Chapter Two

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.

I was not nearly so smooth. I stomped over in my boots, making noise on purpose.

Grunts accompanied the smacking and slurping, and I had a weird feeling there was more than one person back there.

I almost turned back, because, seriously, I had no desire to walk in on some dirty lovin’ going on in the alley. But the whimper, the stink of pain, drew me forward.

“Hey,” I called out once I stepped up on the sidewalk. “Everything okay over here?”

Silence.

The fog in the alley did not stir. There were no lights down the narrow passage, just two buildings standing so close together I didn’t think Zayvion could walk in there without losing jacket, shirt, and an inch of skin off both shoulders. Plus, the brick foundation of the apartment bulged outward at the bottom, sagging under the weight of years and making the alley even narrower.

I could see maybe ten feet into the alley. Something shifted back there. Then an almost-human moan rose to a keen, was muffled, silenced.

The familiar smell of strawberry bubble gum and cheap wine hit my nose. Those scents belonged to Tomi Nowlan. Tough girl, cutter chick, she was a Hound who didn’t like me stepping into the boss job now that Pike was gone.

I didn’t care how much she hated me. She was one of Pike’s pack, my pack, and that meant I looked out for her. Especially when it involved a dark night and a dark alley.

“Tomi?” I called out a little more quietly.

Okay, dark night, dark alley, me with no gun—not that I ever carried one—and Zayvion with no gun, or at least I didn’t think he carried one. All systems go for getting hurt or killed.

Except we both had magic.

I recited a quick mantra, just the first lines of a Beatles’ song, set a Disbursement to choose how I’d pay for the magic—I was going with the tried-and-true headache in a day or so—and drew a glyph so I could pull magic up into my senses of sight and smell. Magic licked across my bones, warm, heavy, and poured out of my skin, filling the glyph.

The world burst into layers of old magic, caught and tangled like slowly dissolving spiderwebs. The ashy macramé hung in the air, snagged on the building fronts, smudged in pastel luminescence among the piles of garbage leaning farther down the alley.

Scents came at me too quickly, bubble gum and booze: Tomi; pine and spice: Zayvion; Diesel, mold, algae, moss, grilled meat, and soap from a nearby dry cleaner: the city.

The other scents were harder to sort from the stink of dog shit that permeated the entire alley. Burnt blackberry, licorice, the chemical taint of formaldehyde, and a burn of copper that tasted like hot pennies on the back of my tongue.

And among it all fear. Pain. Death.

I noted it all with detached interest, not wanting to let my emotions get in the way of casting magic.

I drew one of the most simple glyphs for Light, thinking small, orb, and glow, as I poured magic out through my fingertips to fill the ribbon and promise of the glyph.

An orb of light the size of a grapefruit appeared in front of my hand and flooded the alley with white light.

Probably should have used a lot less magic. The orb blazed like a searchlight, reflecting off the fog instead of piercing it. Blinded by the brightness, I caught only a vague outline of the figure crouching in the alley.

Hunched over, the size of a thin man or a big dog, the figure was gravestone white. Its head swiveled toward me and was too wide for a man, unless he was wearing a hood. Eyes shone animal green. Human eyes, I thought, but everything else about him was wrong.

He lifted away from the other, crumpled form on the ground. Then he lunged at us.

Fast.

Zayvion grabbed my arm.

The thing’s blood-covered mouth opened on a yell, revealing fangs thick as my thumb on both the top and bottom of his jaw.

My back hit the rough stucco of the antique shop. I exhaled at the impact. Zayvion spun, pressed his back full-body against me. He blocked my view of the thing.

He whispered something that sounded like “Dead” and threw his arms out to both sides.

The smell of butterscotch and rum assaulted my nostrils, filled my mouth and lungs. A second ago, I couldn’t see around Zayvion. Now that he had cast this spell over us, I couldn’t see Zayvion at all. I still felt him, his wide back pressed against me, his hip leaning against mine. Through a wavering, watery curtain around me, I could make out the buildings. But I looked right through where Zayvion should be, where I felt him, and saw only the sagging bricks across the alley in front of me,

Weird, weird, weird.

It was a Shield spell I’d never seen before. Some kind of camouflage.

Zay didn’t move. I could feel his breathing, even and la bored, like he was jogging or lifting weights. I got the feeling he wanted me to be quiet and still, so I did my best not to freak out while my claustrophobia stuck fingers down my throat and made me want to scream.

Just because I couldn’t see any living thing didn’t mean I couldn’t hear.

The thing yelled again, a nerve-burning sound that was half human and wholly something else. The muscles down Zayvion’s back flexed, and he leaned forward a fraction, as if pushing against an unmovable wall.

Sweat poured down my back, trickled between my breasts. I wanted to run, run, like a child from a nightmare, like an adult from a gunman, a killer, death. Instinct told me that thing out there was death. My death. Zayvion’s death. And death to whatever it had been feasting on before we interrupted it.

And then it wasn’t yelling anymore.

It was talking.

“Fear me.”

Its voice was low—a man’s—words mangled by fangs. Those two words crawled under my skin, and I wished he’d go back to yelling.

Okay, yes, I was afraid. Yes, I was comforted knowing Zayvion would stand in front of me and put himself in the way of danger. But I was done being smashed against a wall, unable to move my hands, and therefore more helpless than if I were free and standing beside my knight in leather coat armor.

I drew my hand up Zayvion’s back, felt the tension in his muscles. It occurred to me that with his hands stretched out on either side, holding this spell in place like a curtain over a window, his hands were not free to draw glyphs. He couldn’t cast.

Not a problem. Because I sure as hell could.

I pulled magic up from the stores deep within the earth and it poured into me, filling me, jumping to my call until I burned with the strength of it.

I set a new Disbursement—a little more pain to that headache—and stepped out from behind Zayvion, outside his reach. I stood next to him.

“No!” Zayvion yelled. The spell he cast broke. Butterscotch and rum magic rained big, warm, slippery drops around us.

“Fear this,” I growled at the thing in front of us. I traced the glyph for Impact and poured all the magic I had in me into it.

The thing was a man, I think—heavily modified or disfigured, his arms too long, skin too white, and covered in blood. His legs bones were wrapped in sinew and bent wrong at the knees. He pivoted so damn fast, I didn’t even have time to swear.

He dropped to all fours, dodging my spell. The spell bashed into the brick wall behind him, blowing a hole into the building and sending brick and dust everywhere. Something farther down the alley skittered and ran—the very human sound of footfalls.

A siren called out in the distance.

Then the thing, still on all fours, ran. Long legs and hands stretched out into a strange liquid lope. He covered twice as much ground as anything I’d ever seen—man, animal, or nightmare—a blur of white against shadow that crossed the street and disappeared, like a ghost into the foggy night.

Chapter Three

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”Zayvion yelled.

I rubbed at my neck, which already hurt, and worked on letting go of the magic, my panic, and the push of adrenaline that made me want to yell back at him.

“So, you do lose your cool,” I said. “Who knew?”

“Do you know how stupid that was?” he asked.

“I don’t even know what kind of man? Creature . . . ?” I glanced at Zayvion, whose locked-jaw anger flickered at that guess. “Creature,” I confirmed, “that was. Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because I don’t. Want to see if it’s still in fighting range?”

I wiped my hands on my coat, because I felt dirty, covered in shit and blood even though I hadn’t touched anything in the alley. I strode over to where the creature had been eating.

Zayvion swore, and I mean he pulled out a raft of curses that made me rethink his upbringing. He stormed out of the alley and onto the sidewalk, six feet and then some of pissed-off assassin.

Me, I could hold my calm in high-stress situations. I was good at denial—had plenty of practice. I simply blocked out the fear, terror; shoved a metaphorical sock into the mouth of the little girl’s screaming panic in my mind; and took it one thing at a time. First thing was to see whether anything else was still alive back here.

I took the time to recast Light, got the glow down to a tolerable level, and left the hovering orb behind me as I walked forward slowly and quietly. If something was alive, it was probably also hurt. Sometimes injured people and animals attacked when someone was trying to help them.

I drew a circle in the air with the index fingers of both hands, pinching the point where the circles closed between my index finger and thumb. Containment spells, the basics of Hold, that I could quickly fill with magic and toss at whatever was back there.

After a few steps, I was walking in a thin trail of blood; a few steps more and the blood thickened with gore.

And Nola had wanted me to wear my strappy sandals. Shows you what a country girl knew about city dating.

About twenty feet into the alley, I spotted the mess. It wasn’t moving, wasn’t breathing. I dropped the glyph in my left hand and put my palm over my nose to try to block the stink of death, defecation, and rotted magic.

Large enough to be another person, the poor thing was spread across the entire width of the alley. From the bits I could recognize—a muzzle, tail, a paw attached to half a leg—I knew it was a dog. Had been a dog.

Shit.

That thing hadn’t just killed it, it had ravaged it. There were bloody bits everywhere, but the inside gore—heart, intestine, lungs—none of that was left. Just skin and bits of bone.

Bile rose up in my throat and I swallowed to keep from puking. My eyes watered, and I started coughing.

I scanned the mess one last time, looking for a collar. I couldn’t see any, and I just didn’t have it in me to touch the poor thing’s remains. I backed away from the corpse, blinking back tears.

Zayvion made some noise striding toward me. Probably so I wouldn’t be surprised.

I turned my back on the mess and headed toward him, trying to hold it together.

“What’s back there?” he asked.

“A d-dog,” I stuttered. Way to sound tough, Beckstrom, I thought.

Zayvion took a deep breath, filling his chest and making him look even bigger than he was. But when he exhaled, some of the anger was gone, replaced by his familiar, and at the moment much-appreciated, Zen.

He placed his hand gently but firmly on my right arm. “If you ever do that again, if you ever break a protection spell, I will knock you down and drag you to safety. Do you understand me?”

“Not really.”

He closed his eyes and shook his head. Okay, so maybe he really was still angry.

“Hey, it’s not like anyone taught me about protection spells like that, that—”

“Camouflage,” he said.

“Camouflage you did. You want me to stay out of your way, then I will.” I took a step, but he pulled me against him so quickly, my boot slipped down the side of his shoe, probably smearing blood and gunk all over the outside of his leather loafers.

His arms closed around me and I could feel the heat of his body, smell the sweet pine and spice of his cologne over the sharp bite of his fear and sweat, could feel the pounding of his heart—strong. Fast.

But it was not a loving embrace.

“Let me go,” I said.

“Not until you understand me.” Zayvion searched my face. “You could have been hurt. Killed. It had fed—was feeding—and you have too much magic it wants. It could have killed you.”

“Got it. Big scary monster is not my friend. Now let go.”

He didn’t loosen his grip. The stomach-dropping panic of claustrophobia licked across my skin. I didn’t do tight spaces—not even someone’s arms—very well. “Zayvion, let go.” My voice was a little higher than I liked.

“Never storm into a dark alley. Never jump out when someone’s trying to protect you. Never throw magic blind at something and expect it will go away.”

“You better let go,” I said. Panic and gore on an empty stomach were a bad combination.

“There are things in this city, Allie,” he continued like I hadn’t said anything. “Things that will kill you in a second. And if you don’t show some caution you’ll never learn how to defend yourself—”

“I’m going to barf.”

That got his attention.

I was out of his arms in a flash. Maybe a little too fast. I stumbled back a step or two. His hand on my arm kept me from falling, which was nice. I pressed my hand against the wall and just stood there a second, breathing the cold and fog down into my lungs so it could cool the hot panic in the pit of my stomach.

It took some time, maybe two minutes, for the nausea to pass. Zayvion was silent, waiting, one hand pressed between my shoulder blades. Touch, his touch, felt good. I stood away from the wall. And grinned at the look on Zayvion’s face—something between worry and confusion.

“What? Never seen a girl get sick before?”

“Are you okay?” he asked. “Did it touch you?”

“The dog thing? No. It’s just ...” I swallowed. “Don’t pin me down like that, Zay. I hate not being able to move.”

“I know.” That surprised me. But then, he probably knew lots of things about me I didn’t remember telling him. “I . . . wasn’t thinking,” he said. “But you should never break a Camouflage spell, and never assume attack is the best action. Did I make that clear?”

“Loud and,” I said.

The wind stirred the fog just enough to revive the stink of the alley.

“Is that thing out there?” I asked.

“No. But I’ve called some friends. They’re looking for it.”

“Are you going to tell me what it is?” I started toward the street.

“I could. Would you rather I take you home?” Zayvion asked.

Every logical bone in my body said yes. I was a little sweaty, a little spooked, and my boots had blood on them. But, damn it, I wanted a normal date and I was determined to get it.

“No,” I said. “I’d like to try dinner. We have reservations, remember?”

We waited for traffic to slide by, then crossed the street to the car. Zayvion walked around to the passenger’s side with me even though the car was still unlocked.

“Hold on,” I said. I took a few steps away and wiped my boots on the patch of grass near the sidewalk before getting in the car. Zayvion shut the door behind me before walking around to the driver’s door. He got in, started the engine, and pulled out into the street.

After we’d driven a while in silence, I finally spoke. “Should we call the police?”

“I already did.”

“Really?” I turned in my seat so I could better see him. “I didn’t think you much liked the police.”

Zayvion shrugged one shoulder. “I have no problem with the law.”

“What did you tell them? A mutant man-dog was on the loose?”

“I told them there was a mess in the alley. Animal cruelty, criminal mischief, and magic. Stotts’ people will deal with it, make sure there are no magical contaminants in the conduits and cisterns. Make sure there aren’t any hot spots.”

“That makes sense,” I said. Hot spots of too much or too little magic disrupted the power grid and caused problems with city services that rely on a steady flow—places like hospitals and penitentiaries.

“So what was that thing?”

He frowned as if trying to decide how much he should say.

I gave him my best I-can-take-it look.

“It’s a problem,” he said.

“I got that part.”

“The stolen disks—the ones Violet and your father were developing so that magic could become portable?” He paused.

“Yes.” I still had my memories about the disks. It was one of the magic-technology integrations inventions Violet had been working on for my father’s company. A portable way to carry magic. And once carried like that, magic had much less price to pay. It would revolutionize how magic was channeled, networked, piped. Like a wireless phone, it would make magic more mobile. There would no longer be dead zones. Magic could be taken where technology could not, and the theory was, great good would be the result.

It would also put magic, literally, into the pockets of any person who wanted it—and let them use it with hardly a price to pay. Unfortunately, it was becoming apparent great bad could be the result of that.

“The disks can be used for changing the boundaries of what magic can do.” At my blank look, he added, “Allie, those disks can make magic break its own laws.”

“That is a problem,” I said. It explained a few things—like how Bonnie the Hound had teleported herself and Cody off Nola’s farm. Not that I remember that happening, but Nola had told me about it. “So, the thing back there?”

“We think it’s a Necromorph—a magic user who has used some kind of magic, blood magic, death magic, to transform their natural state into something . . . dark.”

“Think? I thought you Authority people were good at this secret magic stuff.”

“We are.” He flashed me a half smile. I liked what it did to his eyes. “But we haven’t caught it—him. We don’t know who he is, or who he may be working with. We are certain he has access to the disk technology. If he were Proxying the price to hold his body in such a mutated state, we’d know about it.”

“Why would anyone do that? He didn’t even look human.”

“He’s not.”

It felt like the temperature in the car fell ten degrees. I mean, sure, I use magic. We all use magic. But this was like something out of a horror movie. Some person was using magic to make himself inhuman. On purpose. And it scared the hell out of me to think about what he could do if he could make magic break its own laws. I rubbed at my arms, trying to dispel the chill.

“Why did he kill the dog?” I asked.

Zayvion drove a little while. The tension in his shoulders, the tightness at the corners of his eyes told me the answer was not pretty.

“Transmutation. He was either trying to use magic and the life force of the dog to change himself, or he was trying to use magic and his own life force to change the dog.”

“Into what?”

“I don’t know. Whatever he’s trying to do, he hasn’t been successful yet. We’ve only found his . . . failed attempts.”

“And how long has this been going on?”

“A few months.”

“Months?”

He shrugged again. “Things are on the brink in the Authority. A very dangerous brink. Light and dark magic.” He shook his head. “We’ve been busy.”

“Chasing him?”

“And . . . other things.”

“Don’t tell me there are more things like that on the streets.”

“Okay,” he said.

I thunked my head against the headrest and watched the foggy city go by.

He glanced over at me. “Not exactly the kind of conversation I planned to have tonight. I was leaning toward suave and mysterious.” He said it quietly, with a smile.

I rubbed at my eyes with the fingertips of my gloves, remembered I was on a date and wearing makeup, and placed both hands in my lap. “I’d be on for a change of subject.”

“We’re almost there. Have you ever eaten at the Gargoyle?”

“No. It was made into a restaurant while I was under my dad’s thumb in college. Have you?”

“Been in college or eaten at the Gargoyle?”

“The last thing.”

“I’ve been there.”

“Waiting tables?”

“Nothing wrong with waiting tables.”

“Good for spying on people?”

“Do I look like a spy?”

“No. You don’t look like a waiter either. Perfect for a spy.”

“Perfect for a lot of things,” he said.

“Is that the suave or mysterious part?” I asked.

“Both.”

The fog got thicker as we wound our way up the West Hills. Wooded neighborhoods wherein mansions lurked passed by to the left until there, up ahead on the crown of the hill, the flickering lights of the Gargoyle, which was once one of the grandest mansions in Portland, pulsed through the fog.

Sweet hells. Even from this distance, I could feel the massive amounts of magic being drawn upon and used by the restaurant. Those lights glowing up the road ahead of us flickered lavender, midnight blue, then slid to red, copper, and on to plum. Not electric. Not neon. Magic. So much magic that even in the enclosed car, I could smell it—deep, rich notes of vanilla and caramel. My mouth watered, and my stomach rumbled. Whoever set the spells on this place was good. Very good. I was already hungry, and we still had half a mile to go.

Three more blocks and the magic shifted, becoming less sweet, more savory. The scents tempted with salt and spice and thick cream sauces. I shook my head.

“How do they afford that kind of Proxy?” I asked.

“Wait until you’re inside.”

He turned the car down the winding driveway. Waterfalls flowed over stones carved into mythic creatures, some as small as my hand, delicate insects with batlike wings, and wide, scowling features. Some the size of dogs, hunched, muscled beasts with too many teeth to fit in a comforting smile. The creatures grew larger and larger, three feet, six feet, twelve feet tall, Gargoyles carved out of slick marble in blacks, grays, whites, and bloodreds, looming behind and hunched beneath the rushing fall of water.

The gargoyles were strangely lifelike—or maybe not so strangely, considering how much magic was being consumed at this place. Even through the veil of fog, the creatures’ eyes followed us, glittering like precious stones; wide batlike wings stretched, flicked, catching and shifting the flow of the waterfalls to reveal glimpses of faces. Taloned hands reached out; heads swiveled; mouths opened and closed; eyes narrowed, went too wide, blinked. Creatures shuffled, moving in the moonlight as if chained down by one ankle, a slow, swaying dark dance of bodies, of wings.

I could smell the magic on them, dank and earthen, cold as a grave. I could smell their hunger, their fear.

I shivered.

“Cold?” Zayvion asked.

“No. Just . . . those statues. After the alley. Just a little too real.”

“They are meant to look real, but they’re not,” he said. “The stones are chosen for their ability to foster the magic they are infused with.”

“Huh?”

“A master Hand carved them. A Savant of art and magic combined. Lead and iron and glass are worked into the stone, carrying, supporting the magic. The glyphs worked in the stone with the lead and glass resonate with the naturally occurring magic pooled beneath the hill like two strings tuned an octave apart. It takes very little magic, and really no spells, to give them that sense of . . . life.”

Looking at the gargoyles, arms stretched upward and faces tipped to a sky they would never reach, made me think they weren’t too happy about being tied to the magic that made them never quite real enough. Not that I thought statues had feelings. I’m not that crazy. But every line and edge of the stone beasts spoke of a captured melancholy. Power denied, hopes quenched.

I wondered if they’d look happier in the sunlight.

Doubtful.

We reached the front of the restaurant and Zayvion slowed the car. A valet wearing black and gray from head to foot appeared out of the fog, and opened his door.

“Ready?” Zayvion asked.

“I am if you are,” I said.

My door also opened, another black and gray held his hand down for me, and I took it, even though I didn’t really need any help getting out of the car.

Except my skirt bunched up beneath my long trench when I pivoted in my seat to get out. I got one boot heel on the pavement, and flashed calf, knee, and a hell of a lot of thigh.

The valet, male-model handsome, let just the corner of his mouth rise in appreciation. But when he looked away from my thigh back at me, I gave him a glare that would freeze his keys.

Undeterred, he bowed his head slightly and stepped back, allowing me to move and actually stand.

And right there, behind the valet, stood Zayvion. The man was darkness against stone-gray fog, his gaze burning with a heat that seemed impossible for anyone to contain.

Never looking away from my face, he offered me his hand.

I took it, and the moment we touched, everything else faded. I did not notice the valets, did not hear the car being driven away, did not even hear my own footsteps as we crossed the remaining few feet to the wide, carpeted entrance to the Gargoyle.

The two-story-tall doors, glass, gold, and rare imported hardwoods, opened at our approach. I briefly noted the attendants at the doors, black and gray with a touch of bloodred. And then the magic of the place surrounded and overwhelmed me.

Unlike the heavy scents that wafted to me in the car, the magic here was designed to stimulate every sense.

The dining area was huge, at least three stories high, with a domed ceiling where winged figures wheeled in the ever-shifting lights. I blinked, and the room seemed smaller, intimate, as if the restaurant ended a comfortable few yards ahead of me. We stepped in, and I was suddenly very glad to have a hold on Zayvion’s hand.

Magic pressed like soft hands against my boots, then up my thighs, my hips, my stomach, feathering out at my breasts with just the softest breath across my cheeks. Intimate, but unintentionally so, like a lazy summer breeze following the music that played, low and soft, the rise and fall of sweet strings over the haunting, distant rhythm of drums.

A woman framed by an arch of gold and colored glass smiled and stepped forward.

“Good evening,” she said, in a voice I was sure was either classically trained or had an Enhancement spell that made her sound like the lead alto from a choir of angels. “How may I help you?”

Zayvion, who seemed a lot less dazzled by the overload of magic, said, “Reservations for two. Jones.”

She blinked, and her eyes shifted from green to blue, then settled on a hazel too bright to be natural. Her hair shaded a little darker as she smiled up at him “Our pleasure, Mr. Jones. Ms. Beckstrom. Please, follow me.” When she motioned with her hands for us to follow her, she held herself taller. She was wearing boots a lot like mine.

Illusion, Glamour, Enhancement. Seemed like a hell of a lot of pain to pay for this woman to undergo subtle, and what she must assume were pleasing, transformations for her customers.

We followed the woman, who looked more like me than she had just a minute ago. I watched Zayvion’s body language to see if he noticed. If he did, he didn’t look impressed.

Good.

She led us between candlelit booths with subtle Shield spells that obscured the occupants as if a sheer curtain had been pulled. It begged the question: why didn’t they just curtain off the booths? Why make someone pay for the illusion of privacy?

Answer: decadence. This blatant overuse of magic was obscene, unattainable, forbidden. For every spell used, someone was paying the price for it in pain. In the approved penitentiaries, or maybe in the lucrative Proxy pits, where people hired themselves out to bear the pain of others’ magic use. And the only thing the diners had to do to enjoy this magical excess was pay a fortune in money.

The angel took us up half a dozen steps, and finally stopped in front of a booth decorated in natural woods, with silver, or perhaps lead and iron, worked in subtle glyphs that looked more like art.

“Is this agreeable, Mr. Jones?” the angel asked.

“It should be fine.”

The lady offered to take my coat, but I decided to hold on to it. My journal was in the pocket, and I didn’t want to lose it. I took off my coat, folded it, and placed it on the small bench along the back wall beneath the window.

I sat. Once in the chair, the level of magic went down about a hundred notches, and I exhaled.

“Too much?” Zayvion asked.

There was some kind of Shield spell on our booth too, but it had the added benefit of filtering out some of the magic overload. Maybe that was why they didn’t just hang curtains.

I took a drink of water so I wouldn’t scratch my gloves off. Magic pushed and rolled in me and made me itch. “It’s a lot,” I said. “But not too much.” Yet, I thought.

He nodded, and I realized he was worried about it.

“Do you like it?” I asked.

“The food is superb. Not magic. Excellent chef. Makes it worth the glitz. Plus the view . . .”

I looked out the window next to us and the tension in my shoulders drained away.

A castle atop a mountain, the restaurant took up the expanse of the hilltop. The lights of Portland, electric gold and baby blue, spilled down the hill to gather like a tumble of diamonds on the valley floor, thickest along the winding cut of the river and the star-spray grid of downtown.

“Oh,” I said. “Gorgeous.”

“I thought you might like it. From this high up, all you can see is the beauty.”

He studied the city below us, the corners of his thick lips drawn downward. I wondered how much pain this man had seen. Being a Closer, someone who could take away a magic user’s memories or life, and being a secret part of a secret society of magic users that casually dealt with horrors like that thing back in the alley, must come at a high cost.

An echo of a memory—just the emotional wash of being in danger and knowing Zayvion was there, doing something to make that danger, that fear and pain, stop—pushed up from deep inside me.

That moment was broken by the polite throat clearing of our waiter.

He recited the chef’s specials of the evening for us, and we both turned our attention to ordering food and wine.

The waiter made approving sounds and melted into the swirl of magic and noise outside our booth. He reappeared within seconds with our sweet black currant liquor and canapés.

“Earlier today,” I said, after our waiter had left and I’d had a chance to let the sweet and dry Kir fill my mouth with the dark berry taste of autumn, “when I asked you if Violet hired you to body guard me. You didn’t answer.”

Zayvion finished a canapé and took a sip of his wine. “I am not working for Violet. Not anymore. But if I were body guarding, you’d be at the top of my list.”

I opened my mouth.

“You,” he said before I could get any words out, “are rich. So at least you’d pay me well. Besides that, your father made enemies in both his public and private lives, and you seem to have inherited his knack for that, though you’ve mostly made your enemies through Hounding. So I certainly wouldn’t be bored. What?” he said to my glare. “Didn’t think I’d be honest? You carry more magic in your body than half of Portland’s cisterns combined, and you are the leader of a pack of Hounds, half of whom don’t like you, and all of whom are unpredictable addicts.”

“Whom?”

“I went to school. You Hounded for Detective Stotts, who has logged more Hound deaths than any other law enforcer on record, and I know you’d do it again in a hot minute. Plus, for some reason, your father refused to bring you into the Authority back when you were young—”

“Watch it,” I growled.

He grinned. “—younger, to train you in the less standard and more useful ways of magic that you, of all people, should know. On top of all that, you tend to stroll into the middle of situations that can kill you, and you have no formal self-defense training.”

“Is that all you got?”

He put both elbows on the table and rested his mouth against his fingers, covering his smile. “Well, I’ve only known you a few months.”

“Might just stay that way.”

He watched me a moment while I sipped my water. “I don’t think so.”

I gave him a noncommittal nod. “Never know. You left out a few things, though.”

“Oh?”

“For one, I can read you like yesterday’s want ad.”

“Is that so?”

“Absolutely.”

He leaned back. “Well, then. Get on with it.”

“Reading you?” I rested one elbow on the table and folded my fingers under my chin. What did I really know about Zayvion Jones? Not a hell of a lot. He had the advantage of a complete memory, and time spent following me around for my father.

But I had instincts. Good instincts.

“You aren’t as patient and calm as you look. As a matter of fact, you have a short temper, which is why you put on the Zen Maseter bit all the time.”

He raised one eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

“You have a lot more money than you’d like people to know, but you don’t spend it because you don’t have a life outside your work. You don’t have any friends, and you never speak to your family anymore. You are a total loner, Mr. Jones.”

He gave me a blank look and took a sip of his wine.

“You can pour on the charm and get any woman in a room to go home with you, but it’s always a one-night stand, which suits you just fine. And even though you like to pretend you’re deeply moral and just, you’d willingly break the law, lie, and cheat if it’s for something you believe in.”

“Is that it?” he asked.

“Almost. Your favorite color is blue.”

“Green,” he said, looking straight into my pale green eyes.

Oh. Nice.

“Okay,” I said. “Green. Am I right?”

“You’re not all wrong.” He took another bite of his appetizer. “Not a big fan of one-night stands, though.”

Just what I needed—a rundown of his love life. “Really. So you’ve had multiple long-term relationships?”

“Want to see the scars?”

“Depends on where they are.”

He flashed me a smile. “On my . . . heart, of course.”

“Of course,” I said.

The waiter interrupted our conversation, and we got busy ordering. We both chose the onion soup au gratin for our appetizer. Zayvion ordered lamb medallions with garlic for his main course, and I ordered the duck with apples and porto sauce.

“So tell me about Maeve Flynn,” I said once the waiter had left.

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything. It would be nice to have a clue about what I’m getting into.”

“She’s a good teacher. A master in her chosen magic—blood magic. She will teach you how to access and control magic in the ancient ways. The hidden ways. She won’t be easy on you. Maybe much harder now . . .” He shook his head and gazed out the window again. Nothing out there but darkness and stars fallen to earth.

“Harder now?” I prompted.

“She lost her husband a few years ago. It . . . changed her.”

Oh. I took a drink of my water. “How did he die?”

“The death certificate says heart failure.” He looked away from the window. Waited. Waited for me to ask.

“Okay. Now tell me how he really died.”

“Your father killed him.”

“Shit.” I sat back and tucked my hair behind my ear. “Terrific. My teacher hates me.”

“I don’t know that she hates you. Maeve has always been fair-minded. Kind, in her way. She’s not . . . or at least she hasn’t been . . . the kind of person to punish someone for their blood relations. There’s a chance she’ll very much enjoy teaching you the things your father didn’t want you to know.”

“And there’s a chance she’ll want me to fail spectacularly.”

“Maybe. Will that stop you?”

“No. I want to learn. Holding all this magic isn’t easy, you know? Plus, I can be pretty stubborn when I put my mind to it.”

“Really? I did not know that.”

“Ha-ha. You can stop trying to look so surprised.”

The waiter swooped down upon our table and placed the soup in front of us, then refilled our wine before disappearing back into the swirl of color and light beyond our booth.

“Stubborn might help,” Zayvion conceded.

“At least I have one family trait going for me.” Speaking of family, I might need to talk to Zayvion about my dad.

Did I know how to do romantic dinner conversation or what? How did one casually bring up possession?

I thought about it while I ate the soup. Zayvion was right about the food. It was spectacular.

“Um, I had a weird thing happen today,” I said.

Okay, that was dumb. The day had been filled with weird things, starting with attending my father’s second funeral.

“Yes?” Zay asked.

“I thought I heard my father call my name. Twice.” Zayvion wiped his mouth with his napkin. “When? Where?”

“In my bathroom—well, in my head. After you left this afternoon.”

He frowned. “What did he say?”

“My name. Told me to find the disks. Find his killer. Aren’t you even a little freaked out by this?”

He took a drink and shrugged one shoulder. “I’m not thrilled by the idea, if that’s what you’re asking.”

And I guess if he could deal with that thing that jumped us on the street with relative calm, a dead magic user in my head probably didn’t seem like all that big a deal.

“He is dead, isn’t he?” I asked.

“Very.”

“Do you think he could be dead and in my head? When Maeve came to see me, right after I got out of the hospital, she was worried about that.” I took another drink of wine. My glass was almost empty. How had that happened? I was starting to feel it despite the heavy soup. It was probably time to slow down with the wine.

“Possession—full possession after death—is not well documented.” Zayvion refilled my glass. “Your father had enough mental strength after he was dead to step into you in spirit form and wield magic through you.” He lifted his glass in a subtle toast.

“That threw some rocks at the theory that no one can possess the living after death. But then, your father’s spirit was being . . . supported . . . by Frank Gordon and dark magic. What he did was uncharted territory. Forbidden.”

“Which he? Dad or Frank?”

“Both. It’s a problem.”

“A problem,” I repeated.“So that list? The one I just made about you? I’d like to add master of the understatement.”

The waiter appeared, whisked away our bowls, and replaced them with the main course. It smelled delicious, and we both took some time to eat.

“It is possible you have his memories in your mind,” Zayvion said.

“Is it possible he’s actually alive?” I asked again.

“I don’t . . . We don’t know,” he finally said. “Sometimes I think anything is possible with you. Maeve is going to do a more thorough search when you see her.”

“Wait. You’ve talked to Maeve about me?”

“Maeve was my teacher for a short time. We see each other fairly often. She’ll know what to do.”

“Are you sure you can’t just look for me?” It came out smaller than I expected. No matter how little I knew Zayvion, I knew Maeve even less. I could let her be my teacher, but I was not ready to let her mess with my brain.

Zayvion reached across the table and caught the fingers of my hand. “If I could, I would. We are Complements, Allie. More than that, we are Soul Complements. Lightning and steel. We can . . . manipulate magic together, as if we were one person. That’s . . . amazing. But there are things we should never do, lines we should not cross. Using magic together is one thing. Powerful. Stepping into each other’s minds . . . even with the best intentions, the clearest need . . . that never ends well.”

“I suppose that’s documented somewhere?”

“Soul Complements are rare.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He took a moment to study me. I was not as drunk as he might think I was.

He sighed. “This isn’t what I wanted to talk about tonight either. I don’t suppose you’d like to discuss the weather?”

“Foggy,” I noted. “Tell me the truth. I can take it; I’ve had plenty of wine to soften the blow.”

He smiled, but it didn’t make it to his eyes. “The truth? The few Soul Complements that are documented read like a tragedy. It has never ended well. For any of them.”

“Hold on, let me get this straight. Soul Complements are just two people who can cast magic together without blowing themselves up, right?”

“No, you’re thinking of Complements—two magic users who handle magic so similarly, they can, on occasion, cast magic together. There are also Contrasts—magic users who handle magic in opposite ways, and can, on occasion, cancel or enhance certain affects of each other’s spells.”

“So Soul Complements are?”

“Two people who can cast magic as if they are one person. Two people whose minds and souls fit each other perfectly. Two people who could become so close they feel each other’s emotions, hear each other’s thoughts, feel each other’s pain. Two people who can take magic to levels otherwise unattainable.”

I know that should sound wonderful, being so close to someone you could share their thoughts. But I was nothing if not the queen of trust issues. Letting someone know everything I was feeling and thinking sounded like my own little corner room in hell.

I finished off my wine. “So tell me the downside.”

“Those Soul Complements who have become too close stop being who and what they are. Lost in the shared magic, shared emotions, shared thoughts, they lose control of their magic, or use it in ways . . . in horrible ways. And if they are not broken apart, then, insanity results.”

I took a minute to absorb all that. “You and I are Soul Complements?”

He nodded.

“We’re going to drive each other insane?”

“Probably.”

“I’m serious.”

“All right. We won’t go insane if we just use magic together, and we won’t go insane if we are with each other in all other intimate ways.”

“Sex?” I asked.

He grinned. “I wasn’t talking about water-skiing. There are boundaries—how close we can be with each other mentally, soul to soul. Boundaries that must be obeyed so that we can be together, closer than anyone else on Earth, but not so close that we lose ourselves.”

“So, the shared thoughts and feelings are out?”

“It’s better that way.”

Well, I for one wasn’t seeing a downside.

“I could look in your mind to see if your father’s memories are still there,” he said. “I have the training. Should I? Once in your mind, once that close to you, I may not be able to step away.”

I blushed. No, I don’t know why. Okay, yes, I did. Zayvion was looking at me like I was something beautiful he wanted and could not have.

“I could make you leave my mind,” I said uncertainly.

“I don’t think so.” He let go of my hand and pushed his plate to one side so he could rest his arm in front of him. “You aren’t the only stubborn person at the table.”

I smiled. “Speaking of which, about that other thing.”

“Which other thing?”

“All those long-term scar-filled relationships you were talking about.”

“You aren’t the first woman I’ve dated.”

Yeah, well, I knew that. “Go on.”

He leaned both arms on the table. The table was small, intimate. We were close enough that if I stretched just a little more, I could touch him, kiss him. His gaze held me exactly where I was. “You just might be the last I’ll survive.”

The blush rushed up my neck and washed hot across my face. Slow, I told myself. We said we’d go slow.

To hell with slow. I leaned forward, my wineglass still in one hand. Zayvion had both hands free, and drew his fingers down the side of my face, fingertips stroking the length of my bare neck. He bent toward me, his fingers slipping up to cup the edge of my jaw, as if he wanted to make sure I wouldn’t disappear, as if he wanted to draw my mouth to his. I opened my lips and inhaled.

My heart beat harder. I wanted to taste the wine on his lips, wanted to savor the pine scent of him against the tip of my tongue.

But instead of pulling me closer, instead of kissing me, his fingertips clenched gently beneath my ear. He ran his tongue across his bottom lip and then slowly, mechanically leaned back, away, shoulders squared against the back of his chair, fingertips splayed wide against the tablecloth, brown eyes filled with fire that had nothing to do with magic.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. But I did.

“This isn’t going to be easy,” I said.

He held very still, watching me. “The best things never are.”

Our waiter of impeccable timing returned, cleared away our plates, and brought burgundy and cheeses.

I nibbled on the cheese, but mostly drank the burgundy and thought about Zayvion’s lips. Well, thought about his lips, and tried to pull up even the smallest memory of his naked body. No luck.

For his part, Zayvion finished his food, gave me a few smiles, and moved on to lighter subjects. The weather again—still foggy. The view—still sparkly. The time—late. As a matter of fact, it was past midnight, and the warm glow from all the wine was making me yawn.

“How about we skip dessert?” he asked after I’d hidden yet another yawn behind my hand.

I nodded. “I’m sorry. It’s been long. The day, not the dinner. I think I’m a lot more tired than I thought I thought.” Wait, what had I just said?

Zayvion grinned. “We’ll save dessert for next time.”

“Next time?”

“You didn’t think this was the only date I was going to take you on, did you?”

“Uh . . . no?”

The waiter appeared like magic, took Zayvion’s credit card, and returned just as quickly.

“So,” Zayvion said as we both stood and pulled on our coats. “That list of things you said about me earlier?”

“Yes?”

“You forgot determined.”

He helped me with the sleeve I wasn’t having any luck getting into on my own. Damn. Too much wine. Especially now that I was standing, my head was a little muzzy. “And old-fashioned,” I said, as he offered me his arm.

“Old-fashioned?” He actually looked offended. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He placed his hand over mine on his arm and stepped closer to me. “May I have the honor of escorting you home, Ms. Beckstrom?”

I giggled. Seriously. Giggled. Bad sign. “Maybe that wine was more than I thought I drank.” Smooth, Beckstrom.

“Just try to relax when we walk out into the main flow of the restaurant.”

I was going to ask him what he meant by that, but then we took two steps away from the table and I got my answer. Like a hammer. A great big answer hammer over the head.

Magic pressed in around me, pushed up through my feet, sunk needle-deep into my skin. The spell that veiled our table had done more than offer us privacy from other diners. It had kept the thick crosscurrents of the restaurant’s long-standing and short-term spells from being so overwhelming. But now, out here, I was most certainly whelmed.

Magic sparked within me, a fire rushing up my bones, urging me to release it, to cast, to use.

I gritted my teeth and exhaled through my nose, resisting the urge to use magic. Not easy after a couple glasses of wine.

“Zayvion?” I said. He must have caught the urgency in my voice.

He didn’t talk, didn’t ask me if I was okay. He set a quick but not rushed pace and guided me out between the tables that roiled with clouds of magic, thick ribbons of it in jewel tones, so strong I could see it shifting like currents of rainbow oil through the air, even without drawing Sight.

Magic prickled beneath my skin, grew hot, hotter, until my entire body was one big sunburn.

I tried to concentrate. Sang a mantra to clear my head. Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack, all dressed in black, black, black . . .

Magic swelled, pressed, begged to be used. And my mental hold on it slipped. Oh, hells.

Mint washed over me, cool, sweet, soothing all the places where magic burned in me. Zayvion, my lightning rod, Grounding me.

The restaurant was behind me now, glowing with so much magic, I could feel the heat of it like a bonfire at my back. We were in the parking lot, in the cold air, the wet air. I took a deep breath, let it out.

My head was no longer muzzy. The magic, and Zayvion Grounding me, had the side effect of making me stone sober. And right now, I was really glad.

“Better?” he asked.

I nodded.

He walked around in front of me, his hand sliding down my arm. “Wait here while I tell the valet to get our car.”

I thought I said okay, but he bent a little to make eye contact. “Okay?” he asked.

“I’m good,” I said. “Fine.”

He didn’t look convinced, but turned and walked away.

Absent his touch, magic pushed in me again. The ground swayed a little beneath my feet, and I decided pacing might help. Taking even breaths, I strolled down the brick pathway that lined the front of the restaurant. The cold air did some good keeping my head clear, and I recited a jingle to stay calm and to keep the magic in me easy.

A movement in the landscaped flower bed to my left caught my attention. I stopped and peered into the brush and ferns. Two yellow eyes as big as my fist stared at me from the bushes. For a second, I thought it was alive, a dog, a cat, or—shudder—that thing from the alley, but the eyes were too large and too perfectly round. Then the wind shifted, brushing through the bushes. I caught a whiff of stone—just damp stone—and I knew what it was. A gargoyle statue.

I leaned forward and pushed a branch out of the way so I could see the gargoyle’s face better.

The statue’s head swiveled, following my hand like a snake follows heat. Magic. Just magic, nothing strange about it. There was enough light that I could make out the creature’s body—big as a Saint Bernard’s, haunches in the back like a dog, longer human arms and human hands with wide, extralong fingers. Its broad face wrinkled back from a generous fanged and smiling mouth along a doglike snout. The huge eyes were almost comical beneath a heavy brow, and pointed ears perked up from its rounded skull. Behind its shoulders, batlike wings spread out and trembled. It looked worried but happy, as if confused at being noticed.

It looked vulnerable. Lonely. It looked too damn lifelike.

Zayvion wasn’t kidding about the artist being a master Hand.

The wind pushed again, stirring leaves, and I let the branches I’d been holding fall back into place.

Just as I pulled my hand away, cool stone fingers reached out and touched my wrist.

Holy shit.

A chill ran down my spine. I looked down, and the creature, no, the statue was looking up at me. Huge eyes wide. Pleading. It was frozen in place, hand on my wrist, head tipped at a beseeching angle.

I knew there were spells on this thing; I could smell them. But I could smell something else too, a bitter scent of sorrow. Without wanting to, I also held still and looked at the creature again, trying to convince myself that it was not alive, but just a very clever infusion of magic and art. A chain collar dug into the creature’s neck, the chain spilling down its chest to somewhere at its feet.

I pulled my hand away from the creature and it did not move, did not change position.

I touched the chain at its neck. Stone. Stone and magic. The chain cuffed the creature’s other hand and linked to an iron rod driven into the soil.

It was irresistible, the magic that infused the stone and chain. I drew my finger along the links, marveling at the spell that ran through the iron and stone, a constant conduit to the magic that pooled in the channels that had been laid deep beneath the soil here to feed and maintain the spells on the statues.

At my touch, magic flared along the chain in a sudden wash of heat. I pulled my fingers away, not wanting to interfere with the spell, but it was too late. Magic twisted along the carved glyphs and—I am not kidding—sort of jumped the carved route it should have taken. Like a freak electric arc, magic stalled for a moment and poured through my hand, making the whorls of color on my skin flash neon bright as the magic completed the arc.

The creature jerked, shuddered. Wings flapping, it pulled against the chain.

I pulled my hand away.

I heard the grinding groan, low like a dog’s growl, as metal and stone strained, snapped.

I took a step back, my hands up in a warding position.

But there was no movement in the bushes. Only darkness. Only silence.

The statue was not moving. Its wide round eyes looked at me, blank, unfocused, no longer lifelike. I looked closer and realized the chain had broken at its neck, and now lay upon the ground in front of it, glowing softly blue with unspent magic.

Hells. I broke their statue. Broke the feed of magic to the spells that bound it. Great. I was sure they had monitoring devices on the things for just this sort of problem. Any minute a gardener, sculptor, magic user, or security guard would be out here re-chaining the beast and writing me a fine.

“Allie?”

I looked away from the gargoyle. Zayvion walked my way. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes.” I walked over to him. When I was near enough: “I think I might have broken the statue.”

Zayvion gave me a long look, decided I wasn’t lying, and followed me back to where I had been standing. He brushed the bushes away and peered into the darkness. “What statue?”

I moved up beside him and looked. Bushes, dirt, iron rod, broken chain. No statue. The soil where it had crouched just a moment ago looked scraped clean, tended, as if someone had run a rake over it. Or claws.

“There was a gargoyle,” I said. “Right there.”

“And you broke it?”

“I interrupted the feed of magic, I think. Through the chain.”

Zayvion touched the chain, frowned. “There is no magic here. Are you sure there was a statue?”

“Well, I touched it. And it touched me, so yeah, I’m pretty clear on that.”

He made an isn’t-that-interesting sound and brushed off his hands. “They’ll probably charge you for it,” he said. “I bet you reach over the velvet ropes at museums and fondle the statues there too.”

“Zayvion, this is serious.”

“Really? Why?”

“What if it’s loose?”

“Allie, they’re statues. Magic and art, yes. Alive, no. There’s probably a hydraulic lift under each statue so they can take them underground to do maintenance on them. I don’t think touching the chain could break the magic or the chain. Unless you have bare-handed stone-crushing abilities you haven’t told me about? No? Then I think it’s more a strange sense of timing.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“No.” He smiled at my look. “But if there’s a gargoyle loose in the city, I’m sure we’ll hear about it.”

“Ha-ha. Funny.”

He caught my hand. “Thank you. And for my encore, I’m going to take you home before you cause more trouble.”

“You call this trouble?”

“Yes.Yes, I do.” He put his arm around me, and I wrapped my arm around his waist.

“Then I’m not sure you’re going to be able to handle our second date,” I said.

“We’ll see, won’t we?” He pressed the palm of his hand against my lower back, and the warmth of mint spread out from where we touched.

I leaned into him a little more, enjoying him. Enjoying us. For as long as I could.

Chapter Four

Zayvion walked me to my apartment door. We paused there, caught in the proverbial unspoken question of first dates: to kiss or not to kiss?

“I have company,” I said.

He nodded. “Would you like me to come by and take you to class tomorrow?”

“How very college of you, Jones. Does this mean we’re going steady?”

“Now who’s old-fashioned? And yes. Say, around five?” he asked.

I thought about it. I hadn’t told Maeve when I would stop by her place, but if she could do something about my dad in my head, then the sooner, the better. I pulled my journal out of my pocket and made a note.

“Make it one o’clock,” I said. I tucked the journal back in my pocket.

“I will.” He held both my hands in his. “So, this is good night, then.”

I switched my hold, my fingers around each of his, and leaned against my door. I tugged him close, until our bodies were almost touching. I didn’t let go of his hands.

“This,” I said, “maybe this doesn’t have to be good night.”

But Zayvion, damn him, eased back. He let go, took a step, out of sheer willpower or the knowledge that I would have gladly dragged him back, kissed him, taken him into my apartment and into my bed.

“Good night, Allie,” he said evenly.

I swallowed, finally found my voice. Maybe I was acting like an idiot. Pushing him away and trying to pull him close at the same time. “Night.”

He moved off a couple paces, walked toward the stairs, silent and sexy as always. Halfway down the hall, he paused. “Lose the key?”

Right. I was supposed to be going home. Not watching his very fine ass.

“No, no,” I said. “Found it.” I dug it out of my coat pocket and unlocked the door. Zayvion waited until I opened the door.

“See you tomorrow,” he said.

I didn’t trust my voice, so I opted to wave and just shut the door.

I glanced into the living room and guessed that Nola was on my couch, since her luggage was still leaning against one side of it.

I unzipped my boots, wanting to be out of the heels, and then padded off toward my bedroom.

“You should have invited him in,” Nola’s sleepy voice said from across the room.

“Trust me,” I said. “I tried.”

“You make falling in love look hard,” she muttered as she rolled over.

“Give it a whirl again one of these days,” I said. “Show me how easy it is.”

Nola snorted. “I already did it once. The right way. I don’t have to prove anything to you.”

I smiled. She couldn’t fool me. She and John had been crazy in love all through high school, and through the few years they had together before cancer took him. And even though I knew she loved her husband with unwavering devotion, it had been years since his death, and Nola was my age. She had plenty of life ahead of her.

Her answer, I noted, was not a no. Maybe she was ready to open her heart again, to love again. For no reason I could put my finger on, that made me really happy. After all, if I had to trust, love, and be vulnerable with someone, she could do it too. Misery loved a crowd, and all that.

I yawned my way into the bedroom, stripped, and fell asleep almost before I could pull the covers over me.

I drifted, not dreaming, aware of the warmth of my blankets, the curve of my pillows, the rhythm of my breath.

“Allison?” My father stood just outside my open bedroom door, one hand on the doorjamb. Something was wrong about this. I was in my old bedroom, the one I used to have when I lived with him in the condo, but I was not a little girl, I was an adult.

A part of my mind realized this was just a dream. Nightmare, more like it, since my father was a part of it. The rest of me was too tired to care.

I put the book I’d been reading aside, and my dad took that as an invitation to come into my room.

He rubbed his hand over his hair, grayer than I remembered, messing it up in a way I’d never seen him do in real life. Dream . . . my mind whispered. Right. Got it.

He sat on the bed next to me.

“I need your help.” He looked uncomfortable saying it. As well he should. Because he’d been mean . . . treated me badly . . . done something bad to me recently. I couldn’t remember what, but I knew I was angry with him. I knew I had every right to be angry with him.

“This hasn’t gone the way I expected.”

“What?”

“Everything.” He laughed, one short sound that was almost a sob. He stared down at his shiny black shoes. “My life. Your life. My death.” He nodded, as if thinking that through for the first time. “Not at all what I’d planned.”

“I don’t think I want to be here.” I stood.

“Please,” he said. “Hear me out, Allison.” He softened his tone by holding one hand out toward me. “This is only a dream,” he soothed. “What harm in a dream?”

And I could taste it, the familiar honey of his words. When he spoke like that, with magic behind his words, I knew he was trying to make me do as he said, trying to Influence me.

“Please. Sit.”

I sat so quickly, the springs of my bed squeaked.

“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t do that.”

He looked surprised. “Do what?”

“Push me, Influence me, touch me like that. This is my . . . dream,” I managed to say. “You can’t push me around here.”

His surprise melted quickly away. He scowled. “This is no longer about you. No longer about what you want. This is about making sure the right things happen. Making sure magic is in the right hands and used correctly. By the right people, for the right thing. You can’t tell me you don’t want to keep the people you care about safe.”

Here he stopped, his eyes flicking from side to side, as if he were reading words printed on my forehead. “You do want the people you care for—Nola and Zayvion and . . . Violet?” He frowned, but continued, “You do want them safe, don’t you? And now those Hounds. You have the entire . . .”

Dirty, useless, worthless. He didn’t have to say the words. He wasn’t the only one who could read thoughts. Dreaming allowed us both to peer in each other’s minds.

How fabulous was that? Just what I always wanted, a breathing-room-only front-row-seat look into my father’s innermost thoughts. Like I hadn’t gotten enough of that when he was alive.

“Yes?” I challenged.

“The entire pack,” he said, skipping over all the less charitable things he was thinking, “of Hounds looking up to you. Idolizing you after that man’s death.” He looked for his name, found it in my head. “Martin Pike’s death. Trusting you to keep them safe and sane now, something even he could not do.”

“Yeah, so?” Well, there was a choice retort. Apparently, I reverted to a ten-year-old when facing down my father.

Neat.

“You are strong enough to lead them,” he said. “Stronger than Martin Pike. Strong enough to keep them, the Hounds and all whom you . . . love”—he said the last word like it was made of hot peppers—“safe. That, I am sure of. And I can help you.”

That, I did not want to hear. Not from him. Because there wasn’t a favor my father wouldn’t play to his advantage.

“What do you get out of helping me? You’re dead. Why do you care?”

His hands clenched together, the knuckles yellow beneath his skin. Anger sat in every tight muscle of his body. He did not touch me, though it looked like it hurt him not to.

“I have always cared.”

“Controlling someone isn’t the same as caring.”

He unclenched his hands and closed his eyes. I’d seen him look like that. Right before he was going to blow.

But when he spoke, his words were soft. “The Authority is crumbling. From within. There are those, like Frank Gordon, who seek to bring back Mikhail. People who are convinced his return is foretold.”

“Who is Mikhail, and where did he go?” I asked.

Dad opened his eyes. “He was the leader of the Authority. And he is dead.”

“Oh, could you guys get any creepier? I mean, seriously. Why would anyone think raising the dead is a good idea?”

“I can only guess.”

“Then guess.”

“If he is the one foretold in legends, then his crossover into death will only make him more powerful when he returns to life. He will bring the magic from the other side with him. He will wield the magic of both life and death. Dark magic, light magic, as one. It will be a new era of power in the world. Magic will become something much more than a billable commodity.”

I rubbed at my forehead. “Crazy. Crazy living people trying to raise crazy dead people. And you call these people your friends?”

“No. They were my equals. In everything, Allison. In the drive to dominate. To succeed. To own magic and those who use it. And you are willingly putting yourself into their hands.” He shook his head.

“I’m not listening,” I said. “I have a rule to never take advice from dead people.”

“Since when?”

“Since three seconds ago.”

“Allison, stop being childish. Maeve will test you. The Authority will test you, push you. When that time comes, you must not hesitate to use everything at your disposal to win. To survive what they will do to you. You must use everything available to you. Including me.”

“Whoa, wait.” If he had told me he was the king of Mars, I wouldn’t have been more surprised. “What the hell? You don’t let anyone . . .” I didn’t know what I was going to say, but the words care and love crossed my mind. His eyes widened slightly. I swore and pushed them away. This was worse than that damn blood-to-blood truth spell we’d shared before he died.

“You don’t let anyone so much as touch you, much less use you. What do you get out of this? Out of me passing those tests?”

“I will live on.”

Immortality. What every egotistic narcissist wanted.

And it was the blunt truth that was both exactly what he was thinking and exactly what he meant, that stopped me cold.

“Listen to me, Allison. The Authority fears you. Fears what I . . . what you can become. You are a threat to them. You have always been a threat.” To us, he thought, before he pushed that too away. “It is why I have kept you away from them. Hidden. But now that they know what you are, you must not hesitate. When you are tested, you must be willing to kill to survive.”

“I’m not going to kill anyone,” I said evenly. “I am not a killer.”

“Yes,” he said over the top of my unspoken protest, “you are.”

I don’t know if he or if I drew up the memory of Lon Trager, full of bullets, his knife in my leg, my knife sunk so deep in his chest I could feel his heart beating out blood over my knuckles under his skin. Blood poured down the knife, over my body. Trager crumpled to my feet, dead because Martin Pike had shot him. Dead because I had stabbed him. It was real, so real I could smell the blood and sweat again. Bile rose up my throat and I wanted to puke.

“You have killed.” My father’s voice pushed at me. “And you will kill again.”

I could not look away from his eyes, darker than mine, hollowed by a death he would not accept. His own death. There was madness in him, burning with a frenetic hope I had never seen in life.

Life, I suddenly realized, had limited my father’s options and ambition. It had forced him to deal with the all-too-human boundaries of day-to-day minutiae, such as running a business, being married, or other minor irritants like eating and sleeping. But now that he was dead . . . -ish, those boundaries no longer applied to him. He was free to do anything his dark, hungry heart desired.

The intensity burned in him like an unholy fire, and I could not look away. It scared the hell out of me.

“To survive, Allison Beckstrom,” he said calmly, in the sort of tone one uses to cast spells. No, in the sort of tone he always used to cast spells on me. “You will do anything. You will use anything at your disposal.” The weight of his words was physical. Each word fell heavier upon me until I couldn’t stand. Could do nothing more than sit there and sweat.

“You will use any magic. Any person. Anything to survive. Even if it means killing. Again.”

He traced a spell with his fingers so quickly, I could not read what it was.

I pulled my hands up and began a Shield spell. Began. I could not remember the correct glyph for Shield. The spell, being half finished and empty of magic, was as effective as if I had waved my hands to stop a hurricane.

My father did not have the same problem. Magic, cold as winter’s caress, followed the glyph he drew and wrapped around my body.The spell tightened, bit into my skin, burned cold like frozen wire twisting around my arms, my stomach, my legs. Everywhere the magic touched went numb.

Binding.

“You,” my father said calmly, “will survive. You will listen to me. You will do as I advise you to do.”

With each short command, the Binding tightened, cutting its own glyph into me. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. But damn it, this was still a dream—my dream. And I was not going to let my father pin me down.

“Go,” I exhaled. “To.” Pause. “Hell.” I pushed hard against the Binding, straining to move my hands, my arms, to push up to my feet, to slap him, to slap myself, to do anything to end this dream.

As easy as pushing aside a mountain, I finally managed to spread my fingers. Then I made a fist. Magic wasn’t the only way to do someone harm. Hells, it wasn’t even the easiest way.

Dad had gone red in the face. Sweat beaded his forehead—it was an effort to keep me Bound—and I took no end of delight in that. This wasn’t as easy for him as he would have me believe.

Boo-ya for me.

I cocked back my elbow and punched my fist forward with every ounce of strength in me, breaking the Binding and aiming for my father’s face.

“You will not—” His command cut off, replaced by the mechanical buzz of my alarm clock.

I rolled over, turned off the alarm, and lay there, staring through the darkness at the ceiling. The clock said it was morning—ten o’clock, to be exact, but I didn’t feel like I’d gotten any sleep at all. I pressed my fingers over my eyes and concentrated on my father. Was he there in my mind? Or had he retreated into the territory of my nightmares?

The moth-wing flutter behind my eyes flickered. An electric snap of pain stabbed at my eyes. Ow. He was still there. And he was angry.

“Enjoy it while you can,” I said. “First chance I get, you are so out of my head.” I didn’t know if he could read my thoughts while I was awake, but the fluttering stopped and that feeling of otherness, of someone else’s awareness hovering behind mine, grew quiet and distant.

I sat and stretched. The Binding he had cast in my dream had felt too damn real. My muscles twitched, sore as if I really had been straining against ropes. I rubbed my hands over my bare arms. That was no memory of my father. That was him. His mind. First thing I’d ask Maeve was how to dig my dad out of my brain.

The warm smell of freshly brewed coffee floated into my bedroom. Nola must already be wake. I swear she was half rooster—always up before the sun. Of course, running a farm required early rising. The great thing about her visiting was since she was up earlier than me, I didn’t have to wait for the coffee to brew.

I heard her voice, and another voice. A man. Radio? TV?

I pulled on my robe and shuffled out into the living room. Nola was at the small table by the window, drinking coffee. That, I had expected. What I had not expected was the man sitting across from her.

Gray trench coat with a nice maroon scarf at the collar, slacks, and loafers, Detective Paul Stotts looked like he was at the end instead of the beginning of his day.

“Morning?” I asked.

They both looked over at me. Nola gave me a bright smile. “I wondered if I was going to have to come in there and get you. Let me pour you some coffee.” She stood and bustled past me toward the kitchen. I couldn’t quite place the twinkle in her eye. Something was making her very happy. And I was pretty sure it wasn’t the coffee.

“Sorry to catch you so early,” Stotts said, his gaze lingering just a little too long on Nola. “I thought you’d be up by now.”

I crossed my arms over my robe and tipped my head to one side. Something looked different about him too. He raised one eyebrow, and I realized what it was. He hadn’t shaved in a while and his five o’clock shadow gave him that just-rolled-out-of-bed, sexy-cologne-ad look. But more than that, he looked comfortable. In my living room. What was wrong with this picture?

“Okay, I give up,” I said. “Why are you here?” Stotts and I weren’t exactly buddies. I’d Hounded for him. Once. The kidnapping case that had nearly gotten me killed more than once and had left me with new scars and my angry father lurking in my brain.

Stotts told me he ran the MERCs, Magical Enforcement Response Corps, an undercover branch of law enforcement that handles magical crimes. Other than that, we barely knew each other. Or at least didn’t know each other well enough to have breakfast. In my living room.

He leaned back a little, looking too damn at home. “I called. Ms. Robbins told me to come by. “

“This, whatever this is, couldn’t wait for me to shower?”

Nola breezed back into the living room, a cup of coffee and a plate of something that looked a lot like homemade coffee cake in her hands.

“Hope you don’t mind me getting comfortable in the kitchen.”

I took the cake and cup she offered and glanced at Stotts.

He was not watching me. He was all eyes on Nola. And, I noticed, Nola was pointedly not looking at him, all the while hiding a smile.

“I could wait for you to take a shower,” Stotts offered amiably. “Is there a chance I could get a piece of that coffee cake?”

“Sure,” Nola said. “I’ll get us both a slice.” Nola tucked her hair—unbraided, which was weird; she always wore it braided—behind her ears and gave me an innocent look. “Shower. Take your time. We’ll wait.” And then she was off to the kitchen again.

I scowled at Stotts. “Are you hitting on my friend?” Have I mentioned that I am not known for my tact? Especially in the morning?

“If that’s how you define a cup of coffee and friendly conversation, I suppose I am.”

“Listen, Wedding Ring,” I growled. “She’s my best friend. And I won’t let her be hurt by anyone.”

Stotts, who was in midswallow of his coffee, choked and coughed into his fist. He wiped at his eyes. “What did you just call me?”

“You heard me.” I raised my eyebrows and stared at his left hand and the gold band on his ring finger. “As far as I’m concerned, this will only ever be a friendly conversation between the two of you. You got that?”

“I don’t think I could miss it,” he said. “It was a threat, right?”

Since I could hear Nola heading back our way, I smiled sweetly. “Yes, it was.”

“Are you going to eat that standing?” Nola asked as she passed me to sit back at the table in front of Stotts. She placed a coffee carafe—the one she’d given me a few years ago—in the center of the table.

“No. Save me a seat. I’ll be right back.” I put the plate on the table (yes, between their plates) but couldn’t bring myself to leave my coffee behind. With one last warning look at Stotts, I took a drink of coffee and headed to the shower.

I wasn’t going to linger in the shower, but the heat and steam made me realize that I really was stiff from my dream. Or maybe I was just stiff from running around in four-inch heels all night.

Whatever, the water and warmth felt great. I eventually got around to washing with the mild soap that seemed to be helping the fingertip burn marks on my skin, left there by the bits of dead magic users, the Veiled. And even though I didn’t want to, I found myself drawing my fingers over my newest permanent scars. The thumb-sized circle beneath my collarbone—a bullet I did not remember taking. The thicker palm-sized scar beneath my left rib cage that was still numb to the touch. And the spread-hand scar on my thigh where I’d made a mess trying to cut out the blood magic Lon Trager had worked on me.

I wondered if the scars would bother Zayvion. Wondered if they would remind him that my life seemed to be one long series of screwing up and trying to fix it, with and without magic.

Not anymore, I told myself. That was why I was going to learn from Maeve. So I could stop screwing up. So I could understand how to use magic. The right way. No matter what.

A chill snaked down my spine. That thought, those words, did not sound like me. They sounded like my father. They sounded like what he’d said in my dream.

Sweet hells, but I wanted to be rid of him.

I scrubbed a little harder, wishing I could wash free of him, and knowing I couldn’t. One thing at a time, I thought. First, find out why Stotts wanted to talk to me, and make sure he wasn’t gunning to break my best friend’s heart. I wondered if he had found out about the gargoyle statue. Technically, that was a magic problem—or crime, I guess. Criminal mischief? Tampering with other people’s property? Stealing? Well, no, not stealing, since I hadn’t actually taken the statue, I’d just sort of broken it or set it free or something.

I got out of the shower, toweled off, and brushed my hair, slicking it back, then messing it up with my fingertips so it dried halfway decently. No, I did not look in the mirror to see if my father was behind my eyes. I knew he was. But his occupying my brain was a limited-time offer, and it was about to expire.

I dressed in my bedroom, tugging on a pair of jeans, T-shirt, and heavy brown sweater that I’d picked up at a thrift store and loved down to holes. I took the time to put on my tennis shoes. Stotts might be here to ask me to Hound for him. I didn’t often contract out to the cops, but now that Pike was dead, I guessed his job had some need of filling.

Laughter rolled through the apartment—Nola and Stotts having a good ol’ time. That was my cue to lay on some wet-blanket action.

I strolled into the living room. They were still sitting at the table. I’d caught them just as they were both lifting their coffee cups to drink. I hated to admit it, but they looked pretty good together. Nola was shorter than me, compact, blond as summer, and freckled. She looked like the country, honey and wheat fields. Stotts was her opposite. Dark hair, wide shoulders, unconsciously intense and strong in that way cops always are, and he took after his Latino heritage, with a square face, heavy brows, and amazing eyes. When he smiled, or when he looked at Nola like that, the cop intensity melted away into something else. If she was sunlight and the country, he was sunset against the mountains, strong, vibrant, dangerous, and yet somehow sheltering, protective.

And married.

Picnic, meet rain.

“So,” I said as I pulled up an extra chair and sat down so close, both of them had to scoot back to make room for me. “What brings you by, Detective?”

If he was annoyed by my intrusion, he didn’t show it.

“There’s a job I’d like you to Hound.”

“Today?”

“While the trail’s fresh.”

I thought over what I had to do today. Go see Maeve, but that wasn’t until one o’clock. It was only ten thirty. I had time. Except I had promised to help Nola with the Cody situation. I didn’t know how I was going to fit both those things in, but I’d try.

“That works okay for me.” I took a drink of coffee, and put my fork to use to wolf down half my cake. I hoped there was more in the kitchen. “This is fantastic,” I said to Nola.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Do you mind if we catch up a little later today?” I asked her.

“That’s fine,” she said.

To Stotts, I said, “I was going to contact you about Nola anyway.” Wait, that didn’t sound good.

“Oh?” Stotts said.

“Nola has been working to get custody of Cody Miller.”

“The Hand?”

I frowned. “You know him?”

He took a drink of coffee before answering. “I know his case.” And his gaze said more than his words. He had probably been a part of that case. After all, Stotts dealt with all the magical crime in the city. And Cody, Nola had told me, had once been involved with some shady characters and forgery. But if Nola had made her mind up to look after him, nothing and no one would get in her way.

“She’s working to get him out on her farm,” I said.

Stotts looked over at Nola. “Isn’t he in the state hospital?”

“My farm is in Burns,” she said. “No magic for miles. We’re completely off the grid.”

Stotts grunted. “And you decided to put it upon yourself to do this because . . . ?”

“Because,” Nola said, “I do not give up on the people I care about. And I think Cody is a good young man who should have the chance to live a good life without the push and pull of magic, or the people who would use him for it.”

Oh, that did it. If Stotts had been looking at her with barely disguised interest before, he gave her a short but clear look of admiration.

“I don’t hear that every day,” he said, switching admiration for the more standard police skepticism. “Not in my line of work.”

Nola couldn’t hide it. She beamed. What was it with these two? They were getting along better than ice cream and spoons.

“What I was saying,” I said, “is Nola needs some help making sure she contacts the right people who can see that Cody can be released into her care.”

“Were you running into trouble with that?” he asked.

“Not at first. But about two weeks ago, I suddenly stopped hearing from anyone. I’ve mailed, called, e-mailed. I was told there was something about additional psychological testing needed. Is that something you could help me with?”

“I could at least look into it for you. Find out where they’re at in the process. How long are you going to be in town?”

“I could stay awhile. A few weeks, if I need to. I wasn’t sure how long this would take, so I have someone looking after the farm and animals for me.”

“Your husband?” he asked over the top of his coffee cup.

“No.” The light in her dimmed a little, like it always did when she spoke of John. “He’s been gone for several years now.” She tried to smile the light back up, but any fool could see the old pain in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Stotts said. “I lost my wife, Aryanna, just a year ago.”

Me? I felt like an idiot. And a jerk. A jerkiot. I didn’t know his wife was dead. Or maybe divorced? I glanced up at him. From the look in his eyes, it wasn’t divorce. Well, hells. I’d called that wrong.

“I’m sorry,” Nola said. Her gaze shifted to the ring on his left hand. She had noticed it, just like me, but unlike me, she had given him the benefit of the doubt.

“I would really appreciate any help you could offer to Cody and me,” she said. “I thought I’d go downtown today and see who I could talk to. Would you have time to meet with me?”

“I should. Well.” He stopped, like he suddenly remembered there was someone else in the room with them—me. “If you don’t think the job will take too long.”

“You haven’t told me what the job is,” I said.

“I’d rather discuss it with you in private. . . .”

Nola caught the hint and stood. “Let me clean up the dishes. You two take your time. There’s coffee in the carafe, if you want. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

She walked off, and I finished my cake. I watched Stotts out of the corner of my eye.

“You like her,” I said, pressing the moist crumbs on the plate together with the tines of my fork.

He held his breath for a second, the only indication of strong emotion I could feel off him.

“I don’t really know her,” he said, “yet.” Calm, cool, coplike.

“She’s my best friend,” I said.

“I got that.”

“And I will go to no ends to keep her safe. From anything. And anyone.” It came out cold. Matter-of-fact. A lot like my father. Except it was all me.

“Do you really think she needs your protection?”

I stuck the fork in my mouth and pulled the cake crumbs off with my teeth. “In this city? Yes.”

He made a sound in the back of his throat. At least on that point, he and I agreed.

“What do you want me to Hound?”

“I’ll take you there and you can see for yourself.”

“Illusion?” I asked. “Dead body?” I shuddered, really hoping it wasn’t a dead body. “Illegal Offload?”

He just gave me a level stare. That was the problem with cops, especially the ones who dealt with magical crimes. They wouldn’t tell you a damn thing for fear of contaminating your opinion before you Hounded the spell.

“Right,” I said. “So how long do we have before whatever it is fades?”

He shifted in his chair and rubbed his palms over his slacks. “I’d like to get to it as soon as possible.”

“Then let’s go.” He stood and so did I. We were of a height. I headed across the living room.

“What if I hadn’t been available?” I asked.

“I would have asked someone else to Hound it.”

“Do you keep a list?”

“Usually Pike—” He stopped, probably aware that Pike had been my friend and he was very recently dead.

I looked over my shoulder at him. “What about him?” It came out relaxed and easy. Not at all how I was feeling inside. Every time I heard Pike’s name, it felt like there was a fist behind it. I wondered if that would ever fade.

“Pike used to keep me up-to-date on which Hounds were available for jobs. Even though he took most of the jobs himself.”

I figured that’s what Pike had been doing all those years. Hounds had always worked for the police, the nonmagical police, but I’d just heard about Stotts’ particular branch of magic law enforcement this month.

It was true that magic cannot be used in high-stress emotions, so people generally believed it wasn’t that common to find magic at crime scenes. But I had seen enough with my own eyes and heard enough from other Hounds, and Zayvion, to know there was more dirty magic being used in this city than any sane person would feel comfortable knowing about.

And it was Stotts’ job to make sure any sane person didn’t have to worry about it.

Maybe it was my job to do that now too.

My only problem suggesting other Hounds work with Stotts was that he was cursed.

And the last thing I needed right now was a curse. On me or on the Hounds I had sworn to look after.

I pulled my coat off the back of the door. There was a half wall separating the kitchen from the entry hall. Nola, true to her word, was at the sink, washing dishes.

“Nola?”

She glanced over, caught sight of me shrugging into my heavy coat. She turned off the water and dried her soapy hands on the kitchen towel she’d wrapped around her waist in a double V. She even made a dish towel look cute.

“I’m going to Hound a job. I’ll try to be back in a few hours. Before one o’clock, for sure. If you need me . . .” I was going to tell her to call my cell, but it had died over a week ago and I hadn’t gotten a new one to replace it yet.

Stotts picked up where I left off. “You can call me. Here’s my number.” He walked around the edge of the half wall and stood a little closer to her than I thought absolutely necessary. He handed her his card.

Smooth.

Nola took it, looked it over, and tucked it in her back pocket. “Thank you. I will.”

I made some noise opening the door.

I held the door open for Stotts so he could walk through, which he did.

“Bye, Nola,” I said. “Lock the door behind me, okay?”

“I will. Allie?”

“Yes?”

“Be safe.”

I gave her my best invincible smile. “Where’s the fun in that?”