Magic to the Bone Read Online Free PDF

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.
     
     
    ‘‘May I help you?’’ she asked.
     
     
    I leaned down and put my hand on the edge of her desk, which hurt, but also got me a clear shot at eye contact, something essential for Influencing. ‘‘I hope you’re having a wonderful day.’’ I smiled and mentally intoned a boost of magic into my words.
     
     
    Her eyes were light brown and lined with green makeup that looked really nice on her. She was pretty, innocent-looking, and with that hint of Influence behind my words, she already resembled a deer caught in a floodlight. No wonder why Dad hired her. He always picked the ones who were easy to bamboozle.
     
     
    ‘‘I’d like to see Mr. Daniel Beckstrom now,’’ I said. ‘‘Please show me in.’’
     
     
    ‘‘Of course. This way.’’ She gave me a giddy smile and practically skipped down the hallway—no easy feat in heels on carpet—eager to please under the sway of Influence.
     
     
    Hells. How could I go months resisting the lure of using Influence, and as soon as I was in the same building with my father, it was the first thing I did? I swore and tried to do some damage control.
     
     
    ‘‘Are you sure he has time?’’ I asked. ‘‘I could wait to see him.’’
     
     
    ‘‘Oh, no. Of course he has time for you.’’ She glanced over her shoulder and nodded, and I worried that she might run into a wall. ‘‘This is it.’’ She looked forward again, and managed not to hit her head on the wide, dark wood door of my dad’s office. She held the door open for me and smiled like I was a rock star on tour.
     
     
    ‘‘Thanks,’’ I said.
     
     
    She practically gleamed.
     
     
    I stepped into my dad’s office.
     
     
    Time, seven years, to be exact, can change a lot of things. The furniture, all steel, wrought iron, and smoked glass, had been upgraded, maybe the carpet had too, but there was still an acre of black marble desk spread in front of the panoramic view of the city, including the river and mountain, when it wasn’t raining so hard. And standing behind that desk, immaculate in a suit that cost more than the building I lived in, was my dad.
     
     
    My height or better, my dark-hair, pale-skin looks or better, he held a cup of coffee in one hand and seemed genuinely startled to see me walking toward him. I was going to play that advantage for as long as I had it because the man hadn’t gotten to the top of the magic harvest and refinery technology business thinking slow on his feet.
     
     
    ‘‘Allison,’’ he breathed.
     
     
    ‘‘You’re killing a five-year-old kid in North Portland with an Offload the size of a small city. If you don’t pay for a doctor to mitigate a Disbursement spell, set a Siphon, and everything else, including hospital stay, rehab, and mental and emotional damage for the boy,