Cold Burn of Magic
Page 45
Twenty minutes later, I stepped out of the bathroom and clicked off the light. I turned around to head for the bed—
Something zipped in front of my face.
I batted my hand in the air, thinking it was a bee, before I realized it was Oscar—and he wasn’t happy.
The pixie crossed his arms over his chest, gave me an angry glare, then zoomed over to his house, dropping down and landing on a fence post at Tiny’s corral. Oscar was wearing jeans with holes in the knees, along with a black, faded T-shirt. Black cowboy boots with sharp silver tips once again covered his tiny feet.
Oscar stabbed his finger at the tortoise, who was munching on the last of the berries. “What. Is. That?” he demanded.
I went over and scratched Tiny’s head again. “Those are some strawberries I had left over from dinner. I thought Tiny might like them.”
The tortoise opened his mouth and let out a small, satisfied sound. Okay, that burp was definitely a thank-you.
“I would have brought you some, too. But I didn’t want you to throw them at me.”
Oscar snorted. “I wouldn’t have thrown them at you. I would have smashed them in your face.”
I had to admire his fighting spirit, since I was almost ten times his size.
“You do not bring Tiny anything,” Oscar snapped. “No berries, no fruit, no treats of any kind. He’s my pet, not yours, and you’d do well to remember that.”
I bent down so that I was eye-to-eye with the pixie. “Listen, pal, you may not like me, and that’s fine. I don’t much like being saddled with you, the world’s smallest, honeybeer-swilling redneck cowboy, either. But Tiny and I don’t have any problems, and if I want to bring him treats every single day of the week and twice on Sundays, then I will do exactly as I please. You got that?”
Oscar put his hands on his hips. “You better watch your tone with me, cupcake. I can make your life miserable.”
“Really? How so?”
His eyes narrowed to slits so thin I could just barely make out his violet glare. “Itching powder in your bed. Fleas on your clothes. Garbage tucked into the toes of your ratty sneakers. All the usual pixie tricks.”
“Do your worst, pal. Do your worst.”
“Oh,” he snarled. “I will.”
“Promises, promises,” I mocked him.
“Why, you . . . you . . . you!”
That was all Oscar sputtered before he fluttered over to his front porch, wrenched open the door, stalked inside, and slammed it shut behind him so hard that the entire trailer rattled on the table.
In the corral, Tiny kept right on munching on his last strawberry, as calm as ever, totally used to Oscar’s snits. I had a feeling I was going to have to get used to them, too.
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.
Something zipped in front of my face.
I batted my hand in the air, thinking it was a bee, before I realized it was Oscar—and he wasn’t happy.
The pixie crossed his arms over his chest, gave me an angry glare, then zoomed over to his house, dropping down and landing on a fence post at Tiny’s corral. Oscar was wearing jeans with holes in the knees, along with a black, faded T-shirt. Black cowboy boots with sharp silver tips once again covered his tiny feet.
Oscar stabbed his finger at the tortoise, who was munching on the last of the berries. “What. Is. That?” he demanded.
I went over and scratched Tiny’s head again. “Those are some strawberries I had left over from dinner. I thought Tiny might like them.”
The tortoise opened his mouth and let out a small, satisfied sound. Okay, that burp was definitely a thank-you.
“I would have brought you some, too. But I didn’t want you to throw them at me.”
Oscar snorted. “I wouldn’t have thrown them at you. I would have smashed them in your face.”
I had to admire his fighting spirit, since I was almost ten times his size.
“You do not bring Tiny anything,” Oscar snapped. “No berries, no fruit, no treats of any kind. He’s my pet, not yours, and you’d do well to remember that.”
I bent down so that I was eye-to-eye with the pixie. “Listen, pal, you may not like me, and that’s fine. I don’t much like being saddled with you, the world’s smallest, honeybeer-swilling redneck cowboy, either. But Tiny and I don’t have any problems, and if I want to bring him treats every single day of the week and twice on Sundays, then I will do exactly as I please. You got that?”
Oscar put his hands on his hips. “You better watch your tone with me, cupcake. I can make your life miserable.”
“Really? How so?”
His eyes narrowed to slits so thin I could just barely make out his violet glare. “Itching powder in your bed. Fleas on your clothes. Garbage tucked into the toes of your ratty sneakers. All the usual pixie tricks.”
“Do your worst, pal. Do your worst.”
“Oh,” he snarled. “I will.”
“Promises, promises,” I mocked him.
“Why, you . . . you . . . you!”
That was all Oscar sputtered before he fluttered over to his front porch, wrenched open the door, stalked inside, and slammed it shut behind him so hard that the entire trailer rattled on the table.
In the corral, Tiny kept right on munching on his last strawberry, as calm as ever, totally used to Oscar’s snits. I had a feeling I was going to have to get used to them, too.
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.
