Magic Without Mercy by Devon Monk

an odd one to carve on a gargoyle.”
    He glanced over at Zayvion. “Are you sure Cody carved all the gargoyle statues for the restaurant?” Shame asked.
    Zayvion nodded. “As far as I know. It was a large commission.”
    “Why would he carve Passage on something that should have remained a statue?”
    Stone growled.
    Shame rubbed his ears. “Don’t blame me, Stoney. If Allie over there hadn’t triggered whatever spell started your engine, you’d just be a big dumb yard decoration sitting in front of a restaurant.”
    “Maybe Cody didn’t carve him,” Zay said. “He looks like the other gargoyles out there, though.”
    “Who knows?” Shame said. “Cody was always in trouble with someone and always hedging his bets. He might have thought he could use Stone for something other than art. Or maybe he just liked the lines of that spell. It looks quite smart on you, boy.”
    Shame rocked back on his heels, then pressed his hands into his thighs and stood. “I can pull on magic, I can use Passage to place some of that magic in Stone, but I want you to think about it, Allie. You’re trusting your father here, and you’re putting Stone at risk.”
    “We need a sample of the magic. I don’t think we’ll be able to come back here once the Authority finds out we offed Bartholomew’s men. Get the sample while we have the chance. Stone can handle it. I can handle my dad.”
    “Didn’t think you’d change your mind. Still think it’s a bad idea to do this to him, but hell, it’s not the worst thing I’ve done. Not even the worst thing I’ve done today.” Shame turned to the well, set the Disbursement, and this time the purple spell wasn’t a leech—it was a flickering fire that settled in the hollow of his neck.
    Fever. And a strong one, by how deep the color was.
    “How hard of a spell is Passage?” I asked Zay.
    “Depends on what you want to give it to,” Zayvion said. “Inanimate objects are easier. Living beings areincredibly difficult. Ghosts, fairly easy. I don’t know about magic. From that look in Shame’s eyes, it’s going to hurt.”
    Shame exhaled a thin stream of words that sounded more like a soft prayer. He drew on magic to cast the spell, and the wooden floor darkened around his feet, the scorch moving outward and going ash gray as he drew magic from the glyphs and walls around the well, but not the well itself.
    Very tricky move.
    Then he poured that magic into the spell—a spell that had an oddly hollow center, the outside woven and intricate, like a frame of Celtic knot work.
    Shame pointed his left hand at the well, and a ball of magic, no bigger than his fist, bright as liquid diamonds, pushed up out of the well and drifted as if pulled on a string straight into the spell that Shame held very steady with his right hand.
    The ball settled in the center of the spell, hovering there, and spinning, but not touching the framework of the glyph.
    Shame inhaled, held his breath, then exhaled that soft prayer again. He cupped his hands on either side of the glyph and pressed inward. Hard. The muscles down his neck strained as he forced the spell to compress. He crushed it until it was the size of an amulet. Then, with the spell still in both hands, he turned to Stone.
    Stone didn’t need any coaxing. He lifted up on his hind legs, resting his hands on Shame’s shoulders.
    Shame fastened the spell into the glyph on Stone’s chest, where it flashed a soft blue, then sank and faded into the charcoal gray of Stone’s skin.
    Stone dropped down on all foursand sneezed. He shook his head and sneezed again. Then he looked up at Shame, grumbled and clacked, then trotted over to me and sneezed. He didn’t look any different, didn’t smell or act any different. And when I rubbed behind his pointy ears, he didn’t feel any different.
    “Can we get that magic out of him again?” I asked.
    Zayvion nodded. “The spell will hold it separate of any other magic. It can’t be opened by anyone