Like she hadn’t been brutally murdered.

I draped the necklace over the frame, making it look as if Mom was wearing the rubies, then moved around the basement, putting away my gear. I left all of my supplies in my coat, although I fished out the candy bar and finished eating it. I also grabbed some more quarters from a glass jar and slid them into one of the coat pockets, before folding the garment and the gloves and placing them in a suitcase by themselves.

Like me, the garments were more than they appeared to be. The gloves were made from ironmesh, a thin, flexible metal. The coat was unique, too, comprised of spidersilk that had been stitched together, making it strong, durable, and lightweight. Best of all, spidersilk turned away all sorts of stains—dirt, grease, blood, grime—so it never needed to be washed.

And then there was the sword, the most valuable object I owned. It, too, was made out of a special metal—bloodiron. But instead of being the expected rusty red, the sword was a dull, flat black, bordering on gray, looking more like ashy wood than actual metal. Black blades, most folks called them, because of the color—and the terrible things they could do, especially to magicks and monsters.

Bloodiron was rare, and most weapons made out of the metal were carved with family crests and symbols, almost like cattle brands, to make the blades easily identifiable. Naturally, this made it harder to steal and sell the heirlooms on the black market. A five-pointed star had been cut into the center of the hilt of my sword, with other, smaller stars running down the hilt and then etched into the blade itself.

The sword, coat, and gloves were my most prized possessions, but not because of their magical properties or monetary value. I loved them because they’d belonged to my mom.

They had been the three tools she’d used the most. When I was a kid, we traveled from town to town, and Mom went from one job and one side of the country to the other and back again. Most of the time, she worked as a bodyguard, protecting rich folks from other rich folks who wanted them dead. Along the way, Mom taught me everything she knew about fighting, thieving, lock picking, and all the other skills I needed in order to survive. I’d wanted to be just like her as a kid.

Part of me still did.

My right hand trailed down the front of the coat, the spidersilk feeling as cool and smooth as a sheet of raindrops. The motion made a ring wink on my hand—a small sapphire shaped like a five-pointed star embedded in a thin silver band.

Something else that had belonged to my mom, one of the few things I had left of her. Most everything else was gone, either destroyed, stolen by looters, or pawned to pay for food, clothes, and other necessities.

I looked at the ring a moment longer, staring into the dark blue depths of the flashing sapphire, before dropping my hand and getting on with my chores.

It took me thirty minutes to haul enough water from the women’s restroom on the first floor down to the basement to fill an old metal washtub for a cold bath. The basement wasn’t exactly the warmest part of the library, and my teeth were chattering by the time I got out, dried off, and put on my pajamas.

Most nights, I would have gone back upstairs, grabbed an action movie out of the media center, and popped it into the TV in the children’s section. The Princess Bride, the entire James Bond series, the original Star Wars trilogy. I’d watched them all dozens of times and could quote them by heart. Silly, I know. But the free movies were one of my favorite parts about living in the library. I liked how everything always worked out okay in the movies, especially since I knew that I wasn’t likely to get my own happy ending.

But it was late, and I was tired, so I crawled into bed. I started to turn out the light, but I glanced over at the photo of my mom, her smile even brighter than the rubies draped around the silver frame.

“Good night, Mom,” I whispered.

Once again, I waited, but there was no response. And there never would be.

Sighing, I hit the lamp with my fingers, casting the basement into darkness. Then I curled into a tight ball on my cot, drew the sheets up to my chin, and tried to go to sleep, instead of thinking about how much I still missed her.

Unfortunately, rubies or not, thief or not, magick or not, I still had to get up and schlep to school the next morning.

I attended one of the regular rube public high schools, where no one knew who I was or anything about my illegal late-night errands. I doubted that anyone except the teachers even knew I existed. They, at least, had to grade my papers and put a face with the name. But the students ignored me, and I did the same to them. I didn’t need them. I didn’t need friends.

Even if I had bothered to make a couple, it wasn’t like I could bring them to my squatter’s home in the library to hang out, watch a TV that wasn’t even mine, and talk about cute guys. That would be a good way to get shipped back to foster care—or worse, put in juvie for trespassing, breaking and entering, stealing, and all the other bad things I’d done.

So I went to my classes, ate lunch by myself in the school library, and waited for the day to pass so I could get on with more important things—like taking the necklace to Mo and getting paid.

Finally, the three o’clock bell rang, signaling the end of the school day. At three-oh-one, I was out the front door. Since I didn’t feel like walking, I hopped onto one of the trolleys that crisscrossed town at all hours of the day and night. Not only was Cloudburst Falls “the most magical place in America,” but it was also a total tourist trap. Think a Southern version of Vegas, but with real magic and mobsters who wielded their Talents with brutal efficiency and deadly consequences. Folks came from all across the country, and the world, to buy cheap trinkets and cheaper T-shirts, eat fatty foods—like deep-fried fudge—and throw their money away inside the themed shops, restaurants, and casinos that lined the Midway.