Hungry Ghosts (Eric Carter #3)(7)

When mages draw power from the pool, they’re doing it because their own power isn’t sufficient to do what they want. That’s a plus and a minus. On the one hand, yay, more power.

On the other hand, we’re all drawing from the same, constantly replenishing pool around us. But it doesn’t replenish quickly and there’s only so much of it at a time. Right now, Bustillo is using a drinking straw to suck on a lake. And as long as the power is there, he can keep pulling it in, building it up. Use it for whatever big spell he thinks will take me down.

“You know, a guy tried to do that to me a while ago,” I say. “Carve me up like a chicken and wear me like a suit. I stuck a bomb in his eyeball and blew his head up. The hell of it is, that didn’t kill him.”

“You don’t deserve it,” he says.

“Damn right I don’t deserve it. Nobody fucking deserves it. I’m in the middle of a cosmic threesome I didn’t want to have and I’m the one getting fucked.”

“So give it to me,” he says. “You want to get rid of it. I want to take it.”

“Dude, you have no idea what you’re asking,” I say. “Believe me when I tell you, if I could give it to you, I’d wrap it up in a bow and hand it to you. You think this is going to put you at the right hand of God. It won’t. It would just put you under her thumb.”

Since becoming tied to Santa Muerte my abilities have amplified. Spells I couldn’t do without days of preparation and hours of ritual I can pop off with a thought. I’ve always been able to draw a lot of power, but now I can pull it in like a firehose.

I’ve also got access to Mictlantecuhtli’s power, so casting is easier, but it comes with one hell of a big string attached. Every time I tap into it more of me turns to jade. Casting spells has become a delicate balance of making sure any energy I’m using is mine and mine alone. I touch his power and another chunk of my body turns green. So far it’s mostly hidden under my clothes, but it’s spreading.

So I’ve been really careful about what magic I’m using and how big a spell I’m casting. Casting something powerful just fucks me more. But pulling in power from the local pool? Well, that’s just charging up the batteries. Doesn’t mean I have to use it on a spell.

And that’s what I do. I open the taps and power floods into me. Not because I need it, not because I particularly want it.

But sucking it all in keeps it away from Bustillo. The pool drains like it’s burst a pipe. I can feel him grasping for it, desperately trying to hang onto whatever bits he can grab hold of. But it’s mine. I’ve got it all.

Magical cock-block.

My defensive spells are inked into my skin, not an unusual thing for a lot of mages, but the sheer volume of my tattoos is. I make the illustrated man look like a yoga mom with a tramp stamp. I’ve stored power into my tats, so if I run out of my own juice, or I can’t get anything from the local pool, they’re still going to work. Even the jade hasn’t affected them. They just look like they’re etched into the stone.

They’ve saved my life a time or two. From the sudden flare up and darkening of magic I’m sensing from Bustillo, it looks like his spells are drawing on his own power and the pool to keep running.

He can’t get anything from the pool, so he’s going to draw on his own to build the spell. Only he doesn’t have enough to do it.

I stand and gesture toward the desk with a spell. Nothing big, nothing showy. More importantly, nothing that takes too much juice. I can feel Mictlantecuhtli’s power inside me perk up, but I shove it back down. It’s tempting to use it. It wants to be used.

But aside from the fact that it’ll just fuck me up faster it’d also be like using a flamethrower to take out a mosquito. God power is overkill. And much as I like the idea of Bustillo as a red smear across the floor, it’s a bit much even for me.

I make the desk slide across the room and crash into the wall. Bustillo and I face each other. I’ve got the knife in one hand, the Browning in the other pointed at his head. He holds his empty submachine gun in his shaking hands.

“You’ve lost, Manuel. Or do you want to try throwing the gun at me?”

He lets it slip from his fingers. Must be strange for him. I wonder if he’s ever felt really afraid in his life. Like he couldn’t just magic his way out of a bind.

Magic can give a guy a level of wealth and privilege that even a normal can’t touch. Sure, some guy can build a massive financial empire, but I can think of half a dozen ritual spells that can make it all go away.

Magic’s not about money, it’s about power, it’s about knowledge. We’re special. Top of the food chain. The one percent of the one percent of the one percent. Lots of shit in this world just can’t touch us. Lot of mages get to live in their ivory towers and no matter how much shit they walk through they don’t even get so much as a stain on their shoes.

I’m betting Bustillo’s like that. Probably figured out his power as a kid, honed it as best he could, maybe picked up some pointers from another mage. Bit by bit he grew until he had all the power he wanted.

Oh, sure he could be running a cartel, but why? Big pain in the ass, that. Mages who think on that scale are fucking dangerous, don’t get me wrong, but unless they’re playing some other angle, they tend not to be big thinkers. Why run a multi-billion, worldwide, criminal enterprise when you can spend your time prying out the secrets of the gods instead and still eat filet mignon every night?