Magic on the Line (6 page)

“Mm-hmm.”

“Davy, tell them no.”

“Sure. I will.”

“And tell them that if I catch so much as a hair from any of them in my footsteps, I will kick their asses.”

“See,” he said, sitting forward, “that’s where your plan sort of falls apart. You can’t really do anything about this, boss. If we want to guard you, we will. And we know how to stay out of sight and one step ahead of you so you’ll never catch us at it. Until we save your life, that is.”

I opened my mouth, closed it, and chose to glare at him instead.

He was right. I didn’t have any real leverage over the Hounds—hell, I didn’t want any leverage over them. The only things I could do to stop them would be to shut down the den, or what? Revoke their kitchen rights? The Hounds drifted in and out of that place like leaves in the autumn wind—and I had planned it that way. It was a place to hold meetings, nurse headaches from using magic or other dangerous substances, and that was it.

They weren’t my employees or my family, and most of them weren’t even my friends. And because of that, I didn’t have a hammer to swing in this fight.

“Fine,” I finally said. “I’ll explain to them just how I will make each of their lives a living hell if they guard me.”

“That sounds like fun. Gonna give me a hint?”

“I am rich, Davy Silvers,” I said airily. “There is no evil I can’t finance.”

“Well,” he said, pushing up and heading to my kitchen, “you are rich. We like that about you. But you are also involved in things that will likely kill you.” I heard the gurgle of coffee pouring into mugs.

“And we can’t have that,” he said. He walked out of the kitchen holding both cups. “You, Allie Beckstrom, are our golden goose. And there isn’t anyone in this town we’re going to let hurt you.”

I took the coffee he offered. “It’s a good thing I like you, Davy,” I said. “I’ve knocked people’s teeth out for telling me they want to use me.”

“Not use.” He took a sip, and when he looked back at me, he was very, very serious. “Not that at all. But, Allie, we’ve suspected for some time that you are mixed up in things that are very dangerous—even Pike knew it. And”—he held up one finger at my protest—“we know you aren’t going to tell us exactly what those things are. No problem with that. None at all. But we are . . . grateful.” He shrugged. “For what you’ve done. Hounds always have one another’s backs. That’s Pike’s rule, and that’s the way we’re running things.”

“I thought I was running things,” I grumbled.

“Not this. We’re going to look out for you. Whether you want us to or not.”

I put my coffee cup down and stared out at the street for a while. Davy took his place back on the couch again. He didn’t say anything for a bit, which was good. I needed some time to think this through.

I liked the Hounds, especially Davy and his overprotective cohorts. But the Authority was filled with nasty people who used magic in nasty, illegal, secret ways. To open the Hounds up to the possibility of sitting across from Bartholomew while Melissa whipped them with Truth spells wasn’t my idea of me having their back.

But if I let them in on what was really going on in this town, they’d be in it up to their necks, and just as likely would be killed for that knowledge.

“It will kill you, you know,” Davy said.

“What will kill me?”

“Worrying all the time.”

“Who says I’m worrying?”

“You get this weird frown and hold your mouth crooked when you worry,” he said.

“I do not.”

He just took another drink of his coffee. “You remember what I do for a living, right?”

“What you should do is track down illegal spells. What you always seem to be doing is being a pain in my butt.”

He flashed me a quick grin. “I’m a multitasker.”

“Nothing I can do to talk you out of this stupidity?” I finally asked.

“Nope.”

I took a deep breath and let it out. “Don’t expect me to make it easy on you. If there’s any way, any time I can shake you off my trail—the whole lot of you—I will.”

“I was sort of hoping you’d see it that way. Wouldn’t be any fun if it was easy.”

I stood. “I’m going to take a shower, then probably nap for a half hour. You’re welcome to my kitchen and TV. You are not welcome to my computer, or any of my journals. You are the very most welcome to my front door. As in opening it. And leaving through it.”

“TV sounds good,” he said.

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

I stomped off toward my shower, wondering why I’d ever thought having friends and so damn many people in my life was a good idea.

Chapter Three

T
he half-hour nap was really more like forty-five minutes of me tossing and turning and punching Zayvion’s pillow. I was tired, yes, but more than that I was frustrated. Davy thought he and the rest of the Hounds could just follow me around, and Zayvion was all in my business to the point that he couldn’t handle my going up against magic and coming out with scraped knees.

I was being smothered by good intentions. And I had no idea what to do about it.

Punching the pillow went only so far, and really, it just made me tired.

So instead I rolled over, decided I should apply some of the burn cream, and did that. Then I pulled a blank journal out of my night table and wrote down everything that had happened lately. I may have resorted to grade-school name-calling when mentioning Zayvion and Davy’s stupid-boy stupid-headed-overprotectiveness cooties.

When I heard Zayvion come in and Davy leave, I put the journal away.

Zay walked into the bedroom, pausing in the doorway. I heard the front door click shut behind Davy.

“You done upholding my honor?” I asked.

He frowned. “Didn’t have anything to do with your honor.”

“You did go yell at Bartholomew, didn’t you? About slap-happy Melissa and her Truth spell of pain?”

“I . . . spoke to him.”

“And?”

“He said you were the only one who complained that the spell was painful. He suggested you are oversensitive.”

I smiled. Not in a happy, friendly kind of way. “Isn’t that sweet?”

Zay had been walking toward the bed, but stopped. “I’ve never heard that tone of voice,” he said. “I’ll take it you disagree with him?”

I tugged down the collar of my T-shirt, revealing the red slash. “You can take it I think he can fuck a fence for all I care.”

Zayvion nodded. “Pretty much what I think too.”

That caught me by surprise. “You don’t like him? He’s your boss, Zay. Your boss’s boss’s boss, as a matter of fact.”

“I can work with him. I can work for him. I can also not like him.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “The funeral is in a couple hours,” he said quietly.

Oh. I had forgotten. The Authority—well, really Maeve—had set up a graveside service for Chase. I didn’t know much about who would be there—didn’t know if Chase had parents or if maybe those services had already been held and now the Authority was going to gather in private to honor one of its own.

“Want some sleep before?” I asked, trying to push my anger away and be a sensitive partner instead.

“What I want is to punch someone in the face. That didn’t work out.”

“Who were you going to punch?”

“Melissa Whit.”

“Zay,” I said. “A girl?”

He gave me a bland look. “She knew exactly what she was doing when she cast that spell on you. She made it hurt because she didn’t think there would be any repercussions. I told her if she ever touched you again like that, I’d empty out her brain and Close her so damn hard she wouldn’t remember how to feed herself.”

“Did that make you feel better?”

“No.”

“You could hit Davy. He’s been a pain.”

“What’s Davy done?” Zay looked over at the bedroom door, his hands curled into fists. I leaned across the bed and put my hand on his arm.

“It’s a joke. Well, half a joke. He is a pain. But I don’t want his face pounded in. Yet. He and the Hounds have decided they need to be my personal bodyguards. They’re going to take shifts.” I rolled my eyes.

“Which Hounds?”

“The usuals: Bea, Davy, Jack, Jamar, Sid, and Theresa.”

“And you said yes?”

“I very much did not say yes. No one listens to me,” I grumped.

That got a small smile out of him. “They’re your Hounds. If you don’t want them following you, keep them busy doing something else.”

“I hate micromanaging.”

“I could take away their memory of you.”

“Tempting, but no thanks. One person with holes in her head is enough.”

He shifted and put his arm around me. “I could keep them busy putting out other fires,” he murmured into my hair. “Fake up some illegal spells.”

“I’d rather you spent that kind of time and . . . creative attention on me.”

“I thought you wanted some space. Said I was overreacting.”

“You were. But right now, this is nice.”

He held me, quiet. We didn’t have to say much for our real feelings to be known to each other. I could feel the sorrow in him, the pain of loss. Going to his ex-girlfriend’s funeral was probably one of the last things I wanted to do today, but I knew Zay needed it. Needed the time to give his grief space, ritual, and form.

“Want to talk about it?” I finally asked.

“No.”

He let go of me and then walked over to the closet.

“Want to tell me what to expect?” I scooted back so my spine was pressed against the headboard of the bed, my knees tucked up.

“From what?”

“The service. Who’s going to be there? What kind of an event? Will it be like when we reburied Dad?”

He pushed hangers aside one at a time—mostly my sweaters and the three dresses I owned. I don’t think he was paying any attention to the clothes.

“Not a reburial, but yes, only members of the Authority will be there. Her parents are dead, but she had an aunt, lives out of state, who signed off on her burial. Chase had that all set up, the money put aside for it.”

“So she was buried with no one to witness?” I asked.

“There was a priest—she saw to that too. Some friends from when she was in school, a previous employer. People were there.”

“Were you there?” I tried to think if he’d had an hour or two away from me when he would have slipped off to stand by her grave. Realized, yes, he very much could have.

“No.”

He stopped mincing through the clothes and just shoved them to one side and found a pair of slacks and a sweater.

“It’s not formal,” he said. “It won’t last long. Anyone who wants to say their good-byes will be there.”

“Only from Portland?”

“I don’t know if Maeve called in other members of the Authority. I don’t know if Bartholomew let her.”

He shrugged out of his T-shirt and walked off to the bathroom.

I got out of bed. Thought about putting on a dress, decided on black slacks and a gray cashmere sweater instead, got dressed and put on my boots. I didn’t bother with makeup, but did brush my hair back and clip it. It was getting longer now, falling just below my shoulders, and the streaks of white showed no signs of fading. After a moment of considering myself in the mirror, I decided to put on a little mascara and lip gloss.

Good enough.

There was a knock at the door.

“Someone’s at the door,” I called to Zay. Ever since Dane Lanister had walked in and waved a gun around, Zay and I checked with each other before opening the door.

The shower turned off. “It might be Shame,” he said.

I picked up Zay’s blood blade, tucked it in my left hand, and walked to the front door.

It wasn’t that I lived in a particularly rough kind of town—it was just that particularly rough kinds of people seemed to make a point of coming to my apartment.

I traced the glyph for Impact with my right hand and held it with no magic. Then I looked through the peephole.

Shame stood there, hands in his peacoat pockets, sunglasses on, a black knit beanie tight over his head. It was May and the temperatures were mild—mostly short-sleeves-and-no-jacket weather. But I hadn’t seen Shame in less than three layers since Mikhail had possessed and nearly killed him.

Frankly, I was surprised Terric wasn’t with him.

I shook off the Impact and opened the door.

“Hey,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

He tipped his sunglasses down with one finger. “I brought the booze, of course.”

I looked down at his empty hands. “Uh-huh. Come on in.” I stepped back and held the door open as Shame walked in. He was still moving slowly, as if the bottoms of his feet hurt or his bones were hinged together wrong. I checked down the hallway. No Terric, no booze.

“So,” I said, shutting the door. “Booze?”

“It’s in the car.” Shame eased down onto my couch and took off his sunglasses, squinting against the light coming through the window. “Thought Jones could use the exercise. Lifting, hauling. Like a manly man.”

Shame looked tired. No, more than that, he looked pale and a little sick, the bones of his face cutting too sharply beneath his skin.

“You come here alone?” I asked.

He nodded. “Why?”

“I just thought Terric would be with you.”

“God no. Can’t get rid of that wanker lately. It’s killing me. Ducked out when he was in a meeting with Bartholomew.”

Zayvion walked into the living room. “Who’s in a meeting with Bartholomew?”

“Terric. Mum too.”

“What’s the meeting about?” Zay asked.

“Dunno. Wasn’t invited. Wouldn’t have gone if I were.”

“I thought Terric was going to help you with the drinks,” Zay said.

“Listen,” Shame said, “I get that you all think Terric is my personal nursemaid or some such. But let me reiterate, slowly and clearly: I don’t like being around him. He bothers me. I don’t care what Bartholomew wants with him. I’m just glad I got some damn breathing room.”

Zay sat in the chair by my window. “I thought we said we’d do the wake at the den.”

Shame frowned, then nodded. “That’s right. Well, the hooch is in the car. It can stay there until after the service.”

“Hold on,” I said. “What ‘we’ said we were doing anything at the den?”

Zay shrugged. “We thought we’d get together after the service. Just, you know, friends for a beer or two in memory. Didn’t I tell you that?”

“No.”

“I’m sure I did. You must have forgotten.”

I shook my head and stomped off to go get my journal. I opened it, flipped through the pages. A lot of short handwritten notes—my life, all of it I dared not forget—written here. “There is nothing in here about you using the den. If it’s not written down, you didn’t ask me.”

“She’s got you there, Jones,” Shame said. “You’ve been out-anal-retentived.”

Zay raised one eyebrow at Shame. “So,” he said to me, “you won’t mind if I invite a few friends to the den tonight?”

“There might be Hounds there.”

He shrugged. “So?”

“Is Bartholomew going to be there?”

“I said friends.” When I held his gaze, he said, “No.”

“Fine,” I said. “I don’t see why not. And next time ask before you plan.” I pointed at Shame. “Both of you.”

“Yes, dear,” Zayvion said.

I glared at him. “Is there anything else you haven’t told me that you plan to do with the things I own and you don’t?”

He paused and then slowly looked me up and down, undressing me with his gaze. “A few things. I’m sure Shame won’t mind if I go over them again.”

Shame held up one hand. “Save it. I’ve already heard all the lovey-dovey out of you I can stand. We get it. You like her hot smokin’ bod. Some of us don’t have a girlfriend, you know.”

“Whose fault is that?” I asked.

“What are you insinuating, Beckstrom?”

“Nothing. How about we start driving?”

Zay stood. “She’s insinuating that if you were ninety percent less annoying, you might get a date once in a while.”

“It’s called character, Zayvion. Women prefer it over that silent-stalker trick you use to pick up chicks.”

“I don’t stalk women.”

“Oh?” Shame shifted on the couch, putting his arm up over the back so he could turn to face me. It looked like it hurt him to move that fast. Still, he grinned and propped his chin on the back of his hand. “Let’s find out. Allie, I never did hear the story of how you and Zayvion met. Do tell.”

“No,” I said as I walked into the kitchen.

“Aw, c’mon. I’m sure it’s romantic. A story your kids will want to hear someday.” He batted his lashes at me.

“First,” I said, coming out of the kitchen with a bag of potato chips, “our kids won’t want to hear it because we’re not going to have kids. Second, no.”

“We’re not going to have kids?” Zayvion interrupted. He sounded genuinely surprised. “Were we going to talk about it before we made that decision?”

I was surprised he was surprised. “I didn’t think you wanted children. I mean, the lives we live—the stuff we do. Hard to change diapers in the middle of a firefight, and then there’s braces and school and ... kids are messy.”

“So you decided no children.” He was keeping his expression carefully neutral.

Had I? No, I guess I hadn’t decided. I’d just assumed he wouldn’t be interested. “I didn’t really think it through,” I said. “Do you want children?”

He paused long enough for me to realize my heart was beating a little faster. This was more important to me than I’d let myself think about. It was a commitment, a possibility, a future for us I hadn’t really thought was an option. Maybe I wanted children.

But I didn’t know if we’d ever have room in our lives for that maybe to become a reality.

“I want us to talk about it,” Zayvion finally said. “To decide. Together.”

“So you like kids?” I asked.

“Always have,” he said softly.

“Oh.” I didn’t know what to say. There was something about his expression, a promise there that I’d never expected.

“Hello?” Shame said. “Can we get back to more important things. He was stalking you, wasn’t he?”

I stared up at the ceiling and blew out a breath of air. “Zayvion. Make him stop.”

“I wasn’t stalking her,” Zay said. “I was following her. And besides, that’s not the first time we met.”

“What?” I looked over at Zay. He was pulling his jacket off the back of the chair and shrugging into it.

“I first met you out in St. Johns,” I said. “In Mama’s neighborhood.”

He zipped his coat. Didn’t say anything.

“Zay,” I tried again. “I know I met you in St. Johns. You were following me. You were working for my dad.”

“That wasn’t the first time we met.”

“See?” Shame piped up. “A good stalker won’t be seen for weeks, maybe even years.”

“Months,” Zayvion said.

“When?” I asked. “Where?”

“I was on a job. Undercover in Lon Tragger’s blood den.”