Cold Burn of Magic(44)

To my left, burners, beakers, and other scientific equipment squatted on long metal tables. Shelves built into the stone wall behind the tables were filled with bottles of dark green, liquid stitch-sting. A heavy metal grate covered each shelf, locking the bottles away in the same way as the black blades in the training room.

Dealing with monsters was hard, dirty, dangerous work. Yeah, most of the monsters stayed where they were supposed to, either in their sanctuaries or in the shadows. But sometimes, they would wander through the squares or even the Midway, making the tourists shriek and scream, before the Family guards managed to capture and return the creatures to their intended habitat. And while some of the monsters, like the lochness, would let you pass through their territories by paying them tribute, others might attack you just for the fun of it, whether they were hungry or not.

Given all that, every Family kept a stockpile of stitch-sting on hand to deal with all the injuries sustained from monster wrangling. The Families also made nice piles of cash selling stitch-sting creams, ointments, and more to pharmacies and other shops, like the Razzle Dazzle. Pour enough stitch-sting on and in a wound, and your injury would heal—although not before the potion caused almost unbearable pain. Like needles stitching your skin, muscles, and bones together, hence the name.

A tall, thin man walked out from behind the stitch-sting bushes, wearing a white beekeeper suit, his arms full of fresh cuttings. The bushes weren’t exactly monsters, but they required tribute before allowing anyone to harvest their limbs. And you had to drizzle the ground around their roots with honey before they let harvesters close enough to prune them. Even then, the bushes were still likely to stab you at least a few times, just for fun, which was the reason for the man’s protective suit.

The man laid down his cuttings on one of the tables and removed his beekeeper hat, revealing his wavy black hair and brown eyes. He stopped when he noticed me lurking near the doors.

“Oh,” he said, smiling. “Hello. You must be Lila. I’m Angelo Morales, Felix’s dad. He’s told me all about you.”

I thought of Felix’s nonstop chatter. “I bet he has.”

“I would shake your hand, but . . .” Angelo held up his glove-covered hands.

“It’s okay.”

He tipped his head. “Felix is in the back if you’re looking for him.”

I nodded and stepped onto one of the black flagstone paths that curved deeper into the greenlab. A glass roof covered the entire space, the sunlight streaming inside adding even more warmth to the already humid air. I wandered through the rows of flowers, herbs, and bushes, enjoying the quiet.

I’d almost reached the back of the greenlab when a series of soft scrape-scrape-scrapes interrupted the silence. I headed toward the sound.

I rounded another row of stitch-sting bushes and found Felix perched on a stool. Several clay pots crouched on the table in front of him, along with bunches of herbs laid out on damp paper towels, as though he’d just picked them. But his attention was fixed on the blood-red rose in his hand, and he didn’t hear me walk up behind him.

“Picking another rose for Deah Draconi?” I asked in a snide tone.

Felix yelped in surprise, crushed the rose in his hand, and then yelped again as its thorns stabbed his skin. He winced and dropped the mangled flower onto the table.

“Geez! Give a guy a heart attack, why don’t you?” he muttered. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do. Because you gave Deah a rose just like that one at the arcade.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did,” I said. “You brought that white rose for Devon to give to Poppy, as part of their fake date, but that red one was for Deah all along, wasn’t it? That’s why you were carrying that gift bag around. Because you had two flowers in there and you didn’t want anyone to see the second rose or know who it was for.”

Felix opened his mouth, but for once, no words came out. He bit his lip, and a guilty flush stained his cheeks.

“You can’t tell anyone, okay? Please?” he asked, desperation creeping into his voice. “The Sinclairs and Draconis don’t exactly get along.”

“Don’t worry. I’m good at keeping my mouth shut . . .”

He relaxed a little.

“For the right price.”

He sighed. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know . . . yet. But when I do, so will you.”

I grinned in the face of his sour, petulant expression and leaned against the table. “Although, I have to ask. Deah Draconi? Really?”

Felix straightened up. “Deah’s not so bad.”

“Not so bad? She stood by and let her brother assault Poppy.”

He shook his head. “Nobody can stop Blake, not even Deah. And he’s second-in-command to their father, who listens to everything Blake says.”

I couldn’t argue with him. Everyone knew about Blake and Victor Draconi and their combined cruelty. But I just couldn’t picture motormouth Felix with stuck-up Deah.

“Is that why you flirt with every girl you see? Because you don’t want anyone to know that you’re totally hung up on Deah?”

“What’s it to you?” he muttered. “You’re just like everyone else. You hate her just because she’s a Draconi, and you don’t even know her.”