47. Whistle While You Work #2
I placed my boots on the fire escape that night.
Lucifer vomited on my pillow instead.
Cinder calls my name from the other side of the room and tosses me a hammer. I catch it, teleport behind the bar, and drive in three nails with One’s speed before Rap can tell me where they go.
Rap looks at the crooked row.
"You’re fixing that."
"I did it very fast."
"You did it wrong at an impressive speed."
"I’ll fix it," a voice says behind me.
I turn to find purple-eyed Two approaching the bar with a battered folder tucked beneath one arm.
"Good," Rap chimes in. "You can phase through the wood and push the nails back out."
I smile despite myself, then glance at the folder. The faded Brightpath House emblem on the front wipes my smile away.
"What’s that?"
Two shifts it behind his back. "Something we need to talk about."
I follow him into the employee locker room and close the door behind us.
Bubblegum-pink lockers cover one wall, painted by Goldie years ago. Across from them, a long vanity stretches beneath a row of bright bulbs. Makeup, hair products, and abandoned jewelry litter the counter. Several pink velvet chairs are pushed beneath it.
Two puts the folder on the vanity.
"What is it?"
His fingers remain pressed to the cover. "I found a records room underneath Brightpath House before the investigators took everything."
The quiet weight in his voice tightens my stomach.
"And?"
He looks down at the file, his thumb rubbing across the worn edge. "This one had your name on it."
Two moves his hand.
Snow Womback is typed across the tab.
My chest squeezes. For most people, a file from childhood would hold report cards or vaccination records. Brightpath kept footage of us using magic and notes on how our bodies reacted to poison.
I pull out one of the vanity chairs before my knees decide for me and sit.
Two crouches in front of me, resting one hand on the arm of my chair. His knee presses against mine as his purple eyes search my face.
"Did you read it?"
His jaw shifts. "Yes."
My fingers curl around the edge of the chair. "How bad is it?"
"You should see it." His voice roughens. "There are painful things, but there’s also some things that belong to you."
He places the file in my hands, keeping one hand beneath it until my grip steadies.
The first page holds a photograph of a burned house. Half the roof has collapsed into the second floor. Black smoke pours from the empty windows while firefighters move through the yard.
Womback residence is written beneath it.
The file trembles in my grip. I flip the page and find two names. Caroline and Matthew Womback.
"My parents."
Two settles into the chair beside mine, his knee still warm against my leg.
"The Humans Against Magic group were on a hot streak around the time you were born. They received information that one of your parents had magic, though it’s not reported what kind or if it was even true. The HAMs set fire to the house while your family was sleeping."
I said it didn’t matter. You can’t miss what you never had, but I suddenly have a deep, empty well where my heart should be.
Where my family should have been. Maybe they would have been shit parents.
Or maybe we would have made pancakes on Saturdays, sang in the car, and I could have mimicked their magic in an adorably childish way.
I flip to the next page.
A smaller photograph has been paper-clipped to an intake report. A woman sits on a porch with a white-haired toddler in her lap. A man crouches beside them with one arm around her shoulders. The little girl wears an eggshell blue dress and holds a dandelion in one fist.
Me.
My mother has my eyes. My father’s grin takes over his whole face.
My thumb moves over the edge of the picture. "How did I survive?"
"A neighbor found you near the back fence. Queenie’s organization collected survivors after HAM attacks before child services could place them elsewhere. To keep watch, study and, well, you know the rest."
I close the file. Tears drip onto the worn cover.
"Their names were Caroline and Matthew."
Two’s purple eyes hold mine. "Your mother worked at a bakery. Your father repaired heating systems. I also found this." He slides out another photo from the last page. A picture of Rosie. It’s an official picture like for an ID, but I clutch it tight to my chest.
My magic came home. Rosie returned in memories. Now I have names and faces for the people who loved me first.
I grab the front of his hoodie and haul him in for a kiss. He scoops up the file and puts it safely on the vanity.
I rise and kiss him.
Two freezes for half a heartbeat before his hand closes around the back of my neck. He kisses me with a slow drag of his mouth, lingering over every meeting of our lips. I lean into him, and he brings me to my feet before guiding me back into the vanity.
Bottles and makeup brushes rattle.
His tongue slides over mine as his hands move down my waist. The kiss deepens, bringing heat to every place grief hollowed out.
I grip his hoodie and drag it over his head.
Two’s eyes flash purple when the fabric clears his face.
Then they turn black. Seven.
His shoulders draw wider. His chest seems to expand beneath my hands, every muscle carrying more weight. The man crowding me to the vanity feels bigger than the one I kissed a second ago. Stronger. Hungry enough to swallow every inch of space between us.
"Seven," I breathe.
His hand fists in my hair and he takes my mouth.
The force of his kiss bends me backward over the vanity. One hand grips my hip and lifts me onto the counter, scattering makeup across the floor. I wrap my legs around him and draw him in between my thighs.
Seven growls into my mouth then kisses down my throat and bites the place where my pulse pounds. My nails rake across his shoulders, dragging him closer as his hand slides beneath my shirt.
"You have no idea how good it is to be here, in the flesh, with you."
His thumb brushes the bottom of my bra. My whole body arches into him. "I got a pretty good idea," I say breathlessly.
Seven pulls away enough to look at me. Black eyes burn into mine. "I’m going to drag you to the apartment, and we are going to make you scream seven ways from Sunday, but I want you to show me first."
My brain sticks on the seven ways from Sunday and how literal that is with him. And he said we, so it’s clearly going to be a group effort. And I just know it will be followed up with sweet dreams with Three and pancakes with Five in the morning.
"Show you what?" I ask breathlessly.
He dips his head, a dark, dangerous gleam in his eye. "Your magic."
At first, I don’t understand, and then..."Oh!"
I grab an eyeliner pencil from the vanity, pinch it loosely between my fingers, and wobble it until it looks like it’s bending.
"Look. Rubber."
Seven goes utterly still.
Then his hips press harder into me.
"You like that?" I ask, delighted.
A rough sound rolls out of his chest.
"That’s so fucking stupid," he growls, dragging me closer. "Do it again."