Magic In the Blood

    “Ankeny Square.” Words were cherry sweet in my mind, cherry sweet in my mouth, and they felt good. So very, very good. I shuddered.

    The street, the city around me faded at the edges, blurring like a dream. I was panting now, too hot in the icy air. I held my breath, waiting, aching for the voice to speak again.

    “Come to me.”

    And then the presence of the voice was gone. I was left empty, alone. But able to move.

    Ankeny Square. I had to go to Ankeny Square.

    I stood on the curb until a cab pulled up. I told the driver to take me to Ankeny Square. I tugged off my scarf, my hat, my gloves. I was hot, too hot. The hook in my chest throbbed and cut, an uncomfortable pleasure. The stroke of pain on my thigh spread heat across my hips and made me squirm.

    “Can you go faster?” I asked the driver.

    I didn’t hear his answer.

    The icy city slid past the window. I pulled off my coat and stripped out of my sweater. In jeans and a T- shirt, I still couldn’t shake the heat, couldn’t ease the lovely pain. What was wrong with me?

    I leaned my head against the cool window and closed my eyes.

    Was I dreaming? The vibration of the cab’s engine transferred through the glass, and sweat stung my eyes and salted my lips. No, this was too solid, too real for a dream.

    Why was I was going to Ankeny Square? Because I had to. Because the voice told me to.

    Wait. I was following a voice?

    Heat snapped out from the hook in my chest and zagged down to my thigh. The pain slithered over the rise of my leg muscle, soft threads of heat licking down the inside of my thigh.

    I bit my bottom lip to keep from moaning.

    This wasn’t right.

    This was blood magic. What had Zayvion said? Blood magic was intimate.

    Trager. It was his blood magic, his glyph on my thigh, his voice calling me. It was his touch I wanted. His touch he was making me want.

    Shit, shit, shit.

    Inhale, exhale. Pain, desire. The blood magic glyph on my thigh throbbed with wicked pleasure. Magic in my blood rose in response, pushing to be free, to be used. No, no, no. That would be bad.

    Blood magic bit, tugged, chest and thigh, a luscious ache that overwhelmed my senses. I hated it, and I wanted it. Wanted more of it.

    And all the while a small part of my mind screamed at me to stop, to wake up, to run away. I leaned away from the window. Blinked hard. Focused on the seat in front of me.

    I will not go to him. I will not be his toy on a string, his dog on a chain. I exhaled as another wave of pleasure shuddered through me. I will not let him use me.

    I needed help. I needed my phone.

    Pain, pleasure. I inhaled, tasted sweet cherries, and then held my breath as the blood glyph cinched tight again.

    My hands shook. I pulled the phone out of my pocket, managed to open it.

    Dead.

    Maybe I’d pulled out the wrong phone.

    I reached back into my pocket, and my fingers brushed over the dagger. Zayvion’s knife. He had said I could use it to break the Binding. I exhaled. A stroke of heat pulsed through me again. I closed my eyes, waiting for it to pass.

    Sweet hells. Intimate didn’t cover it. Blood magic was far more than that. It was sexual. Orgasmic. Needful. No wonder people got hooked. And if they mixed it with drugs… Hells.

    “This is it,” the driver said.

    I opened my eyes. Dawn was trying to wedge night aside. In the low light of streetlamps, the freestanding arched columns and cobbled bricks of Ankeny Square shone blue, black, and gold.

    It was too early for any of the shops to be open yet.

    My fingers were wrapped around the door handle.

    Stop it, Allie, I told myself. Don’t open the door. Tell the cabbie to take you home. Tell the cabbie to call the police.

    The hook in my chest tugged, and I bit my lip to keep from gasping. I had to get out of the cab. Had to go. Go to Trager.

    I left money on the seat. Left other things there too, I think. My hat. My gloves. I got out. Stood there, trembling in pain and need in the ice-covered square. The cab pulled away.

    The hook in my chest tugged again. Forced me to take a step. One step closer to Trager. To what I wanted.

    No, what I didn’t want.

    I still had my jacket. Still had the dagger. Breathing hard, I pulled out both phones and opened each in turn. Dead and dead. Okay, that left me, the knife, and magic.

    I could do this. I could break this hold. But if I pulled on magic to fight Trager, the Veiled would try to eat me. And it didn’t matter how strong I was. I didn’t think I could fight off dead magic users while I was trying to take down one of the most notorious drug and blood dealers in the city, who had his hook in my chest and thigh.

    So much for magic. Okay, that left me and the knife.

    I took the dagger out of my coat pocket and drew it free of its sheath. Light caught at the slim edges, pooled in the glyphwork that flowed from the hilt, down the blade, across the glass center, and slipped off the razor edge, glowing in the same metallic shades as the marks on my arm.

    I didn’t know how to break the Binding. Couldn’t remember what Zayvion had told me to do. Fine. There were other things a sharp blade could be used for. Things like self-defense. And kicking ass. I gripped the hilt like I knew how to use the thing and scanned the square for Trager and his goons. A shadow detached itself from the pillars. He-I was sure it was a he-started toward me with a slow, limping gate.

    I inhaled, sorted through the smells of ice and asphalt, and got a noseful of hickory and soap. And blood. Lots of blood.

    “Pike?” I breathed.

    He continued his slow, slow walk. Damn him. He had Hounded Trager without me, without the police. He’d broken his promise. Gone vigilante. I was so going to kick his retired ass.

    “Pike?” I said a little louder. Still no answer. The hook in my chest stung and throbbed, until I took another step. Closer to Pike. That worked for me, so I kept walking, trying to focus on Pike and not the strokes of pleasure and pain. I picked my way across the icy uneven cobbles.

    Pike trudged forward, swaying drunkenly. And the closer I came to him, I knew why.

    A gory portrait out of a bad dream, Pike was covered in blood. A meaty, sloppy mess was all that was left of where his left eye should be. His cheekbone stuck out of his skin. His left arm swung and grinded with a loose gristle-over-bone sound. His T-shirt was so wet with blood, there was nothing of the original blue left. The front of his jeans were so heavy with blood, each grueling step he took toward me left behind a dark, wet footprint.

    He wasn’t breathing very well. Or very much.

    “Oh, no. Oh, fuck, Pike,” I said. “Where’s Davy? Who’s watching you? Covering your back? Who has a fucking phone?” I tried to jog the remainder of the distance, tried to reach him.

    Just as I was almost close enough to touch him, pain exploded in my chest. No pleasure this time. Hot spikes rattled over my ribs, each one in turn until I thought they’d break. I groaned.

    Pike grunted, tipped his working eye up to look at me, and then folded down to his knees. His exhale wheezed with horrible wetness.

    I stood above him, close enough to touch him but unable to move, unable to bend in the vise grip of pain and the damn Binding. I listened as his breathing grew more shallow. I didn’t know how he was getting any air through all that wetness.

    In the still air of the morning, where traffic moved in the distance like a muted dream, I could very clearly hear the soft snicking of Pike’s blood falling onto ice and stone.

    I pushed against the pain, the need, against the Binding that held me frozen. I couldn’t even move my