Page 3 of Tracking Snow

"Showtime," I whisper.

Dirt-Face, a middle-aged white man with sharp angles and scruff, addresses the hooded guy. "Boston is a human city. Which means you shouldn't be here." He's clearly the leader of this little posse tonight.

"Definitely not out in the middle of the night," another white guy warns, crossing in front of the leader to get on the other side of Hoodie. This one is a beefcake, heavy with both fat and muscle, which has me pegging him as Wrecking Ball.

I drop in front of Hoodie from the fire stairwell, soft as a cat, putting myself between him and the trio. They all jerk in surprise except the guy behind me. He doesn't so much as flinch.

"And here I thought the Boston streets were safe to walk in the middle of the night," I say with a cheeky grin.

Huh. As far as witty interruptions go, it's not my best, but it'll do.

"Who the fuck are you?" Dirt-Face asks.

"Another abomination," the woman in the group answers with a sneer. Her brown skin is several shades lighter than mine, with warmer undertones. Her hair is slicked back into a ponytail of full, curly springs. I'd be inclined to ask where she got her boots if her face weren't twisted into such an ugly, hateful expression.

Oh yeah, and if she wasn't clearly about to commit a hate crime.

"Now, now, don't judge a book by its cover," I tsk like they are naughty children.

That's hard for people when the cover is a skinny Black girl with white hair and blue eyes. My features may be unique, but I'm not the kind of freak they're hunting tonight. But they don’t know that.

"Or," I add with nonchalance, "I’ll blast you with my laser vision until you are burnt to a crisp."

"No," Dirt-Face drawls, dragging his eyes up and down me. "This is that one I've been hearing about. Looks like a mage, but she's one of us."

I whip out one of my daggers, rotating it in my hand with a scowl. "I'm nothing like you." My voice drops to a low husk.

I'd be perfectly satisfied if they scurried off to their little rat holes, and we left it at that, but from the itch under my skin, I get the sense that won't be happening.

Dirt-Face smirks and glances over at the woman. "Don't worry, Lilah, she's human."

My stomach drops sharply.

I may be just a human, but I'm definitely not going in on one of their stupid HAM jackets.

I don’t want to pass for their little club. I’ve never wanted to, and it always feels like a soft sucker punch when I have to clarify to someone that, yes I have unusual features, and no it doesn’t mean I’m magic. The way humans usually relax at that makes me ill.

I wish I could do something magical to make their jaws drop and show them I’m special, powerful, and mega cool.

"She's just some little weirdo who thinks she’s some kind of vigilante," Dirt-Face finishes.

I don't appreciate his mocking tone. What's a girl with insomnia supposed to do? Stay home and knit?

I don't think so.

"Little is right," Wrecking Ball says in a deep tone, measuring me with a glint I don't like one itty bitty bit.

He's maybe four times my size, which isn't that much of a feat when I'm just over five feet and built like a twig. But like...a badass twig who is fast and muscular in a skinny kind of way.

"You should go," a voice comes from behind me, and I startle.

I already forgot about Hoodie though he’s standing three feet behind me. His low tone ripples over my skin. Goose pimples rise along my arms and the back of my neck, and I turn to look up at him for the first time.

The shadow of his hoodie obscures most of his features except for his eyes, which flash out in a translucent near-white hue.

I barely register the barely visible white skin and chestnut curls because my heart is doing neat little somersaults.

A second wave of goose pimples rushes over me before the first can even relax. This close, his warm masculine scent wraps around me, and my toes curl in my boots.