Cold Burn of Magic(34)

As I strolled down to the ground floor, I also made careful note of the mansion’s layout. Windows. Doors. Hallways. Balconies with steps leading downward. Trellises full of roses winding up from one level to the next. The drainpipes attached to the exterior walls. I made a mental X in my mind of any spot and anything that could help me make a quick escape.

I was a bit surprised that no one appeared to put a stop to my not-so-secretive scouting, but after a few minutes, I realized why—because the mansion was empty.

No Family members lounged around in the upstairs living rooms, chatting to each other. No pixies zipped through the air, carrying trays of food from one floor to the next. No kids played pool in the game room or watched a movie on the massive TV.

It seemed as if the Sinclair Family was quite a bit smaller than I’d thought.

I reached the ground floor and continued with my wanderings. I stopped in a corridor and sniffed. That smelled like . . . bacon. Lots and lots of bacon. My stomach rumbled in anticipation. Reginald never did bring me anything to eat last night, and I’d had to make do with the cookies and apples I snatched from the school lunch line yesterday.

Drawn by the siren scent, I walked down a hallway, which opened up into an enormous dining hall. Tall, skinny windows lined the entire back wall, stretching from the floor to the ceiling and providing a view of the deep, dark, evergreen woods that flanked the grounds. Sunlight streamed in through the glass, causing the crystal chandeliers to glisten and gleam like diamonds. In between the chandeliers, gold and silver paint swirled across the vaulted ceiling. A series of long tables that could easily seat thirty people each took up the middle of the room, with black-and-white Persian rugs peeking out from underneath them.

There were actually some people here, although not nearly as many as I would have expected. A few folks in business suits laughed and talked with several guards, who were dressed in more practical black boots, pants, shirts, and cloaks, their swords propped up in the seats next to them and topped off with their cavalier hats. Other people sat in groups of ones and twos, glancing around nervously as if they’d never been here before. Several pixies fluttered through the air, their translucent wings shimmering with opalescent fire, as they put out steaming platters of eggs, bacon, and pancakes on the buffet tables along the right wall.

Everyone focused on me, the new girl, and the clatter and clank of dishes slowly stopped, as did all the conversations. It was like I was right back in high school. But I ignored the curious stares and whispers, grabbed a plate, and helped myself to as much breakfast as I could pile onto the white china. I took a seat at the end of the table closest to the food, away from everyone else, and dug into the spread.

A female pixie zipped by and deposited a glass of orange juice by my elbow. I mumbled my thanks through a mouthful of bacon, which was as salty, crispy, and delicious as it smelled.

The food was way better than I expected. The scrambled eggs were light and fluffy, while the blackberry pancakes were tart and sweet. I’d always known that pixies were excellent cooks, but I never expected anything like this. Then again, I lived on granola bars for breakfast, lasagna lunches at the rube high school, and greasy takeout burgers for dinner. Anything homemade was a treat to me, and I quickly polished off one plate of food and went back for seconds.

I’d just sat down again when a shadow fell over me. I looked up to see Grant Sanderson standing on the opposite side of the table, dressed in black pants and an expensive white polo shirt that highlighted his muscled chest. He didn’t look like he’d put any real effort into his appearance, although he was still as handsome as ever. He was probably one of those guys who could roll out of bed looking gorgeous.

“Oh,” he said. “You’re here already.”

I shrugged and kept eating.

Grant fixed himself some food and took the seat opposite mine. He picked up his fork, but he tap-tap-tapped it against his plate instead of digging into his food. Fool. It was criminal to let that much bacon get cold.

“So I’m sure you have some questions about how things work around here,” he finally said.

I shrugged again and focused on my pancakes.

“Well, I’m the Sinclair broker,” Grant said. “That means I’m responsible for managing all of the Family’s business interests and any problems. Customer complaints, crimes against the tourists, scuffles with members of other Families.”


In every Family, three positions were the most powerful—broker, bruiser, and butler. Since Grant was the broker, that meant he was one of the most important people in the Sinclair mob, equal to Devon as the bruiser and Reginald as the butler. The only person with more power would be Claudia, as the head of the entire Family.

Grant waited, as if expecting me to be impressed, so I decided to grease his wheels.

“You seem very young to be in such an important position.”

His shoulders puffed up with pride. “Twenty, actually. The youngest broker ever in the Family.”

I thought about pointing out that at nineteen, Devon was even younger and in an equally important position, but I held my tongue. For a change.

Grant stared at all the empty seats around us. “Such as it is.”

I finished off the last of my pancakes and pushed away my plate. I’d go back for thirds in a minute. But if Grant was in such a chatty mood, then who was I to stop him from spilling secrets?

“I get the suits and the guards,” I said, gesturing at the people at the appropriate tables. “They obviously work for the Family. But who are the other people?”