Cold Burn of Magic
Page 7
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I might not care much for the Families, but I recognized the dragon crest and the girl in front of me—Deah Draconi, daughter of Victor Draconi, head of the Draconi Family, the most powerful man in town.
“What did you say?” Deah demanded.
Her companions all wore the same gold cuffs stamped with the same Draconi dragon crest. The girls spread out, forming a semicircle behind Deah. Apparently, they didn’t want to get in her way should she decide to slice me in two with her sword, something she was exceptionally good at, if you believed the rumors.
I would have liked nothing more than to tell Deah Draconi exactly what I thought about her, and especially about her horrible father, but I forced myself to swallow my anger.
“Nothing.”
“Yeah.” She smirked. “That’s what I thought.”
Deah stared at me, her blue eyes bright with a clear challenge. Thinking that she was the alpha bitch here, she wanted me to lower my gaze and look away, but I lifted my chin and glared right back at her. Surprise flashed in her eyes, then wariness. She recognized an enemy when she saw one. Her hand dropped to her sword, her fingers curling around the hilt and hiding the intricate scrollwork and symbols from sight, as she considered me.
Part of me wished she would draw her weapon. Because being a thief wasn’t the only thing I was good at, and I itched to show her that I was exactly the same sort of tough girl she was. Even if picking a fight with a Draconi was pretty close to suicide.
She smirked at me again. “Come on,” Deah said to her entourage. “This nobody isn’t worth dirtying up my clothes.”
She drove her shoulder into mine, making me stagger to one side, before walking past me. The other girls giggled, but Deah never even looked back as she sashayed away.
Of course she wouldn’t. I didn’t belong to a Family, so I was a nobody, just like she’d said.
I stood there, my cheeks burning, my body rigid, my hands clenched into fists. Part of me wanted to run after her, grab her shoulder, spin her around, and plant my fist in her face for what she’d done to me, for what her Family had done to mine—
A happy shriek of laughter from a little boy tossing pennies into the fountain snapped me out of my anger. I shook my head, banishing the treacherous thoughts. Letting my emotions get the best of me, especially when it came to the Draconis, would be a quick way to die, and I was far too sensible for such things.
At least, that’s what I told myself. Even if I did glare at Deah Draconi’s back until she and her friends left the square behind.
CHAPTER THREE
I pushed aside the rest of my anger and headed for the store that took up the entire back section of the square. A flashing blue neon sign over the entrance screamed THE RAZZLE DAZZLE in ten-foot-high letters surrounded by a cascade of stars. As an added touch, the white stars winked on and off, burning even brighter than the blue letters. Mo wasn’t exactly subtle when it came to his advertising—or greed.
I pushed through the double doors, causing a series of lochness bones to rattle together, and stepped inside. Despite its grand name and neon sign, the Razzle Dazzle was what most tourist rubes—what most everyone—would call a pawnshop. And that’s if they were being nice. Junk store was way more appropriate.
Glass cases filled the store, stretching from wall to wall and front to back, housing everything from jewelry to digital cameras to musical instruments. And that wasn’t counting the metal racks full of books that crouched in the corners, the rolled-up movie posters crammed into bins, or the fake and not-so-fake art prints and paintings that decorated the walls, along with stuffed tree troll and other monster heads.
All that and more could be found inside the Razzle Dazzle, as the tourists and other desperate folks pawned whatever they had for cash. These sad customers hoped for enough to buy just a few more casino chips or to pay their hotel bill for just one more night so they could strike it rich for sure the next day. Mo would pay or trade for anything he thought he could resell for more money later on, hence the odd mix of items. Still, I liked the cozy feel of the clutter. Mo had some real treasures hidden in here, and you never knew what you were going to find from one aisle, one case, one day, to the next.
But the good stuff—the genuine, quality jewelry and weapons—was in the back half of the store, housed in cases much sturdier than the simple glass they appeared to be made out of, with locks that you didn’t dare try to pick or bust open, unless you wanted a poison needle to shoot into your hand. Mo might happily send me out to steal stuff, but he didn’t like getting ripped off himself.
I walked down the main aisle all the way to the back of the shop, where a tall, muscular man with onyx skin and black hair shot through with silver threads sat on a stool behind a long counter filled with sparkling rings. The man’s elbows were down on the counter, and he was reading through an interior decorating magazine. He was always looking for new ways to make the merchandise more appealing to customers. He’d changed the paint on the walls three times so far this year. I wondered how long the current robin’s egg blue would last.
“Finally,” he growled, turning another page in his magazine. “I was wondering if you’d gotten lost, Lila.”
“Nice to see you, too, Mo.”
My snide tone got him to raise his black eyes to me. Mo Kaminsky might be a shady pawnbroker and fence, but he always dressed like one of the tourist rubes he was so happy to fleece. Today, he wore white linen pants and a blue Hawaiian shirt patterned with white hibiscus flowers. A white straw hat sat off to one side of the counter, and I knew that if I could see his feet, he’d be wearing white flip-flops. Mo took the idea of casual comfort to a whole new level. A small diamond signet ring flashed on his right hand, while a diamond-crusted watch glittered on his left wrist. Sadly, the gems were nicer than the ones in the cuff links I’d stolen last night.
“What did you say?” Deah demanded.
Her companions all wore the same gold cuffs stamped with the same Draconi dragon crest. The girls spread out, forming a semicircle behind Deah. Apparently, they didn’t want to get in her way should she decide to slice me in two with her sword, something she was exceptionally good at, if you believed the rumors.
I would have liked nothing more than to tell Deah Draconi exactly what I thought about her, and especially about her horrible father, but I forced myself to swallow my anger.
“Nothing.”
“Yeah.” She smirked. “That’s what I thought.”
Deah stared at me, her blue eyes bright with a clear challenge. Thinking that she was the alpha bitch here, she wanted me to lower my gaze and look away, but I lifted my chin and glared right back at her. Surprise flashed in her eyes, then wariness. She recognized an enemy when she saw one. Her hand dropped to her sword, her fingers curling around the hilt and hiding the intricate scrollwork and symbols from sight, as she considered me.
Part of me wished she would draw her weapon. Because being a thief wasn’t the only thing I was good at, and I itched to show her that I was exactly the same sort of tough girl she was. Even if picking a fight with a Draconi was pretty close to suicide.
She smirked at me again. “Come on,” Deah said to her entourage. “This nobody isn’t worth dirtying up my clothes.”
She drove her shoulder into mine, making me stagger to one side, before walking past me. The other girls giggled, but Deah never even looked back as she sashayed away.
Of course she wouldn’t. I didn’t belong to a Family, so I was a nobody, just like she’d said.
I stood there, my cheeks burning, my body rigid, my hands clenched into fists. Part of me wanted to run after her, grab her shoulder, spin her around, and plant my fist in her face for what she’d done to me, for what her Family had done to mine—
A happy shriek of laughter from a little boy tossing pennies into the fountain snapped me out of my anger. I shook my head, banishing the treacherous thoughts. Letting my emotions get the best of me, especially when it came to the Draconis, would be a quick way to die, and I was far too sensible for such things.
At least, that’s what I told myself. Even if I did glare at Deah Draconi’s back until she and her friends left the square behind.
CHAPTER THREE
I pushed aside the rest of my anger and headed for the store that took up the entire back section of the square. A flashing blue neon sign over the entrance screamed THE RAZZLE DAZZLE in ten-foot-high letters surrounded by a cascade of stars. As an added touch, the white stars winked on and off, burning even brighter than the blue letters. Mo wasn’t exactly subtle when it came to his advertising—or greed.
I pushed through the double doors, causing a series of lochness bones to rattle together, and stepped inside. Despite its grand name and neon sign, the Razzle Dazzle was what most tourist rubes—what most everyone—would call a pawnshop. And that’s if they were being nice. Junk store was way more appropriate.
Glass cases filled the store, stretching from wall to wall and front to back, housing everything from jewelry to digital cameras to musical instruments. And that wasn’t counting the metal racks full of books that crouched in the corners, the rolled-up movie posters crammed into bins, or the fake and not-so-fake art prints and paintings that decorated the walls, along with stuffed tree troll and other monster heads.
All that and more could be found inside the Razzle Dazzle, as the tourists and other desperate folks pawned whatever they had for cash. These sad customers hoped for enough to buy just a few more casino chips or to pay their hotel bill for just one more night so they could strike it rich for sure the next day. Mo would pay or trade for anything he thought he could resell for more money later on, hence the odd mix of items. Still, I liked the cozy feel of the clutter. Mo had some real treasures hidden in here, and you never knew what you were going to find from one aisle, one case, one day, to the next.
But the good stuff—the genuine, quality jewelry and weapons—was in the back half of the store, housed in cases much sturdier than the simple glass they appeared to be made out of, with locks that you didn’t dare try to pick or bust open, unless you wanted a poison needle to shoot into your hand. Mo might happily send me out to steal stuff, but he didn’t like getting ripped off himself.
I walked down the main aisle all the way to the back of the shop, where a tall, muscular man with onyx skin and black hair shot through with silver threads sat on a stool behind a long counter filled with sparkling rings. The man’s elbows were down on the counter, and he was reading through an interior decorating magazine. He was always looking for new ways to make the merchandise more appealing to customers. He’d changed the paint on the walls three times so far this year. I wondered how long the current robin’s egg blue would last.
“Finally,” he growled, turning another page in his magazine. “I was wondering if you’d gotten lost, Lila.”
“Nice to see you, too, Mo.”
My snide tone got him to raise his black eyes to me. Mo Kaminsky might be a shady pawnbroker and fence, but he always dressed like one of the tourist rubes he was so happy to fleece. Today, he wore white linen pants and a blue Hawaiian shirt patterned with white hibiscus flowers. A white straw hat sat off to one side of the counter, and I knew that if I could see his feet, he’d be wearing white flip-flops. Mo took the idea of casual comfort to a whole new level. A small diamond signet ring flashed on his right hand, while a diamond-crusted watch glittered on his left wrist. Sadly, the gems were nicer than the ones in the cuff links I’d stolen last night.
