Fuck.
I’ll have to be more clever if I want to tell my sister what happened. And I need to tell someone. I suddenly realize how desperate I am to do so. First, I start with what I can say.
I tell her about the delivery. Tell her that both Sasha and her new baby were fine, though things were touch and go there for a minute. I relay my successful performing of The Blessing of the Babe, where newborn witchlings are granted the ability to see the supernatural world for what it is–beyond the veil. She nods, no doubt aware of this part.
I roll up my sleeves to my elbows, revealing the blood that is hidden there, the blood that had no doubt made me a walking target for the vamps when I was passing through the Red Zone. I’d washed it off my hands and arms, but the fabric of my shirt is stained scarlet.
“Goddess, Mira,” she groans.
I sigh and reach for my phone. I consider for a moment, then I type some clever terms into the search bar of my phone’s browser. I show her story after story about supernaturals getting killed by the police.
By the forth story, she is starting to put the pieces together. It takes over an hour, but finally, she gets the full picture. Though I cannot talk about the incident itself, I do tell her about being at the precinct, and finally, how Olivia Owens and Esther Jennings had shown up.
Flora sits blinking at me. I swallow and speak the part that shames me. The words are bitter on my tongue, a spewing of poison.
“I signed a Binding Statement.”
“Goddess,” Flora gasps. Her delicate hand comes up and rests at her throat, a gesture that belonged to our mother.
I look down into my teacup, the brew having steadied my hands, but not my heart. I can’t remember the last time I felt so fucking ashamed.
“They threatened the girls,” I say, but the words sound weak, the excuse thin.
Flora uses her magic to lift the cups and saucers from our hands and place them down on the coffee table. She takes my hands into hers. Squeezes them. My cold fingers burn pleasantly against her warm ones. She cups my cheek.
“It’s okay,” she says. “You only did what anyone would have. I love you so much. It’s going to be okay.”
I am on the verge of tears when a little voice speaks up from the hallway. “Hi, Aunt Mira,” says my nine-year-old niece, Echo, as she rubs her eyes.
She climbs into my lap, and the three of us are piled on the daybed. I relinquish more blanket to cover her with it.
She stares up at me with big green eyes. “How’s the baby?” she asks.
I smile, willing the tears that had begun to form in my eyes back into their pockets. I push some of her honey blond hair off her forehead. “The baby is fine,” I say. “A healthy little witch-wolf.”
This makes Echo giggle. “I wish I was a witch-wolf,” she says. “How come I’m just a witch?”
“Because your mother is a witch,” I say. “And a dang good one at that.” I tilt my head, feeling a smile at the edges of my lips, despite the ache in my chest. “Your aunt is not too bad, either.”
“How come we have to keep it a secret?” Echo asks. “The witch-wolf baby? Why can’t we tell anybody?”
I swallow as I glance at Flora. How did one explain the ugly side of the world to a child?
Honestly, I supposed.
“Because people are scared of those who they see as different from them,” Flora says. “But different isn’t a bad thing. It’s actually a good thing. It’s how new things are created. It’s art.”
I blink at my sister. She is an artist through and through, a poet and painter, a dancer and a lover, whereas I tend to be uniformly analytical. Sometimes she astonishes me with her insights, even after all these years.
Differences. That was likely the reason I was alive right now, and Edmond Harvey Jackson was not. Because of differences neither of us could help.
I swallow at this realization, but it sits like a lump in my throat.
I gently lay Echo down on the daybed and climb to my feet. “I think I’m gonna get some rest,” I say.
Flora gives me a sympathetic smile and nods, sighing as she absentmindedly plays with Echo’s hair.
I exit the parlor and climb the staircase in the hall, grateful to be steps away from my bedroom, where my bed and pillows and blankets wait loyally for me. As I pass the bathroom, I realize I should probably shower before getting into bed.
I turn the water to burning hot, and while it soothes my weary bones, it does nothing to alleviate my troubled soul.
If a hot shower after a hard day can’t make me feel better, nothing will.
I am ready to pass out in my towel when I enter my bedroom.
Instead, I clutch the cloth around me when I open the door to find a stranger lounging on my bed.
5 7:15 a.m.
“What the fuck!” I exclaim.
Because seriously–What the fuck?
The stranger does not budge from his reclined position. He turns his head toward me and smirks as though I am the one who just waltzed into his bedroom, rather than finding him in mine.
My curse makes him smirk, but it dies when I flex my hand, and electric energy sparks at my fingertips. Flora’s brew and the hot shower have gone miles in restoring some of my magical energy, and sudden adrenaline has a power all its own.
Now the stranger sits up, booted feet coming to rest on the floor. His large hand grips one of the bannisters of my bed, and his face softens as he holds the other up, palm out.
“No need for that, darling,” he says, his accent is one I do not recognize, and is a juxtaposition to his appearance. His clothes are layers of
