Devon Monk - Magic on the Storm
Greyson roared, a yell, more beast than man. The gate exploded, tendrils of magic whipping out tentacles, like fire, like a nightmare I could not stop, could not reach, could not end.
“No!” I yelled.
But the tendrils hooked into the dark warrior spirit of Zayvion and dragged him into the gate.
Something huge, fast, ran behind me, ran past me.
Shame?
No. Stone. Howling like a freight train from hell, he launched at Greyson. Wings pumped the air, and he came down, crushing the Necromorph into the ground.
Chase screamed. Fell to her knees. Lost hold of magic.
With her spell no longer feeding it, and Greyson’s spell no longer feeding it, the gate closed.
Zayvion did not move. Did not breathe. I felt the absence of his heartbeat like a ragged pain emptying me of everything-thought, heart, breath.
Emptying me of everything except anger.
I strode across the remaining distance, my sword drawn. Terric lay in a bloody heap to my left. I could still feel his heartbeat against my wrist.
Greyson snarled and squirmed beneath the crushing weight of Stone. Chase knelt, not far from both the gargoyle and the Necromorph, hands over her face, as if she endured, or maybe even Proxied for, the beating Greyson was receiving.
There was no magic in me. The approaching edge of the storm had sucked it out. I couldn’t access the magic deep in the earth. I didn’t know why.
But I had a backup. The magic I’d always had in me, the magic I was born with. A tiny flame no bigger than the flicker of a birthday candle.
I had just enough magic to cast one spell. And I was not going to waste it.
“Stone,” I said. “Tear him apart.”
The big bruiser snarled. Greyson and Chase screamed in unison. Music to my ears.
I knelt next to Zayvion. Bloody, bruised, he was mostly intact. A trail of blood tracked down his forehead, slick over his closed eyes and his nose, and filling the valley of his soft, thick lips.
I didn’t have to press my hand against his neck or wrist. I knew he had no heartbeat.
And I knew I had only a little magic.
I closed my eyes, calmed my mind. Focused on the small magic within me. I placed my hand on his chest, over his heart.
“Live,” I whispered. “Breathe.”
The magic spooled out of me like a thin thread. No spell. I didn’t need one. I knew what I wanted magic to do, knew what it had to do for me. I sent it to wrap around his heart, to make it beat, to squeeze his lungs, to make him breathe.
“Live.” No longer a request. Now a demand. Soul to soul.
If I could give my heart to replace his, I would. My breath for his, I would. My life for his, I would.
“Please,” I whispered.
Nothing. Nothing. I inhaled. And so did he. Shallow. His heart beat one slow thud.
I exhaled.
And so did he.
I don’t know how long I sat there, able to do nothing more than inhale and exhale, his heart a hesitant beat that followed my own, but a beat nonetheless. But I knew I would do this until the end of time if it meant he was alive.
A hand slid over the top of mine. I didn’t open my eyes. I knew who it was. The rough brush of fingerless gloves belonged to Shame.
“Keep doing that,” he said gently, his voice low. “You’re doing fine. Just keep breathing for him.”
Live, I thought, I begged. Because a body needed more than breath to be alive.
Another hand fell upon my right hand. Cold, trembling. The unfamiliarity almost made me lose concentration.
“Positive and negative,” Terric said, and I knew it was he who held my other hand.
I don’t know what they did, don’t know how they did it. I couldn’t access magic, but they did. Magic, a pure, even stream of it, poured in through my hands. And I sent that magic, willingly, carefully, gently into Zay, told it to knit, to mend, to fill, to support.
“Heal,” I said.
And magic leaped to my desire, rushing through Zayvion’s body and mind with a pure wave of healing.
He inhaled. Without me.
His heart beat. Steadied. Caught and lifted by magic, magic Shame and Terric accessed, magic I sent to blend with the small magic I carried. Magic that healed.
His heartbeat fell into a solid rhythm. Another breath. Another. The rhythm of his heart beneath my hand, against my wrist, beat stronger, strong.
Alive.
I opened my eyes.
Zay didn’t stir. There was more blood covering his face. He was breathing, though, on his own. With my hands still on his chest, with Shame’s hand still on my left, and Terric’s still on my right, I bent, and kissed Zay, his blood salty against my lips.
He didn’t move. I didn’t sense a flicker of his emotions, his thoughts. It was like kissing a hollow doll.
A new fear washed over me, so like claustrophobia, I swallowed back a whimper. “Is he alive? Shame? Is he alive? I can’t feel him. Can’t-can’t feel him.” My voice was ragged, too high, too fast.
I wanted this nightmare to end. But I couldn’t make myself wake up.
Shame’s other hand turned my face so I was looking at him. “He’s alive.” Fierce. No Influence, but the power of his conviction was a slap across my mind.
“Hurt,” he said, “but breathing. Alive. Panicking will make it worse. Got that?”
I blinked, nodded. Those words, his anger, was like pulling blinders off. I could see the world around me again, could smell again, could feel my body, my feet numb beneath me, the rain falling cold and hard against my head, face, hands.
The rain, at least, had arrived. How much longer until the wild-magic storm hit?
Shame, drenched, squatted on his heels next to me, one hand on mine, the other releasing my chin. He smelled of sweat, blood, cigarettes, and fear.
On the other side of me, of Zay’s prone body, was Terric. I thought Shame looked bad. Terric sat tailor-style, his hand still on mine. His head hung so that his heavy hank of shock-white hair fell over his left shoulder. And his hair was sticky, wet with more than just the rain. He did not look up, did not move. If I hadn’t felt his heartbeat at my wrist, I wouldn’t have thought he was alive.
“Stone?” I asked.
Shame shook his head. “I don’t know.”
I looked over where Greyson had been. Where Chase had been. Where Stone had been.
Nothing. They were all gone.
“When I got here,” Shame said, “it was just you and Zay and Terric.”
“We need to find them,” I said. “They can’t just do this and disappear. I want them dead.”
“First Zay,” he said. “Then we find them. Then we make them dead.”
Rain fell in a steady stream into his eyes. He didn’t seem to notice. There was a darkness in him that burned hot, strong. A killing hatred.
I liked it.
“Do we carry him?” I asked. The very mundane mechanics of getting Zayvion out of the rain and safe were suddenly more complicated than I had the brain to handle. Using magic, all that I had, all that they gave me, had left me weak, shocky, and not thinking straight.
Of course Zayvion dying might have something to do with it too.
“No,” Shame said. “They’re coming.”
And it was like magic words. Because I suddenly realized there were people walking toward us through the rain.
Even in the low light, even through the rain, I could make them out. Lean Victor, wearing a trench coat and carrying a sword that slicked silver and black in the rain. Next to him, tiny Liddy wrapped in an ankle-length coat that kicked open to show the whip she carried strapped to her hip.
The twins Carl and La strode step in step, heads up, moving as if the rain didn’t exist, curved scythes clenched in Carl’s right and La’s left hands. Other people too-short and fit Mike Barham, who wore glowing, glyphed gloves; Sunny, dark, angry, knives in both hands; the Georgia sisters, who each held a staff.
Maeve had pulled her hair back in a stark ponytail. She wore stiletto boots and a leather full-length jacket, two blood daggers strapped to her boots, her hands in her pockets. The hulking mountain of Hayden strolled behind her with a rolling gait, big as the world. I was wrong-he didn’t carry a battle-ax or a cannon. He carried a broadsword over one shoulder and a shotgun over the other.
Last was big Jingo Jingo, wool coat and fedora, his voice a low, soothing murmur, maybe a song, maybe a prayer, as they came. All of them. Toward us. To save the day.
This was not a funeral procession-Zayvion was still alive. This was the cavalry arriving a little too late.
As soon as they reached us, time, which had felt like it slowed, suddenly snapped up to normal speed.
I sat there while voices-while people-investigated spells, checked the area, made plans. I sat there, Zayvion’s heartbeat beneath my palm, while Victor and Maeve and Hayden came over. Maeve helped Shame to his feet, and Victor helped Terric. And lastly, big Hayden picked up Zayvion, like he was a child, and carried him to a gurney, then to a waiting van.
I pushed up on my feet, swayed. It was Jingo Jingo, of all people, who was there for me, his wide, warm hands catching under my arms, holding me upright while I breathed heavily and waited for my knees, my muscles, to start working again.
I would not cry. Not now.
I tried not to think about the ghosts of children who clung to Jingo like a winter cloak. Tried not to think about how much he bothered me. I focused, instead, on his strength-and he had a lot of it-on his warmth and his calm. I focused on his voice, low, soft, comforting.
“There, now, Allison, angel. You’re gonna be just fine. Take a step for me. That’s good. Good. You’re something, aren’t you? Yes. Yes, you are. And it’s gonna all work out. Keep going; you’re fine.”
I did as he said and walked, following Zayvion, because Jingo Jingo was one of my teachers and he was here for me, helping me. Even though he was a freak.
“You’re not gonna have to worry about tonight,” he said, and his words sank into my head and body with the weight and warmth of wine. A spell, I thought. Or maybe I was just exhausted and he was telling me what I wanted to hear.
“You’ve done enough for the night. Kept Zayvion alive.” He said it as if he hadn’t expected I would do it. “Done all you could. More than that. Rest now. Rest.”
And my knees, which were working, suddenly felt like they were made of water. I slumped against Jingo, fought not to pass out, not to sleep.
As he picked me up, I wondered why he had cast the spell on me. And wondered why behind every gentle word, I could sense his fear.
Chapter Fifteen
Voices, talking in hushed tones, woke me. I opened my eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling-plaster and dark wood beams-and an unfamiliar, narrow bed. I took a deep breath. The honeysuckle and lemon-polish scent of this place told me where I was.
Maeve’s inn.
The hushed tones were coming from outside the room, the quiet murmur of people nearby. I glanced around the room-or as much of it as I could see from the bed. White plaster walls, window curtained to block all light, small lamp on the dresser in the corner, not nearly bright enough to break the shadows down, and another narrow bed next to mine.
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