Page 56 of Tracking Snow

I hesitate, then answer. "Yeah,"

She gives me a soft, tentative smile, beckoning me to meet her at face level with the crook of a finger. I lean over.

The girl’s soft, pretty features harden as a spark enters her eyes. "Well, listen up fuckfaces, because Snow doesn’t need anyone in her life making her feel less than, who could take her or leave her. That bitch is a ride-or-die, loop-de-loop roller-coaster of excitement that makes every day brighter and fun just by being around. If you give her a complex that she isn’t good enough because she doesn’t have magic, so help me fae lords, I will shove the entirety of my wheelchair up your tight, cinched asshole. Got it?"

I’m so stunned it takes a moment to register that we are all stunned.

Whoa, breathes Four.

Shit, agrees Two.

What a good friend, Five says.

SHUT UP, FIVE, we all yell at him.

"I said," she grinds out between her teeth with menace, "got. It?"

We nod.

Her expression relaxes, though her intensity leaves behind an almost palpable sizzling brine in its wake. "Good. Now either grovel your ass off or get the fuck out." She rolls away. "Don’t forget to tip your waitress," she throws over her shoulder.

We’re not scared of her, Two says.

We’re a little scared of her, Three responds.

"Ha!" Someone laughs loud and hard nearby.

A full-figured woman in a silky dress sits at the bar with a martini glass in hand, the pale gold drink catching the low light. A lemon twist curls over the rim. A cherry glows at the bottom. The scent of gin and orange peel cuts through the heavier sweetness of the bar, followed by a strange licorice bite I can’t place.

A heart locket rests against her chest, and her amused face tugs at my memory.

She looks familiar.

"Can I get another Spellbinder?" she calls to the bartender with a mischievous smirk. "And maybe a shovel for the clueless man digging his own grave?"

This is going to be harder than we thought.

It’s been almost two weeks, and every night I’ve swallowed my pride and shuffled into Poison Apple to sit at the end of the bar. Patiently, we pay our penance.

We fucked up hugely. It’s near torture to be without Snow, and at least here, we can watch her. Be nearby. Try to show her that we can do better.

Not that we deserve another chance...

Night after night, we are ignored by the Lost Girls. Not one of them will acknowledge me or serve me a drink. I’ve got to earn it. That much is clear.

I’ve watched their intro so many times, I know exactly who all of them are. And while my skin still itches as Seven keeps pressing on our brain about being in the dead center of the biggest magic hub we’ve ever seen, we stay.

Even though we can’t get over the blatant, relaxed way everyone has been using their magic or abilities to show off and party together. Not that any of the patrons are that powerful, but they’ve done everything from fill the dance floor with floating bubbles to dance in the air with a partner using levitation powers.

How can they not want to hide what they can do? They aren’t even ashamed.

Should someone be ashamed of making bubbles? Three asks uncertainly.

You’re ashamed of my power, Five says, almost indignant.

That’s different, and warranted, Two fires back. Nobody wants to see that.

Magic is wrong, Seven says with the finality and weight of an anvil.