Page 144 of Tracking Snow

And right there is Queenie Fairchild. Of course. It makes too much sense. She clearly has it out for magic-kind, but then I remember what One had said.

"But I thought you were taking me to your..." I trail off as his face says it all.

His mouth tightens. A muscle jumps in his cheek.

His eyes cut to Queenie for half a second, and suddenly each weird little piece snaps into one horrific puzzle.

Mother.

Oh.

Oh my fae fucking lords on a hot dog stick. No fucking way. No fae fucking way.

Queenie Fairchild is The Seven’s mother.

My stomach lurches with a sick feeling so intense I press a hand against it to hold everything still.

So much of what they’ve said sharpens into view. The number one human rights supporter has a child who suddenly developed powers so strong and so early she’d do anything to fix him. My gaze sweeps wildly about the room.

Even experiment on him, until it fractured him. The self-hatred and loathing he’s been taught is so much more than someone’s beliefs. She stands for the very concept of magic-kind not belonging. And her dirty little secret is she birthed one of the most powerful, unique mages in the entire history of the world.

Even as my anger burns hot and bright that The Seven took my friends, a wave of understanding crashes into me.

It wasn’t some everyday bigot whispering poison in his ear. This was Queenie Fairchild, the poster woman for every smiling, polished argument that magic-kind didn’t belong in this world.

No wonder he hates everything about himself. The Seven has absorbed and mirrored her sentiments for so long, how could he begin to break away from that?

One searches my eyes as if desperately trying to read my thoughts. One of the few abilities he doesn’t possess.

A lump forms in my throat, and I press harder in my stomach to keep from reaching out to him. To keep from shaking him in a desperate attempt to make him see the glass cage he’s been brought up in.

His mother told him point-blank she didn’t, couldn’t love him like this. In pieces. A beautiful kaleidoscope of pieces, personalities and powers. But I do. I love them all so much it hurts, and the hurt drives deep to the bone knowing how much of his life has been spent being hated by someone so close.

"You can't even begin to know how long I've been looking for you," Queenie says, "only to find out you've been right here, in Boston, all along."

I force myself to break from One's intent gaze to look at the woman who has caused so many hurts I can't even begin to count them.

"What are you talking about?" I ask. "Why would you be looking for me?"

What? Did I screw up some kind of tax refund for the home by bailing?

"You are the key to everything," Queenie says, her fingers pressing into a countertop hard enough to make them white. Her eyes go round and her expression is so hungry when she looks at me, I want to shrink from it. "I thought we had to keep testing, keep trying new things, but here you've been. Walking around with the answer inside of you."

"Mother," One says, "she's not magic. We don't take humans. We need to let her go."

Queenie's head jerks toward him. "I said to never call me that."

He doesn't physically move, but every part of him seems to cringe. His jaw tightens. His eyes drop half an inch before he forces them back up.

My hand curls into a fist.

"You do what I say, if you know what's good for you. This girl holds the key to everything." She points at me, then her eyes follow. "The one who got away."

"You don't talk to him, or any of them like that," I growl, stepping in front of The Seven. Or I guess The Six. Grief fights my anger.

Queenie stares at me, then looks past my shoulder as if One and I have made some private joke at her expense. His breath catches close behind me.

"Any of them?" she repeats. Her mouth twists. "There is no them. There is only my son and the affliction keeping him from me."