Cold Burn of Magic (2 page)

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.

Really, though, all us magicks were circus freaks more than anything else, able to do amazing things with our bodies. Strong women, fast men, people who could twist their limbs into impossible positions, create illusions with a wave of their hands, or change their appearance just by thinking about it. But with monsters in the mix, instead of lions and tigers. Oh my.

Sight was a common Talent, along with all the other enhanced senses, but it was one of the more useful ones. Certainly better than smell. The foul reek of the garbage bags heaped at the corner made my nose crinkle with disgust. I could only imagine how much worse the stench would be if it were magically amplified.

I left the row houses behind and stepped onto a gray cobblestone bridge that arched over the Bloodiron River. Three Xs had been carved into a stone set into the short column that fronted the right side of the bridge. A clear warning. There be a monster here.

I paused in the middle of the bridge, just before I would cross over to the far side, looked over the edge, and listened, but I didn't see or hear anything except the soft ripple and rush of the river below. No metal clanking on the stones, no claws crabbing over the rocks in my direction, no monster licking its chops in anticipation of sinking its teeth into me. Either the lochness who lived under the bridge was cruising down the river like the black, oversize octopus it resembled or it was already chowing down on its dinner for the night.

I thought about crossing the rest of the bridge without paying the usual toll, but it was better not to chance it. Besides, it was the polite thing to do. My mom had been big on that. On paying the tolls, following the old traditions, and giving every creature—mortal, magick, and monster—the respect it deserved. Especially the ones that could eat you in one gulp.

So I dug through my pockets and retrieved three quarters. I placed the coins on a worn, smooth stone, also marked with three Xs, set in the middle of the right side of the bridge.

Pretty cheap, if you asked me, especially given the insanely high prices the tourists and we locals paid for everything in town. I could have given the monster the crumpled, five-dollar bill in my pocket, but this lochness preferred change for some reason. Maybe because the coins were so shiny, glimmering like perfect silver circles. Although I had no idea what the creature could possibly do with quarters. Maybe the lochness took the change to some hidden lair, made a nest out of the coins, and slept in the middle of them, like dragons with gold, gems, and other treasures in those old fairy tales.

The lochness wasn't the only monster in town, and each kind required different forms of tribute to let you pass by safely. Small things mostly, like a lock of hair or a drop of blood or even a candy bar. That last one was for the tree trolls. Apparently, they loved their sugary snacks. But if some quarters or a chocolate bar kept something from attacking, killing, and eating me, then it was worth the effort to be nice and play along with the monsters.

My toll paid, I turned and walked down the far side of the bridge—

My steps faltered, but I tightened my grip on my sword and resisted the urge to look over my shoulder for a glimpse of whatever had snatched my coins off the center stone.

Sometimes, Talent or not, it was better
not
to see things.

T
en minutes later, I turned off the street and sidled up to a brick building that took up an entire block. A faded sign planted in the lawn read
CLOUDBURST FALLS LIBRARY—WESTERN BRANCH.
No fancy castle adorned this sign, just a simple stack of splintered books. Like everything else in the neighborhood, the sign and the library were both a little worse for wear.

I slid my sword back into its scabbard, then reached up and pulled a pair of chopsticks out of my former ponytail. They looked like two thin, black-lacquered sticks, the sort women wear in their hair; however, a quick twist of the wood revealed the lock picks hidden inside.

I used the picks to open one of the side doors and slipped into the building. The interior was dark, but that didn't bother me. Even if I hadn't had my sight, I still would have been able to navigate through the stacks. My mom used to bring me here every Saturday in the summer when I was a kid, and I'd long ago memorized every inch of the library, from the miniature chairs and tables in the children's section to the graffiti carved into the wooden shelves that housed the young adult books to the checkout counter with its out-of-date computers.

I walked through the aisles until I came to a door that opened onto a storage room. It featured a shelf full of paper towels and cleaning supplies, along with boxes of old discarded books no longer in library circulation. I moved past the boxes to the back of the room, where another door was set into the wall.

I picked that one open as well, then shut and locked it behind me. By this point, I was so deep into the library that no light penetrated the interior, but there was nothing down here that could hurt me. So I walked through a short hallway filled with more boxes of unwanted books, down a set of stairs, and into the basement.

I pulled off my gloves, went to a table in the corner, and ran my fingers over the touch lamp Mo had given me when I'd first moved in here about four years ago. Soft white light filled the basement, revealing a mini-fridge, a couple of battered suitcases filled with clothes, another suitcase bristling with weapons, and a metal rack full of books, photos, and other mementos. A cot was also shoved into the corner, the blue flannel sheets hanging off the edge where I hadn't bothered to make up the bed before I left this morning.

Home, sweet home.

I unbuckled the black leather belt and scabbard from around my waist and propped them and my sword next to the cot, then shrugged out of my coat and tossed it on top of the sheets. I pulled out my phone and texted Mo.

 

 

The phone beeped less than a minute later, as if he'd been waiting up for me. I snorted. Waiting up to make sure I got what he wanted was more like it. He'd probably been using that stupid app of his to track my phone, making sure I was back at the library.

 

 

I rolled my eyes. For some reason, Mo thought that the simple act of my going to school would somehow counteract my nightly life of looting and larceny. As if.

I plugged in my phone to let it charge. Then I plucked the black velvet box out of my coat pocket, cracked open the top, and fished out the necklace.

“Eat your heart out, Robin Hood,” I murmured. “Lila Merriweather strikes again.”

I admired the fiery flash of the rubies before holding the necklace up to a framed photo sitting on a table next to my cot. A woman with my same black hair and dark blue eyes stared back at me. My mom, Serena.

“It went just like I planned. You should have seen the looks on their faces. Those guards couldn't believe that I got away from them.”

I paused, as if I were waiting for her to chime in, but my mom didn't say anything. She died when I was thirteen, but I still talked to her photo sometimes. Yeah, I knew that it was stupid, but it made me feel a little better. Like she was watching over me from wherever she was. Like she wasn't completely gone.

Like she hadn't been brutally murdered.

I draped the necklace over the frame, making it look as if Mom was wearing the rubies, then moved around the basement, putting away my gear. I left all of my supplies in my coat, although I fished out the candy bar and finished eating it. I also grabbed some more quarters from a glass jar and slid them into one of the coat pockets, before folding the garment and the gloves and placing them in a suitcase by themselves.

Like me, the garments were more than they appeared to be. The gloves were made from ironmesh, a thin, flexible metal. The coat was unique, too, comprised of spidersilk that had been stitched together, making it strong, durable, and lightweight. Best of all, spidersilk turned away all sorts of stains—dirt, grease, blood, grime—so it never needed to be washed.

And then there was the sword, the most valuable object I owned. It, too, was made out of a special metal—bloodiron. But instead of being the expected rusty red, the sword was a dull, flat black, bordering on gray, looking more like ashy wood than actual metal. Black blades, most folks called them, because of the color—and the terrible things they could do, especially to magicks and monsters.

Bloodiron was rare, and most weapons made out of the metal were carved with family crests and symbols, almost like cattle brands, to make the blades easily identifiable. Naturally, this made it harder to steal and sell the heirlooms on the black market. A five-pointed star had been cut into the center of the hilt of my sword, with other, smaller stars running down the hilt and then etched into the blade itself.

The sword, coat, and gloves were my most prized possessions, but not because of their magical properties or monetary value. I loved them because they'd belonged to my mom.

They had been the three tools she'd used the most. When I was a kid, we traveled from town to town, and Mom went from one job and one side of the country to the other and back again. Most of the time, she worked as a bodyguard, protecting rich folks from other rich folks who wanted them dead. Along the way, Mom taught me everything she knew about fighting, thieving, lock picking, and all the other skills I needed in order to survive. I'd wanted to be just like her as a kid.

Part of me still did.

My right hand trailed down the front of the coat, the spidersilk feeling as cool and smooth as a sheet of raindrops. The motion made a ring wink on my hand—a small sapphire shaped like a five-pointed star embedded in a thin silver band.

Something else that had belonged to my mom, one of the few things I had left of her. Most everything else was gone, either destroyed, stolen by looters, or pawned to pay for food, clothes, and other necessities.

I looked at the ring a moment longer, staring into the dark blue depths of the flashing sapphire, before dropping my hand and getting on with my chores.

It took me thirty minutes to haul enough water from the women's restroom on the first floor down to the basement to fill an old metal washtub for a cold bath. The basement wasn't exactly the warmest part of the library, and my teeth were chattering by the time I got out, dried off, and put on my pajamas.

Most nights, I would have gone back upstairs, grabbed an action movie out of the media center, and popped it into the TV in the children's section.
The Princess Bride,
the entire
James Bond
series, the original
Star Wars
trilogy. I'd watched them all dozens of times and could quote them by heart. Silly, I know. But the free movies were one of my favorite parts about living in the library. I liked how everything always worked out okay in the movies, especially since I knew that I wasn't likely to get my own happy ending.

But it was late, and I was tired, so I crawled into bed. I started to turn out the light, but I glanced over at the photo of my mom, her smile even brighter than the rubies draped around the silver frame.

“Good night, Mom,” I whispered.

Once again, I waited, but there was no response. And there never would be.

Sighing, I hit the lamp with my fingers, casting the basement into darkness. Then I curled into a tight ball on my cot, drew the sheets up to my chin, and tried to go to sleep, instead of thinking about how much I still missed her.

 

Unfortunately, rubies or not, thief or not, magick or not, I still had to get up and schlep to school the next morning.

I attended one of the regular rube public high schools, where no one knew who I was or anything about my illegal late-night errands. I doubted that anyone except the teachers even knew I existed. They, at least, had to grade my papers and put a face with the name. But the students ignored me, and I did the same to them. I didn't need them. I didn't need
friends
.

Even if I had bothered to make a couple, it wasn't like I could bring them to my squatter's home in the library to hang out, watch a TV that wasn't even mine, and talk about cute guys. That would be a good way to get shipped back to foster care—or worse, put in juvie for trespassing, breaking and entering, stealing, and all the other bad things I'd done.

So I went to my classes, ate lunch by myself in the school library, and waited for the day to pass so I could get on with more important things—like taking the necklace to Mo and getting paid.

Finally, the three o'clock bell rang, signaling the end of the school day. At three-oh-one, I was out the front door. Since I didn't feel like walking, I hopped onto one of the trolleys that crisscrossed town at all hours of the day and night. Not only was Cloudburst Falls “the most magical place in America,” but it was also a total tourist trap. Think a Southern version of Vegas, but with real magic and mobsters who wielded their Talents with brutal efficiency and deadly consequences. Folks came from all across the country, and the world, to buy cheap trinkets and cheaper T-shirts, eat fatty foods—like deep-fried fudge—and throw their money away inside the themed shops, restaurants, and casinos that lined the Midway.

Mostly, though, the tourists loved to dawdle on the sidewalks, lick their disgusting ice cream cones, and gawk at everything, even though they could see the exact same stuff back home if only they looked hard enough. Talented magicks were everywhere. Monsters, too.

But legend had it that Cloudburst Mountain itself was particularly magical, especially since so much bloodiron had been discovered and mined there. Some folks even claimed that the mountain emanated power, sort of like a giant magnet, which was why so many magicks and monsters made their homes in, near, on, and around it. Either way, the town officials had decided to play up the magic angle. Well, they and the Families. The Families got a cut of everything in this town, including all the cash the tourists left behind.

I plopped down in an aisle seat on the trolley. The lady sitting by the window didn't even glance at me. Instead, she raised her camera and snapped a photo of a food cart shaped like a miniature metal castle, as if she'd never seen a guy wearing a black cloak and matching cavalier hat, holding metal skewers full of hot dogs and roasting them with the flames shooting out of his fingertips.

I rolled my eyes. Tourist rubes were the
worst
. I thought about stealing her wallet, just on principle, but I decided against it. The twenty bucks that was probably inside wasn't worth the hassle.

Thirty minutes later, the trolley stopped in front of one of the many squares that branched off the Midway, the main tourist drag in the center of town. While the tourists were grabbing their purses, cameras, and jumbo sodas, I was already striding down the aisle and stepping off the trolley.

The street ran by the front of the square, while shops and restaurants made up the other three sides, with several walkways in between the buildings leading back to the Midway or to the next square over. A park lay in the middle of the area, with leafy trees that provided a bit of shade from the mid-May heat. A gray stone fountain shaped like Cloudburst Mountain, complete with a waterfall on one side, gushed in the center of the park.

A bronze plaque stood next to the fountain, telling about the town's history and how two local families—the Sinclairs and the Draconis—had started guiding folks up the mountain to see the falls and monsters. Some of those early tourists swore that drinking the water and breathing in the clouds of mist from the falls cured everything from baldness to stomachaches, and the views were so spectacular and the monsters so creepy that word got out, and more and more folks began flocking to the area. As a result, Cloudburst Falls was pretty much tourist-central all year-round now, although the summer months were the most crowded.

I snorted. The plaque failed to mention the
real
history of the town. Namely, that the Sinclairs and the Draconis had both been poor mountain families who ran moonshine during Prohibition before they realized they could make more money by luring tourists to town and showing them the scenery and monsters. Rumor had it that a Sinclair had opened up the first business in town, a shack selling fudge and other sweets to tourists at the base of the mountain. A Draconi had retaliated by setting up an ice cream cart. And so on and so forth, until the town had become what it was today, with the Sinclairs and the Draconis still fighting for control of everything. It was more Hatfields and McCoys, or Capulets and Montagues, than a fairy tale come true, but the town officials had prettied up the past, just like they had everything else.

I was skirting the fountain when a pack of girls stepped in front of me, laughing and talking. I rolled my eyes and pulled up short, but I still couldn't help clipping the shoulder of the girl on the edge of the pack, one who looked around my age.