I slide the car into drive and merge with traffic. When Bishop turns up the radio, I don’t slap his hand away or complain we only listen to his music. In fact, I’m incredibly grateful to the aggressive punk-rock lyrics for sucking up the silence that I’m sure would radiate with awkwardness in the wake of his outburst.
“So, where to?” I ask.
“Mount Washington,” Bishop answers, buckling his seat belt.
“We’re trying flying first? Don’t think you’re going to lob me off the side of a mountain and hope I learn fast, because I’m not in the mood.”
Bishop shakes his head. “Nope. We start with the basics. Moving small objects: paper clips, pencils, et cetera.”
I roll my eyes. “Sounds like fun. What do mountains have to do with this?”
“They don’t. We’re going to my place.”
I glance over at him, expecting to see humor in his face, but he bobs his head to a song on the radio.
He can’t be serious. Mount Washington is one of the city’s most exclusive neighborhoods. Plunked among rolling green hills in the northeast of Los Angeles, the neighborhood features views of downtown L.A., the San Gabriel Mountains, and, oh, roughly one zillion canyons and valleys. And of course, homes so huge they can only be referred to as mansions.
“You live in Mount Washington?”
Bishop laughs. “What? Where did you think I lived?”
Actually, now that I think about it, I’ve never really put much thought into where Bishop lives. He’s always just been there. Though I guess he does have to go somewhere at night, hang up his leather jacket, lay his head down to sleep. But Mount Washington? really?
I navigate the Sunfire through rush-hour traffic so insane there is no chance for thoughts of anything but avoiding an accident, until the lush green hilltops announce we’ve arrived in his neighborhood.
“This one here, on the left.” Bishop indicates what is, hands down, the nicest mansion on the block.
The Spanish-style home rises three stories high and stretches out for what seems like an entire city block. Towering palm trees and lavish gardens spring up from every corner of the property, lattices of ivy climbing the white stucco walls all the way to the terra-cotta roof. I start counting the arched windows, framed in ornate cast-iron grilles, but lose count around eighteen and give up. And I always thought white houses were boring.
I pick my jaw up out of my lap long enough to ask a question. “You live here?”
“I’m starting to get offended,” Bishop says.
Shaking my head, I pull the car around the giant fountain in the middle of the horseshoe driveway. “It’s just a lot fancier than I expected from a guy who wears leather constantly.”
I glance at the fountain as we pass and realize that it’s a mermaid, and that the water is shooting from her nipples. “Ugh.”
He laughs.
I park the car, and we step out into the fading evening sun.
Bishop leads the way to the entrance and pushes the big wooden doors open without having to unlock them first.
“Bit laissez-faire on the security, don’t you think?” I say, following him inside.
He digs into his back pocket and tosses his wallet onto a glass table in the foyer. “I’m a warlock, remember?”
“And they’re sorcerers.” I spin around, admiring every detail of his home, from the exposed wooden ceiling beams to the smooth archways leading down various corridors to the spiral staircase rising to the second floor.
“Exactly. You think a locked door will give a sorcerer pause if he wants to get inside my house?”
“Guess not,” I answer. “But what about other people? Your run-of-the-mill burglars?”
He shrugs. “Then I’d just drum up some more stuff, I guess.”
The pieces of the puzzle begin coming together. “So that’s how you afford all this?” I gesture around the house. “You created it with magic?”
“Created the money, anyway. Too much energy to conjure objects for long periods of time.”
Before I can ask another one of the boatload of questions on my mind, my ears perk up at the sound of metal rattling upstairs. I dart a glance at Bishop, but it’s as if he hasn’t noticed. The rattling intensifies, and a dog barks—a jarring sound that is all too recognizable.
“Bishop …” My voice warbles with uncertainty.