by H. D. Gordon
Then I feel cold all over.
I don’t know what is going to happen now. I am too tired and shocked to think straight.
The door to the room opens, and in walks a woman and a man. They have a look about them that marks them as law enforcement, beyond the fact that I’m sitting in the police station. Stern and unsmiling. Dressed as if with discomfort in mind.
“Miss Meadows,” says the female. Short and frumpy, with a no-nonsense haircut and too-big blue eyes. “How are you feeling this morning?”
What kind of question is that? I’ve been up for devil knows how many hours after watching a man get executed.
As one could imagine, I feel like a damn rockstar, lady.
Instead of voicing this, I shrug.
She nods, as if the gesture is some sort of agreement. She places a manilla folder on the table between us and takes one of the chairs across from me. Her partner does the same.
“I’m Detective McCarthy, and this Detective Brooks,” she continues. “We understand you’ve had yourself a rough handful of hours. You must be exhausted.”
Then wtf did you ask?
I nod.
“Do you mind telling us what happened, Miss Meadows?” Detective Brooks asks.
“Your men killed someone right in front of me.”
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, despite the fact that I’d spent the last few hours contemplating what to say as I sat alone in this small, cold, too-bright room.
The two detectives exchange a glance. The tiny action cranks up my anxiety. I tell myself that I have done nothing wrong, so there is no reason to be so nervous… but my palms sweat, and I will my leg not to gyrate.
Dear Goddess, I must be nervous if I was using words like gyrate.
Detective McCarthy looks down at the manilla folder, cocks her head as she studies it. She flips open the folder and eyes it in a way that forces me to take a glance.
And immediately wish that I hadn’t.
Brown eyes look out from a dark face. A face I think I might never forget even if I truly try.
“Edmond Harvey Jackson,” says Detective Brooks.
A name I have never heard before, but will never forget.
“What were you two doing?—”
The question is cut off as the door opens. The detectives’ heads swivel. I think only my eyes move, the rest of my body frozen as if by ice.
A man with an ugly mustache, paunch belly, and similarly uncomfortable and frumpy clothes pokes his head in. He glances at me.
“Her lawyer is here,” he says.
The detectives don’t look happy about this. They turn back to me with faces that have shed the thin mask of amicability.
“What do you need a lawyer for, Miss Meadows?” Detective Brooks asks. “Have you done something wrong?”
Never mind the fact that they’d taken my phone and hadn’t let me call anyone.
Before I can respond, a harsh voice from beyond the door says, “That’s enough.”
A moment later, a tiny woman with glasses perched on her nose, and heels that add three inches to her less than five-foot height, enters the room. My stomach twists as I see her.
But it drops out through my feet as I see who follows next.
Olympia Owens.
One of the Superiors of the Philadelphia Coven.
The two witches stare at the two detectives, and after a moment, the detectives stand up to leave.
Olympia flashes me a look that I cannot begin to decipher as she follows them out, leaving me alone with Esther Jennings, the Coven’s retained attorney. Her attire is much sharper than the officers’—a dark blue blazer and matching blue slacks paired with a watch worth as much as a vehicle, and those heels that augment her height. Her hair is pulled back into a low bun, and her brown eyes radiate intelligence. She takes one of the chairs the detectives vacated.
One might think her presence makes me feel better. One would be wrong. It is no small thing to have the Superiors directly involved in one’s affairs. No small thing at all.
“Hello Mira,” Esther says, as if we have spoken a hundred times before, which we never have. I only know of her because every witch in Philadelphia knows of her. She does not know me from Eve.
At least, she hadn’t before this morning.
Something tells me she knows a lot more about me now.
Shit on a stick.
“Hi,” I say.
I am two years past thirty, but I feel like a child sitting before this witch. A naughty one, at that.
“How are you?” she asks.
I fight an incredulous look. These mofos have to be kidding me. Sometimes pleasantries are important. Sometimes they just make shit weird. The current situation definitely fell into the latter category.
“Peachy,” I say.
Esther smirks humorlessly. She produces a piece of paper, laying it flat on the table between us, and then spins it so that it faces me. She pushes it toward me and lays a silver quill beside it.
“Sign this,” she says.
My brow furrows. I stare down at the paper. Though I am an avid reader, it takes me several moments to make sense of the words.
“What…?” I say.
It is all I can get out.
“Sign it,” she repeats.
“But it says…”
“I know what it says. I wrote it.”
“But…”
Esther stares at me without blinking. Her nose is as sharp as her eyes and clothing.
I lean forward, my voice low. I am hardly aware I’m doing it. “But they shot him right in front of me. They murdered him for no reason!”
Esther’s jaw tightens. “As your lawyer,” she says, “I’m strongly advising you to sign this. Sign this statement, and we can walk out of here right now. We can pretend that none of this happened. You can go home. To Flora and Winter and Echo… Isn’t that what you want, Mira?”
I do not like the mentioning of my sister and nieces by name. I stiffen.
Yes, going home was what I wanted.
It was likely what Edmond Harvey Jackson wanted, too.
I say this to the witch.
Esther replies in a low voice, “He was a criminal, Miracle.” She glances around before adding, “He was a wolf. The Superiors do not want any involvement in this. With humans knowing about supes, witches must fly under the radar. This is not the kind of attention our kind needs… You understand, yes?”
I can only sit there. Because, no. No, I did not understand.
“Sign it, Miss Meadows,” Esther says, dropping the use of my first name, moving into a command. “That’s an order from your Superiors.”
I stare down at the paper. The paper that says I did not see anything, that I was not a witness, that I would not claim otherwise in the future.
A paper that lied while a wolf was dead.
“You have your own to think about,” Esther whispers. “Little witches who need you.”
“Leave them out of this,” I snap.
Esther leans forward over the table. “Let me be clear; they will not be left out of this. Not if you don’t sign this paper… To be blunt, this is not a request.”
She turns one of her hands palm side up, where it rests beside the unsigned contract. Magic swirls in the center of her palm, producing an image of Echo and Winter, fast asleep in their beds.
A live, magical feed of the two people I love the most in the world.
A gross show of power, a flexing of muscle, a blatant aggression.
I stare daggers at the bitch. “Are you threatening me?”
Esther stares back at me. Unwavering. “Just keep your mouth shut, and sign this.” She slides the quill toward me with her free hand; the one not holding my nieces at its center. “For their sake,” she adds.
Tonight, I have seen a man get shot right beside me, but only just now am I awake enough to be truly scared. The Coven did not fuck around when it came to following orders. To disobey would be foolish.
Bu
t I cannot do it. I won’t do it. I won’t sign this paper of lies. I fold my arms over my chest and meet her gaze.
Esther Jennings clicks her tongue again. “You know what one of my strongest affinities is, Miss Meadows?” she asks.
I only look at her.
“Air,” she says, and I follow her gaze back down to her palm.
Echo and Winter appear there again, still asleep in their beds. But their little bodies start twitching… as if they are not getting enough air.
I try to summon some magic. I realize the handcuffs they’ve placed me in must be blocking my magic. I consider leaping at her across the table.
“Stop it,” I growl.
“Sign it,” she insists.
My nieces twitch more violently in their beds.
“Fine, you fucking bitch,” I say, snatching up the silver quill, clutching it like a knife between my fingers.
A knife in the back of the wolf who’d saved my life, and in turn, had paid with his own.
4
5:54 a.m.
As far as shitty starts to a day go, this one is really up there.
I sigh and stick the key in the lock, but do not get to turn it before the door opens.
Hazel eyes grow wide as saucers as I am pulled into a fierce hug.
“Oh, thank the Goddess,” my sister, Flora, exclaims as she squeezes me before letting me inside.
She shuts the door behind us. Then she shoves me, just a little, but I am so drained it makes me sway on my feet.
Concern floods her face. “What the hell happened?” she whispers. I can tell by looking at her that she has been up all night. “I was so worried. I called you a hundred times. You should’ve been back hours ago. I called Jackie, and she said you’d left Sasha’s house around midnight. I thought you were lying in a gutter somewhere!”
I should be, I think.
In fact, that’s surely how the vampires would’ve left me–bloodless and facedown in the sewers beneath the city somewhere, discarded like a fast food wrapper. I shudder at the thought.
Flora leads me through the hall and into the parlor. “Sit,” she says. “I’m going to make some tea, and then you are going to tell me what happened.”
I don’t bother arguing. I want to crawl into my bed and sleep, but know better than to even try.
While she fixes the tea, I sneak upstairs and check on my nieces, releasing a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding as see they are both okay. I stare at each of them for a few moments before making my way back downstairs and into the living room.
I sink onto the daybed near the bay window, pulling up the fluffy white blanket draped over the end of it. The daybed, like the rest of the furniture in the house, is old but well cared for, things handed down to us from our foremothers. My eyes wander around the room as I wait, settling on items that bring me comfort by simply being.
On the mantel above the fireplace hangs a portrait of our mother, and I stare at her face as I contemplate the events of the day. The grandfather clock in the hall chimes six times, and I can see thin columns of light appearing beyond the window, night keeping hold with slipping fingers.
Damn, I’m tired. Once I’m done talking to Flora, I am going to sleep for the rest of forever.
My sister enters the room with the promised tea, the steam and scent rising up from the ornate teacups—the same ones served by our departed mother.
I sit up and take the tea. The saucer clinks against the cup in my hands.
Flora’s mouth draws down. She flicks her hand at the fireplace, and flames magically appear there, heating the room in heartbeats. My little sister always was good at wielding the fire element.
She sits beside me on the daybed, folding her legs beneath her and pulling the other end of the blanket over her. I fold my legs too and face her. I open my mouth to speak, but for a long time, no words come out.
It is only then that I make the connection. Of course I couldn’t speak about it. That paper I’d signed must’ve contained a binding spell. Leave it to the Coven to be so thorough.
I get up and grab a pen and notebook, but sure enough, I am unable to write about the incident as well.
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 differe
nces 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 mismatched items that somehow go together. His long fingers hold several gaudy rings.
“Who are you and why the hell are you in my bedroom?” I say, magic still sparking at my fingertips.
He clears his throat and stands. I fight the urge to take a step back as he towers over me, standing nearly a foot taller than my 5’5’’.
