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“What the f––” Ezra mutters, but stops when the can hits the ground and starts spewing black smoke into the enclosed space, making our eyes water and our throats seize up. They shout my name, then something else. Something that sounds like, “Get down!” but is muffled by the hiss of the smoke billowing out.

I feel Ezra shove me hard to the ground. I wince at the sharp pain that shoots from my knees up my spine. I hear the portal door squeak closed. Then I hear nothing at all as the can explodes mere inches from us.

Chapter 2

Emma

Two weeks later…

Gothenburg, Sweden

“Mom, you have to stop,” I tell her when she pulls the laptop from my grasp and snaps it closed. “I need to work.”

“Wrong, kiddo. Working is the last thing you should be doing right now. You’re recovering from a violent attack, and this,” she points at me, wiggling a finger in the general area of my face, “ain’t recovering. You can work when you’re back home.”

“When will that be?” I ask with an impatient sigh. “I agreed to come visit for a few days. It’s been a week. I can’t stay here forever. I miss my cat. Ziggy and I can’t communicate like this. And if Ezra wakes up and I’m not there, I’ll never forgive myself.”

What looked like a small keg that day inside the portal turned out to be a handmade bomb. Ezra used their body as a shield and laid on top of me, protecting me from the explosion. The injuries they suffered put them in such critical condition the doctors at Mapletown Hospital put them in a medically-induced coma. They required five surgical procedures to repair the most severe injuries. It’s been two weeks, and the doctors have no idea when, or if, Ezra will wake up.

I’ve only slept a handful of hours since then.

My other mom, whom I call Morsa––a Swedish term for mom––tilts her head, giving me a sympathetic look. “I know you worry about them, älskling, but you’ll be back by their side soon enough.” She looks me up and down. “You’re still not bathing or eating regularly, which means you still need your mammas to take care of you.” She puts a bowl of cereal in my hands. “Now eat.”

I take a few bites before my stomach turns. Morsa sits next to me on my bed, watching me like a hawk. I take another bite and struggle to swallow as bile starts to rise in my throat. “I think I’m good for now.”

“You know what else you need to do while you’re here?” Mom says, leaning against my doorframe.

I know what she’s about to say. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Emma…” Her tone is stern and serious. I can tell I’m about to get scolded. “He’s your uncle, and he’s worried about you.”

“I don’t care,” I protest. “He’s the last person I’m interested in seeing right now.”

“An hour. Give him an hour. That’s all I’m asking.” Mom puts her hands on her wide hips as she gives me the look. You know the one. That classic Mom look that makes you feel like she’s peering straight into your soul.

Morsa covers my hand with hers and lays it on thick. “Then do it for me. Please? He’s my brother, and he loves you.”

I sigh, my resolve weakening. “You both know how I feel about him.”

Uncle Henrik and I used to be close—when I was a child and didn’t know any better. He was the man with the big blue eyes and blond ponytail who’d show up once in a while and shower me with toys. Of course I loved him.

It was obvious he didn’t know how to interact with me when I grew into a teenager, so he threw gifts at me instead. Money, gadgets, clothes, you name it, he sent it to me. It sounds like a dream, and at first, it was. But my moms didn’t raise a spoiled kid or a fool.

The gifts came at a price. He wanted to spend time with me in exchange for everything he sent. He traveled via private jet several times a year just to see me, but he’s a terribly awkward guy who doesn’t know how to talk about anything other than his company or his wealth. When my moms told me he was their sperm donor, and technically my biological father, that somehow made the visits more uncomfortable. I had no inclination to bond with him.

Henrik tried to give Tova, my morsa, money on several occasions, but my mom refused. She didn’t appreciate the implication that they needed his charity, so the three of us lived a comfortable, humble life on Mom’s Mapletown mayoral salary. Mom was the mayor for sixteen years and the head of the Mapletown coven. Morsa stayed home with me until I was old enough to go to school, and after that, she filled her days with hobbies and volunteer work.

Mom and Morsa aren’t flashy people. They don’t splurge on diamond jewelry or luxury handbags. They both wear flowy, shapeless dresses, comfortable shoes, and the only jewels they wear are gemstones for specific magical purposes. Even in retirement, their home in Gothenburg might be only a few miles from Henrik’s sprawling multi-million-dollar estate, but theirs is a cozy three-bedroom cottage in the heart of downtown that they paid for themselves. They like being able to walk or ride their bikes everywhere, they buy food from the nearby market two or three days at a time, and they recycle just about everything.

And if I don’t finish this bowl of cereal, Morsa might even try to ground me for being wasteful.

Then there’s Henrik, with just the right amount of crazy and the type to hoard wealth and exploit labor from his low-level employees who build his shiny tech gadgets. He flashes his wealth all over town with his fancy car collection and gaudy wristwatches that are worth so much money they could feed a small country. He didn’t start out in tech, but when he became rich enough, he acquired a tech company so he could order the scientists to build him whatever he wanted. And somehow that made him ten times richer. I don’t know the details of what he does or what he’s into, I just know it pisses me off.

My world view and his are as diametrically opposed as light and dark, and when I realized that was the case, around the same time I learned he’s my biological father, I decided he’d only ever be Uncle Henrik to me and nothing more. I also knew that I’d spend as little time as possible in his general vicinity.

When he visits Mapletown and stays in one of his many houses––which seems to be once every other year, at most––I keep the social visits limited to a single meal and spend most of the time pointing out how tight the town’s budget is until he’s willing to make a donation. For the good of my constituents, I can suffer ninety minutes of small talk with him as long as I walk out of there with a check in my hand.

Today, though, I’m exhausted. Mom has only let me answer a handful of work emails, so I’m unable to get a clear picture of our current budgetary needs, and the rest of my mind is on Ezra. I don’t have it in me to listen to Henrik blather on about how certain wines from certain years are superior to others or how his stock portfolio is performing this quarter. I don’t fucking care how happy his investors are with him or where he’s building house number seven.