This way everyone present can look at each other. We can all see each other’s eyes and faces. The chairs, I notice, are also all identical, none more ornate than the other.
Most of the wolves are standing together, and I notice that one of them is very upset, simply fraught with tears. I look away quickly, the way one does when they see someone crying in public.
Along with the wolves and fae, there is also three demons, two angels, a human, and—curiously—a vampire.
My heart quickens at the sight of him, my mind reeling back to this morning, right before Edmond Harvey Jackson’s death, less than twenty-four hours ago.
Goddess, a lifetime could happen in a day.
And on any given day, at that.
The vampire sits terribly still, like a statue, posture perfect. He is wearing all black, but his clothes are not torn and dirty the way many of the vamps in the city are from living mostly in the sewers. His are clearly expensive, well-fitting, almost professional.
He is also handsome. Despite the panic and racing heart the sight of him causes me, this is undeniable. His face is carved as if from stone by a master hand.
As if he is reading my thoughts, his deep scarlet eyes flick to me.
My breath catches in my throat. I thank the Goddess that I do not gasp.
His gaze is intense, but not crazed in the way that all the other vampires I’ve come across in my lifetime are, which admittedly is mostly limited to those that inhabit the city. Instead, his countenance is that of a predator, yes, but also highly intelligent.
I am thankful when Harper speaks again, breaking the trance that seems to have fallen over me and the vamp. I feel as though I can breathe again.
I do not look over at him again. I am ashamed of it, as he has done nothing to threaten me, but I am scared of him. My still speeding heart and sweaty palms are evidence enough of that. And with the sensitive noses and ears in the room, I’m certain most every being here knows it, too.
I am genuinely grateful that Harper Beauregard is so captivating as all the attention in the room goes to her. With long auburn hair and alabaster skin, it is her controlled, confident demeanor that makes her even more arresting. Her voice is strong and level as she gazes around the room; an alpha in her own right.
“My name is Harper,” she says. “This is Akim. I know most of you, but some of you are new, and we’re glad you’re here.” She sighs, is silent for a moment. Then says, “As many of you already know, we lost another brother last night to senseless police violence… Edmond was a valued member of the Philly Pack, and we are devastated about his loss.”
“They murdered my baby!” shouts the older female wolf that I noticed being upset earlier.
My stomach flips over, churns.
I realize who the crying wolf must be.
Edmond Harvey Jackson’s mother.
I am not a mother myself, but I’ve loved my two nieces like they were my own since the day they were brought into this world.
My sister had been less than twenty when she’d had them, with a man that was good and loved my sister, but was also a hopeless alcoholic. He’d wrapped his car around a tree when Echo was only three months old, and Winter just over a year old, and ever since then, it has been the four of us.
Along with my sister, I was the one who changed their diapers, woke up with them in the middle of the night, took them to doctor appointments and school activities. I didn’t plan to have kids of my own, because I knew firsthand how hard it was, and also because I could not imagine a bigger love than that I had for Winter and Echo. As far as motherly ambitions went, I had that in spades with the girls.
All this is to say, that as I sit in this secret room with these various people, and watch the mother of Edmond Jackson cry, I do not care about the fact that she is a werewolf, or that her skin is darker than mine, or that she likely worships a different entity.
All I see is a grieving mother.
And it is, by far, worse than anything I’ve ever had to witness. It is as if each tear is a drop of blood from her veins.
My heart lodges in my throat, the air in my lungs. Her grief is so strong it’s as though it is my own. I think of Edmond’s face, of the deep shade of brown that was his eyes. I remember the warmth, the strength of his arms as he’d scooped me up, carrying me away from the hungry vamps.
Tears pour out over my cheeks as I sit there. I am not alone. The eyes of most everyone present are glossy now, red and moisture-rimmed.
“He was only seventeen,” says Anita Jackson. “My baby was only seventeen. He was such a good, loving boy. He didn’t deserve to die. I just don’t understand why. Why did this have to happen?”
More sobbing follows. I can barely stand it. I look at my sister through the blur of my tears. I see the answer written on her face.
We both know what we must do.
14
10:45 p.m.
My sister clears her throat beside me.
With the sensitive ears in the room, everyone hears it, and all eyes swing to Flora. I see her swallow, but her shoulders are square, her voice smooth and reverent.
She opens her mouth and looks at me.
I nod, resolved.
“My name is Flora Meadows, and this is my sister, Miracle… We’re, uh, witches. We live in Old City.”
The room is silent, waiting to see where Flora goes. I swear I can hear my heart beating somewhere in my throat.
Flora looks at Anita. Her face softens and crumples, one mother empathizing with another. “My
