Dark Heart of Magic (5 page)

D
evon left town behind and headed for the mountain, steering the SUV up the curvy, narrow roads.

We passed house after house, each one bigger and more impressive than the last. Lots of mortals and magicks had built vacation and other homes up here to take advantage of the sweeping views. Your mansion's size and location on the mountain was a status symbol that let all your neighbors know how much money, magic, and power you had. Bigger and higher were better. Naturally.

But the mansions quickly thinned out and disappeared, replaced by thick stone walls set with closed iron gates that led into the compounds of the various Families. Guards wearing boots, cloaks, hats, and swords patrolled behind the walls and gates, and thick screens of pine trees hid most of the compounds from view. Towers soared up out of the greenery, all of them topped with colorful flags bearing the crests of the different Families, including a wolf's head for the Volkovs and a cluster of purple wisteria flowers for the Itos.

Finally, we reached the Sinclair Family compound. The gates opened at our approach, and Devon steered through them, over a bridge, and along a circular driveway. An enormous mansion made out of black stone rose up in front of us—a rough, blocky structure that looked as if it had been carved out of the side of the mountain itself. Balconies, patios, and walkways fronted much of the sprawling, seven-story structure, swooping from one floor to the next, while several sections rose up and formed actual towers, just like at the other Family compounds.

The Sinclair mansion was the highest structure on Cloudburst Mountain, so close to the top that the thick clouds that rimmed the peak year-round would often sink down into the trees and cloak the grounds at night. The white fog was actually mist that continually drifted up from the dozens of waterfalls tumbling down the mountain's rocky ridges. Given that it was late afternoon, the sun was keeping the worst of the fog away; although the clouds were close enough to kiss the black flags on the tops of the towers.

Devon parked the SUV next to the mansion's main entrance. We'd barely gotten out of the vehicle when an older man with snow-white hair strode out the front door and stopped in the driveway, his stance as stiff and crisp as his three-piece black tweed suit.

William Reginald eyed the three of us and our persimmon-spattered clothes, his nose twitching with obvious distaste. “I take it that things didn't go so well with the tree troll?” an English accent colored his voice, making him sound exactly like the butler he was.

Being a Family butler involved a lot more than supervising the cooking and cleaning. Reginald basically ran the mansion, overseeing the day-to-day operations of everything from the kitchen and cleaning staff to the groundskeepers to who got admitted inside the compound to talk business with the Sinclair higher-ups. Butler was one of the three most important positions in the Family—along with the bruiser and broker—making Reginald equal to Devon in terms of power.

Felix threw his arm around Devon's shoulder, making bits of persimmon slide off both their T-shirts. “Oh, it went just fine and dandy. Can't you tell?”

Reginald sniffed, clearly not amused. “Very well. Off with the lot of you. I will see about cleaning up this . . . mess.” He pointed his finger at us in a warning. “And don't you dare touch or sit on anything in those clothes.”

He waited until we'd all nodded our agreement before turning back to the vehicle. Reginald peered through the window into the backseat and grimaced, as though it physically pained him to see all the red stains on the leather.

We left Reginald standing by the vehicle, muttering about cleaning solutions. Devon opened the front door, and he, Felix, and I headed inside.

The outside of the mansion might be black, blocky stone, but the inside was white, airy elegance. Everything glimmered, from the white marble floors to the flecks of gold, silver, and bronze that swirled through the painted walls to the crystal chandeliers that dripped down like clusters of icicles hanging from the ceilings. Faceted gemstones decorated much of the dark, heavy furniture, adding even more sparkle and color, along with the rich, vibrant stained glass that was set into many of the windows.

As a thief, I had let myself into my share of fine homes and had swiped more than a few valuable objects, but the luxe mansion still took my breath away, despite all the weeks I'd been living here. It was a good thing I wasn't casing the place. I wouldn't have known what to steal first.

“See you guys at dinner,” Devon said.

Felix and I nodded, and the three of us went our separate ways.

I headed up the stairs to my bedroom, which was just as finely furnished as the rest of the mansion. The front of the room was an entertainment area, with a black leather couch and matching recliners arranged around a glass coffee table, all of which faced a flat-screen TV mounted to the wall. A four-poster bed covered with a black-and-white-striped comforter and mounds of pillows took up part of the back wall, along with a white vanity table. Another table that featured a miniature ebony trailer, a grassy corral, and a small barn sat next to some French doors that led out to a balcony.

I sighed, went over, and started to plop down on the couch, when a sharp, twangy voice called out.

“Don't you dare sit down on that!”

The front door on the ebony trailer slammed open, and something
zip-zip-zipped
through the air, rushing straight at me. A second later, a six-inch-tall man with shimmering, translucent wings attached to his back hovered right in front of me, his arms crossed over his tiny chest. Oscar, the pixie who took care of my room and, by extension, me. He must have been getting dressed for dinner because he only wore a white tank top, along with blue boxers and black cowboy boots. He never went anywhere without his boots on. He was a little redneck that way.

I groaned. “Not you too. Can't I sit down on something? Just for a minute. It's been a long day.”

“Not if I have to clean it up afterward.” Oscar regarded me with critical violet eyes, his nose twitching. “You smell like a fruit cobbler—and not in a good way.”

I pulled my sticky T-shirt away from my chest, wincing as another wave of too-sweet persimmon pulp filled my nose. “Really? I hadn't noticed.”

“Sarcasm's not going to help you with me, cupcake,” Oscar said, making shooing motions with his hands. “So instead of sitting down and getting something else dirty, you might as well strip off those nasty clothes and get in the shower. I'll put you some fresh clothes on the hanger on the back of the bathroom door. Go on, now. Git.”

He zoomed back and forth in front of my face, like I was a cow he was trying to herd.

“Yes, master,” I grumbled.

Technically, pixies were monsters, since they weren't human-size, but I'd always thought of them as miniature people. They were also the housekeepers of the world, hiring themselves out to mortals, magicks, and even other monsters in exchange for a place to live, protection, money, and more. Oscar and I had gotten off to a rocky start when I'd first moved in, but I now considered him a friend. He was also one of the few people who had known my mom, because she'd worked for the Family for years, until she'd had a falling out with Claudia Sinclair.

Oscar might not be much bigger than my hand, but he made up for his small size with plenty of attitude. He was the bossiest pixie I'd ever met, barking out order after order in his twangy, hillbilly voice to anyone who dared get within earshot. Over the past few weeks, I'd learned that it was better just to humor him in most things, like wearing the clothes he laid out for me and eating the food he brought up to my room when I was out on Family business and couldn't get down to the dining hall for the regular meal.

So I obediently headed into the bathroom, shut the door behind me, stripped off my clothes, and took a long, hot shower to wash off all the blood persimmon juice that had soaked into my hair and skin. When I was done, I reached an arm out of the bathroom and grabbed the fresh clothes off the hook on the door.

I expected to find my usual T-shirt and cargo pants, but Oscar had put out a tight, sleeveless, sapphire-blue top, along with a pair of fitted black pants and matching heels. Apparently, he wanted me to dress up for dinner. I grumbled again, but I didn't feel like arguing with him, so I put on the clothes with one substitution. I ditched the heels in favor of black sneakers.

I'd already dried my hair, so I plopped down in front of the vanity mirror and pulled my black locks back into a sleek ponytail before sticking two black lacquered chopsticks through it. The thin sticks might look like innocent hair accessories, but they were far more useful, since the hollow wooden tubes featured a set of lock picks. My star-sapphire ring completed the ensemble, along with my silver Sinclair cuff.

When I finished, I headed over to the table next to the patio doors where Oscar's pixie house sat. Most folks would have thought that the ebony trailer was some sort of dollhouse, despite the fact that the roof was missing several shingles, the porch sagged like a wet newspaper, and several tiny honeybeer cans littered the front steps. A grassy yard led over to a corral and a barn, also made out of ebony, making the entire table look like a diorama of some western dude ranch. Rustic, people would say, if they were being kind.

Behind the fence, Tiny, Oscar's pet tortoise, was lying on his back, his green legs sticking up in the air as he snoozed the day away in a sunspot. Tiny cracked open a black eye at the sound of my footsteps, but when he realized that I didn't have any lettuce or strawberries, he went back to his nap. I tickled one of his feet, making him snort and rock back and forth on his shell before he settled down again.

The trailer's front door slammed open again, and Oscar hopped down the creaky porch steps and strutted out onto the lawn. He held his arms out to his sides and turned around.

“Well?” he drawled. “How do I look?”

While I'd been getting dressed, Oscar had been doing the same. His sandy mop of hair was slicked back under a black cowboy hat, and he wore a pair of new, creased black jeans and a white button-up shirt with black trim, along with his usual cowboy boots. I squinted. Were those black pearl buttons on his shirt? Probably, knowing Oscar.

“Nice,” I said. “What's the occasion? And why did you make me dress up too?”

He grinned. “You'll see. Bet you can't beat me to the dining hall!”

Oscar zipped over to the bedroom door, opened it, and flew away before I could answer him.

I looked at Tiny. “Have you been feeding him sugar again?”

The tortoise just snorted again.

 

I went down to the dining hall, which was one of the biggest rooms in the mansion. Tall, skinny windows lined the back wall from floor to ceiling, showing off the deep, dark evergreen woods that surrounded the mansion. Sunlight streaming in through the glass made the chandeliers overhead sparkle even more than usual, the crystals painting rainbow patterns on the black-and-white Persian rugs that covered the floor. Long tables that could seat more than thirty people each clustered together in the middle of the room, while still more tables were set up along one of the walls, each one covered with food.

I headed straight for the buffet tables to see what the pixies had whipped up tonight. Their excellent home-cooking was one of the best perks of living at the Sinclair mansion. Tonight's menu was one of my favorites—grilled steak with horseradish mashed potatoes and a summer salad of ripe tomatoes, crunchy cucumbers, and tangy red onions that the pixies grew up in the greenlab. I heaped a plate full of steak, potatoes, and salad, along with dates that had been stuffed with gorgonzola cheese and wrapped in bacon, which was my absolute favorite food. Bacon made
everything
better.

A guy swaggered up next to me. “You gonna leave some of those for the rest of us?”

My fingers curled a little tighter around the tongs I was using to pick up the dates. “Vance.”

“Lila.”

Vance Groves was one of the top Sinclair guards with Talents for both speed and strength. At twenty, he'd already been serving the Family for a couple of years. Vance patrolled down on the Midway, and he was one of the few guards who actually enjoyed strutting around in the cheesy black cloak and feathered cavalier hat, both of which he was wearing right now. He thought that the ren-faire gear made him look oh so dashing, and he was absolutely right about that. With his golden hair and blue eyes, Vance was seriously handsome, something he took great pride in. He was always posing for photos with the giggly tourist girls—and then slipping them his phone number afterward.

Vance also thought that he was the best fighter in the Family, something I'd disproven over and over by disarming him every time we sparred together. Vance didn't like anyone beating him at anything, especially not a newbie recruit like me, and he went out of his way to annoy me every chance he got.

Vance sneered at me, snatched the tongs out of my hand, and started piling the bacon-wrapped dates onto his plate.

“You don't want to do that.”

His blue eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

“You're watching your weight, remember?” My voice was oh so kind but loud enough for everyone around us to hear. “Good for you, trying to get rid of your potbelly. Not to mention that male pattern baldness that's starting to set in. But hey, the hat covers that up, right?”

Vance's eyes bulged with anger, and his mouth dropped open, but only strangled syllables escaped.

I gave him a sweet smile, slipped the tongs out of his hand, and piled the rest of the dates onto my plate so that he would have to wait for the pixies to bring out another tray.