Page 55 of Glimmer and Burn (Unity #1)

Epilogue

T he explosion was a surprise. Miranda crouched to retrieve her sword, staying low and out of sight.

The building was destroyed. Whatever remained intact during the fight had been reduced to splinters.

The larger debris provided cover, and Miranda peeked around what remained of a table.

Devin met her eyes across the battlefield—a small tavern in the Fells now unrecognizable.

The only clue to its origins was a mountain of broken glass where bottles had been stored.

The Day Fae in the center of the room continued to spit fire; the unrestricted blaze must have caused one of the barrels to ignite. Miranda’s gaze returned to Devin.

“What’s the plan?” he mouthed, giving the barest slant to an eyebrow.

Miranda surveyed the choices, returning a scrunched look to convey, “Do we have any devices left?”

He searched around him, then held up a fae contraption devised by Gideon’s sister, Seraphina.

Over the years, as the Watchmen looked to create a specialized task force to deal with the influx of Divinity in the population, they’d developed a few tricks.

Miranda couldn’t recall whatever fancy name Sera had given the device, but this one was designed to subdue Day Fae.

Some mix of moonstone and night lily? Didn’t matter.

What mattered was that if used correctly, the device would knock the target out cold.

Their first few attempts had not landed, so they were down to this final device. Miranda was in charge of the Task Force assigned to these cases, though…technically, she was on leave and therefore not supposed to be working, let alone taking missions in the field.

But Miranda was nearest the scene when the call went out. She couldn’t stand back while people were attacked. Devin was, of course, furious about it, insisting that she wait for her replacement before charging in headfirst. But she’d been cooped up for seven months now. She was getting bored.

Miranda gave Devin a nod and his eyes narrowed with frustration. He was going to be very cross later.

But when she leapt from cover, drawing the fae’s attention, Devin seamlessly used the distraction as planned.

He slid the device between the fae’s legs, released the catch, and waited.

The mechanism opened and a light burst from a compartment.

The beam had no effect on Devin, since it was designed to inhibit Day Fae, but the fae hurling fireballs from their palm suddenly screamed in agony.

The target crumbled to the floor when the device let out a small popping sound and gas poured into the room.

Devin stood above the noxious cloud, covering his mouth with his sleeve. The first part of the trap was specific to the fae target, but the gas would knock out anyone caught in the initial burst.

“The team should be here soon for clean-up and processing,” Miranda said as Devin used his boot to shut the device, then bent down to restrain the target.

People hopped up on Divinity required specialized restraints specific to their race, the fae kind were laced with iron to keep them from breaking through it.

“Which means I won’t be staying out at all hours with reports.

And no bending to pick up evidence. Is that better? ”

Devin stormed to her side. “ Better , would be if my very pregnant wife didn’t throw herself into danger in the first place.” He crossed his arms. “You promised Allura.”

Miranda winced. “Does she have to know?”

“How are you going to keep this from her? You have—” His face went white. “Mira, you’re bleeding.”

“What?” She looked down. “Oh, it’s just a scratch—”

“It’s more than a scratch. No more arguments. We’re going home.” He swept her into his arms and Miranda rolled her eyes.

“You’re overreacting.”

“Allura won’t agree.”

“Ah, fuck. I can’t hide this, can I?”

“It’s your own fault.”

In their carriage—which they were supposed to use to attend an important political dinner with Lord and Lady Wilde when a commotion on this side of the park drew Miranda’s attention and then, well, no dinner party—Devin tied off Miranda’s leg at the knee.

It would slow the blood oozing from the gash on her calf.

Her parents would understand. They didn’t approve of her career, but she hadn’t needed their approval and she learned that, when pushed, they chose to love her more than cling to their traditions.

Devin said nothing as the carriage rattled along, bobbing on the uneven dirt streets until they transitioned to the cobbled roads of the Garrison.

Once they reached their home, he threw the carriage door open and then spun to lift her before she could attempt the two steps to the sidewalk.

Up the stairs to the door, he kicked at it with his boot.

“Why does this feel so familiar?” He asked, partly seething, partly amused.

She snuggled into his arms, not willing to admit that getting off her feet felt amazing.

Haversham answered the door and merely stepped aside with a nod. They had not even made it through the threshold when a nine-year-old girl marched down the stairs. Long, pointed ears stuck out from dark silky hair and her eyes—a soft, human shade of brown—narrowed with anger.

“How could you!”

“Sweetheart, it’s really—”

Their eldest, Allura, pointed swiftly and silently toward the sitting room in a manner that brokered no argument.

She followed Devin with a huff and glared as her mother was nestled into the couch, her leg propped on the table.

Allura heaved a case from the corner, the one she kept stocked with all manner of first aid and various emergency supplies.

She opened the case and, with the silent calm of a surgeon, began to tend to her mother’s wound.

“You promised no more missions in your condition. What if something happened to the baby?”

“I know, but I was careful and your father—”

“Daddy agrees with me, so I know you did that thing where you look at him funny and he does whatever you want.”

Devin crossed his arms, nodding in agreement, then he frowned. “Hang on, that is not how it works, Allie.”

Allura rolled her eyes as she slipped on gloves and began cleaning with gauze and some concoction that bubbled when it hit the open wound. Miranda winced, but did her best to hide her discomfort.

“Wait,” Devin hung his head. “Where’s the nanny?”

Allura ignored him.

“Damn it, Allura, you’ve got to stop locking them up. Where is she?” He stuck his head out of the room. “Never mind, I’ll follow the yelling.” He set off to find wherever his daughter had stashed her current caretaker.

“Maybe you should hire competent nannies,” Allura murmured as she focused on the needle and thread in her steady hands.

She deftly speared the needle and set to work on the stitches.

She’d had a lot of practice cleaning wounds over the years.

Her first patients were her dolls and then her baby brother—which was promptly stopped by Devin and Miranda.

Babies are not test subjects, they’d had to reiterate more than once.

“The nannies are not for you,” Miranda scolded, though it was without any sort of authority.

Allura had never responded to scolding. Or rules.

She always did just as she pleased, but with such well-reasoned, indisputable logic that it was impossible to argue with her.

According to Devin, children didn’t usually have an aura.

Or if they did, it was fuzzy and constantly shifting.

A strong emotion might create some color, but nothing that lasted until their personalities were more settled.

Allura had developed a defined, rigid wavelength of ‘sensible azure,’ as Devin called it, by the time she was three.

Devin returned with a squirming toddler in his arms. A smiling boy with blonde hair and tawny skin. His eyes were a sparkling shade of lavender.

“What happened to mommy?”

“She was reckless and irresponsible—” Allura started, but Miranda quickly cut her off.

“I’m okay, Finn.” Miranda sent Allura a glare that silenced her for the moment, at least.

“That’s a lot of blood,” Finn said, craning his head to see the injury. “Can I see?”

“No. You’re too young,” Allura snapped.

“You’re not the boss.”

“I am when I’m with a patient.”

“Mommy’s the boss.”

“And…I think it’s nap time,” Devin said, turning with Finn in his arms, who twisted to stick his tongue out over Devin’s shoulder. Allura was oblivious to the insult.

Devin bounced Finn a few times on his shoulder, a flurry of giggles filling the room. “You didn’t fall asleep in the library again, did you?”

Finn spoke through his laughter, “Maybe.”

Devin’s sigh could be heard even as he ascended the stairs.

Allura finished and Miranda began to clean up the mess. Allura was brave and proud, but she was also nine.

“Darling, you know I’m the strongest person in the world, right?

” The little game Miranda had started once Allura was old enough to understand Miranda’s work for the Watchmen.

The dangers had been a hard subject for Allura to grasp.

They had joked that Miranda was the strongest person in the world, so she would always come home.

Allura figured out the lie about a year later.

“The strongest in the world,” Allura repeated.

“And I will always do whatever it takes to come home to you.” Miranda held out her arms and Allura finished reorganizing her case and snapped it shut. Looking at the floor, Allura climbed onto the couch and snuggled into her mother’s side.

“I know.”

“But you still get scared?”

“Yes.”

Miranda started to stroke her long dark hair. “That’s understandable. My work is definitely scary. But it’s also what I need to do. And it’s not your job to worry about me, darling.”

“I worry about lots of things,” Allura said, voice tiny.

“I know. Do you want to play that game? The distraction game we talked about for when your worry gets too big?”

Allura nodded. And together, they both searched the room for things that would be the grossest to eat or make the best weapon or that would make the silliest hat.

It wasn’t the same sort of childhood as Miranda’s.

Her children were given freedom to be themselves.

And though they received the same education as the other children in the Garrison, Miranda didn’t enforce the lessons and her children’s manners were not what the social elite would consider ‘up to standards.’

She still wasn’t certain how much of her guardian blood was in her children.

Their strength had never seemed greater than any other child.

But she still sent both of them to training three days a week.

Allura hated it, but Miranda wouldn’t be swayed from the necessity of learning how to defend herself.

Finn loved every second, showing a real flare for combat despite his clumsy toddler bearings.

But most importantly, they were accepted. Kieran North and his wife had made significant improvements to the city’s infrastructure, inclusive measures to help ease the transition into ending the boundaries between races.

Devin was not particularly liked by higher society, but Miranda maintained that it was mostly because they had gotten to know him that caused their contempt, not his past or lineage.

The peerage were quick to overlook his ancestry and birth when the truth of Graves had been exposed.

They were not quick, however, to overlook his inappropriate comments or ill-timed jokes.

The children, however, were social peers with every door open to them. Whatever they wanted was in their reach. And Devin and Miranda had smothered the children in as much love and confidence in themselves as they could manage.

Miranda hobbled up the stairs to the nursery. Inside, Devin sat in an armchair snoring lightly as Finn flipped through the pages of a picture book.

“Daddy fell asleep.”

“I see that, darling.”

Finn used his tiny blanket to cover Devin’s chest and planted a wet, sloppy kiss on his cheek. “Night, night,” he whispered as he climbed down.

Miranda giggled as Devin wiped at the wet spot with his sleeve, eyes still closed but grinning.

As Finn raced closer, she carefully scooped him up. “Why don’t we let daddy rest?”

“Yeah, he says you wear him out.”

Miranda pursed her lips. “Oh?”

“And that you’ll be the death of him.”

“Traitor,” Devin mumbled.

Behind his shoulder, the moon shone through the window.

Their mid-day. They kept a Night Fae schedule as a family.

The children showed clear preference for moonlight from infancy.

Sometimes the strange hours caught up with Miranda, waking at odd times or her stomach rumbling during her previous luncheon, now the middle of her sleep cycle.

At the moment, however, she was always hungry.

“Well, I’m starving. How about we do family picnic?” She asked.

Finn nearly jumped from her arms and Miranda was forced to set him down, her hand protecting her stomach from his flailing legs. “Picnic! Picnic!”

“Cook hates when we do family picnic,” Allura said, appearing in the doorway. But she was smiling.

“Well, I’m sure a small bonus will ease her frustration. Now. To the kitchen!”

The children raced ahead and Miranda held out her hand, Devin took it, and they followed at a slower pace.

“I’m starving,” she started, already imagining what she would pack.

Devin chuckled. The children always pretended to gag and over-act throwing up while Pregnant Miranda arranged the strangest concoctions of food he’d ever seen.

Hands full, basket bursting, and the kitchen thoroughly raided of anything edible, the Drake family set out blankets in the back garden under the moonlight and settled on cushions swiped from the sofa.

Devin had hated this home once. It had filled him with regret and bitterness. He didn’t feel like he belonged to its history.

So he had emptied it of every piece of furniture and artwork and portrait.

He wiped the slate of the Warner legacy clean, and filled the house with a new legacy.

And in the front hall, a grand portrait of him and Miranda and two children hung over the fresh coat of paint—their wild, energetic poses best suited to each personality was unlike any other portrait ever painted, if the artist was to be believed.