39. A Pissing Match with the Queen #2
"I was also made aware that earlier this week, this establishment was the site of another violent incident.
" Queenie’s face is perfectly pained, as if she really is bothered by the news.
But there is something just a tiny bit plastic about it, like she knows how to hit her mark more than feel the emotion.
"People were hurt. Property was damaged. Citizens were terrified."
"Interesting way to say HAMs stormed my bar and attacked my patrons," Rap says, cocking her head to the side. "Your supporters, your voters. Wonder what spurred them to come try and clean house?"
"Any violence is unacceptable," Queenie says, but again she shifts so it’s being said to the livestream.
"Any violence?" Rap repeats. "Or just the kind that might reflect poorly on your image? The kind that might be perceived as unnecessarily over the top, and I don’t want to throw it out there, but what the heck. Hate crimes."
Queenie’s brows lift. "I’m concerned for the safety of everyone here."
Rap’s lips spread wide this time in a genuine smile, and my stomach does that flip-floppy thing again. "Ah yes, so that’s why you’re teeing up inspections, nuisance complaints, occupancy reviews, and whatever else your office can use to choke this place out."
Queenie blinks.
Red squeezes my hand. She caught it too. Rap called Queenie out on her plans, somehow having the scoop on Queenie’s inside information. And Queenie wasn’t expecting it, and doesn’t like it.
For some reason, I think back to that elf with the sweet kickass moves. Fireopal. Rap has a way of getting secrets, and the way Fireopal rushed in here the day the HAMs attacked tells me the elf is likely one of her spies. Not that Rap would ever admit to paying off spies.
Queenie recovers her cool in no time. "Those are dramatic accusations."
"So is sanctuary," Rap says. "But you used that one just fine."
Queenie’s gaze moves to the fairy tree, then over the crowd beneath it. "Isn’t it interesting? A regular human woman becoming such a trusted hub for magic-kind. What faith they must have in you."
Queenie’s gaze stays on Rap. "Especially considering how long Poison Apple kept its doors closed to them."
Rap’s chin lifts a fraction.
"For years, Boston’s most infamous humans-only bar," Queenie continues, her voice smooth for the phone. "No mages. No fae. No exceptions."
"That was city law," Rap says. "And this place was built on the spectacle around magic. Humans came here in droves for the illusion, for the taste of it. Just like those boxes of Magic Morsels keep flying off the shelves because so many humans are desperate for a taste of what they can't have."
Queenie's face shutters.
Rap's smile turns predatory, intimidating, as she shows her teeth. "Not everyone's afraid."
The room tightens around us. Queenie gives her a soft, pitying smile. "From what I've heard, there was a time you understood the danger better than anyone. How magic can take root in a life. How it can be viewed as a sickness that needs a cure."
Rap's hand curls at her side, knuckles whitening, and shock breaks across her face, sharp and unguarded, gone almost as soon as it appears. I catch it anyway, a crack in her armor I’ve never seen before, and I have no idea what Queenie just touched to make it happen.
My feet move before I decide to move them.
I duck under the service gap and step out from behind the bar, drawn closer by the sudden sharpness in Rap’s face, by the way Queenie’s smile cuts without showing teeth.
Red says my name under her breath, and I pause. This is Rap's fight, but I'm here for backup if she wants it.
Rap’s smile drops. "You don’t get to walk in here, call these people dangerous, call this place unsafe, call magic a disease, then pretend you’re not selling hate to the people who want my patrons gone."
Queenie’s expression softens into something made for campaign mailers. "I don’t hate you, Rapunzel. I don’t hate anyone. Just as I could never hate someone because they have cancer. It simply means we must work harder to find a cure."
The way she talks. It sounds so much like someone else I know, like the same polished, poisonous script The Seven have been force-fed for years. Maybe his mom and Queenie learned it in the same rooms, under the same chandeliers, nodding along to the same speeches.
Hell, maybe his mom and Queenie were sorority sisters, trading notes on how to smile sweetly while deciding who gets to belong and who doesn’t.
"And the way to do that is to get rid of everyone who isn’t like you," Rap says. "Tell me, Queenie, does that stem from a place of pure narcissism and vanity, or is this all because you are fucking terrified of anyone who’s different than you?"
A few people suck in sharp breaths.
Ryder sets the tray of empties down on the nearest table without looking away from the door.
Queenie smiles as if indulging a dumb child. "Humans are plenty different from each other. The issue is how magic can be used to coerce, corrupt, and oppress."
"Oh yeah?" Rap smirks, setting her hands on the counter.
"Because that’s what your job title as a politician sounds like.
A woman with the power and know-how to coerce and oppress.
So. It sounds like both. You narcissistically fear some mage or fae is going to start doing exactly what you are doing. "
Queenie’s smile goes flat. "I work above board to help my fellow humans, unlike magic-kind who prefer to work underground in seedy black markets. I plan to eradicate all of those spaces and any associated with them. Put this city back to rights."
Her eyes travel to the large fairy tree growing at the center of the bar.
Rap follows her gaze, and a strange, worried expression crosses her face. Again, I feel like I’m missing out on a totally second conversation taking place.
"You’ve been under the impression that Boston has been human all these years, untainted, but what if this place has always had magic-kind hiding in plain sight?
" Rap asks, her voice deadly even. "What if it’s so pervasive that you would have to burn this world and all the realms to get rid of u—them? "
The last word catches.
My head turns toward her.
Call me crazy, but for a moment I thought she was about to say us.
Queenie’s gaze sharpens. "Like I said, I’m just here to pay my condolences to a small business owner and encourage you to do the right thing and protect your patrons."
Then her eyes move past Rap.
To me.
Everything in Queenie's face rearranges.
Her lips part, not in a practiced smile but in something unguarded, almost broken. Her breath catches, audible, sharp, and her hand lifts an inch from her side like she’s reaching for something she isn’t sure is real, then freezes there, fingers trembling.
Her eyes widen, searching my face with a frantic intensity, as if she’s trying to reconcile what she’s seeing with something she buried long ago. Disbelief flickers first, then something deeper, recognition crashing into it so hard it leaves her momentarily hollowed out.
The polished woman who walked in with cameras and condolences disappears behind something raw enough to make my skin prickle.
She seems to be drinking in my white hair. My blue eyes. My face.
Like she knows every piece.
Like she’s remembering them.
On instinct, I take a half step back, uneasiness crawling up inside me.
The aide glances between us. "Ma’am?"
Queenie doesn’t blink.
"Should I..." The aide lifts the phone a little. "Should I keep filming?"
"Cut it," Queenie says, crossing the room to me, leaving the aide stumbling to end the livestream.
Her hands close around mine. "My girl," Queenie addresses me, voice gone soft in a way that makes my stomach twist. "Oh, my girl. I thought you were lost to us."
Ice drips down my veins. For a second, I can’t move. Her fingers are cool and soft, her grip gentle enough to look kind.
Rap’s voice cuts in low. "You know each other." She doesn’t say it as a question.
I rip my hands from Queenie’s. "No, I just...we met when I was a kid."
It was only a couple of times. The meet-and-greets were with all the kids. The fact that Queenie remembers me this distinctly creeps me out.
"How could I forget you?" Queenie says, reaching out to brush a strand of hair back from my face in the gesture of a loving mother.
I step farther away, trying to get out of her reach. "Well, nice to see you. Thanks for dropping by, but no need to do it again. Like ever."
The end of my sentence comes out on a biting, hard note.
Some part of me wants to recognize that Queenie was in fact responsible for there being food on the table for me and Rosie, but I can’t separate that from all she’s doing now.
Then, as if remembering where she is, Queenie’s eyes sweep around the bar, pausing on Rap and Red before returning to me, doing some internal calculations.
"You’re a mage," she says slowly.
"No," I say, not bothering to hide my annoyance. "But just because I’m human, that doesn’t mean I only belong with other humans."
Something bright and terrible moves behind Queenie’s eyes. She stares at me like I am a miracle. Like something impossible has stepped out of the dark and placed itself directly into her hands.
My stomach drops.
I’ve learned every stupid little magic trick I could get my hands on chasing that look.
Floating fingers. Coins behind ears. Even a couple of card tricks to inspire that first stunned breath, that wide-eyed pause, that tiny flicker of awe that says, holy shit, Snow, how did you pull off the greatest feat of all time?
The exact look Queenie Fairchild is giving me right now.
But suddenly, I’ve never wanted to feel less special in my life.