Black Magic (Black Records Book 1) Page 8

  Walking like a couple of supercentenarians on a morning stroll, we ambled towards the door with me struggling to put one foot in front of the other. I was too exhausted to dig my keys out of my bag, so once again I rested my head on Brody’s shoulder, feeling his chest muscles flex ever so slightly as he hunted for them himself.

  “No elevator huh?” he asked when he got me into the small lobby.

  “Stairs,” I muttered. I was fading fast. “Three floors.”

  The man was patient, I had to give him that. He pulled the heavy fire door open with one hand and held it there while supporting my agonizingly slow journey through it. He didn’t even complain when I made him stop and rest every fourth or fifth step. It took nearly fifteen minutes to make the normally two minute trip from the front door of the building to the one leading onto to my floor, and Brody was nothing but positive and encouraging the entire time.

  He fished my keys out of his pocket and held them up for me to see.

  “Which one of these is for your unit?” he asked.

  “No,” I replied. “You can’t.”

  Being so close to food, a change of clothes, and a warm bed gave me enough of a mental boost that I managed to step away from Brody in order to stand in front of my apartment door. I formed the Boy Scouts symbol with my left hand, held it flat out and face down in front of the door, and executed a swift and seemingly casual series of motions to deactivate the seven artifact wards I’d screwed into the other side of the door and frame. I didn’t take kindly to uninvited guests, and anyone trying to enter my apartment while those were active was in for a nasty welcome.

  I felt the shift in vibration confirming the wards had been disabled, and I leaned back against the far wall of the hallway to keep from crashing to the floor. I wouldn’t have minded so much had Brody stepped back to put his arm around me, but the closer we got to actually going into my apartment together, the more respectful of my personal space he’d become.

  It was as endearing as it was annoying. How dare he act differently than the caricature of himself I’d drawn of him in my mind?

  “After you,” I said, gesturing at the door. “It’s the bronze one.”

  Brody flipped through the keys, held one up for me to see, and proceeded to unlock the door.

  “I’m going to toss your bag inside, then I’ll come back to give you a hand, alright?”

  He didn’t make it over the threshold.

  Waves of freshly unleashed magic pulsed towards me, filling the air with a metallic tang and acrid stench of burning hair so visceral it made it dropped me to my knees where I vomited what little I had left in me out onto the ancient hallway carpet. Summoning every ounce of strength I had, I crawled desperately towards Brody’s inert body. Whatever had hit him had been more powerful than any magic I’d ever seen, and as I clutched his clothing and tried to roll him onto his side, I already knew what I was going to find.

  He looked peaceful enough. The spell had killed him instantly, and he still had the same silly grin on his face that had irked me from the second I first saw it. His eyes were open, and the only thing about him that looked in any way damaged were the dark red splotches of burst blood vessels staining the whites of his eyes.

  Though I had little left in me, I snapped on my sight and scanned the doorway for any signs of a secondary spell. The faintest whorls of magical residue swirled around the door frame, dissipating more quickly than they should have in such a calm environment. It was as though the residue was collapsing in on itself, quickly burning up to nothingness in the seconds it took me to shut off my heightened vision.

  Someone had gone through a lot of trouble to leave a deadly trap in my apartment, and there was no doubt in my mind it had been meant for me.

  Chapter Seven

  I leaned against the doorframe, unable to look away from Brody’s face. He looked so calm and peaceful, like he might sit up again at any second. Snot and tears mingled on my tongue when I licked my lips after wiping a string of bile from my chin. I retched a little, but my stomach had nothing left to give. Energy levels at an all time low, I didn’t know how I’d even get myself someplace safe, let alone deal with the nearly two hundred pound body lying on the threshold of my apartment.

  Starting into Brody’s vibrant green eyes gave me a terrible idea. Green eyes were rare enough to begin with, and the particular shade of emerald in his irises was entirely too bright to be natural. I hadn’t spent enough time around Lorelai to understand the full effect she had on those she fed from on a regular basis, but there was a chance the process was more of a mutual exchange than a one directional drawing of energy. If the relationship was even slightly symbiotic, Brody’s body might have been imbued with some small amount of raw magic.

  Despite the risk of using so much power I’d pass out, I tapped my sight and took a good close look at Brody’s body. Sure enough, he shimmered with the faintest aura of magical energy evaporating from a body that could no longer serve as a viable host.

  I shut down my sight and considered the ramifications of what I was about to do. Magic users were given quite a bit of free reign to act as we pleased, but there were a few rules in place to ensure we don’t go power mad and try to take over the world of the ungifted. Stealing magic was a direct contradiction of the highest orders laid out by the Conclave that governed us. Moral concerns aside, it was a dangerous process that was as likely to kill the thief as it was the victim. All the more terrifying was how painlessly easy it was to do when the subject wasn’t aware of it. Even a half-assed mage like Xander could intuitively protect against it if attacked, but there were ways around that kind of thing.

  Not least of which was stealing from the unconscious or recently deceased.

  Shifting into a kneeling position, I placed the index and middle fingers of each hand on Brody’s temples. It took a second for me to find the right wavelength of energy buzzing around in his body, but once I’d latched onto it, it was mine to do with as I pleased.

  I leaned in close and pressed my mouth to his. Forcing his lips apart with my own, I inhaled and absorbed the magical essence I’d channeled out of him. There was probably a better way to go about it, but working with magic involves using whatever tactic allows you to focus energy into the correct path. Some spells were executed with less than a thought, while others required complex external foci to prevent even a microscopic error that might alter the spell to disastrous consequences.

  In my case, this meant inhaling Brody’s dormant magic as though Brody was shotgunning a bong hit into my mouth. It was creepy as hell, but as I drained every last drop of magical essence from him, I felt myself grow immediately stronger. His mouth was still eerily warm, and I felt the disgusting stickiness of blood from his nose smearing across my upper lip. I did my best to ignore it and so I could keep my mind on the task at hand.

  As simple as my execution was, the process was messy and inefficient. I felt raw magic slipping away before I could absorb it, yet even so it only took me a few seconds to recharge myself enough to ramp up the rate of withdrawal. Since he didn’t have that much in him to begin with, less than a minute passed before I’d drained him dry.

  When I sat back and looked at him again, the green had all but vanished from Brody’s eyes. Left in its place was a muted hazel that, while not as stunning as the supernatural green, was still very attractive. I had the sad thought that I liked him a lot better this way, and a wave of guilt crashed over me. Fresh tears pooled in my eyes, and I covered my mouth to cut short the choking sobs fighting to escape. I might not have been the one to pull the trigger, but it had been my foolhardy playing with loaded guns that had put him in the path of this magical bullet.

  Cold reason eventually convinced me I had to get him out of the hallway before someone found me sitting next to a dead body.

  Fresh magic coursed through my veins. It surged into my bloodstream and gave me an instant physical recharge. I welcomed it like a marathon runner downing a cup of electrolytes on the fin
al stretch of a race.

  I don’t know exactly how it works, but there’s a point at which a mage’s body converts magical energy into a kind of spell that regenerates damaged cells. The same way excessive use of magic drains the body of energy, the replenishment of that energy over time speeds the natural healing process that undoes muscular exhaustion experienced after strenuous spell casting. Brody’s energy was only a fraction of what I’d expended that night, but it was enough to clear my head and get me moving again.

  Feeling at least physically up to the task, if not emotionally, I got to my feet and took firm hold of Brody’s wrists. Lifting them up over his head, I pulled hard, grunting as I struggled to drag him into my apartment. His body slid forward a couple of inches. I heaved again, pausing to catch my breath and prepare for the next attempt.

  My newfound reserves of alertness evaporated with every second I worked to move his awkwardly heavy corpse. The ever-present threat of one my neighbors making an appearance was enough to keep me going. Eventually, I managed to drag his limp form all the way into my living room. It would have been easier had I used a touch of magic to levitate the body, but with so little in my reservoir, I couldn’t afford to waste it where a bit of manual labor would do the trick.

  Once Brody was out of sight from the hallway, I went back to the door to scan it with my mage sight. All the wards were intact. Other than my having disabled them, they seemed to be in perfect working order. It was impossible to pinpoint the exact origin of the spell since it had so effectively neutralized any trace of itself, but the fact that it hadn’t touched me in the hallway could only mean it had been anchored inside the apartment.

  I made a quick circuit of the place, checking every window and alternate entry point. Neither magical nor mundane security measures had been tampered with, and I was beyond mystified as to how anyone could have gotten in to set the trap in the first place.

  As much as I wanted to figure out how the sanctity of my home had been compromised, it was stupid of me to stick around any longer than I had to. I snatched my always ready go-bag from a hook on the back of my bedroom door. After raiding the hidden stash of emergency cash I kept in a false drawer, I stuffed everything into the backpack I’d collected from where Brody had dropped it, and I went for the door. I’d like to say I stood over Brody’s body to vow vengeance on whoever had done this to him, but the truth of it was that I felt too weak and unstable to even look back as I practically ran for the exit.

  I locked the door behind me, not bothering to reset the wards. Whoever was out to get me had sidestepped them like they hadn’t even been there, so it didn’t seem worth the effort. The important thing was that I get the hell out of the area before my mysterious attacker showed up to double check their handiwork.

  My legs still wobbled when I walked. I stepped carefully around the vomit sinking into the hall carpet, and then took the stairs two by two in my haste to get out of there. Once back on the street, I flipped my collar up, thrust my hands into my pockets, and tried my best to look like just another disaffected millennial joining the daily parade of cubicle farmers heading into work. To complete the disguise, I plugged earbuds in, shoved the jack into my phone, and cued up my most recently listened to playlist in an effort to get my head straight.

  Manic guitar rhythms and primal growling vocals battered my consciousness and filled me with a sense of calm some people might not understand. I listen to as much Top 40 pop as the next person, but there’s something about music so drivingly intense it makes the hairs stand up on the back of your neck every time you hear it. As I put distance between me and my apartment, I worked to move past the absolute terror and rage of having watched someone die because of me. With the music playing out my pain and helplessness where I could not, I instead bent my will towards figuring out what to do next; even if I didn’t have a clue what that might be.

  All I knew was that I needed to get to safety, and the only place I figured off the grid enough was Viktor’s house. Respected as he was by fae and mage alike, I doubted anyone would risk hitting him on his own turf. The wards protecting his house could keep an army from so much as knocking on his door if he didn’t want them there, so I was pretty sure he’d be able to protect me from whatever had left that trap at my apartment.

  I’d spent most of my youth in the foster care system, and after running off to try my luck solo in my early teens, I’d developed a habit of never depending on anyone but myself. I’d always been wary of letting anyone get too close to me, and the few friends I’d managed to pick up in recent years were all ungifted. There was no way I’d risk putting anyone like that in danger. Brody had been a bit of a narcissistic moron, but he hadn’t deserved to die just because he’d tried to help me. Lorelai had assigned him to me as a glorified chauffeur, not a bodyguard. It had been my lack of attention that had gotten him killed.

  My heart lurched to a stop before pumping out such a violent flush of blood that I nearly tripped over my own feet. I stumbled and caught myself. Fighting to draw air into my lungs, I forced swallow after swallow, trying to convince myself my throat wasn’t actually closing up.

  Brody was dead.

  As in, no longer living. Here one second, gone the next. He’d never get to pose in his underwear for another photoshoot, never party with Lorelai, and he’d never drive his fancy car again. Without knowing the danger he’d been about to step into, he’d drawn his last breath trying to help me.

  Tears dripped down my cheeks again, and I pulled out my phone to punch the volume up a notch. Unlike the thumping bass of Brody’s sound system rattling me and sending me into a panic, the near deafening strains of shredding guitar riffs pulled me back from the edge. The music gave me an outlet for all the shitty feelings I didn’t know how to parse. I embraced the unbridled rage in the song, letting the singer scream his guts out while I tried to maintain the outward illusion of generally having my shit together.

  This got easier the longer I walked. The image of the body lying in my apartment became more of a mental puzzle than a concrete problem. Someone wanting to kill me turned into just another obstacle I had to overcome. By the time I got to the bus stop and took my place in the ragged lineup, the whole idea of it was so surreal it was almost too big to accept. This kind of shit was the stuff of movies and comic books. Only thugs and soldiers had to worry about being murdered. Normal people didn’t have to deal with these kinds of things.

  Of course, I wasn’t normal was I? Sure, I swiped my bus pass the same way everyone else getting on the bus did, but there’s a difference between playing at something and actually being that thing. I could get on all fours, slobber all over your face, fetch sticks, and sniff other dog’s asses all day long; but that wouldn’t make me a dog.

  It was early enough in the morning that the full press of rush hour hadn’t yet taken hold, and I was lucky to grab a seat near the rear exit. I’m not normally an anti-social misfit, but I tossed my bag on the outside seat and pointedly ignored the stares of anyone walking down the aisle rather than making space for anyone to sit next to me. Each lurching stop and subsequent start of the bus threatened to bring on another round of puking, and I didn’t think I could hold it together if I had another human being so close to me. There’s a weird intimacy in sharing a bus seat with someone. Even the accidental contact of a leg brushing against mine as the bus pulled away from the curb would have been enough to break through the cold and rational fortress I was working hard to wall myself away inside.

  Stop after stop, I listened to my music and tried not to think about how badly things were going. It sickened me to remember how I’d thought of Norman Weathersby’s mutilated corpse as a bizarre curiosity rather than an indication of just how big a deal this case was. I’d never faced anything so serious on any of my jobs before, and Viktor’s warning to stay away from this one kept floating to the fore of my thoughts. He’d sensed immediately what I’d been been too either too stubborn or overconfident to see.

  The last thi
ng I felt like doing was eating, but I’d already burned through most of the energy I’d stolen from Brody. At a certain point, my body needed sleep and fuel to survive. It could cannibalize my magic in order to heal me, but when the magic was gone, I’d be as empty and useless as a dead battery.

  I reached into my backpack and unrolled the top of my waterproof go-bag. Inside were things like a change of shirt and underwear, a crappy fake passport and driver’s license that might get me past a casual inspection but wouldn’t cut it at an international border, a burner cell phone with a prepaid minutes card, two bags of sour keys, a few energy bars, and ten packs of Sport Beans.

  With a silent thanks to my past self for discovering and purchasing the Sport Beans, I pulled a pack of the orange flavor out, tore it open, and poured half the jelly beans into my mouth. The sugary sweetness brought instant relief from the nasty aftertaste of magic that had burned away at my throat for the last few hours. As I chewed and swallowed the sticky mess, I wished I could kiss the man who’d decided that making jelly beans with carbohydrates and electrolytes was a good idea.

  Feeling at least somewhat like I might be able to make it through another thirty minutes without collapsing from exhaustion, I tried to put together what I knew of the case. Opening a notepad app on my phone, I typed out the facts as I knew them.

  norman killed by some kind of monster

  killer after artifact. amulet?

  felix afraid for life. worried bad guy will come after him for book

  trap in my apartment. disabled/ignored all my wards.

  bad guy knows i’m on case

  bad guy = seriously dangerous

  It wasn’t much of a list.

  I saw the time in the upper corner of the screen and it dawned on me I’d only agreed to help Mrs. Weathersby the previous afternoon. Only what? Sixteen or seventeen hours had passed since then? In that time, not only had someone learned I was searching for Norman’s killer, but they’d gone through the trouble of setting a trap designed to kill me. There hadn’t even been a warning shot; just a ruthless attempt to cut me out of the picture entirely.