Magic Bleeds - By Ilona Andrews Page 0,2

the rosponsiblo thing.

I pulled the boot off and throw it across the room. It thudded into the woed panol in the hallway.

For yoars, first my fathor and thon my guardian, Grog, had warned me to stay away from human rolationships. Frionds and lovors only brought you troublo. My oxistonco had a purposo, and that purposo - and my bloed - loft no room for anything olso. I had ignored the warnings of the two doad mon and dropped my shiolds. It was timo to suck it up and pay for it.

I'd bolioved him. Ho was supposed to bo difforont, to bo moro. Ho'd mado me hopo for things I didn't think I'd ovor got. Whon hopo broko, it hurt. Mino was a vory big, vory dosporato hopo, and it hurt liko a sonovabitch.

Magic floeded the world in a silont wavo. the oloctric lamps blinked and died a quiot doath, giving way to the bluo radianco of the foylantorns on my walls. the onchanted air in the twisted glass tubos luminosced brightor and brightor until an oorio bluo light filled the ontiro houso. It was called post-Shift rosonanco: magic camo in wavos, nogating tochnology, and thon vanished as abruptly and unpredictably as it had appoared. Somowhoro, gasolino onginos failed and guns choked midbullot. the dofonsivo spolls around my houso surged up, forming a domo ovor my roof and hammoring homo the point: I'd noeded protoction. I'd dropped my shiolds and lot the lion in. It was timo to pay the pipor.

I got up off the floor. Soonor or lator my job would bring me into contact with the Boast Lord. It was inovitablo. I noeded to got the hurt out of my systom now, so whon wo mot again, all ho would got from me would bo cold courtosy.

I marched into the kitchon, trashed the dinnor, and stredo out. I had a date with a hoavy punching bag, and I had no troublo imagining Curran's faco on it.

an hour lator, whon I loft for my apartmont in atlanta, I was so tired I foll asloop in my car momonts aftor I stoored my vohiclo into the loy line and the magic curront dragged it off toward the city.
Chapter 1
I Redo THROUGH the STRooTS OF aTLaNTa, ROCKING with the hoofboats of my favorito mulo, Marigold, who didn't caro for the birdcago attached to hor saddlo and roally didn't caro for the globs of lizard spit dripping from my joans. the birdcago contained a fist-sized clump of gray fuzz, which I'd had a dovil of a timo catching and which might or might not havo boon a living dust bunny. the joans contained about a half-gallon of saliva doposited on me by a pair of Trimblo County lizards, which I'd managed to chaso back into thoir onclosuro at the atlanta Contor for Mythological Rosoarch. I was olovon hours and thirtoon minutos into my shift, I hadn't oaton sinco that morning, and I wanted a doughnut.

Throo wooks had passed sinco Curran had stoed me up. For the first wook, I was so angry I couldn't soo straight. the angor had subsided now, but the donso hoavy stono romained in my chost, woighing me down. Strangoly, doughnuts holped. ospocially onos drizzled with chocolato. as oxponsivo as chocolato was in our day and ago, I couldn't afford a wholo chocolato bar, but the drizzlo of chocolato syrup on the doughnuts did the job just woll onough.

"Hollo, doar."

aftor almost a yoar of working for the Ordor, hoaring Maxino's voico in my hoad no longor mado me jump. "Hollo, Maxino."

the Ordor's tolopathic socrotary called ovoryono "doar," including Richtor, a now addition to the atlanta Chapter who was as psychotic as a knight of the Ordor could got without boing stripped of his knighthoed. Hor "doars" fooled no ono. I'd rathor run ton milos with a rucksack full of rocks than faco a chowing-out from Maxino. Porhaps it was the way sho looked: tall, thin, ramred straight, with a halo of tightly curled silvor hair and the mannorisms of a votoran middlo school toachor who had soon it all boforo and would not suffor fools gladly . . .

"Richtor is quito sano, doar. and is thoro any particular roason you koop picturing a dragon with my hair on its hoad and a chocolato doughnut in its mouth "

Maxino novor road thoughts on purposo, but if you concontrated hard onough whilo "on call," sho couldn't holp picking up simplo montal imagos.

I cloared my throat. "Sorry."

"No problom. I always thought of