Cold Burn of Magic(3)

I stopped at a crosswalk, watching the traffic. Cars with out-of-state license plates and tour buses, mostly, with a few magicks on bicycles pedaling by, using their Talents for strength or speed to easily or quickly churn their legs and pull the cutesy carriages full of canoodling couples along behind them. A sign planted in a flowerbed in the median featured a carving of a white castle. Words in a fancy script on the sign claimed that Cloudburst Falls was “the most magical place in America,” a tourist town where “fairy tales are real.”

I snorted. Yeah, fairy tales were real here all right—including the monsters that went along with them. Monsters that were fe-fi-fo-fum hungry for all the blood and bones they could sink their teeth and claws into, mortal, magick, or otherwise.

While I waited for the light to change, I raised my gaze to Cloudburst Mountain, the rugged peak that loomed over the city. White clouds cloaked the top of the mountain, the thick fog made out of mist that continually drifted up from the dozens of waterfalls tumbling down the sides. The mist wrapped around the peak like whipped cream on top of a sundae, but the mountain, the falls, and the sweeping views from the top were what the tourists came here to see.

Along with the monsters.

Several different tour companies hauled folks into the surrounding forests and up the mountain so they could observe monsters in their natural habitats, sort of like the Southern version of an African safari. Those who were a little less outdoorsy and adventurous could stay in town, where they could safely ooh and ahh over monsters in parks, petting zoos, and the like, as well as enjoy Cloudburst Falls’ overall kitschy, renaissance-faire theme.

Below the cloud line, mansions made out of white, gray, and black stone sprawled across the mountain ridges, the silver lights inside twinkling like stars. During the day, I would have been able to see the flags decorated with symbols that topped the towers in the lavish compounds, but the distant flags were only indistinct blobs in the night sky. The colors and crests represented the Families, or mobs, that made up the power structure here, at least among many of the magicks.

But there were two Families that stood above all the others—the Sinclairs and the Draconis. Their mansions were the biggest, the most impressive, and the highest ones up on the mountain, with the Sinclairs on the west side and the Draconis on the eastern slope. All the other Families were below them, literally.

And me too. Although I had as little respect for the Sinclairs and the Draconis, and their constant feuding, as I did for everything else. You couldn’t do the sorts of jobs that I did and follow the rules, much less care about who you pissed off by breaking them.

But I preferred to keep a low profile, for all sorts of reasons, and that meant not stealing from the Families. At least, not from any of their more prominent members. Although their hired hands, like the accountant I’d robbed tonight, were fair game.

Steering clear of the Families was the only real rule I followed. Besides, there were plenty of rich people here in the city to rob, not to mention all the tourists who didn’t even realize their wallets, cameras, and phones were missing until they got back to their hotels.

Mo went up the mountain sometimes, though, peddling his many ill-gotten goods to whatever Family would let him sidle in through their doors. My fingers curled around the box in my pocket. I wondered who he would sell the ruby necklace to. Probably some rich Family schmuck looking for a present for someone—or a bribe.

The light changed, and I crossed the street, putting all thoughts of the Sinclairs, Draconis, and other Families out of my mind.

The farther west I walked, the lighter the street and foot traffic got, and the less shiny, polished, and magical everything appeared to be. The bustling businesses disappeared, replaced by dilapidated row houses. Calling this the bad part of town would have been a kindness, since matchsticks glued together would have been more substantial than most of the buildings. Almost every home I passed featured broken concrete steps, sagging wooden porches, and roofs with gaping holes, like something had come along and taken bites out of the dull, weathered tin.

Maybe something had.

In addition to mortals and magicks, monsters made up the third, albeit smallest, part of the population, and they weren’t uncommon in this part of town. All of the rundown homes, deserted businesses, and abandoned warehouses made great places for something to curl up and lie in wait for lost tourists to wander by.

I was the only person on the street, and I drew my sword, my blue eyes flicking left and right, peering into the shadows that had crept up to the edge of the sidewalk, thanks to the busted-out streetlights. The pools and patches of blackness didn’t bother me, though, not with my Talent for sight. I could see everything around me as clear as day, no matter how dark it actually was.

Like everything else, magic mostly fell into three categories—strength, speed, and senses, which included sight, smell, sound, taste, and touch. The majority of Talents were some variation on those three areas, whether it was the ability to lift a car with one hand, move faster than a snake striking, or hear a coin hit the ground from a hundred feet away. And, as if all that wasn’t enough, some folks could even conjure up their magic and hold balls of fire, lightning bolts, or poisonous clouds in the palms of their hands so that everyone could see and feel their power—and potentially be hurt by it.

There were three levels of power—minor, moderate, and major—depending on how strong you were in your magic and how many different things you could do with it. Most folks fell into the minor and moderate categories, but some Talents were automatically considered major because they were so rare, or powerful, or both.