Page 21 of Tracking Snow

Especially not that little finger trick she did.

I liked it! I thought it was clever, Five pipes up. Maybe I can⁠—

No, Two cuts in. Don't even ask.

But she's—Five starts.

Seriously, Five, Four cuts in. Your power is embarrassing. Stay where you are.

The rest vehemently agree that Five is not to take lead. Even Seven.

I ignore the voices, wheel around, and give Snow a pointed look.

The Boston waterfront at three in the morning belongs to no one in particular, which is exactly why I'm here. With such a drizzly, miserable day turned night, no one is out on the streets. There’s no reason for me to be out here other than I want to be.

Fog sits low over the harbor, softening the distant city lights to a smear of amber and white. The water shifts and slaps against the pilings. The air is thick with brine and diesel and the cold that comes off open water even in summer.

And now her. Something warm and sweet cuts through, invading and surrounding me.

"I have seven times the senses you have." I pause. My jaw tightens against it. "Also, if you want to sneak up on people, don't wear perfume."

She frowns. "I don't wear perfume."

It's her soap, Four says, climbing closer to the surface with the focused interest of someone who has been waiting for exactly this information. Ask her what kind.

I would rather not.

Ask her.

"Four wants to know what soap you use," I say flatly, because it's easier than arguing with him in front of her.

She grins. Then she steps closer, pulls her white hair away from her neck, and tugs my face down toward her by the back of mine. My whole body locks up.

Oh, says Four.

Oh, says Three.

The rest of them have nothing coherent to offer.

"Well, hello Four." Her voice drops to a warm and conspiratorial purr. "It's called summer apple. Do you like it?"

I inhale despite every intention not to. Tart and sweet with a note underneath that I have no adequate category for. It hits the center of my chest like a key finding a lock.

I hate it.

We love it, Four corrects.

At least with my hood up, she’s not touching the bare skin of my neck. Heat spreads through me at the idea of her slipping her hand in and curling around my naked nape.

Snow tips her head up, loosening her grip but not stepping back. We are inches apart, and she is looking at me with those electric blue eyes like she already knows exactly what I'm thinking and finds it enormously satisfying.

She's not wrong.

You're going to kiss her, Four says. Not a question.

I am not going to kiss her.

One.