Part of her was insulted that her mother was apparently surprised, while another part cringed with the knowledge that she was avoiding the very information Fiona wanted most. But the little part of her that had yearned for her mother’s praise, that she’d thought had mostly withered away and then been stuffed in a closet, fluttered back to life.
“So, tell me about this Ravenfell deal,” her mother said briskly. “If you’re going up against the vampires, maybe I can help.”
“Have you dealt with them?” Morgan asked, unsure how to handle her mother’s sudden interest in, well, anything she was doing.
“Never personally, although everyone’s heard of them. They keep their noses clean, as far as anyone can tell. Strict NDAs with all their employees, and their employees tend to wear turtlenecks if you know what I mean, but their employees also tend to lead long and what look like well-compensated lives. Huge charitable donations to the New York Blood Center, as you can imagine.” Fiona rolled her eyes.
“That seems ethically gray,” Morgan said. They’d reached the plaza where the Vessel was situated. The multi-story structure resembled an upside-down hollow beehive made of brass nestled between the surrounding skyscrapers. Anti-suicide netting was strung in the gaps between each hexagon. It made the formerly elegant structure look like a bag of grocery store clementines.
“Gray, yes, but not black,” Fiona agreed. “It’s an accepted arrangement. Can you hold on a sec, I want to check the wards on this while I’m in the neighborhood.”
“They finally broke the hex?” Morgan asked. Soon after the art installation-slash-building had opened, multiple people had plunged to their deaths. The intended tourist destination had been closed for years. Fiona had caught the anti-tourist warlock responsible, because of course she had, but it seemed that whatever he’d done had taken a great deal of undoing.
“We hope so,” Fiona said absently. “There’s always something.”
Her mother stared at lines of power Morgan couldn’t see, unconsciously stroking a patch of coat covering a miniature crossbow the NYPD would absolutely lose its mind over if it weren’t invisible, while her daughter fidgeted uncomfortably.
“Well, that looks clean enough,” Fiona said suddenly.“Anyway. I will admit I don’t know much about investing, but I get the impression that the ability to manage your investments over centuries is a bit of an advantage.”
Morgan jammed her phone back in her bag, trying to handle the whiplash. She wondered, not for the first time, if maybe the magical world needed more awareness of ADHD. “Yeah, I can see that.”
“You’d know more than me.” That was certainly the first time her mother had ever made that particular statement. “And you’re confident your company knows what they’re doing?”
“Probably not,” she admitted. She was frankly terrified. Hence the power skirt. “But it’ll be my boss’s name on the paperwork, not mine.”
Her mother didn’t look any happier than Morgan was about that answer. “And what exactly are you hoping to do with them?”
“Get them to invest lots of money in the company and then spend some of it on salaries, some of it on over-hopped IPAs at happy hours no one wants to be at, and most of it apparently on marketing platforms. Hopefully, there’s a ‘Step Three: Profit’ involved in there.”
“I didn’t follow most of that, but good luck with getting their money. They have way too much of it,” her mother said. She paused for a moment and then added, almost wistfully, “Can I see your outfit?”
Morgan reluctantly pulled the blazer, pencil skirt, and satin pussy bow blouse out of the Macy’s bag, waiting for her mother to make a face.
“I know, I can’t run in the skirt,” Morgan started to say, remembering all her mother’s acidic comments on otherwomen’s outfits. “But I couldn’t find pants that worked with the blazer—”
“You’re going to look so polished,” her mother said quietly. “A real professional.”
“Oh.” The rest of the excuses died in her throat. She blinked back a sudden mistiness.
“Try not to get their attention,” Fiona continued. “Don’t meet their eyes, if you can avoid it. Shower really well, wear deodorant, and if you have even a tiny wound or scrape or even a bruise, cover it with the strongest scented antiseptic you can. Apparently, it tastes really bad.”
“I mean, it does taste really bad.” Morgan managed a small smile.
“Ugh, I kept telling you not to nibble on edges of your scabs when you were little.” Fiona smiled a little herself.
“It was easier than having to collect any bits that fell off and burn them,” Morgan pointed out.
“I didn’t want people getting ahold of your blood! I was trying to be a good mother!”
Fiona’s idea of a good mother was a lot different than Morgan’s. But then, if Morgan had spent as much time with people actively trying to kill her as Fiona had, maybe she’d have felt differently. Half the adults that had wandered through her childhood had ended up dead in one grisly way or another. Fiona had kept her kid alive. But she had done it at the cost of never taking a turn as field trip chaperone. Morgan had wanted, just once, for it to be her turn for her mom to be field trip chaperone.
“I know,” she said, instead.
***
The clock said 2:03am when her phone rang.
“’llo?” she said groggily before suddenly snapping awake. There were only three numbers she’d allowed to bypass her do-not-disturb, and the owner of one was sleeping in the bedroom next to hers. In the living room, Rix started to bark.
