Cold Burn of Magic (6 page)

Especially
where the Sinclair Family was concerned.

“And now, if you will be so kind, miss.” Reginald gestured at the SUV. “We have a schedule to keep.”

Grant stepped even closer to me, and his hand drifted down to the hilt of his sword, as though he thought he was going to have to draw his weapon to not-so-gently persuade me to go with them. Yeah, I might have put up a fight, if I thought I had a chance of getting away—but I didn't.

Not from them. Not from this. I'd never had a chance.

Not since my mom had been murdered.

So I stomped over to the car. Reginald scooted ahead of me and opened the back passenger door, and I had no choice but to step inside.

Reginald shut the door, then climbed into the front passenger's seat. Felix went around the SUV and got in on the other side, next to me, while Grant slid behind the wheel. The three of them shut their doors almost in unison. The sharp
crack-crack-crack
sounded like the lids on coffins banging shut.

My coffin.

G
rant cranked the engine and away we went.

He left the high school behind, steered the car onto one of the main streets, and circled around the Midway. Nobody in the SUV spoke, and the radio was turned off.

Felix kept staring at me, his dark brown gaze steady and level as though he thought I was going to start babbling to fill the silence. Please. I knew better than to do that. I thought about returning his stare and using my soulsight to get a clue as to what was going on, but I decided not to bother. He wasn't in charge here. Grant and Reginald were. Too bad Grant was busy driving, and Reginald was staring out the windshield, so I couldn't use my magic on either one of them. Whatever was happening, they were going to make me wait to find out what it was.

I trusted Mo, well, as much as I trusted anyone, and he wouldn't do anything to hurt me. But I still clutched my belt, my fingers resting on top of one of the throwing stars, knowing that I could get to the weapon if things went bad. But that was a bridge I'd cross when I got to it.

Speaking of bridges, Grant left the highway behind, turned onto a side street, and steered the SUV over the lochness bridge I'd crossed the night I stole the ruby necklace. But instead of slowing down and tossing a few coins out the window and into the river, Grant accelerated over the cobblestones. Thirty seconds later, the SUV was on the other side.

“You didn't pay the toll,” I murmured.

“Toll? What toll?” Felix asked.

“For the lochness.”

I twisted around in my seat and peered out the back window. Perhaps it was my imagination, but the surface of the river seemed to ripple a little more than usual, like something wanted to rise up out of the water and take what it was due. Yeah, I was betting the lochness was pissed. I would have been. Territory was everything in this town.

Grant laughed. “You don't actually believe in that old fairy tale, do you?”

“We all should,” Reginald said.

Grant frowned at the older man's stiff tone, but Reginald turned around in his seat and gave me a sharp look, as if he were surprised that I even knew to do such a thing.

But my mom had taught me all about the old traditions. I knew which monsters lived where in town, in the forests, and on the mountain, and what small tributes you paid them for safe passage through their territories. In fact, I'd always thought of the monsters as my own sort of standoffish pets. If, you know, you thought pets that could eat you were cool. Which I totally did.

But Reginald kept staring at me, as if my monster knowledge was absolutely shocking. Did these guys think I was some tourist rube who'd wandered into the Razzle Dazzle by accident during the attack? That I'd somehow picked up a sword and managed to kill two men with it without any sort of training?

Surely, Mo had told them . . . Well, I had no
idea
what Mo had told them, but whatever it was, it had interested them enough to practically kidnap me. I wondered where they were taking me. Probably to some nice, out-of-the-way spot that featured a cement mixer and a swimming pool so they could question me about the attack. That was the only reason I could think of for the three-man welcoming committee.

I continued my silent speculation as the vehicle rolled on. Eventually, I realized that the SUV wasn't headed east toward the pawnshop or south toward the suburbs. No, we were going north—up the mountain.

A sinking feeling filled my stomach.

Grant steered the SUV up the curvy roads, passing mansion after mansion. Lots of rich mortals and magicks had gobbled up spots on Cloudburst Mountain over the years, building vacation homes and more. And the higher up on the mountain you were, the better the view, and the more magic, money, and power you had.

Like the town officials, the rich folks here turned a blind eye to the Families and their less-than-desirable feuds and influence, regarding them as white trash, mobster upstarts, and had as little to do with the Families as possible. Something that wasn't an option for the middle-and lower-class folks, who depended on the Families and their tourist businesses for everything from jobs to protection from monsters.

My suspicions about where we were going were confirmed several minutes later when the SUV turned into a driveway and rolled through an open iron gate. The vehicle crested a steep ridge, and our destination finally came into sight—a structure made out of black stone.

The Sinclair Family mansion.

A dozen questions bubbled up in my mind, the most important of which being more rampant speculation about cement mixers and swimming pools. Felix was staring at me again, as if he thought that I was finally going to crack and start talking, but I kept my face blank.

Grant steered the SUV over a wide, stone bridge and into a circular driveway that arced past a fountain. He slowed, then stopped the vehicle, and I got an up-close look at the structure.

The Sinclair mansion was large, even by Family standards, seven stories tall in places, and the black stone gave it a dark, durable feel. The towers I'd seen from down in the city loomed even larger up close, soaring hundreds of feet into the summer sky, each point topped with a black flag bearing the Sinclair Family crest—that hand holding a sword, all of it done in white.

Balconies fronted much of the mansion, and patios and walkways swooped and spiraled from one level to the next, clinging to the sides of the structure like the silken strings of a spider's web. The mansion wasn't beautiful. Not at all. It was too large, rough, and blocky for that, as if the stone of the mountain had been chipped away to reveal its crude shape. Still, there almost seemed to be a hidden strength to it, as if it were as eternal as the mountain from which it had been carved.

I couldn't keep myself from peering out the window, trying to see everything at once. Felix's mouth curved with amusement.

I looked past the mansion and scanned the grassy lawns that unrolled like thick rugs all the way up to the woods' edge. Even though I was at least a quarter mile away, I easily spotted the guards moving in and out of the dense evergreen trees. They all wore black pants and cloaks, along with black cavalier hats topped with feathers. Silver cuffs flashed on their wrists, and swords adorned their waists. Farther up the mountain, thick white clouds drifted around the peak, seeming almost close enough to touch, thanks to my sight.

“Home, sweet home,” Grant said, turning off the engine. “Let's go meet the folks. What's left of them, anyway.”

Reginald gave him another sharp look. Felix grimaced.

I scooted over, but before I could reach for the handle, Reginald was there, opening the door. I blinked. I hadn't even seen him move. He must have some sort of speed Talent.

I stepped out of the car, and Reginald gestured toward the mansion.

“This way, please, miss.”

Grant and Felix came up behind me, and I had no choice but to follow Reginald.

He moved toward the front door, his steps quick and precise, his back straight, his black tweed suit not even daring to wrinkle much less attract a speck of dirt. Unless I missed my guess, Reggie was the sort of guy who loved lists, order, and rules, and hated the people who broke them, like me.

Reginald opened the door and stepped through to the other side. I went in next, with Grant and Felix still behind me.

The exterior of the mansion might have been rough, black, and blocky, but the inside was smooth, light, and delicate. Floors made of polished white marble gleamed like sheets of glass underfoot. Real flecks of gold, silver, and bronze shimmered in the paint that covered many of the walls, while crystal chandeliers dangled from the ceilings, sending out warm sprays of light in all directions. And the furnishings were even finer, made out of dark, heavy woods, colorful stained glass, and genuine gemstones.

I tried hard not to gawk, really I did, but I soon gave up, even though I was acting like the worst sort of slack-jawed, wide-eyed tourist rube.

And it wasn't just that everything was so fine—it was also the obvious care and work that went into it. Everything gleamed as though it had been shined moments ago, no doubt thanks to the pixies. I spotted several of them, all around six inches tall, miniature humans with translucent wings attached to their backs, zipping through the air and carrying everything from dust rags to mops to small buckets of water.

Technically, pixies were monsters, since they weren't quite human—or at least human-sized—like mortals and magicks were. But really, pixies were the housekeepers of the world, offering their services in exchange for food, shelter, and protection. I'd been hoping that one—a nobody like me without a Family—would take refuge in the library basement, and we could work out a similar deal, especially since I
hated
making up my bed. And doing laundry. And every other housekeeping chore. But it hadn't happened. I bet that none of the Sinclair Family members ever had to make their beds. I bet that whoever lived here never had to lift a finger. Not with all these pixies scurrying around.

Reginald followed a female pixie balancing a tray of cucumber sandwiches on top of her head. Apparently, she was headed toward our destination.

I kept gawking as we moved through one room and one wing of the mansion to the next, going so deep into the structure that I had no idea where we were—or how I could get back out again.

Or
if
I was ever going to get back out again.

Finally, Reginald opened a set of double doors and we stepped into an enormous library, one that stretched up three levels, all the way to the top of this particular section of the mansion. Each level featured a wraparound balcony, all filled with bookshelves, and all overlooking the main, square reading area on the first floor. The ceiling rose to a point; it was made out of panes of black-and-white stained glass that cast alternating pools of shadow and light onto everything below.

Here on the first floor, ebony shelves filled with books, photos, crystal paperweights, and other expensive knickknacks lined one wall. An antique ebony desk occupied the back of the room, in front of a series of doors that led out to a balcony encompassing the entire length of the library. Another crystal chandelier dangled from the ceiling, like a cluster of icicles frozen in place.

I eyed the shelves, wondering if I might discreetly swipe a silver picture frame or two. Just because I'd been brought here more or less against my will didn't mean I had to leave empty-handed. Like Mo had said, I was always looking to put more cash in my pockets, along with silverware, jewelry, and other small valuables.

The female pixie fluttered over to the white marble fireplace that took up most of another wall. She placed her tray on a table next to another tray that held a pot of tea, spoons, and several cups. But I focused my attention on the figure sitting beside the table—a familiar face with sly black eyes.

“Lila!” Mo called out, jumping up off a white velvet settee. “Finally! There you are!”

He looked the same as ever in his white pants, flip-flops, and Hawaiian shirt, this one a bloody red printed with smiling hula girls.

I broke free of my entourage, grabbed his arm, and yanked him all the way to the back of the library, next to the balcony doors. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure we were out of earshot, then turned back to face him.

“What is this?” I hissed. “Who are these men, why were they waiting for me outside of school, and why did they bring me to the
Sinclair Family mansion
?”

A smile lit up Mo's face. “This, kid, is an opportunity. The opportunity of a
lifetime
.” His smile disappeared. “And, frankly, the best I could do for you, all things considered.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means I had a hard time convincing the Sinclairs you were not involved in the attack at the Razzle Dazzle. That you were just an innocent bystander who managed to save the day.”

My eyes narrowed. “What happened after you shoved me out of the shop? What have you been doing the past few days? What in the blue blazes is going on?”

Mo waved his hand, brushing off my concerns. “Oh, you'll find all that out soon enough. Just promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“That you'll let me do all the negotiating.” He paused.

“Unless you see a chance to get a better deal. Then feel free to speak up.”

“Deal? What sort of
deal
—”

Before I could ask him again what was going on, the double doors opened and Devon stepped into view.

Dark brown hair, green eyes, chiseled features, muscled body. He looked the same as before, with one notable exception—he'd traded in the casual T-shirt and pants he was wearing at the Razzle Dazzle for a black shirt layered under a black suit. My heart sank. Because only high-ranking Family members wore suits like that, and only then on special occasions.