Magic to the Bone (35 page)
Authors: Devon Monk
‘‘You didn’t answer me about the controlling share of Dad’s company.’’
‘‘What about it?’’
‘‘Who holds it?’’
‘‘Now that your father is gone, you.’’
Oh, good loves. Just what I needed. ‘‘So I am the sole heir to the Beckstrom fortune, minus taxes and whatever the other wives get, and I have the controlling share of the company?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
I didn’t know I even had shares in the company, much less enough to swing a vote. Maybe Zayvion was right—I should have read the newspaper more often. ‘‘So much for keeping a low profile.’’
‘‘Well, that, and don’t forget the fact that you’re indicated in your father’s murder.’’
‘‘I have not forgotten that.’’
He looked over and gave me a small smile. ‘‘Good.’’
Oh. He was trying to make sure my memories were still there. Decent of him, I supposed. It might get a little tedious to be reminded about what I had not forgotten, but it might be nice to be filled in on the things I had lost.
‘‘It’s what, another four-hour drive to the city?’’ I asked.
He nodded.
‘‘Good. I expect to spend most of that time listening to you tell me everything you know about my father, his company, my stepmom, and her inventions.’’
‘‘Really? And if I don’t feel like talking?’’
‘‘We Beckstroms are known for our knack at Influencing people.’’
‘‘Influence doesn’t work on a Grounder, Allie.’’
Hells. He was right. That meant I probably couldn’t force Zay to do anything against his free will. There was something so satisfying about that, I actually chuckled.
‘‘What?’’
‘‘I hadn’t thought about it,’’ I said. ‘‘I suppose it bothered my father.’’
‘‘No, it was one of the reasons he hired me—I couldn’t be Influenced by anyone and he knew I wouldn’t just do what he wanted me to, but would make solid, lawful decision on my own . . . in his best interest, of course.’’
And it also made sense as to why my dad had hired him to follow me. He knew I wouldn’t be able to Influence him either. Like I said, my dad was a thorough, careful man.
‘‘So, what? You’re not going to answer my questions?’’
‘‘I said I couldn’t be Influenced. I didn’t say I couldn’t be bribed. What will you give me if I talk?’’
‘‘How about Nola’s cooking?’’
‘‘It’s a good start.’’
I unbuckled my seat belt and crawled into the backseat. Nola had packed several sandwiches, home-baked cookies, some cheeses and bread, bottles of water, a container of what looked to be soup, a thermos of coffee, and other foil-wrapped things at the bottom of the box that I didn’t bother digging down for.
I pulled out the sandwiches and cookies, grabbed water and the coffee thermos, and crawled back to the front seat.
I unwrapped a sandwich, held it out for Zay. When he reached for it, I pulled it away. ‘‘Talk?’’
‘‘What do you want to know?’’
I handed him the sandwich, unwrapped one for myself. ‘‘How long have you known my dad?’’
‘‘I’ve worked for him for about a year.’’
I noted the slight side step of worked instead of known, but let it pass. ‘‘And my stepmom?’’
‘‘Worked for her for three years.’’
‘‘What did you do before that?’’
‘‘I agreed to tell you about your dad and stepmom, not to fill you in on my personal life.’’
‘‘True.’’ I ate my sandwich—chicken salad—and poured coffee for us both. I figured I had a little time. Maybe by the time we rolled into town he’d open up a little and show me a glimpse of who he really was.
The miles passed quickly, and Zay was adequately generous with the information he shared. But every time I steered the conversation to any time before he had worked for my stepmom, he neatly sidestepped the question.
‘‘I get the feeling you would be a lousy date, Jones,’’ I said.
‘‘Not at all. I’m a good date. Talkative, informed on current events. I even still open doors for women—out of respect, not condescension. But this isn’t a date. Is it?’’
‘‘Absolutely not. I’d expect more than a boxed lunch in a car.’’
The afternoon light was fading into evening, and the cloud cover that had not lifted all day created an early, false dusk. The drive up the I-5 freeway had shown buildings made of wood and brick with plenty of space around them slowly change to the crowded stone, glass, and iron architecture of smaller cities. Soon those buildings traded up into high-rises and skyscrapers.
Once inside the city limits, I couldn’t stop scratching my arm. The concentration of magic here was so high I felt like a string pulled tight and buzzing in the wind.
‘‘You okay?’’ Zay asked.
I stopped rubbing at my arm with my palm and nodded. ‘‘It itches.’’
‘‘Want me to try?’’
I knew what he was asking. Did I want him to Ground me, to drain the magic that filled me so full? It had never been like this before. Sure, I could contain a little bit of magic, but now I felt like a circular river, magic pouring up through my feet, filling me until it poured out of me to fall back down into the ground again. And since I wasn’t actually using the magic, I wasn’t paying a price for it cycling through me. Except for the itching, that is.
‘‘Here,’’ Zayvion said when I didn’t answer.
He put his hand on my left arm, and took a deep breath. The mint-cool poured out from his hand, washed across my shoulders, and cooled down my arm. I put my head back against the headrest and moaned.
‘‘Oh, good. Really good.’’
He kept his hand there for a little while longer, and when he finally let go, the cool mint lingered.
‘‘Thanks,’’ I said. ‘‘And thanks for the other times too.’’
‘‘You’re welcome. This would be a good time for you to duck down below the window level and try not to use magic at all. Do you think the Hounds can find you on smell alone?’’
I reclined the seat until I was lying almost fully back. I was still upright enough that I could see the streetlights go by as we made our way through the edge of the city, heading downtown.
‘‘Bonnie knows me. If any of them broke into my apartment, they probably got my scent. Except the building leaches old magic when it rains, so the stink might have covered my olfactory signature.’’
‘‘Let’s hope so. Maybe now would also be a good time for you to meditate and try to stop glowing like a neon sign.’’
‘‘I’m glowing?’’ I held up my hand. In the low light of false dusk, all I could see was my hand. The lines were darker than my skin, but no glowing.
‘‘Not physically. Magically. Think you can dampen the amount of magic you’re channeling?’’
‘‘I don’t know. This isn’t exactly something I’ve had any experience with.’’
‘‘Now would be a terrific time to try.’’ He sounded worried, and that worried me.
I closed my eyes, felt overwhelmed by the colors and textures and tastes of the magic racing through me, and snapped my eyes open again. Too easy to get lost. I stared at the car’s overhead light, which was dark, and whispered a meditative mantra.
Think calm thoughts,
I thought.
Think of the magic as air, no color, no taste, invisible. It comes into me like air, unseen, it exhales with my breath, unseen.
I thought.
Think of the magic as air, no color, no taste, invisible. It comes into me like air, unseen, it exhales with my breath, unseen.
This seemed like a really good visualization so I kept at it. Inhaling the invisible, exhaling the invisible, and carefully keeping my mind clear of any spells or glyphs. It wouldn’t do for me to turn the car into a train, or to give Zayvion a set of wings or something. Not that I could really do those things. Or could I? With this much magic at my disposal, I could probably do anything I could imagine.
So long as I was willing to pay the price for it, of course.
‘‘I don’t know what you’re doing, but it’s good, Allie,’’ Zay said. ‘‘Just keep doing that for a few more miles, okay?’’
Oh sure. Hold the tightest concentration on nothingness that I’d ever tried before while billions of cubic miles of magic poured through my veins. No problem.
I am an ‘‘off’’ switch,
I intoned to myself. That didn’t work quite as well as the invisible angle, so I went back to inhaling and exhaling unseen magic.
I intoned to myself. That didn’t work quite as well as the invisible angle, so I went back to inhaling and exhaling unseen magic.
I was aware of the car slowing, then turning a couple of tight corners, pausing, and then entering what I hoped was the gated garage beneath my father’s condo.
‘‘You can come out of that now,’’ Zayvion said. ‘‘The wards around this place won’t let your signature escape.’’
Yeah, but I wasn’t sure the only thing I should be worried about was the Hounds and police outside of the building’s wards. No matter how much Zayvion liked Violet, I did not know the woman. It was just as possible she wanted me dead, so the corporation’s control would fall to her. But like Zayvion had reminded me, unless I wanted to go to the cops and explain where I had been during my father’s death, and that I had no alibi, and also point out that the one person who said he knew how my dad died was mentally challenged
and
had literally disappeared into thin air, I might want to throw my hat in with someone who had power and pull in this city.
and
had literally disappeared into thin air, I might want to throw my hat in with someone who had power and pull in this city.
And right now, that someone was my stepmom.
I hated trusting people. Especially people who slept with my father. I hated having no other choice—oh, I suppose I could try to get out of the country and be on the run all my life, but I was already getting pretty tired of being chased. I wanted my life back, on my terms. And if it meant being vulnerable enough to ask for a favor or two, I’d just have to suck it up and deal with it.
I let go of my meditative state and the image of invisible magic was replaced by color, texture, smell, and taste again. I hissed. My arm itched like the mother of all rashes.
Mint flowed up from my hand. ‘‘Come on,’’ Zay said. ‘‘It’s more heavily blocked and controlled inside the living area. You might feel better there.’’ He tugged on my hand until I sat up; then he got out of the car.
I got out too, and took the time to stretch. I knew there were cameras in the parking garage. I knew that whoever Violet had running security already knew we were there, and was probably halfway down the elevator to meet us. I looked over at Zay and he was leaning against the car, looking toward the elevator. He knew it too.
Well, at least his story lined up. He did know some of the details of the condo.
The elevator door slid open and a man on the tall, blond side of the spectrum, dressed in jeans and a suit jacket, stepped out.
‘‘Mr. Jones, Ms. Beckstrom,’’ he said from across the parking lot, his voice echoing against the concrete structure. ‘‘If you’ll leave your things there and come with me. Mrs. Beckstrom is waiting for you.’’
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