My favorite part of the MA HQ is the stone and mosaic roof. When we were younger, Mikayla used to compare it to a cartoon beehive. Although, if you ask me, the whole place looks more like a gothic Turkish hammam on acid.
I arrive at my mother’s fancy wood-paneled office, and her secretary tells me to wait. Editions of Mage Monthly are sprawled out on the fancy coffee table like a Japanese fan. Like all Mage magazines, this one is enchanted to not be visible or tangible to anyone without magic in their veins. I roll my eyes at the old-fashioned glossies, but I know people like my mother are too traditional for the Blood Web. I flick through a copy, then just as quickly discard it. Maybe if they made a bewitched version of Vogue I’d be interested — anything is better than this dry bullshit.
“The Second will see you now,” the secretary announces a few minutes later, her voice filled with great importance as if I were about to meet the pope for bubble tea.
Shoulders hunched, I enter my mother’s grand office.
“You’re late,” she says, signaling me over with a wave of her hand. Her long dark hair is pulled back tightly, giving her brows a slight cat-eye look. There’s not a single wrinkle as far as the eye can see.
Her cool eyes flicker down my outfit gradually, like an elevator descending my body. I can feel her train of thought.
Floor three: Boobs too big.
Floor two: Belly too large.
Floor one: Cheap jeans.
“Didn’t get a chance to change after your flight?” she asks.
I wore this outfit to make a point, but now I feel unkempt, large, and dirty.
“Nice to see you too,” I say with a forced smile, even though every inch of me wants to run back out the door.
Then I think of Jackson, of his assignment, and how I’m getting one over on my mom, and plop myself into the seat opposite her.
She checks her Cartier watch, even though I just got here.
“Should we get the tearful reunion out of the way now or schedule it for later?” I ask.
She ignores me, her manicured nails clicking against her recently-drained espresso cup. “Maribel is still missing.”
“I heard. Is she dead?”
Solina falters for a moment. It’s not normal to ask this casually about the death of the First.
“I don’t know for certain. That’s what you’re here for.”
All I can think about is my own missing sister. Two high-profile MA disappearances in the space of two years. Could they be connected? I don’t know if Mom is wondering the same thing, because her immaculate face is tight and unmoving. Witches don’t need Botox, they have magic, and my mother would rather be frozen in place than look a day older than thirty-nine.
“What do you need me to do?” I ask, suppressing a sigh. The least she could have done is given me the illusion of small talk.
“The only thing you can do,” she replies. “Tell me who’s lying.”
“What?” I feign surprise, even though I figured this out as soon as my mom demanded I visit and then I heard Maribel had disappeared. “Why should I?”
“For once in your life consider your own kind and be part of this family.”
What fucking family? A megalomaniac mother, a missing sister, and a dead father? What a jolly Christmas card we make.
Yet her for once in your life statement cuts deep to my core, despite the boundaries I built for this type of thing. I guess mothers have a way of being able to shatter carefully built boundaries with one word. Emotional dynamite.
She reaches out a hand and puts it lightly over mine. I know what she’s doing, I know the Touchmage shit she’s trying to pull. Luckily, I’m one step ahead and I have Angel’s brew bubbling inside my veins.
I recoil anyway. “Don’t use your magic on me!” I hiss, snatching my hand away. “Just tell me when my covert operation starts.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Why? What’s happening tomorrow?”
“The equinox ball. It’s our most important dance of the year, and this year’s theme is excellent. The entire week is full of equinox events. Why on Earth do you look so surprised? For God's sake, Saskia, don’t you own a calendar?”
The equinox season is a big deal for Mages — like our Super Bowl, but less dick measuring and more wand measuring.
“I’m sorry I can’t keep track of your many balls. Big balls, little balls…How do you juggle so many balls, Mother?”
“You have the sense of humor of a dim-witted child,” she counters dryly.
“I’m sorry that, unlike Mikayla, I don’t make jokes about Monet and Manet.”
“The difference is evident — Monet was a Warlock, Manet a drunk.”
“That was not my point.”
What exactly was my point?
“Mikayla had pride, loyalty to the cause, work ethic…”
“Has,” I correct her.
My mother pushes her empty cup away, a tremor in her hand. I fight the urge to tell her I saw Mikayla on a train platform, that she’s alive, but I’m scared to believe what I saw.
“With Maribel gone, I’m the acting First.” She says this as if it’s a heavy burden. “I need answers about her whereabouts, and I need them soon. Your abilities may not be impressive...”
She pauses, so I can let the insult sink in.
“But they are rare. And very useful in this instance.”
I grumble inwardly. I still need to get Jackson the scoop on the sigils, and maybe they’re connected to Maribel’s disappearance. I guess it won’t hurt to attend a couple of events and ask a few questions.
There’s a knock at the door, but whoever it is doesn't wait for an answer. A tanned man in
