My mouth dropped open in surprise, but Claudia kept staring at me, the conviction in her gaze burning even brighter and hotter than before.
I didn’t know how to respond, so I turned toward the doors, desperate to leave and trying to hide my shock, sorrow, and all the other emotions surging through me.
“Good luck,” Claudia called out in a soft voice.
I didn’t know if she was talking about the tournament or my turbulent feelings. Probably both. But I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I nodded, strode over, pulled open one of the doors, and left the library as fast as I could.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“It’s too early for this,” I grumbled. “Way too early.”
It was seven o’clock the next morning, and I was lying in bed, the covers pulled up to my chin, watching Oscar zip around the room putting clothes into a black duffel bag sitting on the couch. The pixie had been up for an hour already, rustling around in my closet, flying from here, into the bathroom, and back out again, and muttering to himself all the while.
“Why can’t they start the tournament at a reasonable hour?” I grumbled again. “Like noon-thirty.”
Oscar stopped in midair and slapped his hands on his hips. The pixie had ditched his formal cowboy getup from last night in favor of a black T-shirt boasting the Sinclairs’ white hand-and-sword crest, faded jeans with holes in the knees, and black cowboy boots. A black cavalier hat with a plume of white feathers perched on his head, while a tiny black cloak fluttered around his shoulders. It was an odd mix of redneck and ren-faire. He’d even dressed up Tiny in a matching hat and cloak, although the tortoise had already knocked the hat off his head and was busy sniffing the feathers to see if they were edible.
“The tournament starts so early because it is an entire day of awesome,” Oscar said. “Trust me. You’re going to love it. Now get your lazy tuchas out of bed, cupcake—unless you don’t want any breakfast bacon.”
“Are you crazy? I always want breakfast bacon, and noon bacon, and afternoon bacon—”
Oscar threw a black T-shirt with the white hand-and-sword crest at me, hitting me in the chest and silencing my argument. A pair of matching black athletic shorts followed a few seconds later, landing on top of my head.
“Don’t make me bean you in the face with your own socks and sneakers,” he warned.
Bullied by a six-inch-tall pixie at seven in the morning. Yep, my life as a mobster was certainly a glamorous one.
“Do you want any bacon or not?” Oscar snapped.
And just like that, he won. I groaned and crawled out of bed.
After a quick breakfast that was extra heavy on the bacon, I went outside and got into the back of an SUV, along with Devon and Felix. Angelo was driving, with Mo in the front passenger’s seat. Another SUV rolling down the driveway in front of us held Claudia, Reginald, Oscar, and some of the guards chosen to compete in the tournament, including Vance Groves, who’d been as arrogant and insufferable as ever at breakfast, showing off some of his fighting moves for his friends. Behind us, several more cars held other members of the Family, everyone from the Midway workers to the other guards to the pixies.
“What’s with the convoy?” I asked.
Mo glanced over his shoulder at me. “The tournament is a big deal to all the Families. Practically everyone attends all the rounds, except for the bare minimum of folks needed to work the booths, patrol the Midway, or watch over the compounds on the mountain.”
“Even then, the guards and all the other workers take shifts so that everyone has a chance to see at least part of the tournament,” Angelo chimed in. “It’s almost like a minivacation for everyone in the Families, and we all try to put aside our differences. At least while the tournament is going on.”
“And after that?” I asked.
Mo grinned. “Then it’s back to business, blood, and battles as usual, kid.”
I snorted. I would expect nothing less from the Families. It was amazing they could call a truce long enough to hold the tournament in the first place.
Angelo drove down the mountain, but instead of heading for the Midway, he took a different route, snaking around the tourist area and heading toward the outskirts of town. He drove over the lochness bridge, slowing down long enough for Devon and me to fling several handfuls of quarters out the windows to pay the toll for all the Sinclair vehicles crossing the span today. I peered out the windows, but I didn’t see any long black tentacles, rippling water, or other signs of the lochness. Then again, it was early. Perhaps the monster hadn’t roused itself from its watery bed on the bottom of the river yet. At least someone got to sleep in today.