Devon Monk - Magic on the Storm

“Terric?” Zay asked.

Shame smiled, like he’d come down with rigor. “Wouldn’t be a party without him.”

I opened the door and stepped through a ward that had been cast upon the doorway. The ward would probably make me stop cold if I didn’t have an invitation to enter the room. Not exactly screening the participants, so much as letting whoever cast the ward-which, by the sweet Earl Grey tea taste on the back of my throat, I assumed was Victor-know who was coming in, and if they belonged here.

Even in the off-hours, I’d never seen the main room of the inn so quiet.

It wasn’t that it was empty. There were maybe thirty or so people standing or sitting at the eight round tables with clean white tablecloths, arranged so that the area to the left, where a longer table was placed, held the room’s focus. The lunch counter to the right was empty.

I had met half of the thirty or so people present, and could only assume the others were the Seattle contingent. Everyone had a drink: water, or coffee, tea, soda. There didn’t seem to be any alcohol present. Ample baskets of bread and cheeses and olives were ready at each table.

It was clear there wasn’t a regular customer, a non-Authority-sanctioned magic user, in the room. And it was also clear that no one much liked one another. Body language was tight and tense; expressions bordered on civil at best. People were grouped in four sections, probably shoring up with whichever faction they were sided with. Zayvion had been telling me for months that there was a war brewing among the Authority, and that it would break any day. Looking around the room made me wonder if it was going to break tonight.

The last thing I wanted to do was enter a room of angry, trigger-happy magic users. And that was exactly what I had come here to do.

Welcome to the bigs.

Chapter Eight

Most of the people in the room turned to look. Not at Zayvion, who stood to my right, not at Shamus, who stood to my left, but at me. Or more likely, at Daniel Beckstrom’s daughter.

I met each of their gazes. A brief blur of faces, of eyes, of expressions: judgment, curiosity, and blatant hatred.

Yeah, well, I was thrilled to meet them too.

Maeve appeared from one of the doorways, walking beside a giant of a man, easily six inches taller than me or Zay, and almost as wide-shouldered as Mackanie Love. Black hair, dark beard with a dust of gray cut close to his jaw. He wore an old bomber jacket complete with wool collar over a T-shirt, jeans, and lumberjack boots. He smiled as he talked with Maeve. He gave off an easy, ready-for-a-fight kind of vibe, like he was in the company of old friends and old enemies and would be more than happy to take either down.

Some of the tension in the room shifted. Not that it was much better; it was just different.

Zayvion started off toward Maeve and the big man. I glanced out of the corner of my eye to see if this, perhaps, was Terric. But Shame’s fake smile had turned into something introspective. Wicked. Boy was planning something. I didn’t know what he was thinking, but anytime I’d seen that look on his face, it had been trouble.

“Who’s that?” I asked as I strode toward an empty table in the exact center of the room, not caring who was staring at me, nor what faction I might be sitting down with.

Shame followed. “Hayden Kellerman. One of Mum’s old friends. Might be my new da, the way she’s looking at him.” He yanked a chair out from the table, grinding the thing across the wooden floor, and then slouched down into it, scowling.

“You don’t like him?”

“Are you even in the same room with me?” He gave me a brief, sideways look. No smile, but plenty of twinkle in that eye. “I thought you were good at reading people.”

“So you do like him. What? Don’t want your mom to know?” I took the other chair, and sat with a lot less noise, thank you.

“Better that way. For some reason she doubts the purity of my intentions when I give her pointers on her love life. Especially when it comes to me handing out her phone number.”

“Doubts your purity? Can’t imagine why.”

He kicked my foot under the table, not hard, and went back to his sullen scowl.

I’d missed dinner, so checked out the cheese, chose a few squares, and popped one in my mouth. Very good. Mild and a little smoky. I watched Zayvion make his way across the room, pausing to talk and shake hands with at least a dozen people as he slowly strolled toward Maeve and Hayden.

“He’s popular tonight,” I noted.

“Guardian of the gates,” Shame said like that explained it all. “I think he’s been in Alaska.”

“Zay?”

“Hayden.”

“And?”

“And. Nothing.” He picked up a glass of water, took a drink. He looked much more relaxed, or maybe he had been relaxed and I just hadn’t been paying attention. This many powerful magic users in one room made me jumpy.

No, it made me want to stand up and walk out. But that wasn’t the way it worked. Once a part of the Authority, you didn’t leave without checking your memories at the door. And I planned to keep hold of as many of my memories as I could.

I watched Zayvion work the room, all Zen and smooth, deadly confidence. Looked good on him. And it made an impression on the other people in the room too. Made them sit back, calm, or sit forward, anxious, reactions that were interesting in and of themselves.

For the first time, I realized Zayvion was a respected, or maybe even feared, member of the Authority. Not just a student. Not just a man who patrolled the streets looking for bad guys. But a very dangerous man who used all forms of magic-Life, Blood, Death, Faith, light, and dark-to guard the gates, to keep magic in the way the Authority intended it to be kept, and the people of this city safe. Even if it meant opposing fellow members of the Authority.

“Shame?” I asked, keeping my gaze on Zay.

“Mmm?”

“Am I dating royalty?”

“You tell me.”

I smiled. “King Jones. Doesn’t sound very royal.”

That got a chuckle out of him. “He’s a beauty, though, isn’t he? Especially when he’s working. Can make a mountain bow down to the sea.”

I sat back to enjoy this. Maybe I’d get a good look at a part of Mr. Private I hadn’t seen before.

Zay finally made it over to Hayden. I was right. Hayden was about six inches taller than Zay, and twice as broad at the shoulders. He made Zay look tiny, towering over him like that. Hayden would make a hell of a Viking, swinging a battle-ax or carrying a cannon over one shoulder as he stormed the castle gates.

He shook Zay’s hand, then wrapped him in a huge bear hug, slapping him on the back so loud, I winced as it echoed through the room.

“Good to see you, boy!” Hayden’s voice carried over the rest of the conversations filling the place. “Looks like you’re about to be put through your paces! Think you’re up for it?”

Zay stepped back and answered, but his response was so quiet, I couldn’t pick it up, not even with Hound ears.

Still, Hayden laughed. “That’s what I like to hear. Got some new kind of fire burning in him, doesn’t he, Maeve? What you been doing to this boy while I’ve been gone?”

“Excuse me,” said a man behind Shame and me. “Are you Daniel Beckstrom’s daughter?”

Danger. That was all I knew. Shame tensed from head to foot, both hands off the table now. The cheese knife was missing.

I inhaled, taking in the stranger’s scents-the plastic of too much hair gel, and a deeper note of something faintly metallic. He was not familiar to me. I turned.

He was maybe midthirties, shorter than me, looked like he knew his way around a gym, and gave off that professional broker, banker, doctor vibe. Wore a Nike T-shirt under a Windbreaker, and jeans with tennis shoes. Clean haircut. Clean-shaven. Small, close-set brown eyes. I’d never seen him before in my life.

“Your father was a good man. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

If he thought my father was a good man, my opinion of him just took a dive. Still, I had manners. “Thank you. And you are?”

“Mike Barham.” He held out his hand. I didn’t take it.

“Nice to meet you,” I said. “If you’ll excuse us, I don’t want to miss out on the main event.”

He glanced at Shamus and gave a halfhearted attempt to look surprised. “Shamus Flynn,” he said. He didn’t sound angry, but hate radiated off the man. “I didn’t know you were in town. Still living with your mother?”

Shame didn’t turn. Didn’t twitch, didn’t look at him.

Mike’s smile slipped. He walked around to stand next to Shame, which did not seem like a very smart thing to do. “You still mad at me about the position up north?” he asked. “You know the best man won. Plus, you’d never make it out there without your dear mother to protect you. It’s dangerous out in the real world.”

Something inside Shame coiled and burned, ready to leap. One more word out of Barham, and I was pretty sure Barham would have a cheese knife stabbed in his throat.

“Blow me, Barham,” Shame said.

Barham shook his head. “You are a spoiled little boy, Flynn. Your father used to tell me you were his biggest disappointment. He used to tell me he had wanted a son, not a fag.”

Shame rolled his head back and smiled up at him. “Tell me more about my father, Mike. Please do.”

I’d never heard that tone out of Shame. It was sweet, nice. And scared the hell out of me.

“You,” I said to Mike Barham with enough Influence to stun a rhino, “move away. Now.”

He jerked, and glared at me. He opened his mouth.

“Go,” I said.

He did as I said, because he couldn’t not do it. Under my Influence, he turned and walked away. He ended up across the room, where he sat at another table, and threw me angry looks.

Whatever. I was not going to just sit there and listen to him insult my friend.

It took Shame a full five minutes to finally let go of the cheese knife under the table, and place it back on the table. He didn’t look at me. He didn’t say anything. Just rolled his head down and stared off on some middle distance.

“So, he’s a prick,” I said. “Want to talk?”

He shook his head imperceptibly. I didn’t push him on it. I’d always thought Shame was straight. Not that it mattered. If Mike had wanted to make Shame angry, he’d done a bang-up job of it.

I glanced around the room, looking for Zayvion. He was absorbed in a quiet, intense conversation with another man I’d never met. The man with Zay was slender and tall, wore black slacks and a black turtleneck, and held himself with an elegance that made me think of historical movies with sword fights and aristocrats. His hair was so blond, it was white, and long enough it fell between his shoulder blades, pulled back and banded. He and Zayvion were both turned half toward us, talking quietly, but also with hand gestures, as if they had a lot to say, and not enough time to cover it with words alone.

Hoping to change the mood, I nudged Shame.

“So who’s Zay with now?”

Shame blinked and seemed to come back from a long, long distance. He inhaled, and looked in the direction of my gaze.