Don’t Touch The Seven’s Snow
Don’t Touch The Seven’s Snow
SNOW
"Snow, have you seen Goldie? She’s late," Rap says.
I glance at the clock on the wall. "Give her another ten minutes, you know she usually struts in fashionably late."
Rap shakes her head. "Ted called. He asked if she was here or with you and Ariel. She didn’t come home last night."
Cold washes through me as I shake my head.
She knocks her knuckles against the bar in familiar agitation. "Okay, well, let me know the second she shows up."
Grabbing my cellphone, I hit the button until it lights up. Sure enough, there is a text from Ted and two missed calls from him.
That’s the equivalent of a panicked frenzy from the normally stoic bear shifter. He doesn’t mess around when it comes to his wife.
I thumb a reply to Ted one-handed. She'll flash home the second anything spooks her. You know how her magic works.
That magic is the only reason I make myself keep stacking glasses instead of vaulting this bar.
Goldie's power has one job. Danger touches her, and she teleports to her safest person before her heart finishes the beat.
She popped into Ted's lap once over a spider dropping from a doorframe.
The woman cannot be held anywhere she doesn't want to be.
If she were in trouble, she'd already be home.
The logic is airtight. I run it twice, but my stomach refuses to sign off either time.
Tonight. If she hasn't strutted through that door by close, I’ll be on the roofs, and Boston can watch me take this city apart shingle by shingle.
As much as I may want to, I can’t abandon Rap right now.
Poison Apple is swarmed for a Saturday at four PM.
It feels like one AM on a Friday because most people gave up pretending they were doing anything normal this weekend and came here to meet their friends.
No one is pretending they can focus after what happened in Boston Common two days ago.
I dart out behind the bar in an attempt to collect some of the insane number of empty glasses accruing in every corner of the place.
Shoulders bump mine from both sides, and I have to turn sideways to wedge through the wall of bodies packed between the bar and the nearest table. Everyone I pass is talking about the same thing. Half of them out of quiet concern, while others are partying their faces off in celebration.
"I wish they had succeeded," someone says to a group of their friends next to where I’m loading up an epic amount of empties onto my tray. "We’d all be safer, better off if Fairchild was dead."
"She’s still in the hospital," someone else points out.
"Didn’t you hear? They reported that Queenie only has a broken arm and a bruised face. She’ll live."
That last bit is reported with no small amount of disgust and disappointment, which makes my stomach uneasy.
"Unlike that mage," someone else says. "I mean, did you see the way he used his power to lift her into the air before slamming her back down? In the middle of broad daylight, at a rally?" the person’s voice pitches with disbelief.
I suppress a shudder. I saw the footage as well. And while they didn’t broadcast what happened after, it was all over the internet, recorded from at least twenty different camera phones.
Fairchild’s security team wasted no time. One of them immediately delivered a headshot to the rogue mage.
Between the gruesome replays and all the surfacing pictures of Fairchild with puppies, babies, and not least of all, the orphans from Brightpath House, I powered down my phone to try and avoid it all.
My gaze lifts to meet Ariel’s as she drops off a new round for the group. Her expression says she also overheard the group talking.
While we are in no way signing up for the Queenie Fairchild fan club, we agree that assassination won’t solve the issues in the city. As much as magic-kind is riled up in the bar, the humans of Boston are equally, if not more, outraged, calling for action.
For the first time, I doubt my ability to protect Ariel and myself if we get jumped on the way to work. Tensions ring so high in the air that my nerves constantly feel like they’re exposed to an invisible static electricity.
But the city streets were surprisingly empty, as if everyone expects to be attacked out in the open and has decided indoors is the safer bet.
After loading the dishwasher as quickly as possible, I hear Aurora call, "Cola’s out."
"I got it," I call, already ducking beneath the bar to unhook the empty syrup box.
Aurora appears beside me as I wrestle the empty carton free.
"Talon moved our trip up. We portal to Midnight in the morning." Her cotton-candy hair is piled off her neck, and her eyes hold mine longer than the sentence needs. "He doesn’t like this city right now. I know it’s mainly mages that keep vanishing, but it’s clear the fae aren’t welcome either.
" She shoots a nervous look around the room.
Goldie should be on my other side, stealing cherries from the garnish tray and making some rich guy forget his own drink order with a single smile.
Instead, her whole side of the bar feels wrong.
"Good," I say, and I mean it so much my voice cracks. "Go."
I shove through the crowd toward the back with the empty syrup box tucked against my ribs. A dude twice my height lurches into my path, and I’m about to apologize when he turns around and gifts me a sloppy drunk grin.
"Snow!" he says like we’re old friends, and his energy immediately has me on edge. This is the one downside of our awesome opening act every shift. People think they know us.
"You should be celebrating with us," he slightly slurs. "That Queenie bitch finally got what she deserved."
"Yeah, I got work to do," I say flatly, pushing past. It’s only when I emerge from the crush of people that I realize I’m dogged by heavy, clumsy footfalls.
"Come on." His hand wraps around my arm to stop me in the hallway leading to the stockroom and dressing room. "Boston isn’t a non-magic city anymore. They can fight it all they want, but we’re here to stay."
My gaze settles on his hand gripping me, wondering if it’s too extreme to twist his thumb the wrong way until he cries like a baby. Because I’m in no mood.
I have no interest in engaging, and I have work to do.
His gaze drops to my mouth, his sloppy grin twice as stupid. "Don’t act like that. I’ve seen you on the bar. You love attention." His free hand lands on my hip, fingers digging into the bare strip of skin between my top and skirt. "Bet you’d love a guy with real magic even more."
My skin crawls so hard I want to peel it off and leave it for him to hold. "You have exactly one second to get your hand off me."
Suddenly, my arms fly to the sides under an invisible force until they are pinned to the wall. The moment I start to kick out, the same pressure pins my legs as well.
Oh faefucks. I definitely should have twisted his thumb…hell, his whole hand off.
I look past him to see if anyone has noticed, but we’re just out of sight of anyone who might help. I know most patrons here wouldn’t hesitate to step in. And while we’ve bulked up on security, Ryder is struggling just trying to keep this place orderly.
"Put me down," I say, forcing my voice to carry. "You’re drunk and annoying me."
He laughs like I’m flirting. Like this is all a cute little game. His hand slides higher, dragging heat and revulsion up my side. "You don’t have to pretend you don’t want a taste."
I open my mouth to yell.
He takes it as an invitation.
His mouth crashes down on mine, sour with liquor and lime. For half a second, my brain whites out from sheer fury. Then his tongue pushes between my lips, and every thought sharpens to a single bright point.
Fine.
I’m going to bite it off.
What I can only describe as the snort of an angry bull comes from over drunk dude’s shoulder just before something collides with him.
Not something.
Someone.
The pressure disappears as the drunk dude hits the wall hard enough to rattle the framed staff photos. I drop, catch myself on one knee, and look up in time to see the red glow of Four’s eyes. Except instead of ruby red, they glint like they burn with live fire.
Four’s fist drives into the guy’s face once, twice, before his hand closes around the front of the man’s shirt and slams him back again.
"You don’t touch her." Four’s voice comes out low and rough, almost lost beneath the noise from the bar. "You don’t put your filthy magic on her." Heat blooms in the narrow hallway. The drunk’s shirt starts to smoke under Four’s grip. "What a dirty, dangerous little power."
"Four," I say, pushing to my feet.
He doesn’t hear me. Or he chooses not to.
His palm presses flat to the guy’s chest and the man screams. The smell of scorched cotton cuts through spilled beer and old citrus.
"You think you deserve to walk around with that inside you?" Four snarls. "You think anyone should trust you with power? You shouldn’t have it. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t—"
"Four." I grab his arm with both hands and yank. His skin is fever-hot beneath my palms, but he stops.
He turns to look at me, though he doesn’t seem to see me. His red eyes are still lit as his breath punches out of him, making his chest heave.
The guy slides down the wall, gasping and clutching the smoking front of his shirt.
"Snow," Four says, coming out of his blind rage.
I keep my grip on Four as the now-burned jackass scrabbles to get away. "I’m fine," I say. Four’s gaze sweeps over my face, my arms, my legs, cataloging. The heat in the hallway lowers by degrees.
"He touched you." Four still seems seconds from snapping again. "I’d kill him for looking at you too long, but for that, I'm going to leave his charred body at the bottom of the Charles."
Holy faefucks. I almost believe him. I’d probably feel the same if I weren’t so busy watching Four lose his mind over me.
I’m definitely going to report that guy’s ass, get hold of the security camera footage we have in here, and charge him with sexual assault.
I don’t give a fuck if he was drunk. No means no.
And as tempting as it would be to carve those words on his stomach with one of my friendly daggers, I want his behavior on display for the whole world.
Plus, Rap knows a sea witch of a lawyer who would destroy his reputation for that stunt he just pulled.
"Four," I say firmly, trying to bring his attention back to me.
His jaw flexes. The heat in the hallway climbs until sweat beads at my hairline.
Then his gaze drops to my mouth.
He reaches for me.
Stops.
His fingers curl into his palm hard enough that his knuckles pale. He turns and disappears into the men’s bathroom for only a few seconds before he comes out with a wet paper towel.
When he offers it to me, his hand shakes. "Here."
I take it and bring the warm towel to my mouth. Lime, liquor, and the sour taste of that douche pickle fade.
"Thanks," I say.
Four doesn’t answer.
His gaze stays on the paper towel pressed to my mouth. Then drops to his own hand.
The one he used to burn the drunk dude.
His fingers flex once. Heat shimmers around them, warping the air. He shoves his hand behind his back like he can hide it.
"Four?"
His throat works. His eyes shut tight, but the red glow still leaks through his lashes. The fluorescent light above us flickers. Heat keeps rolling off him in uneven pulses, turning the narrow hallway thick and airless.
"Hey, hey, you’re okay," I say, touching the side of his face. It’s hot, but I refuse to break contact.
He shakes his head, eyes clenched shut. "He shouldn’t have it. None of us should have it."
"Have what?"
His eyes open. "Magic."
I’ve never seen The Seven this shaken. Not even when I’d almost been crushed by a collapsing ceiling.
"Hey, I’m fine. You helped me with your magic," I say. "His magic wasn’t the problem. Okay, it was a problem in the moment, but he is the douchebag. Not you."
He shakes his head, more vehemently this time. "You’re wrong. I’m no different than him. My powers are destructive, evil, dirty."
"You need to stop reading all those HAM pamphlets," I joke, but it lands flat. "Hey, would you come patrol with me tonight?" I say, trying a different tactic.
He doesn’t respond at first.
"Please?" I ask. "I could really use your help. And I..." It’s hard to say because I built my boundaries after he treated me like crap and I have my pride, but I can’t keep him out of my heart.
And after what just happened, I don’t want to. Even if it’s risky. "I miss you."
A myriad of expressions shift over his face, eyes flipping through colors like a kaleidoscope before they land back on red. "Okay."