Hell Bent Page 2

  I curled my fingers into a fist, the rings lining up like brass knuckles.

  “How about you drink this?” Terric said.

  I turned. He held the coffee out.

  “Why? Did you poison it?”

  That, finally, got a dazzler of a smile out of him. Yep. Leading man material. “And ruin a good dark roast? Please.”

  I took the cup, which meant he and I were standing pretty close together. I could feel the Life magic coiled around him like a second skin. Just as Death magic had changed me, Life magic had changed him. He carried it inside his body, just like I carried Death. This close, I could feel Life magic reaching out to me like a cool breeze. It made my mouth water.

  I took the cup. We both ignored how bad my hand was shaking.

  “We could solve this,” Terric said. “Use magic together, you and I. Cast a spell. Life, Shame.”

  “No.”

  “I don’t understand why you won’t.” He lifted a hand but didn’t touch me. “I’ve respected that you want space and time. An entire year and a half. We’re still Soul Complements. We can use magic like no one else, break it so that it’s just as strong as it used to be. Why fight that?”

  He was right about magic. It didn’t have the delightfully dangerous “use it hard and it will use you back harder” kick like the days before the apocalypse. We’d forced dark and light magic to join and mingle together, diluting the strength of both. Magic had gone soft. Limp. Light spells were a dim glow, Illusions were thin as glass, and a knock-you-senseless Impact spell was no worse than a polite pat. The price to pay for those spells had lessened too. No more weeks of pain and agony in exchange for powerful spells. The best you could hope for was a barely discernible spell that might give you a case of gas.

  And while I found it hilarious that people who used to do very bad things with magic were now raging to find the magical equivalent to Viagra, I was simultaneously just a little terrified about what magic could do in my hands.

  Well, in my hands and Terric’s hands. Magic might be neutered, or “healed” as Terric likes to remind me, for other magic users . . . but not for us. Soul Complements, or Breakers, as some people like to call us, could make magic do all those powerful things.

  As long as we used it together.

  I could have told him all that. But he had heard it before. He knew why I didn’t want to cast magic with him.

  I took a drink of the coffee. Whatever snappy comeback I was working out died on my lips at about the same moment the coffee came alive on my taste buds. I didn’t care that it was hot enough to scorch. I gulped it down all in one go.

  “You know you need it,” Terric said. “Need me. Need Life magic. Just like that coffee.”

  I tipped the cup down. Was going to ask what the hell he was talking about. But then I got it. He’d put something, a spell of some kind, in the coffee.

  “You spiked my coffee.”

  “I spelled your coffee.”

  “With what?”

  “Health. A little Life will do you good, Shame. Nothing you say will change my opinion on that.”

  I dragged my tongue over the roof of my mouth a couple times. “Gritty.” Truth was, I felt a hell of a lot better. Sure, I was still hungry, sure, I was still hungover, but at least there was something—coffee and magic—in my belly. Something to stave off the death growing in me.

  I hated to admit that Terric could do something to make my hunger and need go away.

  Because every time he cast magic with me, every time I admitted I needed him, magic tied us closer together. I’d watched it happen with other people like us, other Soul Complements.

  I knew what my future held. Either I would become a killing monstrosity like Jingo Jingo and other Death magic users before me, or I would die, consumed by my own hunger. Since the whole monstrosity thing was just too cliché and would make my mum cry, I’d made my choice.

  There was no need to drag Terric down with me.

  “There’s a meeting today?” I asked.

  He nodded slowly. “The Overseer called. He’s flying into Portland. Says it’s urgent?”

  “I knew this?” I kicked pants, shirts, and half a dozen random cheeseburger wrappers out of the way, looking for my shoes. My room was a mess of clothes and broken things—a pile of burnt matches on the dresser, the phone book I’d compulsively shredded page by page for six hours straight that overflowed the wastebasket, and six dead potted plants that had been alive the day before yesterday.

  I could draw life out of almost anything. And I did. The furniture in my room wasn’t antique; it had gone frail beneath the incessant picking of Death magic. My jeans weren’t faded and shredded at the edges for fashion’s sake.

  “Yes,” I realized Terric was saying, “I told you on the phone yesterday. I told you at the bar the day before. And I told you by e-mail the day before that. You’re not listening to me, are you?”

  “What?”

  He sighed. “Your boots are in the bathroom.”

  “Right.” I pulled my coat off the bottom of the bed and shrugged into it. “Where’s the meeting?”

  “St. Johns.”

  “Again?”

  I walked into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the bathtub to tie my boots. Ever since the four wells of magic under Portland had turned out to be five—the hidden fifth well crystallized beneath St. Johns—a lot of magic users saw it as some kind of sacred ground. Neutral territory, peaceful land of blessed magic users mumbo-in-the-jumbo.

  Not that magic users had much in the way of fighting one another anymore, other than traditional guns and violence. Which, sure, could be handy, but lacked the particularly satisfying backstab–double-cross–kill-you-dead-without-anyone-knowing that magic used to offer.

  Since healing magic had included restoring people’s memories that those of us in the magic-oversight business had worked hard to take away, well, both the government and law enforcement agencies and the magic-ruling Authority were pretty twitchy about the role magic played on all levels now.

  Or at least that’s how it had been the last time I was paying attention a year ago.

  “...be there,” Terric was saying. “Are you listening?”

  “Yes,” I lied. I walked out of the bathroom.

  Terric lounged by the front door, staring at his nails. “Liar.”

  I grinned. “Only when I’m conscious. Ready?”

  “Waiting on you.”

  But I wasn’t talking to Terric. I was talking to the ghost who was hovering near my half-filled bookshelf.

  Eleanor Roth. She had long light hair, an athletic twentysomething body, and a smile that transformed her from pretty to pretty please. She had wanted to date me once.

  But now she was a ghost, tied to me and the magic I wielded. She was a constant reminder of what happens when I lose control over the Death magic inside me. I had consumed her. Put my hands on her and drunk her down.

  I’d taken her life, but somehow she hadn’t quite gotten death out of it either.

  Like I said, I can break anything.

  And I regretted what I did to her more than anyone would know.

  She pointed to a book on the shelf. I strode over, pulled it out, glanced at the front cover. The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde. It was probably a gift from my mum. I didn’t remember reading it.

  “I don’t think you’ll need reading material at the meeting,” Terric said. “It won’t be that boring.”

  He couldn’t see Eleanor. Not without working magic specifically to look for her. I made it a point not to mention her. Ever.

  Over the last three years of being haunted, I’d found out Eleanor liked to read. So I helped out with that, tried to get to the bookstore once a month so she could pick out new books, turned the pages so she could read.

  It was the least I could do for what I’d done to her.

  I pocketed the book. Eleanor smiled and floated along beside me.

  “Everything about this job bores me,” I said
to Terric.

  He just shook his head. He didn’t believe me.

  Who could blame him?

  Chapter 2

  Terric did the driving. I did what I did best: nothing. Just slouched in the front seat, eyes closed behind dark sunglasses, coat collar flipped up to my cheekbones, head pounding. It took a lot to get me drunk, double that to push me into hangover land. Three days and nights in a bar just about did it every time.

  Except I usually got a day or so of sleep afterward. The half hour of shut-eye I’d managed only sharpened my headache.

  “Shit,” Terric said, slowing the car. “That’s Hamilton. Stay here. I’ll be right back.” He parked the car, opened the door, and was out of it in the same amount of time it took me to open my eyes.

  Narrow street, old warehouses, MLK Boulevard. Whatever, whoever Hamilton was, it must be serious. Not only was Terric running down the street all long-legged and action-heroed, but he had also double-parked on the wrong side of the street.

  I thought about calling the cops to ticket him for it. Imagined how angry he would be. Smiled. Closed my eyes again.

  Eleanor poked me in the shoulder.

  Thing about ghosts—they are dead cold. And stubborn. She poked my arm a second time, gentle as a dull ice pick chipping at my bones.

  “What?” I said. “He’s fine.”

  Poke.

  Opened my eyes. Again. “I am not running out there after him.”

  She pointed at my heart.

  “Nothing there, love,” I said. “Empty as a shadow.”

  A man slipped out one of the warehouse doors and walked quickly in the opposite direction that Terric had gone. He looked over his shoulder, then caught sight of me sitting in the car. Light hair cut short and clean, thin, tanned face with eyes set just too wide on either side of his nose. He wore black boots, dark jeans, and a button-down short-sleeve shirt he’d rolled the sleeves up on to show the tattoo of a stylized black feather.

  He pulled one hand up, stuck his finger at me, thumb cocked like a gun. Even from this distance I could read his lips as he jerked his hand in a shooting motion: “dead.”

  There was no spell attached to that action, and I’d never seen this joker before in my life. I flipped him off and mouthed, Bite me.

  He scowled and moved off at a jog. Sure was in a hurry to be somewhere.

  Then the back-of-the-head slap of magic being used, bent, and manhandled hit me hard enough I hissed. Terric was casting magic. More than that, Terric was trying to break magic.

  Without me.

  “Balls. What does he think he’s doing?”

  Eleanor poked right in the middle of my forehead this time, the pain and cold of her finger mixing with all the rest of the hurt in me.

  “Damn it, woman, stop touching me.”

  She held up a finger and aimed it at my eye.

  “Fine!” I shoved the door open and groaned. It was too damn sunny, too damn cold, and too damn early for me to be walking this damn street to save Terric’s damn magic-wielding skin.

  New plan: find Terric, knock him out, no magic required. Then drive back to my room where I could sleep off the knife-wielding banshees screaming in my head.

  I stormed down the street clenching and unclenching my fists, the rings scraping between my fingers. I hoped to hell there was going to be someone I could punch at the end of this.

  Unfortunately, someone else had the same idea.

  Just as I reached the corner of the alley, I saw a guy move out of the shadow. I ducked the fist aimed at my face. Took a shot at the guy’s ribs. Since the man was built like an ox, the only bones that cracked were my knuckles.

  “Bloody hell!”

  “Don’t kill him, Shame,” Terric said from somewhere farther down the alley where he was, apparently, holding his own against three guys.

  “If I’d wanted him dead . . .” I jumped back out of the man’s reach. “I’d have already . . .” The heel of my boot hit something slick.

  Fuck.

  I went down hard, knocking the back of my head against the moss-covered brick wall.

  I’ll take “concussion” for four hundred, Alex.

  While I reacquainted myself with the inside of my eyelids, Terric got busy with the swearwords he saved for injuries, breakups, and soccer—excuse me—football. Since I didn’t hear any vuvuzelas, I didn’t know why he was cussing.

  Sure, Terric was my partner—work, not bed—but half the time I had no idea what was going on in that head of his.

  I opened my eyes just in time to see the ox swing a steel-toed boot the size of a Hummer at my gut. I rolled.

  Not fast enough.

  The boot clipped me in the low back. White, ragged pain shot down my butt and leg. It didn’t do a damn thing to improve my mood.

  It did, however, shake loose my hunger.

  Hunger to kill. Hunger to consume.

  Death magic is never more than a thought away for me. I’ve been told that I look like the Grim Reaper himself when I spend too much time away from Terric, who has the same screwed-up overpowerful thing going with Life magic and therefore sort of cancels my Death magic thing. Yes, it’s more involved than that. No, I don’t like to go into the details.

  But my point: Grim Reaper—with a hangover.

  Bad news for the bastard beating me up.

  “Changed my mind about the whole not-killing thing,” I said. “Too bad for you, mate.”

  “Shame,” Terric warned. I heard footsteps running away. Was he letting those men go?

  Didn’t have time to look.

  I flicked my fingers, rings sparking as I carved a glyph in the air between me and the ox. Binding spell, not death. I wanted him to hurt before I snapped his neck.

  The Binding, a net of black and silver magic sharp as razor blades, lashed out to hover in the air in front of me.

  Magic might be kinder and gentler for most people. But it wasn’t kinder or gentler for me. Nor was it was invisible.

  The ox held up his hands, maybe to cast a Block spell or maybe just surprised to see such a huge, violent spell snarling inches in front of his flattened nose.

  Only a handful of people can temporarily break magic into light and dark. Like splitting an atom, when you break magic, it is a power untamed. The only Breakers I knew of were Soul Complements, and there weren’t many in the world.

  You want to know how I know God has a twisted sense of humor? I’m one of the people who can break magic. Power at the snap of my fingers. Well, if Terric and I snap our fingers at the same time.

  Casting magic on my own delivered a harder hit than a non-Breaker could ever hope for. After all, Death magic coiled inside me and raged through any spell I cast.

  But casting magic didn’t come without a bit of a price to pay. That headache of mine was ramping up to ride me for a day at least.

  “Shamus Flynn, do not. Do. Not,” Terric was saying.

  Another price I paid for casting magic? Terric’s nagging.

  “Bind,” I said, using that word to push the spell at the ox. The spell wrapped him from knee to throat and squeezed tight, dipping razor tips into his skin just deep enough to draw blood.

  The ox yelled.

  Now for a little Shamus happy fun time.

  “This is how it’s going to work, my friend.” I braced my hand on the wall and tested my vertical capabilities. Knees held, back straightened, world steady as a drunken hobo.

  I hurt from the kick, concussion, whiskey overdose, and magic price. But more than that, the fingers-down-the-pants need to consume the man’s life and every living thing around me set my heart kicking it junkie-style.

  I wanted life. I wanted to drink it down and lap out the bottom of the bottle.

  The moss under my fingertips was wet, spongy, and very, very alive. A tip-of-the-tongue honey-sweet burn of life filled my mouth as the moss turned brown and died. Consumed. Dead.

  And I was just getting started.

  I glanced over at Eleanor, who st
ood at the opening of the alley. She looked afraid.

  “If you touch him.” Terric strode my way, his pace hampered by a slight limp. “I will kick your scrawny Irish ass. And then I will tell your mother what you did.”

  “You’re going to tell on me to my mum? What are you, six?”

  That got half a smile out of him. But it did not soften the look in his eyes. The one that said Shame’s happy fun time was over.

  “I called Detective Stotts.” Terric held up his phone like I’d be impressed he had a cop on speed dial.

  “Why Stotts?” Hungry now. Done talking now. Not paying attention.

  “Because the police handle murder cases. We just handle magic users.”

  “Paperwork. All we handle is paperwork.”

  “You don’t even do that. Why did you follow me? I told you to stay in the car. Do you enjoy getting the crap beat out of you? Don’t you know how dangerous . . .”

  That’s when I completely tuned him out because I’d heard this lecture so many times I could sing along without the bouncing ball.

  Also, the need for life and the consuming of it wasn’t getting any less. The ox was still standing there, wrapped in that Binding spell I’d cast. Hurting. Ripe. Alive.

  Bleeding.

  Since he liked to beat up perfect strangers in dirty alleys, I presumed he was not a nice person. Therefore I would feel less horrible about killing him.

  “...just deal, you idiot.” Terric slammed his hand into the middle of my chest. Hard enough both my shoulders hit the bricks behind me.

  I blinked, swallowed. Focused on him.

  “So, Terric,” I said. “When I’m breaking your fingers do you want me to start or finish with your thumbs?”

  Terric completely tuned me out and was whispering to himself. So rude.

  That’s when I noticed he’d pulled off his Void stone necklace and dropped it somewhere at our feet where it would do exactly zip to dampen the magic coursing through him.

  Life magic.

  “No,” I said. “Not happening. Not here. I told you to keep your hands off—”

  Terric called on Life magic.

  Here’s what happens when he does that—he goes all white-light angelic looking, which the chicks, and I guess some of the dudes, really like. Then the magic inside him devours his humanity. His eyes go silver, no pupils, no white. Any shred of heart, soul, or mind of that man is wiped away. Replaced with a cold, alien thing that looks out from behind his eyes. Life magic. It was not human. It was not Terric.