“And you, Mor? Do you want them here?”
I feel a warm glow in my chest, knowing that Jack cares about my feelings on this subject. Not that I expect he’d side with me over Ame, but at least he doesn’t treat me like a nonentity.
Still, I’ve never expressly told my parents they are uninvited from my life. Other than the time I emancipated myself, that is. Not sure they even noticed.
But I have a house full of magical books, and they’re paying attention now.
“No. I don’t want them here,” I admit, without a waver in my voice.
My father blinks at me. My mother ignores me, strolling toward the library I’ve built.
“Wait—”
“No further.” So fast that I didn’t even see him move, Jack is suddenly in front of Helena, so close that she stumbles back a step with a huff.
“I was told this is a public library.”
“Your daughters don’t want you here.”
“Well then, they should have made this a private library.” My mother smirks and steps around Jack, the move possible only because he lets her. She lets out a, “Ha,” as if her maneuvering was an accomplishment, and skips up the porch steps.
But when she tries to open the door, nothing happens.
“Why is this locked?”
“It’s not,” I say, honestly confused, not that I want to help her enter.
“The house doesn’t like you.” The deep rumble of a voice sounds just before Bo rounds the corner, narrowed eyes bouncing between our tense party.
“The house doesn’t know me yet, so I doubt it’s formed any kind of opinion.” Helena reaches into her pocket and comes out with a handful of red powder, pressing her palm to the thick wood. “Let me in. You have no right to keep me out.”
The door doesn’t move.
“Ame,” Alistair sighs. “Open the door for your mother.”
My father makes a mistake then. He places his hand on my sister’s shoulder, as if to guide her toward the library entrance.
Ame’s aura swamps with white as pure terror condenses in her mind.
The next thing I register is my father’s scream of agony.
I throw magic into my shields to keep out the neon blue wave of pain emanating from the man. The move is instinctual, the reaction faster than my mind, as I slowly take in what Jack just did in defense of Ame.
“My hand!” Alistair clasps a bleeding stump to his chest. At his feet lies the severed limb, fingers still twitching.
In front of him stands a wolfman, claws bloody, saliva dripping.
“No,” the creature snarls, “touch.”
“Get away from him!” my mother yells, running toward her maimed husband, fear finally showing on her previously passive face.
Jack turns and roars at her.
She gasps and raises her red-powdered-covered palms.
Not good, not good?—
But Ame is quicker. At some point, my sister dipped her own fingers into the magical assist, and she lunges toward our mother, grasping her wrists in a tight hold. I watch as the red of wanting overwhelms Helena’s aura.
