Cold Burn of Magic
Page 31

From this distance, the circular area looked like an enormous Ferris wheel that had been laid flat on its side, the shopping squares branching off like the cars people would sit in to go around and around on the wheel. In the growing darkness, neon lights lit up the Midway, pulsing and flashing like a rainbow of falling stars, streaking from one side of the circle to the other and back again, adding to the Ferris wheel illusion.
I laid my hands on top of the balcony ledge—the warmth from the stones seeping into my palms—and breathed in, wondering how much my life had changed in a day. This time yesterday, I would have been prowling the Midway, looking for an easy pocket to pick and trying to steer clear of the Family guards before I went back to the library for the night. Now, here I was, staying in a Family mansion, surrounded by the best things money could buy, the things I’d swiped from so many people.
I couldn’t help wondering what my mom would think of all this. No doubt, she’d be happy, like Mo had said. Happy that I’d saved Devon, happy that Claudia had strong-armed me into protecting him, happy that I was working for the Sinclairs.
Even if she was dead because of the two of them.
As I stared down at the Midway, the neon lights flashed like stars, faster and faster, brighter and brighter, bigger and bigger, until they pulsed together into a solid wall of white in front of my eyes. I blinked, and I was suddenly seeing another scene, from another place, another time. One I desperately wanted to forget. But I couldn’t block out the memories. I’d never been able to do that . . .
I was in the Midway with my mom, sitting on a bench in the park and eating ice cream. We were laughing and talking, until Mom noticed something out of the corner of her eye. I followed her gaze and realized that she was staring at another woman, one with pretty auburn hair, and a boy a couple of years older than me, who were both strolling through the park.
I rolled my eyes. Boys were so gross, although this one was cuter than most, with bright green eyes and a cowlick that made his dark brown hair stick almost straight up in the back.
A wistful smile flitted across Mom’s face. “They look happy, don’t they?” she murmured.
“Not as happy as we are,” I replied in a proud, stubborn voice.
Mom squeezed my hand, her dark blue eyes glinting with laughter. “No. Not as happy as we are.”
Mom continued to watch the other woman and the boy, who had stopped to buy gooey caramel apples from one of the food carts. The boy and his mom were flanked by a Family guard who was wearing a black cloak and a sword on his hip, but that didn’t bother me. Half the adults in the Midway were wearing a sword or brace of daggers around their waist today. So I went back to my dessert, sighing as the cool, sweet, strawberry cheesecake ice cream filled my mouth.
Everything was fine until Mom started frowning.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Your ice cream is melting.”
The chocolate scoop was dripping all over her hand, the chocolate chips sprinkled on top sliding down the melting mound before plop-plop-plopping to the ground.
But Mom didn’t answer me. Instead, her head swiveled from side to side, slowly at first, then faster and faster. I leaned forward, scanning the crowds of tourists, workers, and guards. And I finally realized what she was staring at—five men with red cloaks and swords, all converging on the mom and the boy, who were eating their caramel apples, oblivious to the danger.
“Lila,” Mom whispered, squeezing my hand tight. “Stay out of the way and out of sight as much as you can. And give me your ice cream, please. ”
I froze, wondering what she was going to do, but her gaze cut back to the men with the swords, and I understood. Mom held out her hand. I sighed, took one more lick of my ice cream, and handed the cone over to her. We both slid to the edge of the iron bench, ready to move.
By this point, the auburn-haired woman had stopped to talk to someone, while the boy had wandered over to a cart that sold sparklers. The five men drew their swords. But they didn’t move toward the mom like I thought they would. Instead, they crept closer to the boy . . . and closer . . . and closer still . . .
Mom leaped off the bench, her black ponytail flying out behind her. She surged forward and smushed what was left of our ice cream cones into the face of the nearest man. He let out a surprised snarl, but she was already plucking his sword out of his hand and slicing it across his chest before whirling to face the next attacker. I ducked down behind the bench, watching through the slats.
The fight was a blur. Angry shouts. Slashing swords. Blood spattering everywhere.
Somehow, Mom got her hands on the boy with the green eyes, who had stepped up and raised his fists, determined to protect his own mother. But Mom grabbed his shoulder, spun him around, and shoved him in my direction.
“Take him!” she barked.
I darted out from behind the bench long enough to grab the boy’s hand and yank him back around it, out of the way of the fight.
“Devon!” his mom screamed, even as her guard tried to shove her behind him. “Devon!”
The boy started to run over to her, but I tightened my grip on his hand and made him hunker down beside me.
“Stay here,” I whispered. “It’ll be all right. You’ll see.”
Fear and mistrust flashed in his eyes, as bright as the neon lights around us, but he stayed with me. His free hand clenched into a tight fist, and his gaze darted left and right, searching for more attackers, ready to fight anyone who charged at us.
But no one did.