Cold Burn of Magic
Page 42
“Really? Why is that?”
The look he gave me was far more haunted than I was expecting. “Because you’ll be dead soon enough, and there will be somebody new in here to take your place just as soon as it happens. And when it does, I’ll be packing up your things, just like I did Ashley’s.”
His eyes locked with mine. Pain and anguish shimmered in his bloodshot gaze, the twin emotions like red-hot needles twisting deeper and deeper into my own heart.
“I’m sorry about Ashley. You’re right. She didn’t deserve to die like that. I wish I could have saved her, too.”
Oscar snorted. “Yeah, but you didn’t, did you? You saved Devon instead. How very practical of you, saving such an important member of the Family, instead of just his bodyguard.”
“It wasn’t like that,” I protested. “Devon was closer to me than Ashley was—”
“Open up that disgrace you call a suitcase and leave it on the bed, and I’ll unpack your things,” he interrupted me again. “After I have another honeybeer. Or two. Or six. Or however many are left in the fridge.”
Oscar got up, wrenched open the screen door that fronted his trailer, and stomped inside. The door banged shut behind him, with the interior wooden door slamming shut as well. Five seconds later, country music started blasting. The pixie had cranked up his twangy playlist again. Oh, goody.
The music roused Tiny from his nap. The tortoise cracked a black eye open at me for about half a second before going back to sleep. Seemed he was used to Oscar’s temper tantrums—and ignoring them. I wondered how many years that had taken. Because that was one very angry pixie.
I started to lean down so that I could peer in through one of the trailer windows, but I remembered what Reginald had said about Oscar not liking people spying on him—and trying to poke their eyes out with his sword.
So I stood up, walked over and grabbed my suitcase, and put it on the bed, just like he’d ordered. I left everything in the suitcase, except for my mom’s photo, which I slid in between the folds of her sapphire coat in one of the vanity table drawers so the pixie wouldn’t see it. As I glanced over at the trailer again, it occurred to me that Oscar had given me the same speech, more or less, that I’d given to Devon at breakfast.
But the surprising thing was that Oscar’s words had wounded me as much as mine had hurt Devon.
Oscar stayed inside his trailer, probably drinking and brooding, so I left my room, mostly to get away from his too-loud music. I asked a pixie flitting through the air where I could find Felix, and she told me to check the greenlab on the third floor. I followed her directions to the west wing of the mansion and walked through a pair of glass double doors.
The area before me was part greenhouse, part chemistry lab. To my right, roses, orchids, lilies, hydrangeas, and other, more exotic flowers perched in neat rows, while brown clay pots held herbs like dill, sage, rosemary, and thyme. The savory smells of the herbs, mixed with the soft scents of the flowers, created a heady perfume.
Directly in front of me were several rows of dense hedges, each one featuring sharp, dark green needles that were longer than my fingers. Stitch-sting bushes.
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.”
The look he gave me was far more haunted than I was expecting. “Because you’ll be dead soon enough, and there will be somebody new in here to take your place just as soon as it happens. And when it does, I’ll be packing up your things, just like I did Ashley’s.”
His eyes locked with mine. Pain and anguish shimmered in his bloodshot gaze, the twin emotions like red-hot needles twisting deeper and deeper into my own heart.
“I’m sorry about Ashley. You’re right. She didn’t deserve to die like that. I wish I could have saved her, too.”
Oscar snorted. “Yeah, but you didn’t, did you? You saved Devon instead. How very practical of you, saving such an important member of the Family, instead of just his bodyguard.”
“It wasn’t like that,” I protested. “Devon was closer to me than Ashley was—”
“Open up that disgrace you call a suitcase and leave it on the bed, and I’ll unpack your things,” he interrupted me again. “After I have another honeybeer. Or two. Or six. Or however many are left in the fridge.”
Oscar got up, wrenched open the screen door that fronted his trailer, and stomped inside. The door banged shut behind him, with the interior wooden door slamming shut as well. Five seconds later, country music started blasting. The pixie had cranked up his twangy playlist again. Oh, goody.
The music roused Tiny from his nap. The tortoise cracked a black eye open at me for about half a second before going back to sleep. Seemed he was used to Oscar’s temper tantrums—and ignoring them. I wondered how many years that had taken. Because that was one very angry pixie.
I started to lean down so that I could peer in through one of the trailer windows, but I remembered what Reginald had said about Oscar not liking people spying on him—and trying to poke their eyes out with his sword.
So I stood up, walked over and grabbed my suitcase, and put it on the bed, just like he’d ordered. I left everything in the suitcase, except for my mom’s photo, which I slid in between the folds of her sapphire coat in one of the vanity table drawers so the pixie wouldn’t see it. As I glanced over at the trailer again, it occurred to me that Oscar had given me the same speech, more or less, that I’d given to Devon at breakfast.
But the surprising thing was that Oscar’s words had wounded me as much as mine had hurt Devon.
Oscar stayed inside his trailer, probably drinking and brooding, so I left my room, mostly to get away from his too-loud music. I asked a pixie flitting through the air where I could find Felix, and she told me to check the greenlab on the third floor. I followed her directions to the west wing of the mansion and walked through a pair of glass double doors.
The area before me was part greenhouse, part chemistry lab. To my right, roses, orchids, lilies, hydrangeas, and other, more exotic flowers perched in neat rows, while brown clay pots held herbs like dill, sage, rosemary, and thyme. The savory smells of the herbs, mixed with the soft scents of the flowers, created a heady perfume.
Directly in front of me were several rows of dense hedges, each one featuring sharp, dark green needles that were longer than my fingers. Stitch-sting bushes.
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.”
