“I will be,” I tell her. “And what do we say?”
She sighs, her shoulders, which seem to be permanently slumped as of late, sink a fraction further still. “It’s okay not to be okay. We just can’t stay in that place forever.”
I nod. She gives a shy smile and exits the room.
As I get dressed and force down some food, I urge myself to take my own damn advice.
And do not quite succeed.
6 1:39 p.m.
The Reading Terminal Market in Center City, Philadelphia.
A fun place to visit if you’re a human…
An absolutely magical place if you are a supe.
It is indeed Saturday, and the place is packed to the gills when we enter. People avoid eye contact as they slip and shove by each other, and the symphony of smells and sounds blend together into a hum.
Flora is leading our little group of four, with Echo and Winter between us, and me bringing up the rear. I am always extra cautious with the girls out in public, especially with the current social and political climate. Nevertheless, even if humans didn’t know about the existence of supes, leaving pretty little girls unattended in public was never a good idea.
Goddess, what a fucked up world we lived in.
Phantom gunshots sound in my head. I grit my teeth against them, and sigh with relief when the hum of the Market fills back in.
I look down and see Winter has taken my hand, pulling me onward as we weave through the crowd. Not for the first time, I am floored by how much I love this little girl. She tosses a small smile over her shoulder as this thought flutters through my mind.
Then we have reached the entrance to the real Market—the hidden passage between the worlds.
It is tucked in a corner between the booths and stalls and shops that make up Reading Terminal, right between Tinctures and Teas and Johnnie’s Gourmet Popcorn. The space is so slight one must turn sideways to slip in.
My little band of witches does so holding hands…
And then we are through, entering what supes call the Underside of the Market, a place for magical creatures of all sorts, dating all the way back to its opening in 1893.
Echo’s giggle travels back to me, and combined with Winter’s slight intake of breath, the reactions are almost enough to make me smile.
A night sky stretches above us, the stars somehow much lower than any other spot I’ve visited on earth, as if I could just reach out and pluck one from the heavens.
“Look, auntie!” Echo says as a baby dragon the color of emeralds flaps through the air just above us. A tiny column of flame erupts from its mouth as it goes by, snake-like eyes and barbed tail flicking this way and that.
“I want one,” Winter says.
They say this every time we come to the Market.
I reply, “I want one, too. Let me just go sell my eggs in order to afford one right quick.”
Flora shoots me a look while Echo chuckles and Winter wrinkles her nose.
“You brought eggs?” Echo asks, looking at my pockets for where I might have them hidden.
“Never mind her,” Flora says, shooing us along.
She guides us through the crowd, taking the same route we always take, being mindful not to stray. With so many supes and so much magic around, it is best one mind where they step.
Cats of all colors and sizes dart from here to there, some having tagged along with their witches, others feral and living off the generosity of the supes in the Market, who feed the little beasts and often times end up taking them home.
A black cat shoots between me and Winter, making us both smile, and reminding me that I had not seen Lucifer, our black cat, this morning when I’d been home. I wonder where that little bastard could be.
My mind is pulled back to the present as I pass a stall selling wands and other magical trinkets, and pick up bits of conversation between two wolves with long braids and stunningly pretty faces.
“They shot him eight times. Dude was unarmed. Now they’re trying to say he was a suspect in a nearby robbery. Fucking bullshit.”
“Lying pieces of shit. SICE is rounding up supes on the low, just for being supes. Been doing it forever, it’s just that nobody was talking about it. It’s a lot harder to keep shit under wraps now, with social media and everyone walking around with cameras in their pockets.”
I only realize that I am staring when the two wolves look at me. I look away quickly and keep moving, but a rock seems to have lodged at the base of my throat.
Winter squeezes my hand. “Who did they shoot, Aunt Mir?” she asks.
I shake my head. It is all I can manage. I am afraid if I even try to tell her, I will burst into tears right here. And that’s just a firm hell no. There is nothing wrong with crying; a mortal reaction. But I believe it is best practiced in safe spaces, and public has never been a safe space for anyone.
Winter being Winter, she lets it go. Bless her little heart.
We pass between two stalls selling floating hot powered cakes, and I am already pulling out my debit card as Echo’s and Winter’s eyes light up.
“Can we have one, mommy?” Winter asks, yanking on her mom’s arm.
I wink at my sister and am ordering two mini floaters before she has fully agreed.
We approach the glass front of the booth, watching in wonder as the witches behind
