The Edifice

24. Alcohol and Asylum

LEE

We sprint through traffic and milling pedestrians, not pausing for the blaring car horns as they brake to hit us. When Olivia cries out, stumbling over her heels, I sweep her up over my shoulder rather than pause a single second with 'Zagan' so close behind. It's a lesson in how unfit I've let myself become in this world of magical convenience.

We make it through the train doors just as they close behind us, raising several alarmed cries from the passengers around us.

I don't even register putting Oliva down, or more likely just dumping her to the ground, instead forcing out every anti-curse and hex repellant I know off the top of my head. Already I can feel foreign magic trying to bind itself to me, needles searching for a weak spot to puncture my skin. No doubt Olivia is their next target. I work faster and the feeling disappears.

The carriage attendant jogs over to us furiously, gesturing to the numerous signs over the compartment forbidding the practice of magic on Edifice public transport.

"Unless you want to be cleaning up when we start vomiting blood, let me do what I need to do," I pant and either the image of cursed bodily fluids or the expression on my face forces him to retreat.

I sink to the floor the instant I finish, laying out on the filth of the train carriage but very thankful to be alive. My heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest with exertion, pounding painfully against the inside of my ribs. I can feel myself sweating through my glamour and close my eyes, trying to regain my breath.

A web of searing pain has settled over my left arm from the assault on Zagan, completely separate from his attack on me.

I know if I pull back my sleeve I'll see the black rot creeping up through the veins of my hand.

Spell rot. Nature's karma for casting offensive magic.

No spell comes without a price, but black magic is certainly heaviest. Channeling violence through your mana is infectious both physically and addictively.

The necrosis in my hand won't be severe enough to cause any permanent damage this time, but I hate to think of Zagan after the potency of his attacks. The power.

A small pair of delicate hands reach down to feel my brow, brushing away the curls that stick to my skin. I breathe deep.

"Are you OK, Lee?" Olivia asks timidly.

Even laughing hurts the stitch in my side. "I think I just tasered a minor. So no, not really."

"You know what I mean." Olivia's touch stays on my cheek, thumb brushing the glamour of skin there. I shudder involuntarily. "Is there anything I can do?"

She clearly doesn't realize the extent of what we just did. Of what she just did.

Truth be told I'm not sure I do either. It happened so fast. I'd thrown Olivia out of harm's way- I'm sure of it. But within a blink of an eye, she'd been right back in front of me. Not to mention the fact that she emerged unscathed from a curse that should have killed her.

Teleportation is a rarely pursued field of magic. It requires huge reserves of mana, ingredient-heavy rituals and usually blood sacrifice. My mana is barely at half capacity a week after I opened my portal to Earth. With the exception of a few demons and most angels, it's far easier to drive a car.

It raises urgent questions about this Otis, if he's powerful enough to pass on enough innate power for Olivia to teleport on a mere whim. No spells or training required.

I'd first had him pegged for some minor, sleazy demon looking for more valuable stocks to trade. Now it seems he's to be a bit more of a problem.

I doubt even that Zagan could muster up such mana with that ease, and he'd had one of the most explosive auras I've ever seen.

For now though, it's a retaliation from Zagan that's my concern. We need to mix in with other people, muddle the trail of our auras before it leads him directly to my house.

Fuck it's been so long since I've had to think like this, with violence and duplicity.

"To be honest I really need a drink right now," I groan.

-

The bar we take shelter in is a touch more modern than the usual trashy dive-bars I subject my dates with. The booths are open and colorfully lit, with more than one Katy song playing inescapably over the speakers.

Importantly though, it's busy and I can finally release some of the worry that any second Zagan will burst down the doors for a second round.

The images of his twitching, electrified body are harder to escape. Along with the memory of that rage, the awful, thrilling power of exercising offensive magic.

Even now, the black raised lines on my forearms have barely begun to fade.

"I'll get a house whiskey on the rocks. A couple of vodka, lime sodas and bottle of the house red. Oh, and maybe some shots. Surprise me," I call over the counter to the harried bartender. I pause and look to Olivia, who hangs tight by my side. "Sorry. Did you want anything to drink?"

"I, uh... I'll just have a glass of your wine," she says pointedly, eyeing the loaded tray the poor bartender is preparing.

"Make that two bottles of red," I clarify hurriedly.

After tonight's incident, I have no intention of staying sober.

We retreat to a private booth and I down the whiskey and shots with little pause for breath. Use the chance to examine Olivia through the bottom of my glass.

I'd thrown that God forsaken coat out of the train doors at the first station we passed. Now she huddles tight in my own leather jacket, looking far too sweet for someone sharing a soul with a monster.

The changes haven't stopped with her eyes, I realise with a jolt. The roots of her hair shimmer silver as though suddenly drained of all their color. The dark mess of freckles that once dotted her face has disappeared. Dear God.

There's one thing I'd been expecting her to ask of me from the moment she'd entered my home. One of two promises of abstinence I'd made to myself in regards to poor Olivia Porter.

Should she have asked for it, I would flat our refused to show Olivia proper magic. Let alone tried to teach her even the simplest of spells.

But it seems we've come a little too far for that.

"What are you thinking?" Olivia asks tentatively, nursing her glass of wine. Whether it's concern or wariness, I can't decide. God only knows what she made of tonight. What she made of me.

That's what I'm thinking. That whatever facsimile of trust or friendship we've built is about to be shattered by the magic I show her now.

"I'm thinking that I have to teach you to use your eyes properly," I reply. "Put your glass down."