“You don’t understand, Jackson, she… she…” My voice fades. I can’t find the words to explain what it is my mother does to me. How it feels.
I’ve never been able to talk about her powers and their effect on me, except to my sister Mikayla, and even she didn’t get it. She found Touchmage powers comforting. What little girl wouldn’t want her mother to be able to magically make her worries and anxieties vanish in an instant? Especially after losing her father.
But it’s not that simple. My mother might have been able to make nightmares disappear, but she’s the scariest nightmare of them all.
A moment passes, but Jackson is still watching me.
“Touchmages can control you,” I say. “They can make you feel whatever they want. It’s like being a prisoner. A caged pet.”
This seems to awaken something in him. He sighs deeply.
“The type of spell you want would involve personal contact. I try to protect my employees and their identities.”
“Surely you trust me by now?”
Jackson doesn’t say anything. I lean forward. His golden eyes meet mine. Every time I look at him — closely cropped hair, neat suit, mysterious tattoos winding up his arm — I can’t help but wonder what type of Shifter he is. He still hasn’t told me, and I doubt he ever will.
This isn’t about me; Jackson doesn’t trust anyone. I reach out and place my hand on his. He flinches but stays silent.
“You clearly have no problem feeding me to the lions,” I continue. “So at least give me some lion repellent.”
I can feel the tension crackling between us. Mounting. My eyes are watering, and it has nothing to do with my acting abilities. I’m genuinely scared and Jackson can see that. His nostrils flare as if he can smell my fear.
“Fine,” he growls. “I have a call to make.”
An hour later, we’re walking across a loud and busy street in the Bronx. I’ve managed to convince Jackson to stop at a famous bagel shop called Dreidels and Bagels, where a multi-generational Jewish family sells both hand-carved wooden items and rainbow bagels.
Jackson is not as impressed by my meal as I am. He cradles his black coffee between large leather-clad hands and shifts from one foot to the other. Whatever type of Shifter he is, he doesn’t seem to like the cold. I cross ‘snow leopard’ off the imaginary list that lives in the corner of my mind. I guess I’ll be forever playing Twenty Questions: The Jackson Edition.
“You’re missing out. This lox, capers, and jalapeño cream cheese bagel is basically ambrosia,” I declare through a mouthful.
“I told you we could go to dinner later.” Jackson discards the now empty Styrofoam cup and rights his coat with distaste, throwing me a side glance. “You don’t have to eat while you walk. Like some…”
“Animal?” I cut in. At that precise and inopportune moment, a caper escapes my mouth and tumbles down my shirt. “Spells are exhausting. I need to preload on carbs.”
I’m concentrating so hard on keeping my food in my mouth and off my clothes that I don’t realize Jackson is no longer beside me. He’s noticed something in a store window and has stopped suddenly. I join him staring at a display of hamsters and rats for sale in a shabby pet shop.
“I guess I’m not the only one that’s hungry,” I say with a grin, watching Jackson’s reaction.
He rolls his eyes. “I fucking hate pet shops.”
Unlike me, Jackson rarely swears. I turn back to the display and watch as a black rabbit slowly hops across a floor of hay. My heart squeezes at the memory of black fur on white snow. Of dark blood and a tiny sound that was far too small for death. I left Moscow six weeks ago, but I still have nightmares about my Shifter friend, Ansel, being murdered. What chance did she have of protecting herself when the only thing she could change into was a rabbit?
For what feels like the billionth time, I ask myself how I could have helped her, whether I could have saved her life. Then, inevitably, I think of Lukka — the white-eyed Russian Vampire who stole a small piece of my heart and left the rest as empty and frozen as a Siberian winter.
Jackson shifts uncomfortably beside me. “You’re thinking about him again, aren’t you?”
He knows all about Lukka and he’s still not happy I stayed in Moscow longer than I had to. He knows I stayed for a Vampire, yet I’m not sure if it’s Lukka himself, or what he is, that bothers Jackson the most.
“Yes, I’m thinking about him. And Ansel.”
“We should go.” Jackson tries to be objective, but I know Shifters mean more to him than Vamps. “Have you had any further contact with him?”
I frown. “With Lukka?”
Jackson nods. Face strained.
“No,” I reply. “Lukka isn’t the Zoom catch-up type.”
Even through his thick tweed coat I can see his shoulder ease.
“Good.”
Why the fuck does it matter to him if I talk to Lukka?
Jackson has marched on. I take another greedy bite of my bagel and catch up with him. “Careful, Jackson, or I might think you’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous. I just don’t want my best reporter in contact with a homicidal Vampire.”
I hear the ping, but I’m not sure which part of the sentence it applies to. Either he is jealous, which would be super weird, or I’m not his best reporter, which is likely.
“Chill. You need to reLox,” I tell him, waving my fishy bagel in his face.
Jackson stomps away, muttering something along the lines of ‘I’ve hired a bloody child.’
I follow him. He can grumble all he wants — I don’t care as long as I get that protection spell. I make like a good New Yorker and turn my attention back to my bagel.
My calves burn by the time we make it up the six-floor walkup to the Witch’s apartment.
Jackson’s mysterious Witch-for-hire lives in a brick building the color of dried mud, framed
