Cold Burn of Magic(52)

“Well, you better do that soon. Isn’t it about time for the summer sale?”

I groaned. With everything that had been going on, I’d forgotten all about the sale the library sponsored at the beginning of every summer to clean out the old, used books and earn a little money to buy shiny new titles. But the date was circled in red on the cheap calendar by my cot because it was one of the few weeks of the year when I had to crash at Mo’s. During the sale, the librarians actually came down into the basement to sort through and clean out everything. I had to hide my stuff as far back in the basement as it would go, stack boxes of books in front of it, and hope my things would be left alone until after the sale. Then, when it was over, I could put everything back the way it was. At least until the next sale.

Mo had already brought my most treasured items to the mansion, but there were some things in the library I still wanted. Extra clothes, extra weapons, a few more knickknacks.

“What’s the date of the sale?”


Mo pulled out his phone and surfed the library’s website. “Let’s see. According to the calendar, it looks like they start going through stuff tomorrow. The sale starts three days after that.”

I groaned again. That meant I needed to get my things tonight or risk losing them. No doubt the librarians would wonder exactly why they hadn’t noticed the cot, the mini-fridge, and the rest of my stuff before. I’d be lucky if they only added it to the sale, instead of calling the cops to complain about someone squatting in the library. I didn’t think anything there could be traced back to me, but it was better not to take the chance.

“I need to go then,” I said. “And salvage what I can.”

“You want me to come with you, kid? Give you a hand?”

The lochness bones over the front door rattled, cutting me off. Three women wearing shorts, pink baseball hats, and matching T-shirts entered the shop. Mo perked up. Only the rubes from the tour groups wore matching T-shirts.

Still, Mo looked at the customers, then back at me, clearly torn between helping me out and making some money, but I didn’t blame him for it. He’d taught me to be the exact same way, and I would have already called out a greeting to the shoppers, if our positions had been reversed.

“I can close the shop early and come help you,” he said, his black eyes locked onto the three women, who’d started browsing. “Just say the word.”

“Nah. You’ve got sales to make. I’ll be fine.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” he murmured, finally dragging his gaze back to me.

“I’m sure.”

“Just be careful, okay, kid?” Mo said. “The Families aren’t the only bad things roaming the streets.”

His concern touched me, enough that I leaned across the counter and gave him that hug after all. His arms came around me, and his scent filled my nose, a faint, citrusy smell almost like lemon cleaner. It made me remember all the time I’d spent in the shop. All the summer mornings watching him wipe down the glass cases, ruthlessly eradicating the streaks and specks of dust so customers could have a clear, sparkling view of the goods inside. All the afternoons haggling with him about how much he was going to pay me for a watch I’d swiped. All the late nights eating takeout burgers and plotting my next job. My heart squeezed tight again, and I had to clear my throat before I could speak.

“Later, Mo.”

“Later, kid.”

I drew back, turned, and hurried away so he wouldn’t see the tears stinging my eyes.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


I walked out of the shop, past the fountain in the middle of the square, and over to the street. A trolley was getting ready to leave to make its loop around the city, so I was able to hop on board.

I found myself in an aisle seat, next to a woman who had her nose and camera pressed up against the window, staring at the food cart at the corner, as though she’d never seen a guy make snow cones with shaved ice that he created with his bare hands. She looked like the same woman I’d sat next to on my ride over to the Razzle Dazzle the day Devon had been attacked, but I couldn’t be sure. The tourist rubes all tended to look alike after a while.

The trolley rumbled through town on its slow circuit, stopping at various squares, as well as the main entrance to the Midway. Thirty minutes later, I got off at the stop closest to the library and walked the rest of the way through the rundown neighborhood.

It wasn’t six yet, and I thought that I might have to hide in one of the bathroom stalls until the library closed for the night. But the building was already locked up tight, and a sign on the door said that it would also be closed tomorrow so the staff could do inventory. Looked like I’d gotten lucky after all.

I had my chopstick lock picks stuck in my ponytail, so I jimmied open the side door and slipped inside. I walked through the stacks, the storage room, and down into the basement, where I hit the touch lamp, making it flare to life. Maybe it was my imagination, but the basement looked different, even though everything was the same as when I’d last been here. The cot with its tangle of sheets, the faint hum of the fridge, the metal shelf full of what I considered treasures.

But the more I stared at the basement, the more I realized that it was small—small and dingy and just plain sad. Or maybe that was my impression of the items scattered around it. After being surrounded by all of the slick, polished glamour of the Sinclair mansion, my things looked no better than the cheap trinkets at the ticky-tack tourist shops.