Page 67 of Tracking Snow

Fairchild’s security team wasted no time. One of them immediately delivered a headshot to the rogue mage.

Between the gruesome replays and all the surfacing pictures of Fairchild with puppies, babies, and not least of all, the orphans from Brightpath House, I powered down my phone to try and avoid it all.

My gaze lifts to meet Ariel’s as she drops off a new round for the group. Her expression says she also overheard the group talking.

While we are in no way signing up for the Queenie Fairchild fan club, we agree that assassination won’t solve the issues in the city. As much as magic-kind is riled up in the bar, the humans of Boston are equally, if not more, outraged, calling for action.

For the first time, I doubt my ability to protect Ariel and myself if we get jumped on the way to work. Tensions ring so high in the air that my nerves constantly feel like they’re exposed to an invisible static electricity.

But the city streets were surprisingly empty, as if everyone expects to be attacked out in the open and has decided indoors is the safer bet.

After loading the dishwasher as quickly as possible, I hear Aurora call, "Cola’s out."

"I got it," I call, already ducking beneath the bar to unhook the empty syrup box.

Aurora appears beside me as I wrestle the empty carton free. "Talon moved our trip up. We portal to Midnight in the morning." Her cotton-candy hair is piled off her neck, and her eyes hold mine longer than the sentence needs. "He doesn’t like this city right now. I know it’s mainly mages that keep vanishing, but it’s clear the fae aren’t welcome either." She shoots a nervous look around the room.

Goldie should be on my other side, stealing cherries from the garnish tray and making some rich guy forget his own drink order with a single smile.

Instead, her whole side of the bar feels wrong.

"Good," I say, and I mean it so much my voice cracks. "Go."

I shove through the crowd toward the back with the empty syrup box tucked against my ribs. A dude twice my height lurches into my path, and I’m about to apologize when he turns around and gifts me a sloppy drunk grin.

"Snow!" he says like we’re old friends, and his energy immediately has me on edge. This is the one downside of our awesome opening act every shift. People think they know us.

"You should be celebrating with us," he slightly slurs. "That Queenie bitch finally got what she deserved."

"Yeah, I got work to do," I say flatly, pushing past. It’s only when I emerge from the crush of people that I realize I’m dogged by heavy, clumsy footfalls.

"Come on." His hand wraps around my arm to stop me in the hallway leading to the stockroom and dressing room. "Boston isn’t a non-magic city anymore. They can fight it all they want, but we’re here to stay."

My gaze settles on his hand gripping me, wondering if it’s too extreme to twist his thumb the wrong way until he cries like a baby. Because I’m in no mood.

I have no interest in engaging, and I have work to do.

His gaze drops to my mouth, his sloppy grin twice as stupid. "Don’t act like that. I’ve seen you on the bar. You love attention." His free hand lands on my hip, fingers digging into the bare strip of skin between my top and skirt. "Bet you’d love a guy with real magic even more."

My skin crawls so hard I want to peel it off and leave it for him to hold. "You have exactly one second to get your hand off me."

Suddenly, my arms fly to the sides under an invisible force until they are pinned to the wall. The moment I start to kick out, the same pressure pins my legs as well.

Oh faefucks. I definitely should have twisted his thumb…hell, his whole hand off.

I look past him to see if anyone has noticed, but we’re just out of sight of anyone who might help. I know most patrons here wouldn’t hesitate to step in. And while we’ve bulked up on security, Ryder is struggling just trying to keep this place orderly.

"Put me down," I say, forcing my voice to carry. "You’re drunk and annoying me."

He laughs like I’m flirting. Like this is all a cute little game. His hand slides higher, dragging heat and revulsion up my side. "You don’t have to pretend you don’t want a taste."

I open my mouth to yell.

He takes it as an invitation.

His mouth crashes down on mine, sour with liquor and lime. For half a second, my brain whites out from sheer fury. Then his tongue pushes between my lips, and every thought sharpens to a single bright point.

Fine.