Snack Cake Stalker
SNOW
Istalk the night. I protect this city. I'm there when an innocent runs into trouble and needs a helping hand.
I…
I am fucking bored out of my mind.
The dagger sails across the rooftop, a whizz rippling through the air in its wake. The blade embeds itself into the wood door with a satisfying thud next to the five I've already thrown.
I sigh heavily before pushing myself up off the stack of old crates I was lounging on to retrieve my little friends.
"Some people knit, Snow," I remind myself as I yank the petite blades out of the mottled wood and slip them into their sheaths on my black catsuit.
Throwing daggers is my hobby.
I started with darts after watching some guys in a bar play professionally, then moved on to dagger throwing and recreating sweet fight sequences from my favorite action movies until I could replicate them perfectly.
I've parkoured around the city every which way, following the movements of city rats, pigeons, and the occasional coyote. My feet learned to mimic their movements to grip ledges and jump to a seamless landing.
Maybe I should take up knitting. Though I doubt it would help me burn off the hungry energy that gnaws at me, keeping me up most nights, far past my shift at the bar. There's a restlessness that lives just below my sternum and never fully quits.
I stick my hand in the box of Magic Morsel snack cakes only for my fingers to hit the bottom. A handful of empty wrappers litter the rooftop. I sigh. Looks like the fun of the night is behind me.
Half of the daggers I threw by hand, the other half I levitated across to hit the bullseye. Grandma's Magic Morsels give everyone, even plain, boring humans, the ability to use magic for a short period of time.
The power is always weak, like what a level one mage can wield, so after gorging myself on the Rising German Chocolate Cakes, most of the daggers aren't even strong enough to hit the target and embed in the wood. They clatter to the ground.
Ariel says if I keep tucking away Magic Morsels like this, I'm going to end up sick. But part of me thinks if I keep gorging on the little trick snack cakes, my body will eventually absorb their magic so I’ll have it all the time.
But as always, I've ended up with a tummy ache and no permanent magic powers.
Boo.
Every single time, some part of me is genuinely convinced it'll work. Like if I just eat enough of them, something in me will finally wake up. And yet...
Silver light from the full moon illuminates the Boston rooftop as clearly as if it were broad daylight, adding to the restlessness coiled in my muscles.
What would it be like to be everyone else? Blissfully asleep, my pretty little head on the pillow, full of dreams of—
"What do we have here? Another freak?" A rough voice filters up from below.
My heart trips over itself as I rush to the edge of the rooftop. Four people are standing in the alley below.
Three of them are wearing the matching white jackets I know all too well, and they are all facing down a tall, lanky man, features hidden by his pulled-up hood.
Hands shoved in the front pocket of his sweatshirt, the guy in the hood regards each one as they slowly close in, backing him up against the wall directly below me.
I can't help the grin spreading across my face. I grab my long white hair and rush to yank it into a ponytail. Heat floods my arms, my fingertips buzzing.
"Showtime," I whisper.
Dirt-Face, a middle-aged white man with sharp angles and scruff, addresses the hooded guy. "Boston is a human city. Which means you shouldn't be here." He's clearly the leader of this little posse tonight.
"Definitely not out in the middle of the night," another white guy warns, crossing in front of the leader to get on the other side of Hoodie. This one is a beefcake, heavy with both fat and muscle, which has me pegging him as Wrecking Ball.
I drop in front of Hoodie from the fire stairwell, soft as a cat, putting myself between him and the trio. They all jerk in surprise except the guy behind me. He doesn't so much as flinch.
"And here I thought the Boston streets were safe to walk in the middle of the night," I say with a cheeky grin.
Huh. As far as witty interruptions go, it's not my best, but it'll do.
"Who the fuck are you?" Dirt-Face asks.
"Another abomination," the woman in the group answers with a sneer.
Her brown skin is several shades lighter than mine, with warmer undertones.
Her hair is slicked back into a ponytail of full, curly springs.
I'd be inclined to ask where she got her boots if her face weren't twisted into such an ugly, hateful expression.
Oh yeah, and if she wasn't clearly about to commit a hate crime.
"Now, now, don't judge a book by its cover," I tsk like they are naughty children.
That's hard for people when the cover is a skinny Black girl with white hair and blue eyes. My features may be unique, but I'm not the kind of freak they're hunting tonight. But they don’t know that.
"Or," I add with nonchalance, "I’ll blast you with my laser vision until you are burnt to a crisp."
"No," Dirt-Face drawls, dragging his eyes up and down me. "This is that one I've been hearing about. Looks like a mage, but she's one of us."
I whip out one of my daggers, rotating it in my hand with a scowl. "I'm nothing like you." My voice drops to a low husk.
I'd be perfectly satisfied if they scurried off to their little rat holes, and we left it at that, but from the itch under my skin, I get the sense that won't be happening.
Dirt-Face smirks and glances over at the woman. "Don't worry, Lilah, she's human."
My stomach drops sharply.
I may be just a human, but I'm definitely not going in on one of their stupid HAM jackets.
I don’t want to pass for their little club. I’ve never wanted to, and it always feels like a soft sucker punch when I have to clarify to someone that, yes I have unusual features, and no it doesn’t mean I’m magic. The way humans usually relax at that makes me ill.
I wish I could do something magical to make their jaws drop and show them I’m special, powerful, and mega cool.
"She's just some little weirdo who thinks she’s some kind of vigilante," Dirt-Face finishes.
I don't appreciate his mocking tone. What's a girl with insomnia supposed to do? Stay home and knit?
I don't think so.
"Little is right," Wrecking Ball says in a deep tone, measuring me with a glint I don't like one itty bitty bit.
He's maybe four times my size, which isn't that much of a feat when I'm just over five feet and built like a twig. But like...a badass twig who is fast and muscular in a skinny kind of way.
"You should go," a voice comes from behind me, and I startle.
I already forgot about Hoodie though he’s standing three feet behind me. His low tone ripples over my skin. Goose pimples rise along my arms and the back of my neck, and I turn to look up at him for the first time.
The shadow of his hoodie obscures most of his features except for his eyes, which flash out in a translucent near-white hue.
I barely register the barely visible white skin and chestnut curls because my heart is doing neat little somersaults.
A second wave of goose pimples rushes over me before the first can even relax. This close, his warm masculine scent wraps around me, and my toes curl in my boots.
No wonder these HAM assholes targeted him.
He looks like a fae or a mage with those eyes. His hands are still tucked in the front pocket. I wonder what his magic is. I want it. Whatever it is, I already want it.
"Yeah, you should go, little twig," Wrecking Ball says, breaking the moment.
Facing off with the three, I flash them a grin, more feral than friendly. "No. I don't think I'll be doing that. You want to get to him," a dagger spins in my hand, "you'll have to go through me." Another spike of adrenaline zips through my bloodstream as I square my stance.
The trio exchanges a glance. Their unspoken conclusion lands when they start to close in.
The woman snaps a switchblade from her boot, metal flashing under the alley light. Heat rushes into my chest and settles deep in my muscles.
This is what I came for.
I step in, redirect her arm, and drag my dagger across her dumbass jacket. A shallow cut, meant more to ruin the jacket than slash flesh.
I'm not here to kill anyone. I only plan to put them down hard enough that they think twice about terrorizing mages or fae again.
Wrecking Ball charges, his weight shaking the pavement. I pivot and slice the back of his knee. The sound of his shout tearing through the alley charges me up, my pulse driving fast and hot.
Dirt-Face pulls a metal club from his belt. Good. Something I can use. I lunge to disarm him, already planning the next move, but my boot lands on a loose chunk of concrete. My ankle jolts. My balance falters for a single beat.
The woman slams the hilt of her blade into my bicep.
A burst of pain shoots through my arm to my fingers.
My dagger drops, scraping the ground. Wrecking Ball recovers faster than he should and rams his shoulder into my ribs.
Air punches out of my lungs. My back hits the pavement. Gravel digs into my palms.
Dirt-Face steps in, metal club raised.
I grab the club mid-swing and wrench it from his hand. My grip slips. My arm buckles from the earlier hit. The club hits the ground at the same time my ass does.
I'm on my feet in a blink, between the HAM goons and Hoodie again.
"Don't worry, I got this," I say, turning to throw him a reassuring smile, though my arm hurts like a sonofabitch and my ankle throbs.
Instead of worry or concern, his expression seems almost curious.
The translucent white of his eyes flickers to blue, then green, then purple in rapid succession before resuming its translucent white.
What in the faefucks?
Could a person get a concussion from landing on their ass too hard?
"I'll protect you," I say to him with more confidence, masking the potential brain damage I may or may not have now.
He tilts his head slightly, and I catch what might be a gleam of interest.
"You bitch," the woman hisses, drawing my attention back to the assholes who are bleeding far less than I would like. At least they’re breathing hard with exertion.
"Can't say we've ever had to clean the streets of a human supporting some dirty mage," Dirt-Face says, pulling a gun from the back of his pants and training it on me. "But looks like today is the day."
I step back, fear zipping up my spine to pop out at my temple in a singular icy sweat droplet.
Aw fuck. Usually the HAMs don't pack firepower like this.
"Err, maybe I was a bit hasty. How about we talk this out over some drinks? I can make a mean appletini?" My offer sounds weak to my own ears, but I'd yet to find a situation an appletini didn't help.
A blur flashes in front of my eyes, and the gun clatters to the pavement.
Dirt-Face and I blink at each other.
Another dark flash and Wrecking Ball is suddenly on his back with a hard grunt of pain.
The woman screams at the same time I hear a crack, and I whip around to see her grasping her knee, bent at an awkward angle.
What the actual hell?
Before I can register what's happening, Dirt-Face's eyes drift to his weapon. I lunge at the same time he does.
My fingers barely brush the cold metal before it disappears and I fall forward.
My forehead knocks hard against Dirt-Face's skull as we collide.
My teeth cut into my tongue at the impact, and a metallic taste fills my mouth.
It takes all my effort not to hit the ground again, but I manage to stagger to my feet.
The click of a gun's hammer pulling back sounds next to my head. I turn in what feels like slow motion to find Hoodie standing beside me. He somehow has the gun, and it’s trained at the trio.
H-how? No one could be that fast.
As soon as the HAM goons focus on Hoodie and the gun now pointed their way, they share the same grim expression.
Hoodie tilts his head as if in silent question.
Want to stay and find out if I’ll pull the trigger?
With a sneer, Dirt-Face waves his hand to his cohorts, and they hurry out of the alleyway, Wrecking Ball half-carrying the woman on what seems like a severely injured knee.
As soon as they disappear, a series of clicks and clacks draws my attention to the gun, now deconstructed into five parts in Hoodie's two hands.
He pockets the barrel and recoil spring, drops the empty frame at his feet, and flicks the magazine into a nearby dumpster. A single round hits the ground before rolling away with an audible tinkle.
"Whoa," I breathe. "Who are you?"
Hoodie pins me with an intense gaze that could mean disapproval, or that he dislikes the question.
"No one." Then he shoves his hands into his hoodie, and stalks away.