Page 23 of Junk Magic

I was damned lucky to have him, too.

Chapter Seven

My backup coat was being an ass.

I’d hauled it out of the closet after breakfast, which was more like lunch since I’d overslept. Cyrus and the boys had already been up and out, with a brief note telling me that they’d gone looking for whoever had sold punch to Colin. I didn’t try to call them back, because it wouldn’t have done any good, and it was one of the few things they could do without risking Sebastian’s wrath. Plus, they might have more luck than the Corps.

Vegas has a vast network of drainage tunnels underneath it, which have been nicknamed Tartarus by the local down-on-their-luck magical community. They use them as a highway for a sprawling ant-like colony of caverns that contain everything from marketplaces and bars to shantytowns and illicit manufacturing centers. And guess what was being manufactured?

The Corps knew that most of the punch flooding the streets came from Tartarus, but with the war taking up the majority of our resources, we didn’t have the people to patrol it effectively. This was unfortunately not a secret. Production had really been ramping up lately, with a lot of new players getting into the game.

I wished the guys luck, but they had their work cut out for them.

Sort of like me with this coat.

I scowled down at the shiny new leather, which didn’t have so much as a scratch on it. The only time it had been worn was in the class where I’d learned to enchant it, and where I’d used it as a test subject, not wanting to risk my family heirloom. That had been years ago, and ever since, it had occupied a dark corner of my closet, where I had learned the hard way to keep it well away from the other clothes. I’d found more than one garment shredded or burnt, because my learner coat had a temper.

As it was currently demonstrating.

I reached for it, and had my hand slapped away by a sleeve for my trouble. I tried again, and had my hand enveloped in a leather “fist” that wouldn’t let go. Until I zapped it with a spell, only to have it zap me back.

Son of a bitch!

“Oh, this I gotta see.”

I looked up to find Caleb, a fellow war mage, lounging in the doorway. He was big, black and imposing, a solid mass of ‘tude eyeing up my pathetic excuse for a coat. His own coat, on the other hand, was looking good, well-oiled and supple, with a hem that wafted a little too energetically around his calves, but overall . . .

“Don’t even,” he told me flatly.

I put on my best be-a-pal face, and may have even fluttered an eyelash or two. I was desperate, okay? “I’m desperate,” I told him. “I need a coat.”

“What happened to your old one?”

“Involucrum.”

Caleb winced. “Shit.”

“Yeah.” I blinked rapidly, cursing myself for being sentimental, but the loss cut like a bitch. I didn’t even know how I was going to tell dad. Or what I was supposed to do for a replacement, after reaching out for my badly behaving item and getting the crap shocked out of me for my trouble.

“Damn it! Did you see that?”

I received no sympathy from Caleb. “Some of us weren’t lucky enough to get handed an heirloom,” he said heavily, crossing his arms. “I’ve gone through three coats so far in my career, and this one is still new. I’m breaking it in—like you’re going to have to do.”

“If it doesn’t break me first. Or fry my damned arm off!”

“You have to show it who’s boss.”

Yeah, only I was pretty sure it already knew that, and didn’t think it was me.

It was my backup for a reason: I’d never liked it. They’d told us in spellbinding class that it was a fallacy that magical objects developed personalities. That we humans just liked anthropomorphizing things.

That was a load of crap.

This thing hated me.

“Have to show it soon,” Caleb added meaningfully.

“Why?”

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