Cold Burn of Magic(19)

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.