My mother grabs my hand and squeezes it. I feel a buzz, realizing she has just tried to render me extra amiable. Does she never take a break?
“Saskia, this is Jean-Antoine. He’s the head of our French MA Academy in Paris.”
The man plucks my hand from my side and kisses it.
“Enchanté,” I say to him and his companion. “I’ve heard the French academy is exceptionally beautiful.”
I give my mother a pointed look to say, Yes, I’ve heard of it.
“Oh, Saskia, you really should visit one day,” the woman trills. “The main office is housed in a beautiful building in the Montmartre district, but the central campus in Verneuil, an hour from the city. All those artists and old magic!”
I give her a shaky smile, doing my best to play the part of Solina’s doting daughter.
“Did you know your father taught for a semester at our school?” Jean-Antoine says to me. His voice is simpering, so eager to please the great Solina. “He was a real maverick, that one, taught an experimental class on Shifter sociology. He even spent time among bear Shifters in Russia!”
The three of them laugh as if my father’s behavior was silly and indulgent, like Belle’s dad in Beauty and the Beast.
“I’ve also spent time with a bear Shifter,” I say, cutting through their hilarity and stilling it.
My mother shoots me a look, quickly steering me away from the French academics.
“So wonderful to see you both again,” she says over her shoulder. “But we must go forth and mingle some more.”
They smile and we smile. but inside I want to scream.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, trying to sound as casual as possible as she grips the top of my arm. “Did you and Dad have any issues before he died?”
I think back to the strange messages he was uttering at the séance, how he implied his death was not all it seemed.
She gives me an irritable look. “What are you talking about?”
“Did you and Dad love one another?”
“I wanted to be with your father from the moment I met him.”
That’s not an answer. I try a different tactic.
“What does it mean when the wolf meets the bear?”
She stares at me like I’m something she just found on the bottom of her Louboutins. “Are you drunk, Saskia? I thought I could smell brandy off you earlier!”
I swallow down any other questions I had in mind and nod to the next group of elaborately dressed people.
“So, who are they?”
She smirks, happy to be back in comfortable territory. She leans into me, whispering conspiratorially.
“Now, this is someone you need to know more about.”
A woman smiles over at us. She’s dressed entirely in iridescent scales, a dark red coral choker adorning her pale neck like fingers grasping at her throat.
My mother nods discreetly. “That’s Rachel the Good of House Hill.”
“Her name’s a mouthful.”
“She’s from an old English bloodline. A powerful high-society Witch.”
Old money Witches are the worst of the lot. I bite back my reply. There’s no point in being nasty around Solina; it’s like playing a game of chess you can’t win.
“Go talk to her,” my mother urges.
“Why?”
“Rumor has it she not only influences rich men to buy pieces for her collection, but she kills them and uses their blood in her paintings.”
I shudder and avert my eyes from her.
“What does that have to do with Maribel and Mikayla?”
“Rachel collects Paranormal artifacts. Illegal ones. She’s clued in on all the goings-on of the Paranormal underworld. A veritable trendsetter.”
With those words, she leaves me to hesitantly make my way over to the scaly woman.
“Hi,” I say shyly.
Rachel looks at me, part curiosity, part exasperation.
“I’m Solina de la Cruz’s daughter. Saskia.”
She perks up. “I’m Rachel of House Hill,” she says as if I'm supposed to know what that means. I search for a lead in.
“I love your dress.”
“Oh, this old thing? It’s vintage Siren’s scales. From the seventies.”
Siren skin? I do all I can not to screw my face up in disgust or surprise. I think back to LA Siren queen Cressida, and suddenly the idea doesn’t seem so bad. Actually, no, as much as I hate those fishy biatches, who the fuck wears someone's skin?
“Gorgeous,” I coo adoringly, tilting my head forward as if we’re wrapped in delicious gossip. “I’ve heard you have quite the impressive collection of vintage delights.”
“Your mother has a big mouth!” she says, flashing me a quick smile. “But yes, I do love my trinkets. So sad the world is changing. Unfortunately, Witches are no longer what they used to be. Not everyone respects old values, like you and your mother.”
The world is becoming more tolerant, and I don’t like it, she means.
“I agree, Witches have lost sight of what matters. Tell me, what’s the rarest item in your collection? Out of curiosity?”
Her cheeks dimple, pleasure flashing across her face. “It’s hard to choose. Probably my ruby-encrusted fang earrings, and…” She pauses for dramatic effect. “There is no certification, but the art dealer was convinced he’d traced them back to Vlad the Impaler himself.”
Dracula earrings. Hot damn.
I’ve read all about Para poachers on the Blood Web — the most lawless in our Paranormal community who hunt and poach their own kind, selling the contraband items for a fortune. I avoid those disturbing threads like the plague, yet here I am talking to a buyer.
At least now I understand why my mother wanted me to speak to her. This woman is literally creating a market for Para disappearances.
Rage spreads through me, hot and boiling, but I don’t let it show.
“I also have a white Werewolf skin rug. Fitting, don’t you think?” She giggles. “Witches walking on Werewolves.”
My journalism instincts tell me I’ve made her comfortable, and this is the perfect moment to question her, but my other instincts are telling me to high kick her in the face. I steady myself.
“Maribel must be opposed to such collections, though.
