Dark Heart of Magic (Black Blade #2)(49)

Perfect end to a perfectly miserable day.



I took a shower, but I was too restless and frustrated to go to bed, so I threw on a T-shirt, a pair of shorts, and some sneakers. Country music still blared from Oscar’s trailer, so I went out onto the balcony and climbed up the drainpipe until I reached one of the mansion roofs that formed a wide terrace.

The terrace was open on three sides, and three lawn chairs were perched close to the iron railing to take advantage of the spectacular view of the Midway and all its flashing lights down in the valley below. But I wasn’t here to admire the view. No, tonight I wanted to hit something—repeatedly.

So I headed over to a series of metal pipes that jutted out of the mansion wall, snaking up and down like an elaborate jungle gym. Several punching bags dangled from the posts. An open footlocker full of boxing gloves and other sporting gear sat close to the pipes, with a cooler full of ice and drinks over by the railing.

I didn’t bother taping up my hands or grabbing a pair of gloves from the footlocker. Instead, I marched over to the closest bag, raised my fists, and just started hitting it. I slammed my fists into the heavy bag over and over again, all the while imagining that it was Victor’s smug face I was pummeling. He’d gotten rid of my father and had murdered my mother, and now he was threatening to hurt everyone else I cared about. And I had no idea how to stop him.

Whack-whack-whack.

And the ironic thing was that Victor didn’t even know I existed. Oh sure, he knew that Lila Merriweather was a new guard for the Sinclairs and was competing in the Tournament of Blades, but he didn’t know that I was really Lila Sterling, the daughter of the woman he’d tortured and killed.

And he especially didn’t know how much I hated him.

Whack-whack-whack.

Then again, it wasn’t like I’d shouted my true identity from the rooftops. Just the opposite. I’d worked hard to keep who I really was on the down-low. Even among the Sinclairs, only a few folks knew the truth about who I was, what Victor had done to my mom, and why.

That had never bothered me before tonight, but going over to the Draconi mansion, seeing Victor so smug in his own home, so secure and confident in his own power, and reading through that file he had on me had flipped a switch inside me. Suddenly, I wanted him to know exactly who I was—and that I wasn’t going to let him hurt another person I cared about. Not a single one.

Whack-whack-whack.

I whaled on the heavy bag until my knuckles bruised, my arms ached, and my legs trembled, but I kept right on hitting it. I drew back my fists for another strike when a voice sounded behind me.

“You keep that up and you won’t have anything left for the tournament tomorrow.”

I looked over my shoulder at Devon, who’d stepped through the door and out onto the terrace. “I don’t care about the stupid tournament.”

He let the door swing shut behind him. “You should. You could win it. Wouldn’t that make you happy?”

I smashed my fist into the bag again. Whack. “Not as happy as hitting Victor would make me.”

Devon didn’t say anything, but sympathy softened his face. His dad had been murdered because of Grant Sanderson’s schemes, and he’d felt the exact same rage and frustration that I was feeling right now. He stepped over and held out his hand. I looked at his outstretched fingers instead of into his eyes. I didn’t want to see how sorry he felt for me.

But Devon was as stubborn as I was, and he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. He stepped even closer, and I finally sighed, all the anger draining out of my body, and put my hand in his. Devon gave my fingers a soft, understanding squeeze, then led me over to the lawn chairs next to the railing.

We sat down, and I started to pull my hand out of his, but Devon wouldn’t let go. Instead, he opened the cooler, reached down, and drew out a small bag of ice, which he gently placed on my bruised knuckles. I hissed at the cold sensation.

“You hit the heavy bag like you’re trying to punch right through it and you’re wincing at a little ice? Crybaby,” Devon teased.

I gave him a dark look, but that only made him grin wider.

He sat there, cradling my hand and keeping the ice in place before doing the same thing to my other hand. Even after the cold had eased the ache in my knuckles, Devon still held on, his touch firm but gentle.

“You want to talk about it?” he asked.

“No.”

But he went on as though I hadn’t spoken. “I know it must have been hard, being that close to Victor tonight and not being able to take a shot at him—especially after what he did to your mom.”

I shrugged. “No harder than it’s been all the other times I’ve seen him over the past four years.”

Devon fell silent. He couldn’t argue with that.

For several minutes, we both were quiet, staring out into the night. A faint breeze gusted down from the top of the mountain, clearing away some of the mist and letting us see the summer fireflies as they fluttered to and fro, their lights burning bright as they did their mating dance.

“You know,” Devon said. “There might be a less dangerous way to get your revenge on Victor . . . and Blake too.”

“How?”

He looked at me. “By winning the Tournament of Blades. Nothing makes Victor prouder than having a Draconi win, whether it’s Deah or Blake or one of the guards. If you won, you would spoil the whole tournament for him. You would finally get to take away something he cares about.”