The first rays of sun arrive tangled in the aftermath, the sky a tentative, brittle blue. Our household seems charged with a faint electricity, as though the previous night’s storm still reverberates through the walls and carpets, collecting in the air and in the marrow of those who endured it.
I am up before Taurus, my new mate, or my primary stir. I move through the house the way a general might patrol her sleeping army after a battle has left the field messy and uncertain.
The night before, Talia damn near detonated the world. She lost control—no, that’s giving her too much agency. It was more like the world lost control of her—and the hurricane was the result. I patched everyone up as best I could once Taurus got me conscious, bled the excess energy from my overfull veins and then funneled it into the healing of my family.
This morning’s appointments cannot be cancelled for reasons that would look ridiculous typed in any email. I don’t need word of any internal struggles to get out, much less threat-level kitty magic being declared a problem by my new employers. Thefewer witnesses to my family’s antics, the safer we all are from the kinds of attention that make things worse.
Ducking into the closet, which is not so much a closet as a walk-in shrine to wardrobe excess and battle gear, I select the peacock feather silk dress because it is at once armor, plumage, and an apology to myself for the night before. Silver sandals, heeled and dangerous finish the look. Fancy makeup and hair happen in the bathroom, but I cheat—I can’t help it—by using a little magick to seal the eyeliner, keep the lipstick from bleeding, and smooth my hair into place despite the humidity licking the air like a living thing.
I don’t have time to be beautiful the old-fashioned way, nor do I have the patience, but I still want to look like I tried.
My phone buzzes, and while it’s not a standard issue, the customized Taurus phone helpfully reminds me which appointments are flagged as life-threatening if missed. The first one is Marvin, my doctor. After what happened last night, I’m not sure if I want to see him or if I feel obligated to, but my beeping phone insists and my more mature self knows I shouldn’t ignore the appointments even if he doesn’t actually have any idea how my pregnancy will go.
I disapperate to the doc’s office, landing in the waiting room and startling a receptionist who is technically not supposed to notice when patients appear from nowhere. She raises an eyebrow, but waves me back immediately. Marvin is often running late, but today he seems to have anticipated my arrival. He’s already in the exam room, pacing nervously with a tablet in hand.
Marvin is bald, save for a ring of dark hair that clings to his skull. His hands shake, which I assume is partly why he went into lab work and not surgery. He smiles when he sees me, butit’s a smile laced with concern. “You look… electrified,” he says by way of greeting. “I expected you to c-c-c-cancel, M-M-Miss D-Delilah. That would have b-b-been most inconvenient.”
No shit it would have. This guy would have fallen apart if he had to confront me about skipping.
I hop onto the exam table, crossing my legs and smoothing the dress over my knees, and then lean forward conspiratorially. “I had a rough night,” I admit. “But I’m here because I want to make sure I’m holding up my end of the bargain. I promised to let you monitor this, and I will.”
He nods, his expression pleased as he gathers up a tray of medical stuff. I sit as he runs a spectrum of tests, his hands only steady when touching the instruments, but never when he has to touch me. I know he’s afraid of what Taurus might do if he makes even the tiniest mistake. I can’t blame him; the last time he saw my husband, he almost died over a blood test.
However, I’m not going to be such a fucking bear about this, and I’d like him to get more comfortable.
“Your blood pressure is as high as last time, and your heart is racing. Your pulse is… well, it’s not supposed to be visible, but here we are.” He glances at his tablet, then at me, and back at the tablet again. “Have things been that bad recently? Perhaps I should talk to someone about it, if so. We do not know what will negatively affect the baby.”
“It’s been rough, but not at work.” I tell him about the hurricane in broad brush strokes. I do not mention the responsible party by name, but Marvin is not an idiot. He knows who my mates are, and I’m sure he can work out who did what.
When we’re done, he suggests a sedative to help me stay calm, but I refuse. “If I let my nervous system dull, I’ll miss something important at this job or at home. I can’t afford for that to happen.”
He nods, and I think he understands that what’s healthy isn’t always the same as what’s going to get an agent killed. Then again, if he did, he wouldn’t have suggested a goddamn downer, anyway.
Maybe Taurus is right about using one of the clone docs rather than my pet shaky lab rat?
Deciding my gut is usually right, I push that thought away Marvin finishes up my exam. I leave him a little magical token as a ‘thank you’ for listening—a blue bead that will keep his hands from trembling for at least three days. He arches a brow at the gift, and I pat his head before leaving, the way you do with a pet or a lucky charm. I take the stairs for the exercise, but also because the elevator is always crammed with salty-ass clones who hate that I’m working for The Company now.
My next stop is the administrative headquarters for a meeting. I hate that damn building, but I like the man I’ll see when I get to my destination. The rest of his staff is a rotating parade of suits and heels, all of whom resent me for being magical, good at my job, and not grown in a fucking test tube. It’s not lost on me that the men in the building are the least subtle about their jealousy.
They can fuck all the way off and keep going until they fall off the curve of the fucking planet, as far as I’m concerned.
I pass through security, flashing my Taurus phone at the scanner and receiving a green light and a wink from the system. The receptionist doesn’t look up; she’s seen me too often to botherbeing polite. Heading for the elevators, I ignore the way the conversation dies around me as I walk by. In the mirrored walls, I catch the reflection of a clone with his eyes glued to my legs. I resist the urge to magick his bleached hair bald in response, but barely. I can’t avoid the lift here because I’m going to the fourteenth floor, so I make do with thinking about how I’d murder some of these idiots if I wouldn’t get suspended.
The meeting is in the corner conference room, and Mickey is already there with his sleeves rolled up and his bowtie hanging loose. He looks like he hasn’t slept in three days, which means whatever we’re dealing with is worse than I thought. The rest of his team files in slowly, each one looking more nervous than the last. I feel the tension in the room, like static before a lightning strike.
It’s because they’re worried about offending Taurus if they offend me, and they’re focusing on the wrong person’s wrath.
Mickey starts the meeting with a summary of the last mission’s outcome, careful to omit any mention of supernatural activity on my part. When he gets to the part about how the target was neutralized, he refers to my claws as knives and the fire as accidental. I nod along, pretending I don’t know more than everyone else in the room.
The questions start slowly, then build. Why did the target’s home catch on fire during the execution? (Because I set it on fire.)
Was it a failure in op tech or op info? (Nope, I did it on purpose.)
How do we prevent this in the future? (You don’t want to, and you’re welcome, dumbasses.)
I field each inquiry with a blend of cautious honesty tinged with plausible deniability. It’s exhausting, but I’m getting used to it. By the end, I promise to review all security protocols and to write up a more detailed report about how the mission went sideways. I don’t plan to do it in the slightest, but it made a lot of the team smile happily while Mickey sighed like I’d stolen his favorite tweed jacket.
The stupid debrief finally wraps and people gather their things, eager to leave the room and my presence behind. I linger, pretending to check my phone, waiting until the last of them has gone. Only then do I let myself breathe.
