There’s freedom in that power.
My mother lost this battle, and for the first time, I see I’ve always been stronger than her. I will never lose hope that Mikayla is out there, waiting for me to find her.
I run a finger across my tiny, branded moon, hope seeping into the hollows once carved out by sadness.
I can be made of fire, but I don’t have to burn.
Epilogue
I hurry through the bustling streets of Chinatown past window displays of glazed chickens and tiny shops that are stocked to bursting like miniature warehouses. The June heat is causing everyone on the sidewalk to sparkle with sweat. Sidestepping a tourist expertly, I break into a run. Jackson hates it when I’m late, plus it’s dinnertime, and my empty stomach is crying out for dim sum.
I barge into the restaurant and stop to catch my breath. Oh my god, it smells heavenly. Scurrying past the simple tables and waiters carrying stacks of bamboo steam baskets, I throw myself into a chair opposite my boss.
“Well, hello, Editor-in-Chief.”
I can’t help but notice that Jackson’s perfectly cut white button-down is damp with sweat. Even at his most casual, he’s still semi-formal and polished. He looks so out of place in this little steamy Chinese joint. He’s looking at me with a mixed expression of resigned disappointment and curious amusement.
Jackson and I have gotten into this weird habit of having business dinners to discuss my articles and assignments. Mostly because the daytime is too hot, and also because I think he’s finding the office a bit lonely lately. I don’t mind because the bill goes on the company card.
Winner winner, dim sum dinner.
“Late, as usual,” he says.
“Or…” I peel the paper from my chopsticks like an eager beaver.
“Or?”
“I got nothing.”
“Really? No smart reply? No delightful puns about my nether regions?”
I think back to the Winter Prince and briefly consider telling Jackson about him, then think better of it. He still gives me a hard time about Lukka. Jackson and his feline protective instincts don't need to know that I owe some dangerous High Fae a favor.
“I don’t spend my time concocting delightful puns about your genitalia, Jackson.”
He looks down at his menu, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement.
Things have been pretty peaceful the last two months since I got back from Barcelona. Jackson insisted I stay home a week to recover, but I told him I was fine, that unlike after Moscow, I wasn’t hurt, not on the surface anyway. He feels guilty for what happened with my mother and Salvador — that the brew wasn’t enough to protect me. A week after I returned, a courier delivered a year’s supply of protection brew copied from my last batch and a pink taser.
Jackson’s note read: “It’s not much, but I hope it makes you feel safer.”
My fear of Solina is forever present, lingering beneath the surface. But after all the drama she still got what she wanted. Solina de la Cruz is, as far as the Para world is concerned, the MA’s First. She’s not attempted to call or message me once since I left her hanging in a Witch’s death basement — maybe she never will. Regardless, the taser has earned a permanent spot next to my bed.
“You choose,” Jackson says, smiling at the faces I’m making.
He’s freaking me out a bit with his new gentle approach. Since I’ve returned, he’s refused to send me on any dangerous assignments… or even out of the city.
‘Close and safe’ means Pixie tax fraud investigations in Manhattan and a Vamp selling stolen blood on Craig’s List. But at least none of those jobs have resulted in death, violence, or getting home late in the evening. It’s all very PG and nine-to-five.
I order for both of us in Chinese because it’s quicker, plus I’m eager to show Jackson up. The waitress is surprised by my fluent Mandarin. I guess mediocre-looking brunettes who tout their Mandarin in dim sum restaurants usually get their pronunciation from Duolingo, not from magic.
“How’s it going at The Chronicle?” I ask, chopsticks already pinched between my fingers, ready to consume enough dumplings for a party of six.
Jackson laughs. “It’s a little unusual when your employee asks you how things are going back at work.”
“I’ve been busy with the Central Park Shifter story all week!” I counter indignantly.
Apparently, a few pigeon Shifters are running a crime ring in Central Park, following elderly bird-loving Upper Eastsiders to their homes and balconies, then robbing the places blind.
The only reason I went to Barcelona was to guarantee my mom’s help with finding my possibly-pregnant missing sister. Instead, all I got was my dead dad’s vague one-liners and confirmation that my mother has already given up on finding Mikayla.
So in between petty assignments, I've been busy researching Werewolf and bear Shifter relations on the Blood Web. Fruitlessly, I might add. No Werewolf has been killed by a bear Shifter in years and vice versa, and there are no famous Bear-Were couples. But I keep searching, hoping that I will find an answer to my dad’s riddle.
Jackson snaps his chopsticks in half. “Your story about the MA was great. One of our biggest yet. Six million hits, actually… Pulitzer material.”
“Paras don’t get Pulitzers,” I counter.
“Fine,” Jackson says. “A Paratzer then.”
“Come on, you’re better than that.”
Jackson takes a sip of his soda and eyes me warily. “I might be going on an assignment soon. To Germany,” he says nonchalantly. He offers me a prawn cracker.
“Don’t tell me...” I pinch my eyes closed. “I’m seeing Vamps in lederhosen.”
“Not quite.”
Our order arrives, and my stomach grumbles in celebration. The waitress places two bamboo baskets of steaming dim sum on the table, and I’ve already whipped the lids off before she’s turned to get the rest of the dishes. As well as six different kinds of dumplings, I’ve also ordered roast pork buns, a bowl of fried
