Dark Heart of Magic
Page 11
The Sinclair mansion was the highest structure on Cloudburst Mountain, so close to the top that the thick clouds that rimmed the peak year-round would often sink down into the trees and cloak the grounds at night. The white fog was actually mist that continually drifted up from the dozens of waterfalls tumbling down the mountain’s rocky ridges. Given that it was late afternoon, the sun was keeping the worst of the fog away; although the clouds were close enough to kiss the black flags on the tops of the towers.
Devon parked the SUV next to the mansion’s main entrance. We’d barely gotten out of the vehicle when an older man with snow-white hair strode out the front door and stopped in the driveway, his stance as stiff and crisp as his three-piece black tweed suit.
William Reginald eyed the three of us and our persimmon-spattered clothes, his nose twitching with obvious distaste. “I take it that things didn’t go so well with the tree troll?” an English accent colored his voice, making him sound exactly like the butler he was.
Being a Family butler involved a lot more than supervising the cooking and cleaning. Reginald basically ran the mansion, overseeing the day-to-day operations of everything from the kitchen and cleaning staff to the groundskeepers to who got admitted inside the compound to talk business with the Sinclair higher-ups. Butler was one of the three most important positions in the Family—along with the bruiser and broker—making Reginald equal to Devon in terms of power.
Felix threw his arm around Devon’s shoulder, making bits of persimmon slide off both their T-shirts. “Oh, it went just fine and dandy. Can’t you tell?”
Reginald sniffed, clearly not amused. “Very well. Off with the lot of you. I will see about cleaning up this . . . mess.” He pointed his finger at us in a warning. “And don’t you dare touch or sit on anything in those clothes.”
He waited until we’d all nodded our agreement before turning back to the vehicle. Reginald peered through the window into the backseat and grimaced, as though it physically pained him to see all the red stains on the leather.
We left Reginald standing by the vehicle, muttering about cleaning solutions. Devon opened the front door, and he, Felix, and I headed inside.
The outside of the mansion might be black, blocky stone, but the inside was white, airy elegance. Everything glimmered, from the white marble floors to the flecks of gold, silver, and bronze that swirled through the painted walls to the crystal chandeliers that dripped down like clusters of icicles hanging from the ceilings. Faceted gemstones decorated much of the dark, heavy furniture, adding even more sparkle and color, along with the rich, vibrant stained glass that was set into many of the windows.
As a thief, I had let myself into my share of fine homes and had swiped more than a few valuable objects, but the luxe mansion still took my breath away, despite all the weeks I’d been living here. It was a good thing I wasn’t casing the place. I wouldn’t have known what to steal first.
“See you guys at dinner,” Devon said.
Felix and I nodded, and the three of us went our separate ways.
I headed up the stairs to my bedroom, which was just as finely furnished as the rest of the mansion. The front of the room was an entertainment area, with a black leather couch and matching recliners arranged around a glass coffee table, all of which faced a flat-screen TV mounted to the wall. A four-poster bed covered with a black-and-white-striped comforter and mounds of pillows took up part of the back wall, along with a white vanity table. Another table that featured a miniature ebony trailer, a grassy corral, and a small barn sat next to some French doors that led out to a balcony.
I sighed, went over, and started to plop down on the couch, when a sharp, twangy voice called out.
“Don’t you dare sit down on that!”
The front door on the ebony trailer slammed open, and something zip-zip-zipped through the air, rushing straight at me. A second later, a six-inch-tall man with shimmering, translucent wings attached to his back hovered right in front of me, his arms crossed over his tiny chest. Oscar, the pixie who took care of my room and, by extension, me. He must have been getting dressed for dinner because he only wore a white tank top, along with blue boxers and black cowboy boots. He never went anywhere without his boots on. He was a little redneck that way.
I groaned. “Not you too. Can’t I sit down on something? Just for a minute. It’s been a long day.”
“Not if I have to clean it up afterward.” Oscar regarded me with critical violet eyes, his nose twitching. “You smell like a fruit cobbler—and not in a good way.”
I pulled my sticky T-shirt away from my chest, wincing as another wave of too-sweet persimmon pulp filled my nose. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Sarcasm’s not going to help you with me, cupcake,” Oscar said, making shooing motions with his hands. “So instead of sitting down and getting something else dirty, you might as well strip off those nasty clothes and get in the shower. I’ll put you some fresh clothes on the hanger on the back of the bathroom door. Go on, now. Git.”
He zoomed back and forth in front of my face, like I was a cow he was trying to herd.
“Yes, master,” I grumbled.
Technically, pixies were monsters, since they weren’t human-size, but I’d always thought of them as miniature people. They were also the housekeepers of the world, hiring themselves out to mortals, magicks, and even other monsters in exchange for a place to live, protection, money, and more. Oscar and I had gotten off to a rocky start when I’d first moved in, but I now considered him a friend. He was also one of the few people who had known my mom, because she’d worked for the Family for years, until she’d had a falling out with Claudia Sinclair.
Oscar might not be much bigger than my hand, but he made up for his small size with plenty of attitude. He was the bossiest pixie I’d ever met, barking out order after order in his twangy, hillbilly voice to anyone who dared get within earshot. Over the past few weeks, I’d learned that it was better just to humor him in most things, like wearing the clothes he laid out for me and eating the food he brought up to my room when I was out on Family business and couldn’t get down to the dining hall for the regular meal.
So I obediently headed into the bathroom, shut the door behind me, stripped off my clothes, and took a long, hot shower to wash off all the blood persimmon juice that had soaked into my hair and skin. When I was done, I reached an arm out of the bathroom and grabbed the fresh clothes off the hook on the door.
Devon parked the SUV next to the mansion’s main entrance. We’d barely gotten out of the vehicle when an older man with snow-white hair strode out the front door and stopped in the driveway, his stance as stiff and crisp as his three-piece black tweed suit.
William Reginald eyed the three of us and our persimmon-spattered clothes, his nose twitching with obvious distaste. “I take it that things didn’t go so well with the tree troll?” an English accent colored his voice, making him sound exactly like the butler he was.
Being a Family butler involved a lot more than supervising the cooking and cleaning. Reginald basically ran the mansion, overseeing the day-to-day operations of everything from the kitchen and cleaning staff to the groundskeepers to who got admitted inside the compound to talk business with the Sinclair higher-ups. Butler was one of the three most important positions in the Family—along with the bruiser and broker—making Reginald equal to Devon in terms of power.
Felix threw his arm around Devon’s shoulder, making bits of persimmon slide off both their T-shirts. “Oh, it went just fine and dandy. Can’t you tell?”
Reginald sniffed, clearly not amused. “Very well. Off with the lot of you. I will see about cleaning up this . . . mess.” He pointed his finger at us in a warning. “And don’t you dare touch or sit on anything in those clothes.”
He waited until we’d all nodded our agreement before turning back to the vehicle. Reginald peered through the window into the backseat and grimaced, as though it physically pained him to see all the red stains on the leather.
We left Reginald standing by the vehicle, muttering about cleaning solutions. Devon opened the front door, and he, Felix, and I headed inside.
The outside of the mansion might be black, blocky stone, but the inside was white, airy elegance. Everything glimmered, from the white marble floors to the flecks of gold, silver, and bronze that swirled through the painted walls to the crystal chandeliers that dripped down like clusters of icicles hanging from the ceilings. Faceted gemstones decorated much of the dark, heavy furniture, adding even more sparkle and color, along with the rich, vibrant stained glass that was set into many of the windows.
As a thief, I had let myself into my share of fine homes and had swiped more than a few valuable objects, but the luxe mansion still took my breath away, despite all the weeks I’d been living here. It was a good thing I wasn’t casing the place. I wouldn’t have known what to steal first.
“See you guys at dinner,” Devon said.
Felix and I nodded, and the three of us went our separate ways.
I headed up the stairs to my bedroom, which was just as finely furnished as the rest of the mansion. The front of the room was an entertainment area, with a black leather couch and matching recliners arranged around a glass coffee table, all of which faced a flat-screen TV mounted to the wall. A four-poster bed covered with a black-and-white-striped comforter and mounds of pillows took up part of the back wall, along with a white vanity table. Another table that featured a miniature ebony trailer, a grassy corral, and a small barn sat next to some French doors that led out to a balcony.
I sighed, went over, and started to plop down on the couch, when a sharp, twangy voice called out.
“Don’t you dare sit down on that!”
The front door on the ebony trailer slammed open, and something zip-zip-zipped through the air, rushing straight at me. A second later, a six-inch-tall man with shimmering, translucent wings attached to his back hovered right in front of me, his arms crossed over his tiny chest. Oscar, the pixie who took care of my room and, by extension, me. He must have been getting dressed for dinner because he only wore a white tank top, along with blue boxers and black cowboy boots. He never went anywhere without his boots on. He was a little redneck that way.
I groaned. “Not you too. Can’t I sit down on something? Just for a minute. It’s been a long day.”
“Not if I have to clean it up afterward.” Oscar regarded me with critical violet eyes, his nose twitching. “You smell like a fruit cobbler—and not in a good way.”
I pulled my sticky T-shirt away from my chest, wincing as another wave of too-sweet persimmon pulp filled my nose. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Sarcasm’s not going to help you with me, cupcake,” Oscar said, making shooing motions with his hands. “So instead of sitting down and getting something else dirty, you might as well strip off those nasty clothes and get in the shower. I’ll put you some fresh clothes on the hanger on the back of the bathroom door. Go on, now. Git.”
He zoomed back and forth in front of my face, like I was a cow he was trying to herd.
“Yes, master,” I grumbled.
Technically, pixies were monsters, since they weren’t human-size, but I’d always thought of them as miniature people. They were also the housekeepers of the world, hiring themselves out to mortals, magicks, and even other monsters in exchange for a place to live, protection, money, and more. Oscar and I had gotten off to a rocky start when I’d first moved in, but I now considered him a friend. He was also one of the few people who had known my mom, because she’d worked for the Family for years, until she’d had a falling out with Claudia Sinclair.
Oscar might not be much bigger than my hand, but he made up for his small size with plenty of attitude. He was the bossiest pixie I’d ever met, barking out order after order in his twangy, hillbilly voice to anyone who dared get within earshot. Over the past few weeks, I’d learned that it was better just to humor him in most things, like wearing the clothes he laid out for me and eating the food he brought up to my room when I was out on Family business and couldn’t get down to the dining hall for the regular meal.
So I obediently headed into the bathroom, shut the door behind me, stripped off my clothes, and took a long, hot shower to wash off all the blood persimmon juice that had soaked into my hair and skin. When I was done, I reached an arm out of the bathroom and grabbed the fresh clothes off the hook on the door.
