But like Zayvion, the apartment was unassuming in its simplicity. Modern lines of brushed metal shelves and furnishings were tempered with thick blankets and a few pillows in warm, earthen tones stacked with woven geodesic block patterns, patterns reflected in the upholstery of the couch and love seat, and the area rug in the middle of the white-carpeted living room.
There were no plants in the room, no clutter, not a thing out of place. It almost had an unused look to it.
‘‘Let me guess,’’ I said. ‘‘You don’t entertain much?’’
Zay shrugged and headed into the living room. ‘‘Bathroom’s to your right, opposite the bedroom. I’m going to take these into the kitchen,’’ he said from across the room. ‘‘Hungry?’’
‘‘I could eat,’’ I called over my shoulder. I took off my coat and draped it over the back of the love seat, then made my way toward the bathroom.
‘‘What?’’ he yelled.
‘‘Yes!’’ Then I had to smile. It had been years since I’d shared yelling space with someone, and I liked the feeling of not being the only one in the house who was making noise.
Because I am a snoopy bitch, I glanced in the bathroom—clean to the point of being sparse, very bachelor—but at least there was toilet paper on the roll. I had to pee, but decided to hold it long enough to check out his bedroom.
The door was half open, so I pushed it open the rest of the way and stepped in.
Well, well. So the boy did like some luxury in his life. The bedroom was done up in rich blues and browns, with thin lines of yellow here and there, leaving the impression of dark earth below and night skies above cradling stars or moonlight. The bed took up the lion’s share of the room, and dark wood dressers and nightstands filled the corners.
‘‘You like?’’
I turned and swung my fist, but Zayvion wasn’t dumb. He’d snuck up on me and stopped outside my swinging range. That was embarrassing.
‘‘Damn it, Jones, make some noise, will you?’’ I grumped.
He had taken off his coat and shoes and was leaning, arms crossed over his chest, against one side of the doorway. He was also smiling.
‘‘So. Do you?’’ he said.
‘‘Do I what?’’
‘‘Like the room?’’
‘‘It’s fine. I was looking for the bathroom.’’
He pointed over his shoulder. ‘‘That way.’’
‘‘Thanks.’’ He moved out of the way so I could leave the room. ‘‘And yes,’’ I said. ‘‘Your girlfriend pick out the colors?’’
‘‘No.’’
Well, couldn’t blame a girl for trying to find out a little more about him. ‘‘Your mother?’’
‘‘No. And to answer your other question, I don’t have a girlfriend.’’
Oh. We were being honest.
I raised one eyebrow. ‘‘Good.’’ I left him wondering about that, and used the bathroom—making sure I locked the door first. That man was too quiet.
I made use of the facilities and washed my hands. While I was drying them on a remarkably clean-looking towel, I realized my hand and arm did not itch. The black bands on my left hand remained the same, but they never itched much anyway. I examined my right hand in the bright lights of the bathroom and saw no change. I looked at my bare arm in the mirror, and saw no change there either. Other than the fact that it did not itch, it still had bright metallic ribbons maypoling from nail bed to temple. Pretty, really. And when I traced one line of color along my forearm, I could feel magic stir within me. Much more magic than I’d ever held before.
‘‘What did you do to me, Cody?’’ I muttered. ‘‘What did I do to myself?’’
Zayvion knocked on the door. ‘‘Food’s ready.’’
‘‘Thanks,’’ I said. I finished drying my hands and walked out into the living room. Now that I was in the middle of the room I noticed that the kitchen and living room were one shared space, with an island separating them. Zay stood behind that island, setting out matching plates that were not chipped.
I strolled over and took a seat on the barstool that faced the island. ‘‘So you are either never home and everything you own has been recently unpacked from boxes, or you are a raging clean-freak.’’
‘‘Napkin?’’ he offered.
I took the perfectly pressed, perfectly white cloth napkin.
‘‘Which is it, Jones? Explain your freakishly neat house.’’
‘‘I have a maid come in and dust for me once a month. I know how to pick up after myself. And I’m not home much.’’ He scooped out a serving of homemade lasagna for both of us. ‘‘Get the salad?’’ he asked.
I popped the lid on a plastic container and split the salad between our plates. ‘‘Why aren’t you home?’’
‘‘I work a lot. Late hours.’’ He deposited rolls by the salad. ‘‘I don’t have any butter for the rolls. You okay with that?’’
‘‘With Nola’s cooking, I don’t need butter. Why late hours?’’
He wiped his hands on a towel, folded it, and tossed it over one shoulder. ‘‘You are a painfully curious woman. Anyone ever mention that to you?’’
‘‘Constantly. Do you moonlight?’’
He opened the refrigerator behind him and pulled out two bottles of grape soda. ‘‘Out of beer. Soda?’’
‘‘Sure.’’
He handed me a bottle and then sat across the island from me.
‘‘Most women are impressed by how clean my house is. You? Complain.’’
‘‘I’m not complaining. It’s just . . . don’t you ever let go, relax, and have fun?’’
He wiped at his mouth with his napkin. ‘‘Sure. It’s in the schedule. Monday, laundry, Tuesday, dishes, and every other Thursday afternoon between one and one fifteen, wild abandon.’’
‘‘Well, since that line of inquiry is only getting me sarcasm, I’m going to change the subject. Why doesn’t my arm itch here?’’
He stopped chewing, then started up again. I kept eating and watched his body language. He was serious Zay again.
‘‘Do you know what those marks are, Allie?’’
‘‘I know how I got them. From healing Cody.’’
‘‘Be more specific about that. Did Cody somehow assist you?’’
‘‘Yes. He was chanting a mantra. He held my hands. He . . .’’ I frowned, thinking. ‘‘He reached through me and um, caught up the small magic in me and pulled magic out from the network and mixed them together through me. When he had my hands, it was like I could see magic as colors, textures, and I could see how it could be woven into a kind of healing glyph that I directed over his wound and sent deeper, into muscle and bone.’’
Zay shook his head, a small smile on his lips. ‘‘Small magic in you. I’d wondered. And, I’ll point out, you didn’t tell me about that either.’’
I shrugged. ‘‘I’ve tried telling people that I can hold magic, that I have always had a flicker of it in me. No one believed it.’’ Not even my own mother, I thought to myself.
‘‘Well, it makes sense for why you can carry magic now. And why it hasn’t killed you.’’
‘‘But why is it so strong now?’’
‘‘I think Cody synched you.’’
‘‘Synched?’’
‘‘Old magic term, back in the days before it went public.’’
I had cut a chunk of lasagna and paused with it halfway to my mouth. I didn’t know magic was discovered more than thirty years ago. That wasn’t taught in any of my history classes, and certainly wasn’t a common belief. As far as I knew magic had been
discovered
thirty years ago.
Zay negated that fact like he expected me to know it. Expected me to believe magic had been around for a lot longer than everyone thought.
‘‘The problem with synching,’’ he continued, ‘‘was that a person could become so in rhythm and tune with magic that they would either become lost to it, or become a part of it. Neither of those things are good. People who are receptive to the frequency of magic can sometimes carry magic within their bodies for short periods. On a small scale, a very small scale, there was some success with this. But anyone who tried to carry more magic than enough for a simple spell—’’
‘‘Burned themselves out,’’ I said. ‘‘Physically, or mentally. We studied something like that in school, but they called it ‘forbidden’ and nothing else. They refuse to teach any more about it.’’
He nodded. ‘‘Too many people were harmed or killed trying it. No one’s been able to isolate which combination of genetic quirks enables a person to actually house magic.’’
‘‘You think Cody can hold magic?’’
‘‘No. But I think whatever he did to you, or through you, triggered your ability to house magic on a much larger scale. But not without a price.’’ He pointed at my hand.
And for the first time, I felt self-conscious of it. I curled my fingers closer around my fork, and couldn’t believe I felt bad. It was just a mark. A burn. I’d been burned before.
But never like this, never with so many colors, never so sensitive, never so . . . beautiful. Did liking a disfiguring mark make me a freak? Did being ashamed of it make me any better?
I scooped a bite of noodles and sauce into my mouth. ‘‘It burned,’’ I said. ‘‘But it hasn’t really hurt, just itches sometimes. Do you think it will fade like a burn?’’
‘‘I think that depends.’’
‘‘On what?’’
‘‘On if you ever use magic again.’’
‘‘Listen, I like Nola and all that stuff she stands for, but I am not going to turn magic-free just because I got a little burn.’’
‘‘Good,’’ he said. ‘‘You have a great ability, Allie. It would be a shame to see you give it up.’’
I took a swig of grape soda. ‘‘I think I can cover the marks with makeup.’’
‘‘I suppose, but I don’t think you should.’’
‘‘Why?’’
‘‘I think it’s beautiful. Exotic. Powerful.’’
I looked up into those tiger eyes and saw the fire burning behind them.
Oh.
‘‘I like the sound of that,’’ I said.
‘‘Good.’’ He went back to eating, but there was a palatable heat between us. I started thinking about that bed of his, starting thinking about those sheets.
‘‘The bands on your left hand will probably stay,’’ he finally said.
‘‘Okay. I give up. How do you know these things?’’
I hadn’t expected him to answer. I especially hadn’t expected him to tell me what sounded like the truth.
‘‘I’ve studied magic my entire life. My . . . my job involves . . . being aware of all the ways magic can manifest. Knowing how it is used, legally and illegally.’’