his calm gaze. He had done something, something more than setting a Siphon—not that setting Siphons was easy. It took two full years of specialized education to be able to cast and set channels that slowly bled used magic back into the raw magic that pooled beneath the city. And not everyone who studied hard and practiced harder mastered that trick. The few who did were usually into the more advanced fields of body-magic integrations, people like doctors and the regulators who set tolerance levels for legal Proxies.
I’d seen Siphons set. I put a year of study into it myself before my professor told me I might as well waste my time failing at something I enjoyed. But I remember the basics. Enough to know that Zayvion had not set a Siphon. He’d done something else. Something that took even more skill.
“I’ll be damned,” I said. “You Grounded me.”
Grounding was another matter altogether. It was equivalent to acting as a lightning rod for someone else and was usually done while the original caster was drawing on magic. It allowed a larger amount of magic to be accessed, and a smaller price to be paid by the original caster. The Grounder often bore a heavier burden of the pain—trying to match another person’s magical style and ability was very difficult and dangerous. As so was using Grounding to mitigate the pain of using magic.
Zayvion’s eyebrows went down and he tipped his chin to one side. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“What are you?” I asked. “Master’s level?”
He shook his head and took another drink of coffee. “I didn’t go to college for magic.”
“What did you go to college for?”
“The women.” He smiled. “Oh, we aren’t being that honest? Economics.”
“So you’re an economist who stalks people for money and just happens to have mastered the rare art of Grounding?”
“What can I say? I’m a complicated man. And I didn’t Ground you.”
I took another drink of coffee. He was so lying. “All right. Let’s go with that. If you didn’t set a Siphon, and didn’t Ground me, how come I feel better?”
“Acupressure,” he deadpanned.
“Acupressure?”
“Pressure points. It’s a kind of massage that helps with muscle tension.”
“I suppose you went to college for that too?”
“No, but maybe I should have. I’ve been told, on more than one occasion, that I have good hands.”
I gave him back what I hoped was one of his blank stares. “Do you really expect me to buy that?”
That got a smile out of him, and damned if it didn’t make me smile back. “Well, you don’t have to buy it, or lunch,” he said. “Both are on me. I’ve already ordered and paid, so no argument.”
As if on cue, a girl came over with a platter that held two bowls of soup—beef vegetable, with what looked to be real chunks of fresh vegetables floating in the thick broth—and a side of sourdough bread.
My mouth watered so hard I had to swallow.
“Anything else?” the waitress asked as she put down the soup, bread basket, and two sets of napkin-rolled cutlery.
“Some water,” Zayvion said. “For both of us, please.”
She left and I stared down at my soup like I’d never seen food before.
“It’s soup,” Zayvion said. “Beef and vegetable. Oh. You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”
“I love soup.” Then I remembered he probably already knew that. He’d been working for my father and following me around for I didn’t know how long. He probably knew a lot of things about me. Probably even knew what kind of underwear I wore.
Which begged the question. Was he a boxer or brief kind of guy?
I sat up a little straighter and unrolled the napkin and spoon. Zayvion might be a liar, a snitch, a stalker— whatever. I wasn’t going to turn down a free meal or a chance to find out what he knew.
“How long have you been following me?” I said it as if the meeting had just been called to order and his sales performance were under review.
He already had his spoon in his hand and had taken a big bite of soup. He left the spoon in his soup, reached for the sourdough, broke off a fist-sized section, then dipped it in the broth. So he liked his bread without butter. Not really the kind of information I had hoped to get out of him.
“About two weeks.”
Better.
I thought back on what had happened in the last two weeks and scooped broth in my mouth. Oh, good loves. It was perfect, salted and thickened with tomato and hints of basil and peppers. I wanted to lick the spoon, lick my fingers, then dive in face-first and lap up the entire bowl. Zayvion did not appear to be watching me. He was already through his first piece of sourdough and moving fast for a second.
I reached over for the bread, got there just before he did, and pulled the soft and warm center piece out of the loaf.
“Ha!” I held up the chunk of bread with the tips of my fingers. “Still warm.” I snatched up a foiled pat of butter and spread it over the bread with my finger.
He didn’t look concerned at my victory. “Only half a loaf left? I suppose we could split it. Oh, wait.” He took the remaining bread, dropped it in his soup, and smiled. “Maybe I’ll just eat your share.”
“What, no more Mr. Nice Guy?”
“Nobody gets between me and fresh sourdough.”
“Bread fetish?”
“How about less talking, more eating?” He didn’t wait for my reply before digging into his soup.
I took a bite of the buttered bread and then I didn’t care what Zayvion did so long as he didn’t get between me and the soup and bread. I put my spoon into action and devoured the soup. Hounding always makes me hungry—using any kind of magic usually makes me hungry—and I’d been cutting it pretty tight on grocery money lately. Actually, now that I thought about it, this was the first meal I’d had in the last month that wasn’t a cold sandwich, cold cereal, or cold microwaved pizza.
But even hungry, I kept an eye on the door, and the people who came in and out of the deli in a steady stream. I didn’t think my dad would go so far as to send the police to haul me in, but I wouldn’t put it past him.
The waitress came with our water, refilled our coffee, and dropped another basket of bread on the table.
“Thank you,” Zayvion said. I nodded my thanks. I would have said something, but my mouth was full of hot vegetables. I tore into the bread loaf, thought about keeping it all for myself, and knew I’d be sorry and probably asleep if I ate too much too quickly. I split the bread in two, handed half to Zayvion, and got busy buttering my portion.
“Why did my dad hire you?” I asked. “What did he want you to find out about me?”
Zayvion had finished his soup and sat back, coffee in his hand. I watched him change from a flirty sourdough aficionado into a calm, expressionless man. Interesting. So the Zen bit was his professional mode. It made me wonder what line of business—besides poker—required that strong a poker face.
I took the last chunk of bread and ran it around the inside of the bowl to get any bits of soup I’d missed, sopped up the broth at the bottom, then popped the bite in my mouth.
The deli was getting crowded, full of lunchgoers content to stand and eat if it meant dodging the rain. With the growing noise and heat, my head and body aches were coming back.
Zayvion sipped coffee and watched me with that cool expression. I planted my elbows on either side of my bowl and laced my fingers under my chin. “What?” I said, pitching my voice so he alone could hear me over the crowd. “No quick answers? Talk to me, Zayvion Jones.”
“About what? Weren’t you the one who was telling me business matters are confidential? How would breaking that confidence be good for my reputation?”
“You have a reputation?”
