Magic on the Storm

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Teaser chapter

  Praise for the Novels of Devon Monk

  Magic in the Blood

  “Tight, fast, and vividly drawn, Monk’s second Allie Beckstrom novel features fresh interpretations of the paranormal, strong characters dealing with their share of faults, and . . . ghoulish plot twists. Fans of Patricia Briggs or Jim Butcher will want to check out this inventive new voice.”

  —Monsters and Critics

  “[A] highly creative series about magic users in a world much like our own, filled with greed and avarice. I love the character of Allie and she is just getting better and stronger as the series continues. . . . If you love action, magic, intrigue, good-versus-evil battles, and pure entertainment, you will not want to miss this series.”

  —Manic Readers

  “One heck of a ride through a magical, dangerous Portland . . . imaginative, gritty, sometimes darkly humorous. . . . An un-put-downable book, Magic in the Blood is one fantastic read.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “This series uses a system of rules for magic that is original and seems very realistic. . . . The structure of the story pulled me in right away, and kept me reading. There’s action, adventure, fantasy, and even some romance.”

  —CA Reviews

  “Ms. Monk weaves a unique tale of dark magic that will keep readers at the edge of their seat[s]. Magic in the Blood is so thoroughly described that the creepy bits will have you thinking of magic and ghosts long after you’ve finished the story. Fast moving and gripping, it will leave you wanting more.”

  —Darque Reviews

  “This second installment in the exciting new Allie Beckstrom series is just as carefully woven as the first. . . . It’s gonna be a tough wait for the third installment!”

  —RhiReading

  “Brilliantly and tightly written . . . will surprise, amuse, amaze, and absorb readers.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Loved it. Fiendishly original and a stay-up-all-night read. We’re going to be hearing a lot more of Devon Monk.”

  —Patricia Briggs, New York Times bestselling author of Bone Crossed

  “Highly original and compulsively readable. Don’t pick this one up before going to bed unless you want to be up all night!”

  —Jenna Black, author of Speak of the Devil

  “Gritty setting, compelling, fully realized characters, and a frightening system of magic-with-a-price that left me awed. Devon Monk’s writing is addictive, and the only cure is more, more, more!”

  —Rachel Vincent, New York Times bestselling author of Rogue

  “An exciting new addition to the urban fantasy genre. It’s got a truly fresh take on magic, and Allie Beckstrom is one kick-ass protagonist!”

  —Jeanne C. Stein, national bestselling author of Retribution

  “The prose is gritty and urban, the characters mysterious and marvelous, and Monk creates a fantastic and original magic system that intrigues and excites. A promising beginning to a new series. I’m looking forward to more!”

  —Nina Kiriki Hoffman, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of Fall of Light

  “Monk’s reimagined Portland is at once recognizable and exotic, suffused with her special take on magic, and her characters are vividly rendered. The plot pulled me in for a very enjoyable ride!”

  —Lynn Flewelling, author of The White Road

  Also by Devon Monk

  Magic to the Bone

  Magic in the Blood

  Magic in the Shadows

  ROC

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

  Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First printing, May 2010

  Copyright © Devon Monk, 2010

  eISBN : 978-1-101-18759-3

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For my family

  Acknowledgments

  Writing is only part of what brings a story to its final form. Without the many people who have contributed time and energy along the way, this book would not have come to fruition. Thank you to my agent, Miriam Kriss, and my editor, Anne Sowards, two consummate professionals and awesome people who make my job easy.

  All my love and gratitude to my wonderful first readers, Dean Woods, Dejsha Knight, and Dianna Rodgers. Your speedy and loving support and brilliant insight make this possible. Thank you also to my family, one and all, who always offer unfailing encouragement and share in the joy. And to my husband, Russ, and sons, Kameron and Konner, who are the very best part of my life. I couldn’t do this without you.

  Last, thank you, dear readers, for letting me share this story and this world with you.

&n
bsp; Chapter One

  Two months of self-defense classes, mixed martial arts, and weapons training did not make it hurt any less when I was thrown over my opponent’s shoulder and slammed into the ground.

  Yes, I should have tucked and rolled. Would have too, if he hadn’t kept hold of my arm and twisted at just the right instant to knock my balance off and make me sprawl like a dead jumper waiting for my chalk outline.

  “Give up?” he asked.

  My right wrist still locked in his grip, I stretched out my left hand and grabbed his ankle, leveraged to pull down, and twisted. I broke his hold on my wrist and rolled up onto my feet. I got off the mat and out of arm’s reach quick.

  “I’ll take that as a no, then?” Zayvion Jones asked. He was a little sweaty, a lot relaxed, standing halfway across the mat from me. Barefoot, he had on a pair of jeans that, if there were any justice in the world, would not let him flex and move and stretch the way he did in a fight, and a nice black T-shirt that defined the muscles of his chest, his thick, powerful arms, and his flat, hard stomach.

  He was every kind of good-looking in the dictionary.

  “Take it as a hell no,” I said sweetly.

  That got a grin out of him, his teeth a flash of white against his dark skin, his thick lips open enough that I suddenly wanted to drop this whole I-kill-you/you-kill-me act and kiss the man.

  Instead, I rolled my shoulder to make sure my arm was still in its socket—Zayvion Jones played for keeps—and tried to come up with a game plan to tip the fight to my advantage. He might have bendy denim on his side, but I had something better. I had magic in my bones.

  My shoulder sore but still attached and functioning, I stepped back onto the mat.

  I could use magic on him. It might be worth ending up in bed with a fever just to take Mr. Superpowerful-Guardian-of-the-Gates down a notch during a practice match.

  The void stone necklace, a chunk of rock caught up and caged between silver and copper whorls and glass beads, rested against my sternum and made the magic in me lazy and slow. I could still use magic, but it took a little more effort when I was wearing the stone.

  If I’d known about void stones, I’d have found a way to steal one months ago. Not that they were common knowledge. The Authority had lots of tricks up their sleeve that they didn’t like the common magic user to know about.

  “Is there a particular way you’d like to end up on the floor this time?” he asked as he shifted his stance and waited for me to attack. “Or do you just want me to surprise you?”

  “Gee, if I get a choice, how about if I end up on top this time?” I gave him that slow blink-smile combination that always got him into bed.

  He licked his lips, and a flash of uncertainty narrowed his eyes. “I thought you said you wanted to fight.”

  I strolled up to him and paused. Out of arm’s reach—I’m not dumb. “I thought you were asking me how I wanted this to end.”

  Zay studied me, his brown eyes just brown, no hint of the gold that using magic always sparked there. As far as I could tell, he hadn’t been using magic for the past couple months. Ever since my test to see whether I could become a part of the Authority, and the craziness with the gate between life and death opening right in the middle of the test room, things had been quiet.

  And I mean quiet. I’d Hounded only a couple magical crimes for Detective Paul Stotts. My dead father, who had taken up residence in my head, seemed to be so distant, he mostly appeared in my dreams. And my training—both physical and magical—with members of the Authority had been exhausting, but a long way from life threatening.

  Things were actually pretty good. I liked that. Liked not having to worry whether I’d survive the day. And it wasn’t just my life that was better for the downtime. Over the past several weeks I’d watched Zayvion change from a somber, tightly controlled, dutiful man, to someone a little surprised he was enjoying life.

  Time off from his duties with the Authority looked good on him. Sexy.

  “I wasn’t talking about ending this,” he said, and it took me a minute to remember what we were talking about. Oh yeah, the fight. “But we can call it a day. Since you’re surrendering and admitting you lost. Again.”

  As if I’d give up that easily. I glared at him.

  Light poured in through the windows, casting warm coffee-colored shadows beneath his high cheekbones and jaw. His hair was always short, but he’d recently buzzed his dark curls, which somehow only enhanced his beautiful eyes and strong, wide nose. The look of worry that I only occasionally glimpsed through his Zen mask had been absent for weeks. He smiled more. Laughed more.

  And it made me realize how hard I’d fallen for him. I didn’t want what we’d had for the past few weeks to change or disappear. But I’d lost too many people in my life, and too many memories along the way, for me to think things would always be this easy between us. The idea of losing him made it hard to breathe.

  I tried to push that fear away, but it clung like a bad dream.

  “Allie?” Zay was no longer smiling. “Are you hurt? Your shoulder?” He came closer and put his wide, warm palm on my shoulder.

  That touch gave me the faintest hint at what he was feeling: concern that he’d torn my arm out on that last flip, which, yes, he could have, but no—I wasn’t that fragile.

  And that reminded me of what this little get-together was all about. Fighting. Training. Becoming strong enough to hold my own against anyone. Even the legendary Zayvion Jones.

  I knew I shouldn’t do it. But hey, a girl has to take what opportunities present themselves, right? I had my game plan.

  I stepped into him and turned my hip, sweeping his foot out from under him. He went down, rolled, but I was there, got in close, getting his arm back, my arm through it, and the other over his throat.

  “Give,” I said. We were in close contact, but I was too busy staying on the winning side of the tussle to have brain cells left to concentrate on what he might be thinking.

  “No,” he grunted.

  Even though I am a tall woman, Zay still had me on sheer muscle. He flexed and managed to break my hold, twisting over and onto his back, his legs scissoring to catch mine.

  No way I’d let him do that.

  I followed him, using his momentum to roll over him and then behind. I huffed out air, got to my knees, and tried to keep his arm pinned.

  He shifted, rolled. I ended up kneeling with him beneath me. Boo-ya! I was on top.

  I had one knee planted beside him and the other foot braced on the opposite side. Forget about his arm—I wrapped my hands around his throat, knuckles at his windpipe.

  He pressed his palms flat against my hip bones and tilted his hands inward so his fingers stroked upward beneath my T-shirt. I glared at him as the heels of his hands slid over the bullet scar on my left side and the smooth skin on my right. Then up and up. His thumbs tracked slower than his fingers over my stomach, pausing to dip and press at my navel. Then he fanned his hands outward, upward, and rested them beneath the curve of my breasts, supporting the weight there.

  I raised an eyebrow. “You do notice I’m choking you?” I squeezed a little harder in case he thought I was kidding around.

  He grunted.

  I most certainly was not kidding around.

  He shifted his grip. Tried to pull me down and rolled one hip to throw me. No chance. I braced my heel to stay out of the roll and pressed harder.

  “Mercy,” he whispered.

  I relaxed my grip. “Say I win.”

  “I win,” he managed.

  I retucked my thumbs against his windpipe. “What? You win? Is that what you said? I must not have heard you correctly.”

  “Draw,” he whispered.

  “Oh, sweet hells, Jones. You have got to be the most stubborn man I know. You lost.”

  “I agree,” he said.

  Huh. I hadn’t expected him to give in that easily. I pulled my hands away, rested them against his chest.

  “I am the most s
tubborn man you know.” He rubbed at his throat with one hand. Grinned at me.

  I smacked his other arm. “My honor’s at stake here. You lost. I won. If you can’t admit that, I’m not sure our relationship will survive.”

  He snorted, grabbed my shirt, and pulled me fully on top of him. His fist, in the valley between my breasts, was a hard pressure between us.

  “Nothing’s going to get in the way of our relationship.” His gaze searched my own, and the slightest fleck of gold sparked there. “So long as we want this, nothing can stand in our way.”

  Damn. Could the man get any more romantic?

  I tipped my head down and caught his lips with my own, soft, thick, hungry. He instantly responded, then licked gently at my mouth until I opened for him. He tasted of deep, warm mint, and his pine scent, peppered by sweat, carried the memory of the countless times we had touched, loved.

  I explored the textures of his lips, his mouth, savoring him slowly, and he did the same, his tongue stroking a delicious heat through my body. I moaned softly and gave in to the liquid fire burning through me.

  I wanted him. And it was very clear he wanted me.

  He flattened his fist and released my shirt, then wrapped his arm around me, holding me tightly, as if he were afraid I might disappear.

  A little too tightly. Claustrophobia tickled the back of my throat. It was suddenly hard to breathe.

  I exhaled and pushed back enough that he knew to loosen his grip. I lifted my shoulders and chest and took a deep breath. There was plenty of room here, plenty of room for us to be this close.

  He drew his arms off from around me, his hands at my ribs instead, helping me stay half raised above him. My right hand on the floor next to him did the rest to support my weight.

  With his free hand, he tucked my hair behind my ear, a gesture that was becoming habitual and endearing.