open the door.”
“Don’t worry, love,” he said. “I know how to wake Jones.”
“Tell your mom I’m going to be late,” I reminded.
“Right. Later, then.”
“Bye.” I hung up and then wrote a note for Nola, letting her know Zayvion’s friend Shamus was going to be over to sit with him until he woke up. I also mentioned that Zayvion was okay, just exhausted and needed a place to crash.
I left the note-which I hoped was innocent-sounding enough that Detective Stotts wouldn’t get suspicious if he was with Nola-on the coffeepot, grabbed my spare knit hat off the hook behind the door, and left, locking the apartment behind me. I paused out in the hallway and considered setting a Ward on the door. I never used them, but good Wards could at least warn the person inside that an intruder was coming.
No. A good Ward took more time and concentration than I had right now. And all it was likely to do was set off when Nola came home, freak Zayvion out, and cause a ruckus.
No Wards for the door.
Interesting, though, that I had wanted to set one. That I had wanted to do something to make sure Zayvion was safe. Even though he’d told me he had just taken away Cody’s memories. What did that say about how I felt about him?
And what would Zayvion feel about me when he found out I was stealing his car?
Chapter Twelve
Tracking someone in a city the size of Portland isn’t easy. But I had a few things on my side for a change. One, I knew Davy, knew his scents. I also knew Tomi and her scents. It was a pretty good guess that she was the trouble he had gotten himself into. Where I found one, I’d find the other.
But unless they were using magic, I couldn’t track them by magical means. Or at least I couldn’t if I didn’t have something personal of Davy’s.
And I had the notebook he’d been writing in during the Hound meeting. Lucky for me, he’d also been in a state of higher emotion. That always left a better impression on the item, especially since it had so recently been in his hand.
Back in college we called this kind of tracking work swamp-walking. The impression left on an object gave a hint of where the person was, but the trail rarely held out long enough to actually lead to the person. Still, it was a point in the right direction.
I got in Zayvion’s car, locked the doors, and cleared my mind. I held the notebook in my left hand, added a little more pain onto that headache that was going to kick my ass in a couple days, and traced the glyph for a version of Sight that allowed a more subtle energy trace.
The notebook flickered with faint lines of energy-not like the hard-carved glyphs of magic; these lines were fading and fading fast.
The lines trailed off at the edges, reaching out as if they followed a slight wind, or magnetic pull, toward the north, toward St. Johns.
Good enough.
I let go of Sight, breaking the glyph. I hadn’t seen any of the Veiled when I used magic this time. Of course I hadn’t looked around for them either, and I was quick at swamp-walking.
I started the car and eased out into traffic, getting the feel of Zayvion’s car. It was strangely like him. Smooth, lots of power, and geared a little tight.
It took some time to get there, traffic being heavier than normal at this hour. We got a lot of rain in Portland, but when a really good downpour decided to open up over the city, sane drivers didn’t go faster than their windshield wipers could move.
I drove over the St. Johns Bridge and down into the lazy little broken-down neighborhood. I don’t know what it was about St. Johns. Every time I came here, my shoulders relaxed and my mind cleared. Coming back to St. Johns always felt like coming home.
Sure, the neglected neighborhood showed signs of wear. But there was an honesty to the place. No fancy magic spells to make a business look like it was made of marble and gold. No fancy magic spells to keep the flowers blooming out of season. St. Johns was unapologetic.
I loved that.
I didn’t know where Davy was, and I didn’t know what kind of trouble he was in. So I decided to stay out of Cathedral Park’s parking lot. I stopped the car behind a warehouse on North Brandford Street. Out of the way of curious eyes but still within running distance of the park.
I got out of the car, locked it, and made sure I had the keys in my pocket. Then I crossed the street to a soggy patch of trees on the edge of the park. Time to find Davy.
I cleared my mind, chanted a mantra, set my Disbursement. Drawing on magic here in the fifth quarter, on the other side of the railroad tracks, was difficult. But now that I carried magic within me, even in a dead zone, there was enough magic to power a dozen spells. Maybe more. I’d never really tested how much I could use magic without the constant refill from the city.
I hoped I wouldn’t have a reason to find that out any time soon.
I drew the glyphs for Sight, Smell, and Sound and poured magic into them.
St. Johns might not have magic going for it, but the few spells that were at work here stuck out like a sore thumb. Mostly, I saw spells wrapped around people who had bought cheap magical vanities that never lasted long, to try to improve the look of their cars, clothes, hair.
I ignored all those petty spells, my Hounding instincts drawn instead to the flicker of magic in the shadows beneath the bridge.
Indigos, bloodreds, burnt copper. All the colors I’d last seen bringing the Necromorph back to life shimmered under the gothic arched pillars of St. Johns Bridge. I couldn’t make out the spells from this distance-they were too tangled, too dark, caught with the scents of blood and shadow-but I could catch the slightest magical scent of Davy, cedar and lemons and pain, and of Tomi, strawberry bubble gum and blood.
Davy was there. In the park. In that mess of magic.
, I thought as I dropped the spells I’d been using. What did Davy think he could do? Follow Tomi around all day, and convince her he wasn’t crazy?
Stupid.
I wound through the strip of trees, not wanting to use the footpath that was out in the open. My jeans were wet halfway up my calves from the tall grass, but I kept going, heading downhill toward the river.
The wind shifted and the smell of the river came to me, greens and wet soil and the slippery scent of fish. I’d been through this part of town plenty of times, smelled the river plenty of times. This time a memory rode the scents of the river. Dread settled in the pit of my stomach. Something bad had happened to me here, alongside the river.
I searched my mind but came up blank. Still, the emotional knowledge that something terrible had happened here was so strong, I broke out in a sweat.
Losing my memory made a lot of things feel like a half-remembered nightmare. And I hated that. Hated going into a situation with such an obvious blind spot in my experience. It made me feel like around every corner someone-or something-was there, waiting to jump me.
And it probably was.
I followed my gut toward the bridge. The huge green expanse of the St. Johns Bridge arched overhead at least three stories, spanning the river with gothic arches that ended across the river in Forest Park.
I didn’t see anyone walking the concrete trail around the park. Still, I couldn’t see the whole thing.There were too many hills and valleys and trees to get a good view of the place.
I set a Disbursement again and drew Sight. A bloodred trail of magic pulsed like a vein through the air, tracing the natural curve of the land along the water and knotting just twenty yards ahead of me, where the hill
