … death. She’s still working on developing magic-technology integrations. She … she has reasons to keep things running.”
I didn’t tell her Violet was pregnant with the child of my powerful and not-nearly-dead-enough father. My one and only sibling. Violet said Dad didn’t know about the baby before he died. I didn’t know whether he’d hear me if I said it out loud. The idea of having to deal with his ghostly fit when he found out sounded like a joy I wanted to save for later.
The flutter started up in the back of my head and I rubbed my forehead until it stopped.
“Allie?” Nola asked.
“I’m fine. My head still feels weird after everything.”
“Pike?” she asked.
I nodded. And before her concern could turn to pity, I said, “I don’t have the training to run Beckstrom Enterprises the way it should be run. I’ve hated it for so long. Still, there might be someone there who could help with Cody. I can call Violet and find out who I should talk to.”
“Are you and she getting along okay?” she asked. “It must be really hard to work together with your dad’s business and money, so close to his death.”
Oh, she had no idea how close to his death I was. Time to change the subject.
“You didn’t get a hotel, did you?” I asked. “You should stay here with me.”
“I did make reservations, just in case.” She glanced over at my answering machine. “I called, but you never answered.”
I looked over at the machine too. The light was green. No messages waiting. “Maybe I forgot.”
She nodded. “Still keeping your journal, honey?”
“Yes. But I’ve been having some problems with phones and stuff.”
“And your computer?” she asked.
“No, that’s been fine. But anything electric I keep on me—cell phone, watch—wears out fast.”
“So your landline is okay?” she pressed.
“Yes.”
“I thought you and I had a deal about your checking in every day for a little while. I even had a phone installed for you.”
“What are you, my mom?”
“No, I’m your extra memory, remember? You, my friend, have holes in your head.” She held up a finger at my faked shock. “If you want me to tell you what’s been happening in your life when magic eats up your memory, then you need to tell me what’s going on. So, what’s been going on?”
I glanced at the clock on the wall.
“Well, for one thing, I have a date tonight.”
She didn’t even fight the smile that made her face light up like she was made of sunshine.
“With Zayvion?”
I nodded. “We haven’t had much of a chance to really talk since I came back to town. Or at least not about normal things. Not about us. He remembers … things about us I don’t remember. Which is weird. So we’re going to try a date—a real date. Get to know each other a little better.”
“When is he supposed to be here?” She stood and looked me up and down, obviously not impressed by my wet-cuffed jeans and sweater. “Are you going to dinner? How fancy is the restaurant?”
“Less than an hour. And yes, superfancy. He made reservations at the Gargoyle.”
“Tell me you’re not wearing that.”
“Excuse me? Did I just hear fashion attitude from a woman who wears overalls and men’s boots every day?”
She made a face at me. “Only on the farm. Do you even own girl clothes?”
“These are girl clothes.”
“Dress? Skirt? Heels?” She said each word slowly, as if I’d never heard them before.
“Maybe. I think so. I haven’t really looked through my closet. There’s a couple boxes of stuff I haven’t unpacked.”
“Oh my God, Allie. Your date is in an hour and you haven’t even started to look through your clothes?”
“It’s been a weird day,” I drawled.
She laughed. “All your days are weird. Let me help. You go take a shower. Want me to dig through your closet or make coffee?”
“Coffee. You are staying with me, right?”
She was already moving toward my kitchen. “If I’m not in the way.”
I got as far as the bathroom door before I heard, “Oh, Allie!”
“What?” I yelled.
“Roses. Everywhere.” She came out of the kitchen, a single pink long-stemmed rose in her hand. “You do know your kitchen is filled with them, right?”
I smiled. “There are a few irises in there too.”
“Bargain at the flower shop?”
“Nope.”
“Secret admirer?”
“No.”
“Spill.”
“Zayvion.”
The sunshine smile was back, and she got that goo-goo softy look. “Then you definitely need to put on girl clothes. Go. Shower.” She waved her hand at me. “I’ll arrange the flowers too.”
I grinned. Nola never asked; she always just told me what she was going to do for me. I’d gotten pretty used to it, and she’d gotten used to my telling her if I didn’t want her to boss me around.
I walked into the bathroom and shut the door. The flutter winged behind my eyes again. Dad.
Find the disks, my father’s voice breathed. Find my killer.
I cupped my hands over my ears. “No, no, no. Get out. Get dead.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and the flutter, the voice, was gone.
Sweet hells. What was I thinking, going on a date? My father was alive in me. Aware.
Or maybe he wasn’t. Maybe I was just imagining him, his voice, the flutter of his thoughts in my mind. Maybe I was going crazy.
A chill washed down my arms, and I took a deep, shaky breath. It was possible. Possible I was going insane. I’d used a lot of magic lately. Enough to do damage to my body and mind.
And sure, I liked to think of myself as someone who met any bad situation—like insanity and ghostly possession—straight on. But not tonight.
For just a few hours, for just this one date, I was going to ignore my father in my mind, ignore the state of my sanity, and ignore the entire city lousy with secrets and magic and brewing wars. Even if it killed me.
I ducked under the warm stream of the shower and couldn’t believe that this morning I’d been at my father’s grave. Only Violet, his newest—well, his last—wife had cried. I didn’t know how I felt about his death. Sad, I think.
But it was getting pretty hard to grieve someone who wouldn’t just get on with the dying.
The disks, my dad whispered in my head, must be found. The disks. My killer must be found. …
“La la la,” I said. “I’m not listening to you.”
I rubbed soap over the burn marks left from the Veiled, the incorporeal bits of dead magic users who had gotten a taste of me they couldn’t resist. The burn marks still itched in a sore kind of way, but the bruised-fingerprint look had faded. I checked my legs. Pale, long, a little bruised and scratched, but worth shaving. If I wore nylons I could probably even try a skirt above my knees.
Nola opened the bathroom door. “I’m going out. Need anything?”
“No. Wait … nylons.”
“Anything else?”
“Is there something I’m forgetting?” Open mouth, exhale dumb question. Nola, of all people, knew there were probably a million things I was forgetting. And not just about how to get ready for a date.
“Do you have a nice bra?”
“Of course I have a nice bra.” At least I thought I did. Cotton counted as nice if it had lace on it, right?
“Not cotton,” she said.
“I own a bra that isn’t cotton, not that it is any of your business.”
She smiled. “I’ll be back soon.”
I rinsed, got out of the shower, and spent some time looking for remnants from my college dating days. Things such as hair spray, gel, and makeup.
The drawers under my bathroom sink gave up a few useful items. A tube of mascara, lip gloss, cover makeup, blush, and some goo I used to think made my hair look sexy. I applied everything with some degree of caution and stared at myself in the mirror for longer than I wanted to admit.
I looked … well, if not soft, much more feminine. It was strange to see myself that way, as a woman out on the prowl for sex instead of a Hound out on the prowl for the scent of illegal magic.
I dug my fingers at the roots of my hair again, letting dark strands slide down the side of my face, covering the marks of magic along my jaw and catching on the corner of my lips. This was who I was. At least for tonight. No, this was who I always was, whom I hid behind the lack of makeup, behind the hard edge of being a street Hound, behind the torn blue jeans and T-shirts. This was the woman who had been hurt, betrayed, loved, dumped. This was the woman who hadn’t found a man who could look her in the eye. A woman who didn’t like to admit her own power. This was the me even I didn’t know how to deal with.
It was going to be interesting to see what Zayvion, the unflappable master of Zen calm, was going to do about it. Maybe he’d do nothing.
Maybe that worried me most of all.
I tucked the corner of the towel tighter around me, then bare-footed it out into my bedroom across the hall. My closet wasn’t exactly full. Unpacked boxes took up half the closet, and the other half held a couple suit jackets, some slacks, more sweaters, and not a lot else. I didn’t see my red dress. For all I knew I gave it away, burned it, lost it in a wild night of magical abandon. That subtle reminder that magic had burned holes through my memories made me angry. But it was a familiar anger, and one I knew I could do nothing about.
All I could do was go forward. That’s all I’d been doing my entire life. Let go of the past, of the things I wanted, of the people I loved, and move forward.
I glanced at the clock. Still forty minutes before Zayvion showed up. I could put together something suitable for a French restaurant by then.
Maybe a nice pair of slacks. I pushed hangers around again, looking for my gray tweed pair. Found them, considered my nice jade jacket. Even though it was silk, it looked far too much like business wear. I wanted to date Zayvion, not interview him for a job. I fingered the inside of the jacket collar and a flash of red caught my eye.
My dress?
I unhooked the hanger. Beneath the jade jacket, red shone like a winter fire. My dress.
I shucked out of the towel, put on my good bra (silk, lace, black) and panties, then slicked into the dress. It fit me a little looser than the last time I’d worn it and I made a mental note to eat three meals once in a while. I smoothed my hands over the silky fabric—what there was of it—but stopped that pretty quick. My hands sounded like industrial sandpaper over the silk, and I didn’t want to snag it up.
Shoes next. I found my high-heel black boots, sexy if you were into the straps and well-placed buckles look. I wondered how stupid they’d look with the dress, waffled when I came across a nice pair of high-heel sandals, and went back to the boots because it was January in the Pacific Northwest. Icy rain out there. Lots of wet. Sandals just weren’t going to cut it.
Nola hadn’t returned with the nylons yet, so I carried the boots back into the bathroom to get a look at myself in the full-length mirror.
What do you know. I was still a girl.
The dress slipped low and wide in the front, giving off a maximum view of my collarbone, and the whorls of magic that painted down to my right breast, but mostly covered my cleavage, and the shiny pink bullet scar over my left breast. The sleeves were short and the skirt was shorter, body hugging but with a little swing at the hem.
The whole look, from dark, messy hair that I tucked behind my ear on the left side and left loose on my right, pale skin beneath bloodred curves, painted a version of myself I hadn’t seen in years.
Standing there in front of the mirror, in a dress—in a sexy dress—made me feel more naked than I’d been in the shower. For a second—just that long—I wanted to crawl back into my jeans and heavy sweater and leave the whole femme fatale stuff to girls who liked dressing up and didn’t get dumped every time they tried to fall in love.
The door opened. “I’m back,” Nola called out over the rustling of plastic bags. “Are you in the bedroom?”
“Bathroom,” I yelled.
More rustling as she neared. “I wasn’t sure what color for your nylons. Decided nude would be best …” She stopped at the open bathroom door.
“What do you think?” I asked when she didn’t say anything. “Too much skin? Maybe it needs a sweater? Or a parka?”
“Turn around,” she said.
I did.
“Are you wearing those with it?” She pointed to the boots in my hand.
“I love my boots.”
“Hmm.” She handed me the nylons, and I surprised myself by remembering not only how to get into a pair of panty hose, but also how weird they felt against my skin.
I stuffed my feet in the boots and propped my heels on the edge of the toilet so I could zip the leather to just below my knees.
“Well?” I turned, arms out.
“Heels might be prettier,” she said.
“These have heels—over three inches of heels.”
“I mean dress heels. Sexy shoes.”
“These are sexy.”
“Girl shoes,” Nola said like it was a foreign language. “You have enough money to own a hundred Jimmy Choos if you wanted.”
“First of all, when did you start paying attention to designer shoes? And second of all, it’s raining out there. And cold. Portland is boot weather. Sexy-boot weather.” I gave her a grin. “How about the dress?”
Nola nodded. “Gorgeous. Really. Even with the boots. Plus your, um … The marks on your hand and arm make it look like you’re wearing jewelry down your arm.”
I looked down at both my hands. Sure, my right hand was covered in swirls of metallic colors that wove all the way up my arm, over my shoulder, and licked up to the corner of my eye. But my left hand had only thick black bands at each knuckle, wrist, and elbow from where I had denied magic’s use of me. Those black rings were stark against my white skin. Prison bars against moonlight. That, I realized, was a good deal of why I was feeling so exposed. My hands, my scars, my mistakes—and for the few who might really understand this stuff—my power was showing.
It made me feel all twitchy and vulnerable.
“Maybe I should wear a jacket. Real sleeves.”
Nola stepped into the bathroom and turned me back toward the mirror, standing next to me so we were both in the reflection. Wow. I looked good. The dress clung in all the right places and made my modest curves look much fuller. The skirt hit high enough above the knees that even with those boots taking up all of my calf, it looked like my legs never stopped.
“You look beautiful,” she said in a deal-with-it tone. “Wear your coat out. But don’t wear it in the restaurant. You’re on a date, not a job, okay?”
“It is pitiful you think you need to remind me of that,” I said.
Nola stared at me in the mirror and gently touched one of the fading fingertip burns on my shoulder. “What happened?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Does it involve magic?”
“Everything in my life involves magic right now,” I groused.
Nola stepped back. “So do something unmagical tonight. I recommend sex.”
I laughed. “Shocking. Where’s the prim and proper widow from the country?”
“I never said I was prim or proper.” Nola grinned. “Just because I live in the sticks doesn’t mean I don’t know how to live.”
The doorbell chimed.
“Think it’s Zayvion?” she asked.
“Unless you invited a boyfriend over,” I said.
“Stop it. I don’t have a boyfriend. Do you want me to get it?”
I shook my head and tucked my hair behind my left ear again. One last muss with the right side so it better covered the marks along my jaw, and that was as good as I was going to get. Not that hiding the edge of my face would matter much. My hands and arms were covered in marks from magic.
“The boots?” I asked. “Honestly?”
“Tough,” Nola said. “Unexpected. Sexy. You.” She smiled. “Call me if you want the apartment to yourself tonight. I can get a hotel room for the night.”
“Oh, I’ll be home,” I said.
“I’m not so sure about that. I know you.”
I made a face at her, but she was right. I hadn’t even been good at dating back in college. One-night stands, yes. Seven-course meals, no.
“Yeah?” I said. “Well, Zayvion has some idea in his head that I jump into bed too quickly with men and then push them away. Shut up and stop grinning. He wants us to take it slow. To know I really want this, want him.”
“Gotta love a patient man,” she said. “Rarest of them all. Go. Date.”
She moved out of the way so I could walk out of the bathroom. It’s amazing how little time it takes to get back into the swing of wearing heels again.
I strolled to the door and looked out the peephole. Zayvion’s back was to me. He had traded his ratty blue ski coat for a black leather jacket that did worlds of good for showing the width of his shoulders. Well, well.
I opened the door.
Zayvion turned.
We stood there, caught in a breathless moment.
He looked amazing. Leather jacket, open to reveal a black sweater thin enough it showed the definition of his chest he always hid under sweatshirts. Black slacks. Black shoes. Handsome as hell, with those deep brown eyes, wide lips, and dark, tight-curled hair. He looked a little surprised. Maybe a lot surprised.
That made two of us.
“Allie,” he exhaled.
“Zayvion.” I licked my bottom lip, tasted the unfamiliar gloss—vanilla—and gave him a slow smile. “Don’t you clean up nice? Come on in. I’m almost ready.” I turned away from the hunger in his eyes and walked into the apartment. I had two reasons for turning my back on him. One, I had to stop looking at him before I just grabbed him and dragged him off to bed; I was trying to prove I wasn’t that kind of a girl tonight.
Two, I wanted to see how the going-away view of my getup worked for him.
“Nola, you remember Zayvion Jones?” I looked over my shoulder at Zayvion.
Even though I’d gotten halfway across the room, Mr. Master of Zen had frozen, only one step into the apartment. He wasn’t looking at my apartment. I’d lay money he didn’t even notice Nola standing in the living room, watching us this whole time. His gaze slipped up the back of my boots, thighs, ass, and finally slid along the edge of my breast to my face.
Sweet loves. If he didn’t stop looking at me like that, I wasn’t going to make it to the door, much less the first course.
“Hello, Zayvion,” Nola said.
He looked away, suddenly in motion again as if her voice had freed him. Freed us. I inhaled and realized I had stopped breathing. I had also, unknowingly, taken a step toward him.
Like metal to a magnet. That man was a force I could not resist.
“Good evening, Nola,” he said as he shut the door. “I didn’t know you were coming to visit.” But the way he said it, the subtle tightening of his shoulders, the carefully neutral tone, sent warning bells off in my head. He was lying. He knew Nola was going to be here.
Did he know something about Cody? Something that would help Nola gain custody of him? Or was he spying on Nola? I didn’t like that idea. Zayvion worked for people who gave me nightmares.
“Well, it wasn’t a planned trip,” she said. “I have some business in town that needs my attention.”
“It is nice to see you again,” he said.
Nola raised one eyebrow, obviously not buying it. I wasn’t getting a good read on either of them. Partly because all I could think about was Zayvion’s hands touching me, his body pressing against every inch of me. Partly because I had no idea how much they knew each other since I’d lost those memories. I suddenly felt the desire to keep Nola safe from the kind of people Zayvion associated with.
People like you, a whisper said in the back of my head.
Oh, just thanks so much for adding a little extra creepy to my night, Dad, I thought. Now go away.
I couldn’t be sure that he listened, but I didn’t hear him, didn’t feel him anymore.
One thing was for sure: I trusted Zayvion—hells, trusted just about anyone in this city—more than I trusted my father.
Nola told me Zayvion had sat with me out at her farm for two weeks when I was in the coma. They would have had some time to talk then, to get to know each other. She also just said she liked him.
Good enough.
“It’s nice to see you too,” Nola said, and I was pretty sure she meant it. “Allie, before you go, I have something for you.” She knelt beside her suitcase propped next to the couch and unzipped one of the outer pockets. “I was going to give it to you later, but I think it might come in handy tonight.”
She stood and held something black and knitted in her hands.
I took the soft and supple hand-knitted lace, held it up, and discovered it wasn’t just lace, it was gloves. Long enough they would rise up to my elbows where they tied off with a delicate black ribbon woven through eyelets.
“Oh, Nola. You made these, didn’t you?”
She shrugged. “I had some time on my hands.”
“They’re beautiful. Thank you.” I pulled them on. They fit perfectly. A lot of skin showed through the lace, but they did a nice job of making both of my arms look like they belonged on the same body. Plus, I thought they might be kind of sexy. I glanced over at Zayvion.
He had put both his hands in his pockets, same way I did when I was trying to keep my hands off the artwork in a museum. His gaze flowed down my body, then traced back up until his warm brown eyes met mine.
“Stunning.” Deep and soft, husky with need. A wash of warmth flushed under my skin. I was blushing. Fabo. So much for femme fatale.
Sweet loves, this was going to be a long night. Maybe Nola should get that hotel room.
“Thanks.”
We stood there, looking but not touching, wanting each other but doing nothing about it, until he finally tipped his head down and stared at his shoes. “So, your coat?”
“Right.” I walked past him, and inhaled the warm pine and sweet spice scent of him—a new cologne? I liked it. He didn’t touch me as I walked by. I kept my back to him until I had my long wool coat securely on and buttoned.
Then I turned.
He was looking at me, his shoulders tipped slightly down, body language visibly tense, as if a fire burned beneath his skin.
I knew the feeling.
“Ready?” I asked.
“I am. Are you?” He smiled, just a curve of his lips, and I wanted to kiss him, to open his mouth with my own and taste him.
I’d show him who was ready.
“Sure.” It came out a little breathless, and I cleared my throat to get my volume back. “Bye, Nola. See you in a few hours.”
“Or, you know, call,” she said.
I gave her a look, then walked past Zayvion and out into the hall. He followed, pausing near enough that even with his hands in his pockets, I could feel the heat of him behind me as I turned to lock the door.
I took a step backward, hoping to feel the press of his body. Instead, he stepped in time with me, moving backward as if we were dancing, as if he had an instinctive knowledge of my body and his moving as one. As if he remembered very well that we had been lovers, even though I did not.
I held still, waiting, wishing he would touch me. Instead, he walked around and stood next to me.
Damn.
“You are hungry, aren’t you?”
“Starving,” I said.
He tipped his head toward the end of the hallway and the stairs that led down. “Good. Let’s not lose our reservation.”
“Right.” I strolled over to the stairs.
He walked with me. “If I knew you had that dress in your closet,” he said while looking straight ahead, “I would have taken you out somewhere nice a long time ago.”
“Really? Before or after the psychopath tried to kill me?”
“Which psychopath?”
And seriously, if he had to ask that question—and he did—how crazy had my life been lately?
“Allie?” Zayvion asked.
“Minute. I’m thinking.” How many psychopaths had I been dealing with? There was Bonnie, who had tried to shoot me. James, who was in jail now for trying to kill Zayvion, Cody, and me. Then there was the gunman I couldn’t remember who left a bullet scar across my ribs.
“It wasn’t a serious question,” Zayvion said.
“I know.”
And just a couple weeks ago, a whole slew of new psychopaths who also liked mixing a little blood magic in with their gunplay showed up in my life: Lon Trager’s men. And to top it all off, the crazy death-magic doctor, Frank Gordon, had not only tried to kill me, he’d also dug up my dad’s corpse to try to re-kill him.
“Forget I asked,” Zayvion said.
“No, that’s okay,” I said. “Let’s just say all of them.”
“Mmm.” He gestured to the stairs, indicating I walk in front of him. “I would have asked you out somewhere nice before all of the psychopaths. I don’t like fighting on an empty stomach.”
“That’s so romantic.”
I started down the stairs, ready to drop the psychopath train of thought, and pretty darned pleased with my continued grace in heels.
We made it across the lobby to the door. He held the door open for me. As I brushed past him, my leg slid against his. I caught my breath at the thrill of electricity that washed through me. Sweet loves, I wanted him. Even with all the psychopath talk.
I paused. Thanks to the heels, I was maybe half an inch taller than him. And close.
So close, all I’d have to do was lean forward to kiss him. Half in, half out of the doorway, his left arm extended to keep the door open, Zayvion would have nowhere to go if I did exactly that. I searched his face, wondering just how that would play out.
Silent, still, he relaxed backward into the doorframe and smiled softly. Inviting me. No, daring me. He knew exactly what the slightest brush of his body did to me. And he was enjoying every minute of it.
“Yes?” he murmured.
Keep smiling, Jones, I thought. Two can play this game.
“I think my boot’s stuck,” I said. “Hold on.” I pressed the heel of my palm against his hip bone, for balance I really didn’t need, and bent. I reached across my body, swaying my hip away from him as I lowered my head. My face skimmed just inches above his stomach, belt, and thigh as I bent to inspect my shin.
I messed with one of the perfectly not-stuck buckles on my boot and noted that Mr. Jones sure was breathing a lot faster than he had been a moment ago. Luckily, my hair swung forward to cover my grin.
Round one, I thought. Bring it on, baby.
I wiped the grin off my face and straightened, my fingers digging into his hip just a little. I let my hand drop, but not before dragging my thumb along the edge of his front pocket. I met his gaze.
He blinked, once, slowly. Couldn’t seem to get his Zen attitude working. Had to blink again before he managed the calm, unaffected front. I was ridiculously proud of that.
“Everything check out?” he finally drawled.
“Looks good so far.” I flashed him a smile and stepped out into the cold, foggy night. “Reservations?”
“Plenty,” he said behind me. “Oh, were you talking about dinner?”
“Ha-ha. When do we need to be there?”
“In about an hour. We have time.”
“That’s good to hear.”
The night was cold. I kind of wished it were raining. I could use a little cold-shower action right now. My body, my senses, my nerves were focused on one thing only: Zayvion Jones.
Well, two things: Zayvion Jones, and keeping my hands off him.
Okay, three things: Zayvion Jones, keeping my hands off him, and not snapping my ankles in my boots.
Zayvion strolled up alongside me, and wonders of wonders, I heard the heel of his shoes thunk against the sidewalk, a hollow heartbeat in the fog. I didn’t think I’d ever heard his footsteps before. He was Mr. Zen, Mr. Silent, Mr. Invisible. Which I supposed came in handy for a Closer.
But I liked the sound, liked experiencing the auditory weight of him beside me.
“The car’s this way,” he said.
We crossed the street. Traffic hushed and growled through the fog, an ocean of metal and steam and oil, the rasping croon of the city. We walked uphill in silence. Pale yellow and blue streetlights caught moonlike in the fog to diffuse light and deepen shadow. I took some time to breathe in the cold air, think calm thoughts, and rein in my heartbeat.
The car was parked at the end of the block. Zayvion, always a gentleman, unlocked the door for me while I scanned the shadows for Davy Silvers, or any of the other Hounds who might be following me.
I didn’t see anyone, hear anyone, smell anyone, and it wasn’t worth the pain of drawing on magic to sense them in any other manner.
If it were any other day I’d figure I was just upwind and too distracted to spot the Hounds in the night. And that still might be the case. Except every Hound in the city had been at the pub this afternoon to pay their respects to Pike. To say their good-byes. To mourn.
There hadn’t been a sober body in that room by the time I’d gotten there. And I’d left long before the party ended. I figured there wasn’t a Hound in the city sober enough to walk, much less track magic or follow me.
Still, something made me pause. A shift in the gray and yellow fog. A man-sized shadow across the street held still for too long. There, in the alley between the single-floor antique and notions shop and the condemned, hollow and broken ten-story apartment building, something waited. Something watched.
The wind picked up, pulled the scent of the watcher to me. Blackberry, burnt, all the sugars used up so only the bitter, thick tar of it remained, sweetness burned down to ash. And with that, the stink of animal defecation, sweat, and pain.
The shadow shifted again, and eyes, now low to the ground, flashed ghost green.
The thing growled, whimpered in pain. A car drove past, blocking my view and covering the sound. Once it had gone by, I heard a sucking-smacking from across the street, like something, or someone, was making messy work of a spaghetti dinner.
“Allie?”
I jumped at Zayvion’s soft voice. He was standing in the open door on the driver’s side, leaning one elbow on the roof of the car. Watching me.
“Sorry,” I said before he asked me what was wrong. “I saw … something.”
“Something?”
At least he didn’t brush me off or say it was just fog. I guess being an assassin makes you pay attention to subtle things.
“Over there.” I tipped my head toward the buildings across the street. “Do you see anything? A dog, maybe?”
Zay tipped his head down, and his body language looked like he’d just heard something funny or embarrassing. Nice act. With his face at that angle, he could look across the street without whoever was over there knowing.
After a moment, he said, “No. Do you?”
I didn’t even try for discreet. I stared across the street. No shadow. No one. Nothing.
A chill plucked down my arms and magic stretched in me, pushed at my skin, heating my right hand and chilling my left.
Just what I didn’t need to deal with right now.
I took a breath, cleared my mind, and relaxed, letting the magic move through me, up through the ground, back out of me to fall into the ground again, an invisible, silent loop.
“Someone was there,” I said. “Something. Maybe hurt.” And the image of Davy or one of the other Hounds, too drunk to think straight, maybe stabbed, mugged, or, hell, chewed on by a stray dog flashed in front of my eyes.
My heart started beating faster. There was no way I could drive off and leave one of my Hounds in danger. I started around the front of the car.
“What are you doing?” Zayvion asked.
“We’re close enough to my house; we can call 911 if someone needs help.”
“Allie,” he warned.
“It will just take a second.” It came out like I didn’t care if he followed me or not, and the truth was I didn’t care. If one of my people was hurt, I wasn’t going to stand by and leave him on his own.
I wondered if this was what a mother felt like and quickly pushed that away. Didn’t matter. What mattered was making sure whoever was over here was okay.
Zayvion shut up and followed me. I only knew he paced next to me because I could see him out of the corner of my eye. He was walking, breathing, moving, like an assassin again. Silent.