‘‘But he is family, you know?’’ she said. ‘‘Family. Still, I do what is right. Tell police. Watch them arrest my Boy, take him away in chains. And my heart bleeds for him. For my poor, prideful Boy.’’
‘‘Is that the only reason you turned him in? Because it was the right thing to do?’’
Then she did a strange thing. She looked away, looked at the floor, looked uncomfortable. ‘‘Yes.’’
She was lying. I could smell the sourness of it on her. And when she looked back at me, her expression clearly stated that she would say no more.
I let it go. Maybe Nola could tell me more. Maybe Zayvion too, if I ever found him. Or maybe someday, when we both had time to recover our lives, I could convince her I was someone she could talk to.
‘‘Is Boy home from the hospital yet?’’ I asked.
She laughed, a short, sharp bark. ‘‘Where have you been, Allie girl? Boy come home month ago. He is strong. Back in school.’’
‘‘Good,’’ I said, and I meant it.
The hard edge in Mama’s eyes eased. ‘‘Yes. Good. You go. This no place for you now. No place for your
kind.
’’
She stepped up to me, touched my right hand. The magic beneath my skin settled at her touch, the constant, roaring pressure of it eased.
‘‘You find your place,’’ she said. ‘‘Who you are. Who you should be. You find your people. Family.’’
She turned. ‘‘Go,’’ she said over her shoulder. She strode off into the kitchen and started yelling at one of her Boys to clean the floors.
Boy with the gun still had his hand under the counter. I decided not to push my luck with him or his gun, and left. Mama was right about one thing. I had some searching to do. To figure out who I was. And who I intended to be.
I stepped outside and walked as quickly as I could through the rain to the curb. I wasn’t feeling very well, the mix of smells suddenly too strong for me to stomach. I was tired too, which wasn’t much of a surprise. My stamina still wasn’t all that great.
Rain poured harder.
I could walk a few more blocks to the bus stop. But a cab was pulling through traffic, and I waved and whistled and caught the driver’s attention. He did a passable, if illegal, U-turn, and pulled up beside me. By this point, rain was pounding down so hard, I couldn’t see the buildings on the other side of the street. I reached for the door handle.
A man’s hand reached down at the same time, and I was overwhelmed by the heavy stench of iron and old vitamins.
‘‘Allow me, Ms. Beckstrom.’’
I jerked away and stepped back. The man wore a hat and long coat, but was plain-looking, totally forgettable in a crowd. I knew his type. I’d grown up around them.
And I knew his smell.
This bastard had tried to hurt me. Somehow, in some way I could not remember.
‘‘The war is coming,’’ he said. ‘‘Time to choose your side.’’
Before I could do so much as think about drawing on the magic within me, before I could even whisper a mantra, or scream for the cops, he opened the door, left it open, turned, and walked away.
What in the hell was that all about? War? What war?
The cabbie powered down the passenger window. ‘‘You getting in, lady?’’
I could say no. There was a chance that man had somehow booby-trapped the cab. Or I could say yes, get in the cab, and get the hell away from here.
I voted for speed over certainty.
I climbed in the backseat, and shut and locked the door. Going to my new apartment might be a bad idea. Maybe he’d bugged the car. Maybe he knew the license plate and was following me.
Yeah, well let him follow me. He’d get the surprise of his life if he showed up at my apartment, because I would kick his ass with every ounce of magic I had in me. The war didn’t have to come to me; I was more than happy to go to it if I had to.
‘‘The Forecastle.’’
The cab moved out into traffic, and even though I watched, I saw no other sign of the man. I paid the driver and got out in front of my new apartment, walked inside, and waited awhile, dripping on the floor, looking out the window at the street. Wet trees, wet buildings, wet shops. Wet people walking up the hill with wet grocery bags. Nobody stopped. Nobody looked my way.
Maybe that had just been some sort of warning.
For something I could not remember.
Great.
I headed up the stairs to my apartment. I was so very done with not knowing what the hell was going on. After hiring some movers to bring my few unbroken possessions to my new place, I’d go out and start looking for answers. And I had a good idea of who to ask first—Mr. Zayvion Jones.
Chapter Seventeen
I
found Zayvion at the deli we’d had lunch in, and smiled at remembering that we’d had lunch there. He was sitting toward the back of the room, maybe at the same table we’d sat at, staring out the window at the gray, rainy street, his bowl of soup untouched, his coffee cup full. He did not look up as I walked in.
The sight of him, the smell of pine, did good things for my memory, shook loose a few flashes—his smile, the taste of garlic on his lips, his eyes, burning bright. I was pretty sure I’d had it bad for this man. Might even still have it bad for him.
I walked over to his table, and got halfway there before he glanced up.
His face blanched and his eyes went wide. ‘‘Allie?’’ he whispered, like I was a ghost he didn’t want anyone to know he could see.
‘‘Zayvion, right?’’ I asked.
‘‘Yes.’’ He got back a little of his Zen and stood. ‘‘Please. Please, sit down.’’ He held out his hand toward me, but didn’t touch me as he held his other hand toward the seat. I felt like visiting royalty.
‘‘Thanks.’’ I eased down, careful of the scars over my ribs that still hurt, especially in the rain, especially in the city where magic pooled and flowed.
He sat across from me, and I watched as he worked really hard to clear his face of all expression. While he was doing that, I was trying to fit him to the stories Nola had told me. That he had saved my life more than once. That he had tried to save me in the end. That we had been lovers and I had almost killed myself to save him, even though I thought he had betrayed me.
That last part just didn’t sound like me. I wasn’t the type of person to give myself up to grand, noble sacrifices.
And this Zayvion looked like he hadn’t shaved in a couple days, and like maybe he had been wearing the same T-shirt for too many weeks in a row. This Zayvion looked like maybe he’d been spending too much time drinking and not enough time sleeping.
‘‘How are you?’’ I asked.
His eyebrows shot up and he let out a nervous laugh. ‘‘I’ve been okay. How are you?’’
‘‘Tired,’’ I said, ‘‘but that’s getting better every day. Nola told me everything she could.’’
‘‘Memory loss?’’ he asked. ‘‘I’m sorry.’’
I shrugged and pushed my anger about it away. ‘‘Things happen. You use magic, it uses you, and I’ve been magic’s bitch for a long time.’’ I gave him a weak smile, and he nodded encouragingly.
‘‘Do you remember anything?’’ he asked.
‘‘Flashes. A few images. A lot of strong emotions without a lot of clear ideas as to why I feel that way.’’
‘‘But Nola told you about your father?’’
I nodded. ‘‘And about Cody, James, Bonnie, and Mama. She told me about the, uh . . . Violet’s research,’’ I said a little more quietly, aware that the disks were still largely unknown, and as far as I knew, not entirely recovered. ‘‘And that James is up on murder charges. He’s just the tip of this tech-stealing thing, isn’t he?’’
Zayvion blinked and sat back. He did a good job of covering his surprise, and even did a good job lying. ‘‘No. I don’t know what would give you that idea.’’
What gave me that idea was Mama refusing to look me straight in the eye. What gave me that idea was the ominous war-is-coming bastard who opened the cab door for me. What gave me that idea was Zayvion being so quick to deny it, even though I could smell the lie on him.
Fair enough. I could play along until I figured things out. I had lost my memory, not my brains. I dropped the subject and moved on.
‘‘Nola told me Cody cleared my name,’’ I said. ‘‘She’s trying to get a judge to allow him to come live with her on the farm. She has his cat.’’
‘‘I didn’t know she was doing that,’’ he said. ‘‘I think that’s a good idea. Really good.’’
I did too—it would keep him safely out of the reach of magic, safely out of the reach of people who would try to use him like James had. Maybe safely out of whatever may or may not be about to happen in this city.
‘‘She told me my father’s funeral was a few weeks ago, while I was still in the coma.’’
‘‘It was closed casket,’’ Zayvion said. ‘‘All his ex-wives attended except for your mother. There were yellow roses and red peonies everywhere. Violet cried.’’
‘‘So you remember the details of weddings and funerals, eh? Any hot girls there?’’ Oh. I remembered him telling me about a wedding. About daffodils and lilacs. Whose was it? I chased the memory, dug around in the dark goo of my mind. Nothing. Just the knowledge that he’d said something once.
‘‘You remember me telling you that?’’
‘‘Not when you did, but that you did.’’ I rubbed at my forehead with my fingers. I was wearing the mint green gloves I had knitted, and the yarn made a pleasant scritch across my skin.
‘‘I’m impressed,’’ he said. And I knew that he was.
‘‘No hot chicks?’’ I asked again.
He glanced out the window, glanced back at me. ‘‘I couldn’t—wasn’t looking.’’
Oh.
I pulled the letter with my name in his handwriting out of my purse and slid it across the table. The envelope was still sealed.
‘‘Whatever it says in there,’’ I said, ‘‘I want to hear it from you.’’
Zayvion put his fingers on the envelope, turned it over, and looked at the unbroken seal. I watched him. It was comfortable here in the heat of the deli, the smell of rich, roasted coffee, the spice of cinnamon and the salt of vegetable soup filling me up. I knew I could use magic if I wanted to figure out what Zayvion was really feeling. I had tried accessing magic once—when I Influenced my apartment manager—and it had been easy. But it stung like salt in a cut, and that actually made me happy.
Sometimes it is good to know your limits. Good to know you still have limits. It makes you human. And I wanted to stay that way.
Zayvion swallowed, and when he looked back at me, his eyes were a little red. ‘‘Allie, don’t. Don’t make me do this.’’
I waited.