Page 19 of Tracking Snow

She told me she has Hashimoto’s and POTS, and on flare days, hydration helps, standing too long doesn’t, and acting weird about it is deeply unnecessary.

I immediately get to pulling an espresso shot and pouring a prosecco for Isabelle, her favorite post-work drink.

Then I grab a glass, dump in electrolyte powder, add ice, water, and a splash of lemon before sliding it toward Jessie. Complete in a cute tiki glass, of course.

The hydration mocktail I came up with was my idea, and when Rap found out, she declared that it would always be on the house.

Jessie catches the cup with a grateful smile. "You’re my favorite bartender."

"I know," I grin.

"What is Snow talking about?" Rap asks Ariel.

With a smirk, Ariel pours out three cocktails for an order. "Some guy with multiple personalities who shares Snow’s hobby for stalking the night, acting like a vigilante."

Rap’s expression turns flat. "So you girls just like to run toward the red flags, huh?"

"Stalking the night?" Isabelle asks before sipping the prosecco I slid in front of her. "Snow, you really should stay off the streets. Haven’t you noticed the uptick in disappearances in this city? It’s like people are just getting plucked off the streets." She glances at the front door. "Even Dominic has posted round-the-clock security on me, afraid they’ll come after me for marrying a shifter."

Her security in question stands next to our bouncer, flicking a lighter open and closed with a nonchalance that belies the way he intently scans the bar. Which means Dominic is fully on dad duty so Isabelle could check on her beloved shop.

Jessie pipes in, "I don’t blame your hubby for posting Lucien over there on you to keep you safe." She pulls out her stack of books from the bulging tote onto the bar, like they are her entourage. "The HAMs are getting brazen with Queenie Fairchild likely to win the senate. They may hate mages more, but they don’t have any love for the fae. And both fae and mages have been disappearing en masse."

"It’s true," Rap vouches, her face tightening with concern. "Business has been dropping because the magically abled don’t feel safe to come out and party, so I’m hiring more security to help escort people to their rides and the like."

Those fae fucking HAM assholes.

Two nights in a row I’ve found them cornering mages. It’s got to be them. I’ve known them to leave people behind bloodied and beaten, but I didn’t know they’d resorted to straight up disappearing people.

A shiver runs through me.

That’s got to be why The Seven is out roaming the night. They targeted him that first night, but he was jolly on the spot when the mage kid who runs the convenience store got cornered.

Once he realizes we are on the same side with the same mission, or what I like to call a hobby, he won’t be pushing me away for long. After last night, there’s no way he can ignore what an asset I am.

Isabelle nudges Rap with an elbow. "Remember when you were a humans-only bar a scant few years ago."

Rap rolls her eyes. "Yeah well, I tried to distance myself from magic life, but the magic life finds me. When three of your top bartenders all end up developing mage powers, it’s not like I could fire them."

"Yes, actually, you could have," Isabelle points out. "You just chose not to," she adds in a soft tone.

"I wasn’t trying to be exclusive. I was just trying to run a business in Boston that fit the culture to make money. And turns out, being the magical hub in a human-dominated city is a money-making niche. Besides, I’ve just accepted I’m doomed at trying to lead a normal human life."

I open my mouth to jump on that, since that’s a very strange thing for my human boss to say, but before I can get the words out, a deep male voice interrupts.

"Excuse me, do any of you know where I can find the owner?"

We all swivel around to find a muscular man with deep brown eyes and a shaved head, with ex-military written all over him. Or maybe that’s the fatigue pants and green tee that stretches across his broad shoulders and chest.

The man is attractive in an intense, I militantly eat two dozen eggs in the morning to bulk my muscles, because my body is a temple kind of way.

Rap’s mouth opens and then closes a moment as she takes him in.

Holy butterfly balls. Is she actually ogling this guy?

No flippin’ way.

"This would be her," Isabelle says, leaning in and taking hold of Rap’s shoulders as if she is presenting a piece of art. Or maybe showing off a prize-winning dog who can’t find its tongue.