Alex turned to leave, but Hardy stopped her with a strong arm around her midsection, hooking her like a shepherd hooking sheep. Looking relaxed as Alex struggled hopelessly against his iron-muscled arm, Hardy ended the call and said, “Boone is on his way over.”
“And here I am,” Boone said, appearing out of the dim light. Boone was the quintessential biker. Long gray hair tamed into a braid. He wore a blue bandanna around his head and the front of his Devil vest was covered in random patches, everything from a peace sign to a Grateful Dead skull.
“Little banshee,” Boone said, his voice gravelly from smoking far too many cigarettes. “I was just headed for the beer tent. Care to join me?”
“No.”
“She wanted to get her face painted,” I said, not even cracking a smile.
He held his arms out. “Well, that sounds utterly wholesome. After you, then.”
“I don’t even know why I bothered coming tonight,” Alex whined. “This is the least amount of fun I’ve ever had. I don’t need a babysitter, you know.”
“Then think of me as a bodyguard,” Boone said. “Someone messes with the little banshee, they’ll get shot in the ass!” He held up two finger guns, and tiny lightning bolts shot from his fingertips. “Bam! Bam!” He laughed, his beer belly chuckling with him as my nose itched with the scent of his terra magic, fresh-cut greenery and marigolds.
“Oh my God,” Alex said, but she was smiling now. “Fine. Face paint. But you’re getting a flower on each cheek. Jemmie?”
“Actually, the beer tent sounds awesome.” I didn’t want to give Crowe the satisfaction, but if I headed back into the thick of the festival without something to dull my senses, I already knew things were going to get ugly.
Hardy gave me a questioning look, but I could tell the call of the beer tent was strong for him, too. “Okay, fine. We could make a quick stop.”
I nodded solemnly. “What happens in the beer tent stays in the beer tent.”
Alex, who was in the middle of being dragged up the path by Boone, called, “I’ll meet up with you later?”
“Definitely. Can’t wait to see your face art!”
When they were gone, Hardy and I headed for our destination. Rock music pulsed through the earth beneath us and echoed off the forest surrounding us. This was a festival hosted by the Devils’ League after all, and rock music was their anthem. And judging by the din accompanying the music, the festivalgoers were enjoying it, too.
The closer we came to the beer tent and the bonfire, the more crowded it became. The first night of the festival was always the party night, when people reunited after months of not seeing each other, sometimes years, depending on whether they had attended the previous celebration. The second day was for recovery and trading. Those who had spent the night before partying too hard sought out Medici charms for hangovers. And those who had erred on the side of caution shopped for the cuts they’d need throughout the next year. For a lot of people, those cuts were Medici healing ones anyway. It was why the Medicis had their own wares tent, separate from the red tent Alex and I had visited earlier. The demand for Medici cuts was too large to keep to one small table in the main tent.
Once hangovers were nursed and deals were struck, people started to relax, so the third day of the festival was for more partying and lots of reminiscing.
“Hey, Hardy,” one of the lantern girls called as she passed. She gave Hardy an appreciative look, almost setting her hair on fire in the process. A flame skittered along her palm before she squeezed her hand shut and the flame died in a puff of smoke, her dignity right along with it.
If the girl knew a thing about anything, she would have known Hardy rarely swung her way. He’d had two girlfriends in the time I’d known him, which was forever. And seven boyfriends. Or maybe that was eight. He and Crowe were a lot alike in the romance department, save for their choice in departments.
Of course, if she was like most girls, she knew what Hardy’s type was and didn’t give a shit. Sometimes Hardy didn’t, either.
We’d neared the beer tent, where people had started to gather. Headlights swept into the east field as new arrivals searched for parking spots. It was a dizzying, blinding dance of light and sound. Dense and smelling of steel and earth and fire, powerful magic crackled at the edges of my vision, threatening to close me in. I quickened my steps, sliding past groups of people in the hope of reaching my relief.
I ducked inside the beer tent, and Hardy followed. We wended our way through the tables quickly filling with people. Magic was so thick in here that I could barely see.
At the bar, Hardy ordered a shot of whiskey and I ordered a shot of tequila, because why not. The bartender, a Niklos by the smell of him, poured the shots and slid them our way. “Enjoy,” he said, and tipped his head to both of us.
“Cheers,” Hardy said, but by the time he raised his glass, I’d already downed mine. He let out a low whistle. “Damn.”
“It’s medicinal,” I said quickly, waving for another.
“Fine, but then you take a little break, all right?”
“You’re the boss.”
He grunted. “Obviously.”
I slung my second shot back just as I caught sight of my dad entering the tent. “Great,” I muttered. “My night is complete.”
Hardy leaned back, propping his elbow on the bar top. “What? Oh. Never mind. I see him.”
“Owen!” someone shouted, and waved Dad over to their table. Others followed his progress with a mixture of disdain and fear. He might have a few fans here, but joining the Syndicate had earned my dad a lot of enemies, too.
Hardy let me order a beer, maybe feeling sorry for me, and we watched the crowd swell over the next half hour. My limbs had taken on a pleasant tingle. The magic was still filling my nose and fogging my vision, but I no longer cared all that much.
“Huh. Didn’t expect to see her here,” Hardy commented, and I turned to look, craning my neck.
Old Lady Jane sat on a chair at the far end of the tent, surrounded by people gathered at her feet. Brooke, the Devils’ League member assigned to guard Jane, was positioned in the corner, her eyes scanning the crowd. She inclined her head when she saw Hardy at the bar, and he did the same. A few other, older kindled were also in chairs near Jane, and one of them, a man with a stringy steel-gray ponytail and neck tattoos, was standing up, gesturing as he spoke.
“Let’s go check it out,” I said. “I’m bored.”
Before Hardy could issue an opinion on the matter, I got up and staggered a little as I made my way over to the lawn-sitters. Once there, I plopped down next to a few girls wearing Curse King colors—orange and black.
“—and when she woke up to find the sun shining, she thought she had broken the curse!” the old guy was saying. “But then she ran back to her village and discovered that only a few houses were standing. The rest were overgrown with weeds, thatch caved in.” He glanced back at Jane. “With time.”
“That’s why you never cross a Vetrov,” said Jane with a tiny, dry smile. “Some of us can steal minutes, days, even years.”
“Not the only reason you never cross a Vetrov, from what I understand,” the man said, smiling. “But that’s what it was. The crone had stolen forty years from the girl! Her sisters were old women and her parents were dead. The girl was crushed. She went to go find the old woman whose bread she’d stolen, but of course she was gone, too. So the girl wandered for the rest of her days, calling for her lost years, unable to bear the burden of the future.”
“How fucking depressing,” Hardy muttered as he scooted in behind me. “Do I really have to listen to this?”
Old Lady Jane stood up. “Time to hear the tale of the girl who bound the devil,” she said, and Hardy shut up fast.