Page 38 of Tracking Snow

The elf’s chin lifts a fraction. "Is that what it is?" Her gaze volleys between Rap and me. "She cut hers off too?"

"Fireopal," Rap says the woman’s name, and it’s a warning. Rap’s lips thin until they almost disappear, giving the blood elf a quick shake of the head.

The elf shrugs and raises her hood. She moves toward the back hall with Rap, the two of them bending their heads together.

Fireopal. Even her name is badass.

The city has been tense for a while, but now it feels like the pin has been pulled from the grenade.

Suddenly, I'm extra amped to head out and patrol. And I know just the guy to help me keep things tight.

Chapter 13

We’re the Good Guys

SNOW

Ifinally catch sight of Seven after an hour of patrolling, and he’s tailing a tall guy with a backpack who is speed-walking in a way that tells me he’s scared. Based on his jacket, I can tell he is a courier. Though it’s a bit late to be trotting around with packages...

My head swivels, trying to locate any HAM assholes nearby. If Seven is following him, that must mean he’s in danger.

They’ve got distance on me, and before I can catch up, the guy ducks down the stairs that lead to an old abandoned MBTA station. Seven follows him into the subway station, and I do the same.

The smell hits first. Old concrete and standing water, with something metallic underneath.

I descend one level into darkness and turn toward the faint amber glow. Light from the adjacent active line seeps through gaps in the old brickwork, casting a dim sour gold over everything.

Enough to see. Not enough to see well.

The platform stretches ahead of me, most of the old white station tiles with a green border cracked or missing entirely. Water stains run from floor to ceiling in long brown streaks. The vaulted brick ceiling arches overhead, lower than I expected, and in several places sections of it have fallen onto the platform floor in small piles of rubble.

Seven is at the near end of the platform.

The courier stands at the far end with his back to the wall.

The backpack is still on, eyes rolling in his head with panic, his chest heaving from either panic or exertion. Both?

The courier’s gaze finds me the second my boot hits the platform, hands already up but not in surrender. A slight crackling sound emanates from him just as hair-thin lightning or static rolls over his arms. Whatever charge he’s packing fills the air with a stinging sensation that makes me want to sneeze.

"Get away from me," he says, and his voice bounces off the tile and comes back from three directions at once.

The Seven twists to look at me. A pair of green eyes flash into white. Six morphed into One before my eyes without blinking. As difficult as it is for me to keep my eyes off the curly-haired guy I’ve been obsessed with for days, I face the scared man. He can’t be much older than me.

"Hey." I keep my voice low. "Nobody's here to hurt you."

The courier’s eyes cut to Seven and back to me. "You're the ones taking people. I've heard about you. Everyone has. Mages going missing, magic people who were just out and then they're just—" He stops. Swallows. "You're not getting me."

"You need to get out of here, little stalker," One’s voice comes from directly beside me. I didn't hear him move. He's not looking at the courier.

He's focused on me.

In the amber dark, his pale, near-white eyes flash, his jaw set.

"I'm fine," I say quietly. "We can help him."

One doesn't answer.

I take a step toward the courier, hands out, palms open.