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inside of my eyelids, Terric got busy with the swearwords he saved for injuries, breakups, and soccer—excuse me— football . Since I didn’t hear any vuvuzelas, I didn’t know why he was cussing.
    Sure, Terric was my partner—work, not bed—but half the time I had no idea what was going on in that head of his.
    I opened my eyes just in time to see the ox swing a steel-toed boot the size of a Hummer at my gut. I rolled.
    Not fast enough.
    The boot clipped me in the low back. White, ragged pain shot down my butt and leg. It didn’t do a damn thing to improve my mood.
    It did, however, shake loose my hunger.
    Hunger to kill. Hunger to consume.
    Death magic is never more than a thought away for me. I’ve been told that I look like the Grim Reaper himself when I spend too much time away from Terric, who has the same screwed-up overpowerful thing going with Life magic and therefore sort of cancels my Death magic thing. Yes, it’s more involved than that. No, I don’t like to go into the details.
    But my point: Grim Reaper—with a hangover.
    Bad news for the bastard beating me up.
    “Changed my mind about the whole not-killing thing,” I said. “Too bad for you, mate.”
    “Shame,” Terric warned. I heard footsteps running away. Was he letting those men go?
    Didn’t have time to look.
    I flicked my fingers, rings sparking as I carved a glyph in the air between me and the ox. Binding spell, not death. I wanted him to hurt before I snapped his neck.
    The Binding, a net of black and silver magic sharp as razor blades, lashed out to hover in the air in front of me.
    Magic might be kinder and gentler for most people. But it wasn’t kinder or gentler for me. Nor was it was invisible.
    The ox held up his hands, maybe to cast a Block spell or maybe just surprised to see such a huge, violent spell snarling inches in front of his flattened nose.
    Only a handful of people can temporarily break magic into light and dark. Like splitting an atom, when you break magic, it is a power untamed. The only Breakers I knew of were Soul Complements, and there weren’t many in the world.
    You want to know how I know God has a twisted sense of humor? I’m one of the people who can break magic. Power at the snap of my fingers. Well, if Terric and I snap our fingers at the same time.
    Casting magic on my own delivered a harder hit than a non-Breaker could ever hope for. After all, Death magic coiled inside me and raged through any spell I cast.
    But casting magic didn’t come without a bit of a price to pay. That headache of mine was ramping up to ride me for a day at least.
    “Shamus Flynn, do not. Do. Not,” Terric was saying.
    Another price I paid for casting magic? Terric’s nagging.
    “Bind,” I said, using that word to push the spell at the ox. The spell wrapped him from knee to throat and squeezed tight, dipping razor tips into his skin just deep enough to draw blood.
    The ox yelled.
    Now for a little Shamus happy fun time.
    “This is how it’s going to work, my friend.” I braced my hand on the wall and tested my vertical capabilities. Knees held, back straightened, world steady as a drunken hobo.
    I hurt from the kick, concussion, whiskey overdose, and magic price. But more than that, the fingers-down-the-pants need to consume the man’s life and every living thing around me set my heart kicking it junkie-style.
    I wanted life. I wanted to drink it down and lap out the bottom of the bottle.
    The moss under my fingertips was wet, spongy, and very, very alive. A tip-of-the-tongue honey-sweet burn of life filled my mouth as the moss turned brown and died. Consumed. Dead.
    And I was just getting started.
    I glanced over at Eleanor, who stood at the opening of the alley. She looked afraid.
    “If you touch him.” Terric strode my way, his pace hampered by a slight limp. “I will kick your scrawny Irish ass. And then I will tell your mother what you did.”
    “You’re going to tell on me to my mum? What are you,