1. The Boy

Chapter 1

The Boy

I f it got any colder, his bloody feet were going to start sticking to the pavement. On a good day, touching his bare feet to the urine-scented ground of the alley behind his efficiency apartment would have been unthinkable. But today wasn't a good day—it was a running day.

The Boy couldn't believe he had been so careless as to forget his shoes, but it had been worth it. If his choices were capture or cold, sore feet, he would always choose the latter.

They were getting better at finding him and figuring out how to lure him in. He thought blending in with the norms would keep him safe, but that had only worked for so long. His family wouldn't be at the top of the food chain if they weren't adaptable, and as of tonight, it was obvious that they were now as adept at navigating nonmagical society as he was.

He wondered how they had figured out the finer points of norm society. It was doubtful it had been the way he'd done it. For longer than he wanted to contemplate, he'd had nothing but norm books to keep him company. Mother had said teaching him about witchcraft would be a waste and that he could make do with the garbage norms read.

Fortunately for him, the books and magazines, so carelessly shoved at him by the servants, were his salvation. From spy novels to Shakespeare, from gossip rags to cooking magazines, all readable discards from the world of normal humans had kept him from going insane. As long as it didn't teach him about the society that was his birthright, he was allowed to read it. It was from these books that he learned how to pick a lock, how to sneak past a guarded perimeter, and how to assimilate into a crowd.

He didn't blame his family for locking him away. How could he fault them for wanting to protect the rest of the world from his unfortunate disability? He often questioned the gods in their decision to make him. Why on earth make someone whose sole power was to enrage others?

There were a few exceptions—some of the servants managed to remain (almost) normal around him—but since he turned seven, no one in his family could stand to be around him for more than a few minutes without going nuts.

It was a good night for sneaking around if one didn't mind the cold. The cloudy sky kept the moon and stars from exposing his position. Creeping around the edge of a building, he did his best to stay out of the lamplight. It wasn't hard—the residents of the neighborhood had busted most of the bulbs in the alley. Apparently, The Boy wasn't the only one who didn't want to be seen.

He'd had to abandon most of his things this time—most notably his shoes, a battered paperback copy of Much Ado About Nothing , and an iPod he'd found on the sidewalk. It had a broken screen, but it worked even around his magical interference, which was rare since technology and magic didn't play well together. There had only been enough warning to push open the window of his efficiency apartment and climb down the fire escape before they shattered his door. If he was lucky, they would think he wasn't home. If he was unlucky, they would be fanning out to find him.

Not that he'd had much to leave behind. Today he'd spent the last bit of money he managed to get from selling his necklace—the last gift he received before his magic had manifested. His books may have taught him how to escape and how to cook, but finding a job that wasn't terrifying hadn't made it into the rotation. Cooking skills didn't mean much without food to cook.

He pulled his thin hoodie around himself, glad he'd chosen dark clothing to wear that day. It would make getting away from his family's goons easier—if you could call sneaking past an unknown number of people who'd been taught battle magic from an early age easy. They had all the magic his powerful and influential family could muster, while he had a black hoodie and no shoes. He was going to need a miracle.

"You hear that, gods? If you made me for any reason other than a joke, I could use some help right about now." He kept his voice low, but the hopelessness in his tone was clear even to him. "Footwear would be a good place to start if you're interested in suggestions."

Hearing a shout behind him, he had no choice but to run blindly, hoping he could find enough darkness to cover his retreat. The sound of gunfire coming from his only avenue of escape let him know, without a doubt, that the gods were assholes.