When someone tells you not to cry, it’s pretty much impossible not to cry.
So I cried and Pete wrapped an arm around me as we waited for my parents to get there.
They looked scared as they came down the alley, but they hugged me close as I cried all over them, telling them I was sorry and to please not let me poop in buckets because I somehow turned teenage dickbags to stone.
“I’m not even going to pretend to know what you’re talking about,” my dad said as he kissed my forehead, because he was so awesome.
“I won’t make you poop in a bucket,” my mother said as she ran her fingers through my hair, because she was so cool.
That’s when Morgan came.
I didn’t know who he was at first. Sure I’d heard of him. He was the King’s Wizard and he could do stuff like create fire tornadoes and make your face melt off. Rather, that’s what the kids in the slums told each other because we were epic like that. I think I’d even started the rumor that he could make your nipples explode with a single thought. Judging by the looks of sheer horror on the others’ faces, it was one of those things that sounded better in my head rather than out loud. Most things often did.
So I didn’t know who he was, not by looks alone.
All I saw was a man with a black beard that came down to his chest and an epic pile of hair that stuck out all over the place. He was tall, almost as tall as my dad, but whip thin, with long, elegant fingers that traced over the boys of stone in the alley. He was wearing a long black robe and pointy pink shoes that were just killer. I couldn’t even begin to guess how old he was. Maybe thirty. Or three hundred. When you’re eleven, anyone older is just old.
When he spoke, his voice was light and melodious, almost like he was singing his words rather than speaking them. It was glorious. “This certainly is a surprise.”
“Is that—” my mom whispered to my dad.
“I think—” my dad breathed back.
“I like your shoes,” I said. Because I did. They were pink and pointed, and I wanted a pair like that so bad.
My mom and dad groaned.
Morgan looked at me and cocked his head. “Thank you, little one. I made them out of the tears of a succubus and a lightning-struck tree stump I found under the Winter Moon. I like your face.”
I grinned. “Thank you, big one. My parents made it when they got married. I was a honeymoon baby, whatever that means.”
My parents ch
oked on either side of me.
Morgan chuckled and said, “Very well put. Are these your parents?”
“Yes,” I said proudly. “This is my mother, Rosemary. You can call her Rose. And this is my dad Josh.”
“Surname?”
“Haversford, sir,” my father said.
Morgan looked at my mother. “And you, dearie? Surely you haven’t always been Rosemary Haversford.”
My mother shook her head. “It is a name I adopted when I chose to leave the clan and marry my love. I was born Dika Tshilaba.”
“Ah,” Morgan said. “I see. Your mamia was Vadoma, then.”
My mother looked surprised. “Yes, my lord. You’ve heard of her?”
He gave a mysterious smile. “Perhaps.”
And because the conversation was boring and I had questions, I said, “So. Anyway. How many tears did it take from the succubus to make the shoes? Like six? Or fifty? How did you make the succubus cry? What’s a succubus? When is the Winter Moon? Is that tomorrow? Can I make those shoes tomorrow? I do like the pink. I would look so awesome if I had those. Everyone would be like, hey, Sam! Where’d you get those shoes? And I’d be all like, don’t you wish you knew?”
My dad said, “Sam,” in that tone of voice that said I was in so much trouble when we got home.
I glared at him and rolled my eyes.