Shadowglass by Erica Hayes Page A

even want to think it. I didn’t care if the mirror made him act this way, like he didn’t care about consequences or conscience. It was my fault, and remorse cut my nasty tone to shreds. “Not like I held a pistol to his stupid fairy head. Just piss off, okay?”
    Az stalked to the gutter and folded her arms, gazing out into the street with her chin in the air, an angry breeze fluttering her white dress.
    I swore and kicked at the dirty concrete, my foot still sore, and for eternal minutes we stood there, waiting and avoiding each other. I cracked my knuckles. I tapped my foot. I hopped up and down. Pedestrians shuffled by. Cars passed. Traffic lights flicked from green to red and back to green. Damn it.
    Light footsteps skipped down the stairs, and I whirled, my pulse cold.
    Blaze emerged, blinking in the sun and scraping his hair back. Heat flushed his skin bright, and his chest heaved with light, short breaths. A drop of blood stained his thigh through his jeans, spreading.
    I stumbled up to him, blue all over with embarrassment. “Blaze? You okay?”
    He tossed a ragged green wad of cash at me, and I fumbled to catch it, sweat smearing my palms. A lot of money. All hundreds. I counted it swiftly. Five grand. The price of our jewels. Exactly what Quang offered us, no more. And the squidgy was gone.
    I looked up, chill shrinking my skin.
    Blaze cast me a cold, empty glance, still catching his ragged breath. “Fuck it. It felt good. What you staring at?”
    My heart stung, and for once, I had nothing to say.
    M idnight moonshine floods the neat grass courtyard behind Kane’s town house with pale underwater light. The creamy façade looms tall, throwing black shadows onto the garden. Distant traffic smears the silence, and in the garden a fountain trickles, water over iron-bolted river stones and glassy blue ornaments, the rocks still smelling warm from the long-set sun.
    In shadows above the porticoed entrance, Indigo floats, warm air supporting his wings, his dark hand resting lightly on the upper-story window ledge for balance. His reflection glints in distant headlamps, flashing in and out like a dim blue ghost. Beyond, inside, darkness stares back, the shadowy edges of a doorway in pale walls and the darker shape of empty carpet.
    He sniffs the summer air, searching for the telltale ozone tinge of current, but only pollen and warm concrete greet him. He inhales deeper, the oxygen rush filling his blood. His nose twitches. Residue, the worn conduit of voltage past. If there’s an alarm, it’s off, or broken. Arrogance. Luck. Whatever. Saves him the trouble of shorting out the circuits.
    He presses his palm against the top of the smooth window frame and grits his teeth in anticipation. Metaldark sweat springs out on his face, and the lock tumblers melt with a hiss and a puff of steam. Pain flares like acid. He yanks his singed palm away, the hot iron scent of his own burned flesh an unpleasant distraction.
    He forces copper claws under the aluminum frame, a tiny grating sound he can’t avoid. Molten steel squelches from the ruined lock to splash on the carpet inside. Smoke wisps upward into darkness. He waits a few seconds, his pulse elevated but controlled. No movement. No lights. Swiftly, silently, he raises the window sash and slips feet-first into Kane’s upstairs bedroom.
    His feet hit coarse wool. The room’s empty, unused, the carpet bare of furniture. Not Kane’s room, and no one else lives here. Air-conditioning taints his sweat with ash, and he slides the window closed behind him to halt the inward rush of warm air.
    He closes his eyes, listening, breathing, searching for metal’s innate pressure on his senses. His eardrums throb, painful. As always, it’s deafening at first, and his sinuses whine in protest. Steel girders surrounding him, crushing inward like a claustrophobe’s nightmare, wrapped in a tangle of dust and plastic-sheathed wires. White noise, garbage, hash on an empty channel, free