Page 10 of Tracking Snow

When she stops suddenly, I do the same. My friend slips her hand into mine, giving it a squeeze that somehow also wraps around my heart.

"Seriously, you are your own kind of magic, Snow. And the best friend any girl could have."

I fight back the lump in my throat. "You’re just saying that because I'd cut a bitch for you."

She inclines her head with a considering look. "I did hear about that time Goldie's powers activated and everyone tried to claw at her to get a piece, and you broke a bottle, ready to stab the mob back. I can only assume I'd get a similar treatment."

"Pfft. I'd pull a flamethrower on anyone who even so much as mildly offended you."

She gives my hand another squeeze before resuming her roll. "See? The best friend any girl could have."

The lump in my throat doubles, and I resist the urge to stop us and wrap Ariel in a tight hug and never let her go.

I had to let Rosie go, and I never want to know that feeling again.

We turn the corner into a wall of noise. Voices layer over each other, chanting something I can't make out yet. A cluster of over a hundred people are gathered around the base of the steps outside the old civic building, some holding signs. A portable speaker crackles, feedback hissing at the edges of a woman's voice.

"Boston deserves magic-free streets. Boston deserves to feel safe in its own city again⁠—"

The signs bob above the crowd.

BOSTON: MAGIC-FREE ZONE

MAGIC-FREE. FAMILY SAFE.

QUEENIE FAIRCHILD FOR SENATOR.

So, Queenie Fairchild has decided to run for Senator. The human rights activist puts a real emphasis on that “human” part.

Not that I pay attention to politics, but the unrest in Boston is getting harder and harder to ignore. The rise in Humans Against Magic neighborhood watches has led to more than a few bloody beatings of mages and fae.

There would be even more if I weren't lurking around at night. I’m like the neighborhood watch for the neighborhood watch, though I prefer to call what I do a patrol. Sounds more badass.

Seeing the overt bigotry out in broad daylight makes me uneasy.

Even in the blazing heat, I open my slouchy purse, pull out a sweater and tug it on without breaking stride. It's immediately smothering hot, but I still tug the hood over my white hair.

"You okay?" Ariel asks, quirking a brow at me.

"Fine." I keep my eyes forward, my pace the same. Don't slow down. Don't look.

I look.

Queenie Fairchild is at the top of the steps. She’s immaculate. In her late forties, wearing a cream blazer, platinum hair swept back. She’s the kind of put together that takes a butt-ton of money to look effortless.

Her smile is warm. Genuinely warm. It’s the thing that always gets me about her, the thing I couldn't articulate when I was fifteen and sitting in a beige common room eating institutional oatmeal by the grace of Miss Queenie’s generous funding under a motivational poster about human power.

"—the children in our city deserve a future free from influence they didn't choose and can't control⁠—"

The crowd hangs on her every word. My eyes immediately spot several familiar white HAM jackets. One of them catches me watching, her eyes narrowing.

If I were going to stand out so much, the least the universe could have done is grant me magic powers. Then, I'd rub them right in that lady’s face while sticking my tongue out at her.

"What's the deal?" Ariel asks, not letting it go. She reads me too well.

Or I'm too fae fucking transparent. I'm not super good at hiding my emotions. They tend to broadcast on my face like a damn billboard. That or it’s because my shoulders are hunched around my ears in my makeshift protective shell.

I pull my gaze away. "Fairchild was on the board of directors that ran the home I grew up in."