Magic on the Storm

A weight shifted in my head and the entire room slid downhill sideways. I grabbed the sink, braced my feet, and tried not to fall down or throw up as dizziness tumbled through my head.

The storm, my father’s voice said, quietly, as if he were speaking from far away. He sounded concerned, but calm. The same way he had sounded when I was seven and broke my wrist and he’d told me going to the doctor was going to hurt a little. The same way he’d sounded when he told me my mother had left me, left us, for good, but everything would be fine.

Nothing they say will change it; nothing they do will stop it.

I was on my knees now, still holding on to the sink, still trying not to fall down while the room spun and spun. I wondered where Zayvion was, if he was sliding down this dizzying slant too.

They will try to use it. Madness.

What? I thought. Who?

I must have said it out loud, because Zayvion was suddenly there, in the doorway to my bathroom, his smile quickly gone.

He reached for me. The moment he touched my shoulder, the world snapped back into place.

I was sitting on my normal bathroom floor. With my normal dead father silent and distant in the back of my mind.

I looked up at Zayvion. “Did you feel that? The dizziness?”

“I felt magic flux. Not hard, though.”

“Dad pushed at me.”

He exhaled, and knelt in front of me. Even though he took up too much room, I didn’t feel claustrophobic. I wanted him near.

“He must have tried to use magic’s fluctuation to shove me out of the way. Started talking.”

I rubbed at my arms, trying to scrub away the cold. Zay placed his hands over mine and I realized I wasn’t rubbing-I was digging. Like somehow I could dig the cold wrongness of magic out of me, out of my bones. Long red scratches lined my arms, but didn’t ease the magic gone to ice in my blood, biting, stinging, burning.

I leaned the back of my head against the sink.

“What did he say?” Zay asked.

“He said they can’t stop the storm. And that they’ll try to use it, but it’s madness, and that they’ll fail.”

Zay straightened and offered me both hands. “Huh.”

I took his hands and he helped me up on my feet. “You cannot be calm about this.”

He walked out of the bathroom, still holding my hand.

“It’s not the first time in my life someone’s told me I’m going to fail. I decided a long time ago not to believe them. Worked pretty good so far.”

The living room table was taken over by an alphabet-block sculpture. Stone had stacked the blocks in a decent replica of the dual-spired convention center, with something that looked like fork tines stuck up out of the top two blocks. If that big lug was de-tining my cutlery, I was going to take a belt sander to his claws.

I tugged Zayvion off toward the kitchen. I needed coffee.

“Do you think Dad knows something we don’t?” I filled the coffeepot with water while Zayvion pulled the bag of fresh grind-straight from Get Mugged-off the shelf.

“As far as I know, your father couldn’t tell the future when he was alive.” Zay scooped coffee into the filter, and the warm, earthy smell of the grind blended with his pine scent. I loved this, small things like this that reminded me we were a part of each other’s lives, moving like we belonged in the same space, sharing simple things, like we’d been doing this together for years.

With the coffee brewing, I leaned back against the counter. “So you think my dad’s just trying to scare me? I would be perfectly fine if your answer was yes.”

“No.”

Great.

“But we should tell Jingo Jingo about it,” he said. “About you hearing him now, and about you hearing him near Greyson.”

I shuddered. Jingo Jingo was one of my teachers and had been Shamus’s teacher for years. He taught the ways of Death magic just beneath Liddy Salberg, who was the mousy woman I’d first met at my dad’s funeral. I didn’t mind learning about Death magic, but I did not like Jingo Jingo. Sometimes, when I cast the spell for Sight, I saw other things clinging to his heavy body, to his bones-the ghosts of children. And every time that happened, it creeped me the hell out.

“I’ve already told Jingo Jingo about my dad.”

“And you’ll tell him again.”

“Sure I will.” Rock, meet stubborn place.

He just stood there, quiet. Finally, “You’ll do what’s right. Even if you don’t like it.”

“Don’t be too surprised when you find out you’re wrong. Jingo gives me the creeps.”

I pulled a couple mugs out of the cupboard, peered inside them to make sure there wasn’t rock dust in there. Not that Stone shed or anything, but he was getting sneaky about putting away the things he played with while I was gone.

I poured us both coffee.

“Allie-”

“Yes, fine. I’ll tell him. Again.” Not that it will do me a damn bit of good, I thought. “And it’s time for us to go.”

I grabbed my heavy coat off the back of the door, because it was obviously freezing out there, and took the time to stuff my journal in the pocket. With coffee cups in hand, we left the apartment, locked the door, and were down the stairs and outside in short order.

We ducked inside Zay’s car and headed off. We both held on to our coffee cups tucked against our palms. It was cold, February still dipping below freezing, but not quite cold enough for ice. There was something about the cold in Oregon that sank in deep and didn’t let go.

“Maybe I’ll just talk to Shamus instead,” I said, carrying on the conversation from the kitchen.

“Shame can’t look in your head as well as Jingo Jingo can.”

“We don’t know that,” I said. “We haven’t tried.”

“True.” Zay took a drink of coffee.

I thought it over. Shamus was good. I had a hunch he was a lot better at Death magic than he liked people to know. The first time my dad, through my eyes, had seen Shamus, he’d said he was a master. I think the slouchy goth bit was just so he could get out of doing work. Stay beneath his mother’s notice, maybe, or stay beneath his teacher Jingo’s notice.

Shame could probably do the job, but he might not want to.

“Jingo Jingo is a good teacher,” Zay said.

“I didn’t say he wasn’t.” I drank coffee and stared at the wet city lights through the window. “I just don’t like him in my head.”

Zay nodded. “He is. . thorough.”

I would have said creepy, dangerous, maybe even disturbed, but I still hadn’t figured out why Zayvion felt the need to defend him. Shamus willingly admitted to thinking Jingo Jingo was a freak. Zay kept any strong opinions about Jingo Jingo to himself. Of course, Zayvion kept most of his strong opinions to himself.

“I don’t think I can do much to help with the storm,” I said, switching subjects. “I’m probably the least trained out of everyone.”

“It isn’t just training that makes a person good with magic.”

“True. Blind stupidity and a high pain tolerance helps. Still don’t think I’m going to be all that useful.”

We were on the other side of the river at Maeve’s inn. The drizzle had let up, and the sky was covered by clouds turned webby and gray by the city lights. Zay parked near the tree line by the river.

He didn’t look at me, just stared out the window into the darkness. “You channeled the last wild storm. You tapped into its magic, and used it to heal me. And you didn’t die.”

Oh. Right. That. Magic had taken all my memories of that storm, but Nola-and later, Zayvion-had sort of filled me in on the basics. I may not have died, but I very nearly did. A month in a coma is not a successful magical