“Being part of the MA didn’t offer Mikayla any added protection,” I say.
My mother winces. “Things will be different with me in charge.”
Is she really trying to protect me? I think back to my father’s words, warning me to stay away from my own mother.
“Mom, why didn’t Dad have a funeral?”
“Stop making everything about you, Saskia.”
“Tell me!” I cry, grabbing her hand.
Her eyes dart around, eager to avoid a scene. She brushes me off.
“We do not honor Wolves,” she says, before gliding off.
We do not honor Wolves. Her words linger, stinging the air around me like acid rain as they sink in one by one. My father didn’t get a fucking funeral because the MA didn’t think he deserved one? Because he’d been turned through no fault of his own, after all he gave to the association?
I unclench my fists; my nails having left half-moon marks on the palms of my hands. But my blood-curdling anger soon turning to curiosity.
Maribel's body has finally stopped moving and is now hovering over a patch of grass beside a few ancient-looking tombstones. They must be the other Firsts. The heads of the MA are always buried here, in their own backyard, while the bones of the other important Witches are placed in the tombs beneath The House of Bones.
Maribel’s body looks small, almost childlike, as it floats peacefully over the moonlit grass. Rafi and the other Elementals step forward, hands outstretched. Their chanting fills the air, a tune more melodious than the Nox’s creepy incantations, and slowly something starts to rise from the ground. Roots. They curve and twist around Maribel, forming a bird nest-shaped cocoon. A woman I don’t recognize steps forwards with a lit torch. She holds it aloft as Rafi channels a tendril of fire from the torch onto the nest.
With a sharp whoosh, Maribel’s silk-clad body ignites. Bright sparks swarm into the air like fluorescent fireflies, dancing in spirals. I’m at the back of the gathering but I can still feel the ferocity of the flames. They crackle and pop, but before she is fully incinerated, the cocoon webs itself shut, turning into a coffin of roots trapping the flame within. The earth opens up like a gaping mouth and with one gulp swallows the Witch into the ground.
I blink. Where moments ago, there was a body ablaze, now there’s nothing left but a flat stretch of grass rippling with remnants of magic.
“A Witch does not burn!” my mother cries, her warrior call startling me.
“For she is made of fire!” the crowd thunders back.
The Elemental chants resume as one by one giant poppies erupt over the spot where Maribel’s body was consumed. In no time at all the ground is turned red, her very own bloody blanket. As the last flower is formed, the chanting stops, and her grave is complete — the final seal on the procession.
Soft murmurs break through the crowd, Witches and Warlocks making their way back to the house. Only a few linger to pay their last respects and weep, the Touchmages literally on-hand and ready to assist.
I feel a deep cold run across my skin.
“I’ve always found your kind’s funerals odd,” says the Winter Prince, his icy breath causing the hair to rise on the back of my neck.
I turn to face him. He’s leaning against a crooked stone column, surveying me in his usual cool, measured way.
“Your kind don’t die. Is that why you find it weird?”
“Oh, they do die. Sometimes.” A somber shadow falls across his glacial features. “But when our kind dies, we celebrate. We drink at revels, we dance, and…” He pauses, allowing his gaze to slip past the curve of my periwinkle dress. “And we fuck.”
“Our Paranormal customs are weird enough without grief orgies,” I say, putting my hands up as if to say ‘no, thank you.’
“Grief is an aphrodisiac, Saskia,” he replies with a smirk. “But that is not what I’m here to talk about.”
“No?”
“I have delivered on my promise.” He nods at the poppy-covered patch of grass. “Maybe you will trust me now.”
“They’re saying it was suicide.”
“Maribel was not the type to take her life. Far too in love with herself. The deeply vain do not self-sacrifice.”
“So did you, or another powerful Fae, kill her?”
He makes an exasperated huffing sound and rights himself. “The Fae did not have a hand in Maribel’s death.”
Well, Fairies can’t lie. So that’s that.
“But you benefited from her death?”
“I can benefit from a death without having caused it.”
“But…”
He raises one brow. “Although I did not kill Maribel, you should still keep in mind that the Fae are not the only Paranormals who had problems with the last First. She broke many treaties and had many enemies.”
“Who else were her enemies?”
He ignores my question. “Do me a favor,” he says. “Influence your mother to consider agreeing with my final demands on the Witch-Fae agreement.”
“Hah! If you think I have influence over her you’re kidding yourself!”
I snort-laugh, but when I turn around the prince has gone.
An hour has passed, and half the guests are drunk. Mages love drinking to remember...and drinking to forget. I wade past toasts in Maribel’s name, Witches who were earlier gossiping about the late First now singing her praises, and finally find Beatriz. She still looks skittish and jumps when I tap her on the shoulder.
“Are you OK?”
“Fine,” she replies. “I’m just drained from dream-gifting.”
I feel the ping of a lie but decide not to push her. Funerals bring out different things in people and it's not my place to pry.
“How come Xavi isn’t with you?” I ask. “Thought you were going to introduce him to Salvador?”
“The event isn’t catered, so there’s no way I could sneak him in.” She gives a sad smile. “Also, bringing a Shifter to a First’s funeral is really pushing my luck. Introducing him to my dad is one
