Magic in the Blood by Devon Monk

that had been redone in gaudy Gothic cage work. Not at all what I expected out of mister-casual-cowboy Grant. A set of brick stairs lit from above by the morning light stacked up to the left, wall-hugging sconces of sword ferns placed against both stairwell walls. A nice touch of green so far belowground.
    Grant started up the stairs. “You sure you’re going to be okay?”
    “I am.”
    We reached street level. No great surprise—it was raining. I pulled my hat out of my pocket and put it on. I zipped my coat to keep the chill wind at bay. I wondered if we’d have worse winds by tonight, wondered when the storm would blow through.
    A black-and-white Radio Cab drove up. I didn’t think it was the one I had called, but I waved it to the curb anyway.
    “Thanks, Grant. Really.”
    “Any time.” Grant crossed his arms over his chest, hunched against the gusty wind.
    I opened the passenger door.
    “And, Allie?”
    Don’t say it. Don’t say it.
    “Be careful.”
    Great.
    I gave him the best smile I could manage and got in the cab.
    “Where to, lady?” the cab driver asked in overpracticed English.
    “The Riverloft Cemetery,” I said.
    It was time to face the one person I’d been avoiding since I got back to town. My father.

Chapter Seven
    I t was strange, but sitting in the backseat of a taxi that stank of spoiled milk and staring out the rainsplotched window at the wet graves made me more relaxed than I had been in days. Something about the rain softly falling made me think maybe it wasn’t going to be so hard to face my dad’s death.
    “This is it,” the cabdriver said.
    I glanced up at him, caught his gaze in the rearview mirror.
    He quickly looked away.
    I didn’t know him, or at least I didn’t think I did. Losing my memories had really made for some awkward social situations.
    But even though I didn’t recognize him, he probably knew who I was. Maybe he didn’t like the daughter of the recently deceased Daniel Beckstrom in the backseat of his cab. Or maybe he didn’t like the marks magic had burned down the side of my face. I didn’t think the marks were ugly. But scars, all scars—internal and external—drew attention. And I was trying my best to keep a low profile right now.
    I self-consciously pulled my hat down a little tighter on my head, hoping the wool would hide the marks on my temple. Then I dug in my coat pocket for cash. I found a twenty.
    “Thanks,” I said.
    The cabbie glanced in the mirror again and tipped his hand palm up over his shoulder. I pressed the bill into his hand, holding eye contact until he looked away.
    Yes, I was petty like that.
    I opened the door and stepped out into a world of gray. Icy wind speared down my nose and throat, and I fumbled with my scarf to get it up over the bridge of my nose.
    Hells, it was cold out. The temperature had dropped several degrees on the cab ride over here. I wouldn’t be surprised if the rain turned into snow. I stuffed my hands in my pockets, hunched my shoulders, and headed toward the open iron gates of the cemetery, the wind pushing and tugging at me.
    The graveyard was set on the east side of the Willamette River, on a hill with a good view of the mountain on fair weather days, not that the buried probably cared about what sort of view was available. It was obvious the graveyard was not off-grid since patented iron and glass glyph-worked conduits caged the mausoleum at the top of the hill and allowed access into the magic that pooled so deeply beneath the city. Still, as most graveyards did, it had the feeling of quiet distance from the rush of real life.
    Violet had sent me the invitation to my dad’s funeral, even though I’d been in a coma at the time. On the back of the invitation was a map to his grave. I’d stared at that for days, and had the image of it burned in my brain. His grave was set to the far right of the cemetery, halfway up the hill and out of the way of foot traffic.
    It was so unlike him to want to be