Reginald opened the door and stepped through to the other side. I went in next, with Grant and Felix still behind me.

The exterior of the mansion might have been rough, black, and blocky, but the inside was smooth, light, and delicate. Floors made of polished white marble gleamed like sheets of glass underfoot. Real flecks of gold, silver, and bronze shimmered in the paint that covered many of the walls, while crystal chandeliers dangled from the ceilings, sending out warm sprays of light in all directions. And the furnishings were even finer, made out of dark, heavy woods, colorful stained glass, and genuine gemstones.

I tried hard not to gawk, really I did, but I soon gave up, even though I was acting like the worst sort of slack-jawed, wide-eyed tourist rube.

And it wasn’t just that everything was so fine—it was also the obvious care and work that went into it. Everything gleamed as though it had been shined moments ago, no doubt thanks to the pixies. I spotted several of them, all around six inches tall, miniature humans with translucent wings attached to their backs, zipping through the air and carrying everything from dust rags to mops to small buckets of water.

Technically, pixies were monsters, since they weren’t quite human—or at least human-sized—like mortals and magicks were. But really, pixies were the housekeepers of the world, offering their services in exchange for food, shelter, and protection. I’d been hoping that one—a nobody like me without a Family—would take refuge in the library basement, and we could work out a similar deal, especially since I hated making up my bed. And doing laundry. And every other housekeeping chore. But it hadn’t happened. I bet that none of the Sinclair Family members ever had to make their beds. I bet that whoever lived here never had to lift a finger. Not with all these pixies scurrying around.

Reginald followed a female pixie balancing a tray of cucumber sandwiches on top of her head. Apparently, she was headed toward our destination.

I kept gawking as we moved through one room and one wing of the mansion to the next, going so deep into the structure that I had no idea where we were—or how I could get back out again.

Or if I was ever going to get back out again.

Finally, Reginald opened a set of double doors and we stepped into an enormous library, one that stretched up three levels, all the way to the top of this particular section of the mansion. Each level featured a wraparound balcony, all filled with bookshelves, and all overlooking the main, square reading area on the first floor. The ceiling rose to a point; it was made out of panes of black-and-white stained glass that cast alternating pools of shadow and light onto everything below.

Here on the first floor, ebony shelves filled with books, photos, crystal paperweights, and other expensive knickknacks lined one wall. An antique ebony desk occupied the back of the room, in front of a series of doors that led out to a balcony encompassing the entire length of the library. Another crystal chandelier dangled from the ceiling, like a cluster of icicles frozen in place.

I eyed the shelves, wondering if I might discreetly swipe a silver picture frame or two. Just because I’d been brought here more or less against my will didn’t mean I had to leave empty-handed. Like Mo had said, I was always looking to put more cash in my pockets, along with silverware, jewelry, and other small valuables.

The female pixie fluttered over to the white marble fireplace that took up most of another wall. She placed her tray on a table next to another tray that held a pot of tea, spoons, and several cups. But I focused my attention on the figure sitting beside the table—a familiar face with sly black eyes.

“Lila!” Mo called out, jumping up off a white velvet settee. “Finally! There you are!”

He looked the same as ever in his white pants, flip-flops, and Hawaiian shirt, this one a bloody red printed with smiling hula girls.

I broke free of my entourage, grabbed his arm, and yanked him all the way to the back of the library, next to the balcony doors. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure we were out of earshot, then turned back to face him.

“What is this?” I hissed. “Who are these men, why were they waiting for me outside of school, and why did they bring me to the Sinclair Family mansion?”

A smile lit up Mo’s face. “This, kid, is an opportunity. The opportunity of a lifetime.” His smile disappeared. “And, frankly, the best I could do for you, all things considered.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means I had a hard time convincing the Sinclairs you were not involved in the attack at the Razzle Dazzle. That you were just an innocent bystander who managed to save the day.”

My eyes narrowed. “What happened after you shoved me out of the shop? What have you been doing the past few days? What in the blue blazes is going on?”

Mo waved his hand, brushing off my concerns. “Oh, you’ll find all that out soon enough. Just promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“That you’ll let me do all the negotiating.” He paused.

“Unless you see a chance to get a better deal. Then feel free to speak up.”

“Deal? What sort of deal—”

Before I could ask him again what was going on, the double doors opened and Devon stepped into view.

Dark brown hair, green eyes, chiseled features, muscled body. He looked the same as before, with one notable exception—he’d traded in the casual T-shirt and pants he was wearing at the Razzle Dazzle for a black shirt layered under a black suit. My heart sank. Because only high-ranking Family members wore suits like that, and only then on special occasions.