The good news just kept coming.
Zayvion made a small tsk sound. “You didn’t forget to set a Disbursement, did you?”
“Bite me.”
The cab screeched around a corner and I realized I had forgotten something else. I had forked over my last ten bucks for the cab ride to Mama’s and was now completely and totally broke.
Fantastic.
I licked my lips, which also hurt, then looked over at Zayvion. He watched me with a Zen sort of expression. He didn’t say anything. Just sat there like he had all the time in the world to wait for me to say something.
So I said something. “That dinner you asked me about.”
He tipped his chin down and raised an eyebrow.
My stomach did that flip again.
“Yes?”
“You think you could spring for cab fare instead and we’ll call it even?”
“Will you tell me who put the hit on Boy?”
“Are you related to Mama?” I asked. “Are you a cop? Do you have her permission to receive that information? Then no. My work is confidential. I don’t even know why you’re in this cab with me.”
“Maybe I’d like to get to know you better.” He gave me that nice smile again, and it did more than just make my stomach flip. Even though he was wet and slouched against the grimy seat of a cab, and even though I had just told him to mind his own business, I found myself thinking about what that soft mouth of his would taste like.
What could I say? I was a sucker for guys who made solid decisions during a crisis, and weren’t afraid to step up and help people, especially little kids. But what I couldn’t figure out was what stake he had in this.
When I didn’t say anything, Zayvion looked out the window, calmly watching the streets whiz by at an alarming speed. We were heading downtown fast, the buildings going from gray concrete to glass and iron and steel.
“I’ll figure out who did it when we get to wherever we’re going, you know,” he said.
“Maybe. But why do you care? Do you think you can cash in on this somehow? Are you a reporter slumming for dirt?”
“No.”
“Are you one of Mama’s Boys?”
“No.”
“A cop?”
The cab swerved, laid on the horn, and made a nauseating left-hand turn. I brushed my hand over my forehead, wiping away sweat. I suddenly wasn’t feeling so good. Not nearly good enough to be stuck in a cab that smelled like curry and gym socks with a guy I couldn’t get a good read on.
“Allie?”
“Listen,” I said, trying to be reasonable. “It doesn’t matter who I’m going to see. I could be picking up my dry cleaning for all you know.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?”
“There is no ‘we’ in this, Zayvion.”
He shrugged. “That could change.”
Great. A guy who liked girls who played hard to get.
“Is this how you usually pick up women?”
That made him smile again. “Why? Is it working?”
If I weren’t feeling so sick, and so mad at my dad, I might actually enjoy this sort of situation. But not today. Today I had to face a man I hadn’t seen since I was eighteen and had suddenly found myself leaving for Harvard. My father is good at magic. Very good. It took me two years to shed the mind-numbing grip of Influence he had cast. Two years of attending the school he wanted me to attend, learning the skills he wanted me to learn, and becoming the thing he wanted me to become. Two years of being his puppet. And now I was going to stand up to him and tell him I wasn’t going to let him get away with hurting a little kid.
“I’m just not interested right now, okay?”
The cab stopped at a light, gunned through the green, and jerked to a stop double-parked across the street from a high-rise. The building was forty-eight floors of rough, black stone and dark, reflective windows. Elaborate lines of iron and steel twisted like gothic vines to web the entire structure. At the very top of the building was a spire supporting a massive gold-tipped Beckstrom Storm Rod. There was absolutely no mistaking that the entire building was a harvesting station for the rare storms of wild magic that hit the city.
“Leave the meter running,” I said. “I’ll be right back out to pay.” I pulled on the door handle, opened the door, and groaned. I felt like I’d just lost a fight with a bulldozer.
The cold air felt good, then it felt too cold. Shivering made my entire body hurt. Still, I made it through the lead-lined glass front doors, across the cavernous lobby, sparsely decorated with wedges of black marble against white marble, and to the elevator without drawing much attention from the business-suited comers and goers within. Maybe my bruising wasn’t as bad as Zayvion said it was.
My father’s office was, of course, the entire top floor of the building. And Zayvion, for no reason I could understand, followed me across the lobby to the elevator.
“What part of not interested don’t you get, Zayvion?”
He held up a hand. “I have an appointment on the top floor. I also paid for the cab. You owe me ten bucks.”
“How thoughtful,” I drawled. “And the top floor? Isn’t that interesting?”
The elevator door opened on a polished wood interior—a warm contrast to the rest of the Art Deco marble and iron decor of the lobby. Zayvion put his hand out and held the door. He waited for me to enter the elevator.
I hesitated. What if he was part of the hit on Boy? He didn’t smell of old magic, but right now, hurting and angry, my Hound instincts were seriously off. Even if he wasn’t part of the hit, getting in an empty elevator with someone who might turn out to be only an everyday sort of stalker, wasn’t exactly on my “good girl, you get to live” list of smart choices.
Cripes. I could take him. Even sick. Even sore. Even in an elevator.
I walked in and pressed the button for the top floor. Zayvion made a little “what a surprise” sound and stood on the other side of the elevator, his hands folded in front of him.
The door slid closed and suddenly the elevator seemed way too small for the two of us. I took a good deep breath, trying not to think about the walls closing in, the ceiling pressing down, the floor mashing up, until there was no air, no space. My palms were wet with sweat.
This was not working. Think of happy. Think of good. Coffee was good, even though I hadn’t had any yet today. Flowers were good—flowers in big open fields. Big open fields like Nola’s farm were good. It had been too long since I’d seen her. I’d only been to her big open farm with big open fields twice since her husband, John, died.
Death was not good. My chest tightened. That wasn’t good either, so I went back to thinking about flowers and big open fields, and the coffee I wished I’d had this morning.
I hated that I had to see my dad. It had been seven years since he and I had been in a room together. I wished it could be seven more. And having to see him like this—because of what he had done to Boy—made me really mad.
The one thing Harvard got right was this: anger made using magic impossible. For everyone. No exception. It was good because it simplified some things, like whether or not murder via magic was premeditated. Quick answer: always.
I worked on thinking calm thoughts and whispered a mantra, drawing upon the remaining magic within me. This time I intoned a Disbursement, and traced the glyph in the air with my fingertip. Magic was invisible to the unaided eye. And unless you were really good at reading finger motions—a lot like reading lips—you never knew what people were up to, so I wasn’t worried about Zayvion seeing that, in about two days, I’d pay for this little magic jaunt with a doozy of a headache. Right now, all I wanted was ten minutes of my father’s time. And maybe his blood.
The elevator door opened.
I escaped the coffin on pulleys and walked across the lush burgundy carpet to the single rosewood reception desk, where a fresh-faced eighteen-year-old D cup manned the phone behind a sleek computer console.