The last pedestrian had stepped onto the sidewalk. I hit the blinker, signalling a right hand turn, when two people stepped off the curb to my left. They were followed by a trio, then another couple and I watched, jaw agape.
“Shut your mouth,” Sallie hissed. “You’re giving us away.”
I clamped my lips together, adjusted the rearview mirror, and pretended there was nothing more fascinating than whatever was going on with the blemish on my chin. The man in the middle held my attention. Slightly shorter than the six clustered to his back, sides, and front, he was the only one not wearing a bluetooth device in their ear. Disconnected from technology, he was acutely connected to the swirling, magical signature I could see even with my eyes wide open.
The seven disappeared around the corner. I inched into traffic and glanced to my right in time to see the couple bringing up the rear step into the Flechette Building. The reflection on the glass doors hid the interior and a honk from behind hurried me along.
“That was intense,” I said.
“Why are you whispering?” Sallie removed my sunglasses, pulled her fringe-edged bag over her head, and scratched at her scalp.
I laughed. “Because I don’t want them to hear me.”
“That was close.” She turned toward me, and asked, “Can we go home now?”
I had to drive holding tight to the steering wheel and sitting forward to keep my upper back from rubbing against the seat. Passing through the tug of the wards that shielded my house from uninvited Magicals, I parked, nose facing the road, and relaxed.
“I’ll plug your car in for you.” Sallie shoved her belongings into her purse and opened the car door. Jasper was lounging on the top step, his front paws crossed and hanging over the edge of the decking. He yawned, stretched, and descended the stairs, his tail curled in a lazy question mark. Sallie stroked his fur as they passed in the middle, the charging cord in her other hand, and squealed when Thatcher came barreling out the opened screen door.
“Hey Mom, hey Sallie,” he said, giving his cousin a hug. “Guess what?”
“You made dinner?”
“I’m on kitchen clean-up tonight. Sallie’s on dinner prep. And dessert’s covered because—”
“Ta-da!” Leilani and Harper squeezed past Thatcher and tumbled down the stairs. Harper caught me up in a breath-defying hug. Lei-li brushed a kiss against my cheek and dodged my car as James and Malvyn passed through the wards and pulled onto the grass. “Daddy, Papa, we’re back!”
“Missed you, Mom.” I didn’t care that Harper’s tight embrace was pulling at slightly raw skin.
“This is the best surprise,” I said. “Is Christoph with you?”
“Sure is,” he said. Harper let me go and held my shoulders. “I have something to show you. Don’t freak out, okay?”
I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. “Harper Jones, last time I heard that phrase, Thatch was—”
“I know, I know, Thatch was letting you know I had sprouted feathers.” Harp let go of me and grinned, and spun around. “Take a look.”
I set my bag on the grass and took hold of the bottom of my son’s baggy flannel shirt. I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t know what I wanted, or hoped, to see. When Harper and Leilani left for the Northwest Territories with my grandfather, Harper had to be sedated and the process of his forming wings artificially halted.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Positive.”
His lower back was tanned, the skin unblemished. I rolled the shirt higher and gasped. “Harp. You decided.”
“I did.” He spun, hugged me again, and waved at whomever was heading toward us. “I gotta go show Mal and James.”
Harper walked away with a newfound confidence. I was dying to speak with Christoph and find out what had swayed Harper into accepting the winged part of his genetic heritage.
Thatcher stepped next to me and shoved his hands into the front pockets of his shorts. “I want to make those kinds of choices too, Mom.” He bent to pick up the raccoon that had waddled down the stairs after him, and let it perch on his shoulder. “I want to know what I am, beside a sixteen-and-a-half year old kid.”
“Go look in the mirror,” I said. “You’re the Racoon Whisperer.”
“Yeah, but I want to be more.” He walked Pokey to the Garry oak tree, extricated its delicate paws from his hair, and lifted the animal onto a branch.
Harper and Leilani, along with Malvyn and James, were strolling toward the house. James clutched the handle of picnic basket, its contents covered with red and white checked cloth. He waved, and quickened his pace.
“Calliope,” he said, lifting the corner of the cloth to release the scent of fresh-cooked lasagna, “I hope you don’t mind the intrusion. We wanted to see everyone and thought a group catch-up made sense.”
He was right, and it did. “I’m thrilled when anyone shows up with food,” I said, accepting his right cheek, left cheek kisses. Mal delivered the same, and Leilani delivered another tight squeeze.
The small kitchen area always shrunk in size when more than three people were trying to sort out reaching for dishes and utensils to set the table, pouring drinks, and getting whatever else was needed. I pulled a wooden spoon from the canister beside the stove and banged the bottom of a pot.
“Outside, everybody. Picnic time.”
Christoph, Malvyn, and James. Harper, Leilani, and Thatcher. A toot from the driveway announced another arrival. Lifting my heels off the floor allowed me to peek out the window over the sink. Rowan and Shamaha emerged from a familiar sedan, followed by
