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“You’ve been… really busy since Scotland.”

The pause in her words is as clear as the St. Louis Arch as she chooses her words.

“Busy, yeah,” I agree.

Busy with all these things I can’t tell you about because guess what? The Fae are real, magic is real, and my entire life is spinning out of control while I supposedly try to learn magic from a bum who likes to dumpster dive in an alley.

Savannah blows on, then sips her coffee. She’s staring at the table between us and the pregnancy of the pause is so full I know at any moment the water is going to break and her actual thought is going to birth out right onto the table. I wait for it. She’s my best friend and she deserves so much more than I’ve been able to give her.

“I miss you,” she says at last.

Three words. Three words that are as sharp and as cutting as any blade. A freaking lightsaber couldn’t cut me any deeper. I close my eyes to hold back the tears that press against them. I reach across the table and take her hand, clenching it tight.

“I know,” I say. “It’s been…”

It’s been what? Crazy is an understatement, but the truth is dammed up so tight I couldn’t force it out of my mouth even if I didn’t think she’d have me committed.

“I can only imagine,” she says, returning my grip. “With your dad and all.”

If only that was all.

“Yes, my dad,” I agree, keeping back all the rest.

The silence that falls between us is comfortable. Set against the background noise ofRedux,swishing steamers, coffee grinding, furious tapping of keys, and gentle conversations swirling. But in this moment, there is the two of us. Me and my best friend who is giving me all her support. It’s so simple, something I always took for granted, but now I recognize the value of a quiet moment like this.

Maybe it was my time in the past with the MacGregors that taught me the value of this. When my day was filled with working for survival. There was always work to do but there was also, always, a quietness. An appreciation of the moment and those around you. The ones you toil with because it was clear, then, that my survival was intimately intertwined with theirs.

The idea swells in my head, looming, so large I struggle to form it into words that I can share with Savannah. I open my mouth to try when the doorbell behind me rings and a raucous group of male voices enters the coffee shop.

ChapterNineteen

“And then Igave her the D,” a booming voice shouts, followed by guffaws of drunken laughter.

Savannah drops her eyes, avoiding contact with the group entering. My hand clenches into a fist. My fingers dig into my skin until I’m sure they will draw blood. I know what she’s doing. I’ve done it myself, too many times. Avoid meeting their eyes, pretend not to notice them, do whatever you can to make yourself small. Don’t be where you are because you don’t want to be noticed. You don’t want their attention on you.

I see them in my peripheral vision. Drunken buffoons, pushing each other to new heights of depravity all in a vain attempt to prove how manly they are because that’s what frat boys do. It’s not about manhood, no matter if they claim it is. I’ve lived in a time where manhood and honor were real things. Things a man stood by and died for. This, this is a mockery. A joke. A sick, twisted parody of Duncan.

The group pushes their way through the crowd, pushing people out of their way as they bump into customers and tables alike. No one moves to stop them. Everyone tries to shift and move out of their way. Avoid trouble. No conflict, that’s the rule of the day. My heart pounds loud in my ears. A hot flash races across my chest.

I look over my shoulder as two of them hit a table where a skinny young guy with a pockmarked face, thick glasses, and unruly black curly hair sits at a laptop working. His coffee sloshes and spills across his Macbook.

In my head it happens in slow motion. The coffee spirals up and twists in midair until it reaches an apex and gravity takes hold, pulling it over the rim of the cup. The thick, light brown of the drink splashes as it hits the keyboard. The guy leaps to his feet. His chair scrapes across the tile with a loud screech.

“What is wrong with you?” he asks, not looking at the cause of his problem.

He grabs a fistful of napkins and dabs at his keyboard. Desperation is clear on his face as he tries to save the machine. A laptop like that is expensive. Probably bought it used too, so no warranty. If it’s shot, he’s out hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars. All because of these drunken idiots.

“What did you say?” the leader asks.

He whirls to face the young man. The leader is a stereotype. Every writer’s go-to alpha-hole but without any visible redeeming qualities. His clothes scream money. His haircut looks expensive. He’s rich and carries it with him in his very presence. He’s not hulking or even particularly fit looking, but there are four guys with him, one of which definitely qualifies as the hulking gorilla type.

Our modern society has made us soft. The young man’s survival instincts are not well-honed. He hasn’t been raised in a primal time when danger is ever-present. He hasn’t looked up or stopped dabbing wads of napkins on the computer. He doesn’t see the danger looming in front of him.

I see it too clearly. I watch as darkness coalesces around this gang of bullies. Shadows that dance with each motion they make. Dark tendrils that are feeding off their negative energy. I know, without knowing how, that’s what is happening. It’s dark, scary, and should be fear-inducing but anger is burning too hot for fear. Fear becomes the fuel for my anger that is building towards rage.

I’m so angry I’m shaking. I look around the shop, and it’s clear no one is going to intervene. No one will confront this and say enough. Only me. I rise from my seat, intent on stopping this madness.

“Quinn, let it go,” Savannah says, reaching across the table and gripping my arm.

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