Cold Burn of Magic(47)

I was too riled up to go to bed, so I opened one of the doors leading to the balcony and stepped outside.

The sun had set while I was arguing with Oscar, and day was slowly giving way to night. Down in the valley, the lights on the Midway were already flashing, pulsing like a neon heart—

Thud.

Thud. Thud.

Thud.

The sounds came again and again, drifting out of the mansion from somewhere above. I cocked my head to the side, listening.

Thud.

Thud. Thud.

Thud.

Unless I was mistaken, someone was hitting something—repeatedly. Well, why should they get to have all the fun?

I glanced around the balcony and discovered a staircase built into this side of the mansion, zigzagging from one level to the next. It would have been easy enough to climb the stairs, but I walked over and took hold of the drainpipe instead.

The pipe was made of stone that had been hollowed out; it ran from the top of the mansion all the way down here before snaking around the balcony and continuing its downward journey. I gave the stone a vicious shake, but it didn’t so much as rattle. The only way this drainpipe would come away from the wall was if you took a sledgehammer to it.

I wrapped my hands around the stone, which was still warm from the day’s heat. Then I drew in a breath and started climbing.

The drainpipe was narrow and worn smooth with age, wind, and weather, but I gripped the stone with my fingers and toes and scurried up it like a chipmunk climbing a tree. Nothing I hadn’t done before. In fact, this drainpipe was much sturdier than many I’d snuck up on my jobs for Mo. Besides, it was better to see how fast I could climb it now, when nobody was chasing me. It was always good to think ahead.

It didn’t take me long to climb from one level to the next and reach this part of the mansion roof. I hooked one leg over the iron railing that separated the roof from the steep drop below, then the other one before letting go of the drainpipe. Grinning, I swung there for a moment, like a kid hanging upside down on a monkey bar, before pulling myself upright and perching on the railing.

This section of the roof formed a terrace that was open on three sides and overlooked the mountain below. At the top of the terrace, a couple of lawn chairs sat close to the iron railing, along with an open cooler filled with bottles of water and juice embedded in ice. Old-fashioned iron streetlights towered at each one of the four corners of the terrace, and a hammock had been strung up between one of them and the wall.

But the most interesting thing was the elaborate series of metal pipes that jutted out from the wall, almost like construction scaffolding. The iron pipes zigzagged this way and that, reminding me of some elaborate jungle gym, especially since punching bags of different shapes and sizes dangled from some of the posts.

Thud.

Thud. Thud.

Thud.

Someone was working the heavy bag in the middle of the pipes, which accounted for the sounds. The bag swung toward me, and a fist plowed into it from the side, sending it spiraling away once again.

And that’s when I saw him.

Devon.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN


He was wearing black gym shorts and a T-shirt that stretched tight across his muscled chest. His green eyes blazed, and his mouth was an unforgiving slash. He must have been hitting the bag for a while, because sweat had beaded at his temples, turning his hair more black than brown in places. It looked good on him, though. I was beginning to think everything looked good on Devon Sinclair.

The bag arced back toward Devon, and he hit it with a brutal one-two combo, then another one . . . then another . . .

He kept hitting the bag over and over again, working himself to the point of exhaustion. But he kept slamming his fists into it, even as his punches started to lose a little bit of their brutal pop. And I realized something about Devon, something that his quiet exterior had hidden so far.

He was fierce.

And I liked it.

I liked him.

Much more than I should have.

I should have climbed back down the drainpipe, but I stayed where I was and watched him, admiring the bunch and flex of his muscles, his quick, precise footwork, and the way he kept his gaze focused on the bag, as though it were a real enemy. Devon could definitely hold his own in a fight.

He showed no signs of stopping his assault on the bag, so I decided to end it for him.

“I think you’ve killed it already,” I called out.

Startled, Devon let the bag swing back toward him instead of hitting it again. He grabbed it and peered around the side. His mouth turned down at the sight of me.

“Oh. Lila.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Don’t sound so glum about it.”


He shrugged, headed over to the cooler, and grabbed a bottle of water, again making the muscles flex in his arm. Yeah, I totally ogled that part of him once more—along with his chest, shoulders, and legs. All of him, really. Devon was definitely easy on the eyes, and I was all too happy to take advantage of that.

He straightened back up. “You want something?”

“If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I never pass up free food or drink. A water would be great.”

He tossed me a bottled water, then plopped down in one of the lawn chairs. He stared out into the darkness before putting his foot up against the second chair and sliding it toward me.

“You can sit.” He hesitated. “If you want.”