Free Magic at the Gate by Devon Monk Page B

roots seeking water, into the lace and then down to lock into the floor. She looked like Sedra.
    But before I could think that through, a shadow in the faintest outline of a man sidled up behind me. I blinked, turned toward it, and it was gone.
    Stone’s head bumped the back of my thigh. We had to go. Now, before the gate closed. No more time to think, to worry. There was only time to do.
    I stepped up, ducked, and fell through the gateway.
    Stepping into death had been easy. A pause of breath and then cool, heavy numbness spread through me, dulling all sensation.
    Stepping into life hurt like hell.
    Heat raked across my skin in a toe-to-head wave, stabbing down to my bones, catching fire in my veins. I screamed, my voice silent to ears that could not hear. All around me light burned, darkness froze, and I knew if I didn’t push forward, push into the pain, I would end here.
    I lifted my foot, forced it forward.
    My skin was stripped away, the heat eating into my muscles, burning me up, digging deeper for my heart and making it beat—
    —one heavy thump—
    Making me inhale, shudder.
    As I fell into life.
    Alive.
    Stone-Zay fell beside me.
    Wet grass against my skin, cool, soothing, the rich loamy scent of soil and living things. The sharp oil of crushed grass filled my nose, so strong I could taste it in my mouth. It was raining—I could feel it across my back, my legs, hear the beetle-wing ticking of it against my boots and the hard leather of the sword sheath. I’d never thought rain would feel so good, as if the sky and earth were patting me down, assuring me I was indeed home again, alive, whole.
    “Shit. Allie?” a man’s voice, a familiar voice, said.
    I looked up. Blinked. It was night, a thin layer of clouds against the sky lit by the lamps in Cathedral Park. I’d landed in St. Johns, in the park beneath the bridge. And standing above me was Detective Paul Stotts.

Chapter Five
    I tried to tell him I needed to get Stone to Maeve’s, but nothing came out of my mouth. I swallowed, tried again. Just wheezy exhale.
    Crap. I braced my hands under me and pushed. I felt, acutely, every blade of grass bend and then spring across my palm. Didn’t manage to get anywhere, though.
    Stotts bent and hooked my elbows, helping me sit. The heat of his touch made me suck in a breath, the grip of his hands against my elbows an overwhelming sensation. Real, living hands, touching the real, living me. My senses were blown open after being smothered in death. Any contact felt a thousand times stronger.
    I wondered if this was how a prisoner released from solitary confinement felt.
    The spices and orange of Stotts’ cologne filled me with memories of flowers and food. My mouth watered, my stomach cramped. I was starving. For food, yes. But also for sensation, life, touch.
    Stotts pulled away.
    I managed to remain sitting. Sitting was good. The park spinning like a tequila roller coaster was less good. I felt numb almost everywhere, except my chest, which someone had carved a hole in and filled with ice. I pressed one hand against my sternum. No hole.
    Then it hit me. My small magic was gone. I felt empty. Raw. Hollowed out. Death had changed me, and I had no idea what I’d become.
    “Nice sword,” Stotts said, drawing my thoughts away from that horror.
    “I need . . . ” Yay—I had a voice! I inhaled, coughed. Swore silently at the pain. I needed to get Zayvion to Zayvion. Needed to get Stone to Maeve’s. Needed a car. Or a pair of legs that worked. He liked my sword?
    A hand tapped my cheek. I blinked. Opened my eyes. Why had I closed them?
    “Allie, keep your eyes open. That’s good. Good. What is that thing?”
    I looked at that thing. Stone. Who sat there like a big statue. Except his ears twitched and he blinked.
    “Pet,” I managed. “Good. Magic pet.” I was getting better at this talking stuff. “Car.”
    Stotts frowned and tipped my face so he could better look in my eyes. He had squatted in front of me,