Chapter 10
He was not looking forward to anything that had to happen between now and November third. Possibly the fourth. He was worried about Ward, worried about Beck, worried about what could happen to Ward and the kids if he got arrested or attacked… And then there was Rayn.
He was really worried about what Rayn might do accidentally if something went wrong when he was out with Ward at any of their upcoming gigs, but especially the ones coinciding with the planned MFM protests.
If Rayn felt threatened or if he thought his sister or Ward might be in danger, he had no idea what might happen.
I grimaced, shifting the file folder to my other hand, wiggling my fingers as though I could shake off Mason’s lingering thoughts. As though they weren’t going to stick with me for the rest of the month at least, if not longer.
I couldn’t blame him, not really. Because I also had no idea what might happen if Ward or Vi or I were threatened by someone from the MFM, or anyone else, for that matter.
Because I was doing things without knowing it—big things.
It would be one thing if I’d wilted a flower, or unwilted one, but I’d resurrected a rat.
Not as dramatic—or traumatizing—as resurrecting something bigger, like a cat or dog or, even more horrifyingly, a person.
I didn’t think I had the capacity to to resurrect a person, but I honestly hadn’t thought I’d had the capacity to resurrect anything, let alone Victor.
The idea that I might inadvertently lose control of my magic while working a séance at which I was supposed to be looking out for Ward—and at which I would definitely also be looking out for my sister—was probably going to be stealing sleep from me for the next four weeks.
The thought was horrifying.
Fortunately, I was distracted from my own thoughts when Violette burst through the door, a backpack over one shoulder and a bulging tote bag over the other.
There was a huge grin on her face, and I felt my own lips starting to turn up in response.
It was strange—but honestly kind of nice—that someone else’s emotions had such a big impact on my own.
It was stranger that there were now two people who could do that.
Vi and Raj.
I’d never been good at understanding people’s thoughts or feelings from their faces—at doing what Ward called ‘reading’ people. Sometimes, with particularly strong emotions, it was easier, but I still struggle with people I don’t know well, although I was getting better at it.
Raj and Vi were different, though. Maybe it was because I was able to read them better than other people, that my brain processed a hundred micro-expressions and told me how they felt, or maybe there was something more akin to magic going on, but it sometimes seemed like I could feel their moods when they walked into the room.
Vi was excited—although I didn’t need any sort of special sensibility in order to tell that—and happy, but she was also scared.
I didn’t know of what, but she was. I studied her as she crossed the room, her cheeks flushed, reading tension in her face, the pupils that were wider than they should have been in the autumn sun, the pitch of her voice as she babbled about the drive from Williamsburg just a little too high.
“Oh my God, this is going to be so great,” she told me, the words almost running together. “Me working here, with you, helping an Arcanid business to make a difference—”
“Vi,” I interrupted her.
She stopped talking, eyes wide and mouth open.
“Put your stuff down, and let’s start with the basics.”
I’d gotten Vi set up with an email login, showed her how to access the main company email, showed her where the spreadsheets live and all of the different files for inventory and scheduling and the complicated folder system that Mason kept for all of Lost Lineage’s research cases.
She had a tablet with her, and she used a stylus to take notes, writing down where things went, how they were organized, and so on.
Ward had stopped in to say hello and be re-introduced, although Beck and Mason were both out for the morning, Mason at some meeting at the Museum of History and Culture, and Beck was coming back from somewhere in Georgia.
It was nearly lunchtime, and I had Vi checking the email and working through sending a response to an initial query about conducting a séance sometime in December—having Vi check the calendar, determine that we didn’t have anything booked for that day and time, and responding back with the set of queries that we would need in order to determine difficulty, cost, and all the other logistics.
She kept consulting her notes, but she hadn’t made a mistake yet, and I felt oddly proud.
It wasn’t like I was responsible for her quickness of mind or her ability to do the job I’d run her through once.
It wasn’t a particularly difficult job, either.
And yet there was this warmth under my ribs that brought a smile to my face as I watched her work.
I looked up as Mason walked down the hall, a diaper bag over one shoulder and Grace in the crook of his arm, one of his braids held tight in a tiny green fist. Jackson was following behind him, both arms steadying a front-carrier in which Zane kicked his tiny goat feet, a special teething ring designed specifically for fauns in his mouth.
Jackson’s expression suggested that the baby’s kicking was in fact a lot more work than one might expect.
Grace gave a yank on Mason’s braids, and the big orc winced, moving his head to the side as she whacked his shoulder and neck with that same fist. That probably explained why he was carrying her and Jackson had Zane—he was trying to spare his nephew the challenge of Grace’s infant strength and propensity for pulling, punching, and throwing.
“Oh my God,” Violette breathed. “They’re so cute.”
“Grace throws and punches, and Zane bites,” I told her. “But they are pretty cute,” I agreed, when she shot me a look of slight horror—at me, not at the babies.
She got up and walked over toward Mason. “How old are they?” she asked.
He smiled. “Just under three months,” he replied.
“Are they twins?” she asked, glancing back and forth.
“No,” Mason answered. “Different genetic parents. Zane is five days older than Grace.”
“Can I…?” She let the question trail off.
Grace punched the side of Mason’s jaw, and he winced again. “Maybe try Zane. Just watch the hooves,” he warned. “They’re sharp.”
Jackson smiled at her. “Just grab him under the armpits,” he said. “Hold him up until he stops kicking.” He held up a hand with a healing cut on the back. “We can’t file them until he’s six months.”
Vi nodded, but she didn’t seem at all nervous as she hoisted Zane out of the carrier.
He let out a kind of bleating laugh, kicking his feet a few times before settling down.
Vi pulled him close to her chest, and he bopped her in the face with his teething ring, although a lot more gently than Grace would have.
Jackson grinned, shrugging out of the carrier. “He likes you,” he told my sister. “Hi, by the way. Jackson Turner-Manning.”
She smiled back. “Violette Alverno,” she replied.
Jackson’s eyes skipped over to me. “You’re Rayn’s sister?” he asked her.
She nodded. “Yeah. I’m helping out.”
Jackson grinned. “Cool,” he said. “You going on gigs and stuff, too?”
Vi looked at me.
“She will be,” Mason answered, stooping to set Grace in one of the two pack-and-play sets they had out in the lobby. The diaper bag swung into the side of it, and he grimaced, shifting his weight to try to keep it on his shoulder while also disentangling Grace’s fist from his braids.
Jackson reached out to help, taking the bag and setting it on the floor. “I keep saying I’ll go,” he said, his voice a little resentful. “But Mason says I’m not old enough.”
“You’re not,” his uncle replied mildly. “The legal age to work in Virginia is fourteen. Last I checked, you’re still twelve.”
Jackson made a face. “I’m as tall as a fourteen-year-old,” he complained.
“That may be true,” Mason replied, sounding amused. “But I’m not really interested in getting arrested for violating child labor laws.”
“Don’t worry,” Vi told him, bouncing from foot to foot, causing Zane to gurgle happily. “Once you start working, you’re going to wish you didn’t have to keep working in order to do stuff like eat.”
I almost pointed out that Violette didn’t have to work a day in her life, most likely, given how much money our parents had left her, but then thought that she might not want other people to know how much money she had.
She’d complained before how most of the people she referred to as her ‘so-called friends’ really just wanted her to buy them dinner or take them to movies or ‘lend’ them things they’d never give back.
She used her fingers in the air to indicate quotation marks when she’d said ‘lend.’
Jackson snorted. “Yeah, but then I can spend it on what I want, instead of having to ask permission to buy stuff,” he said.
“That’s true,” Vi agreed.
“It generally doesn’t take long before you realize that you can’t eat or wear videogames, though,” Mason told him, winking at me.
“Pizza has all the major food groups,” Jackson replied. “And it’s pretty cheap.”
Mason chuckled softly. “Be sure to let me know how your all-pizza diet goes once you start it,” he told Jackson. “And in the mean time—homework.”
Jackson rolled his eyes, but went over and flopped down on the couch, taking off the backpack he’d had on his back and pulling out a laptop and a pair of headphones.
Vi was murmuring something to Zane, hop-dancing around the room.
“Well, she seems to be settling in just fine,” Mason remarked, watching my sister dancing with his son.