Page 9 of The Fae’s Treasure

“It’s perfect! It’s home,” I snarl softly. My tone softens suddenly, “It’ll be just the place to raise a boy. All the clouds he’ll learn to fly through, and the storms he’ll learn to control, and the woods and hills, and the rivers and lakes... I’ll teach him to whittle and name all the stars,” I whisper, leaning back against the tree we’ve taken refuge under.

“Aye.” Bonwit’s answer is short. Quiet.

“When we get him,” I say firmly.

If we get him.

Bonwit and I sit side-by-side, with the dozing puppy occasionally waking to demand treats from Bonwit’s pocket. One by one, all the lights in the house go out. The lights in other houses are out, and yet, in some houses the lights go on, and people appear at the doorways, and hug each other before one leaves, driving off in their strange, metal carriages.

“Vampires. Gargoyles. Supernatural sorts. Monsters and beasties,” Bonwit says, tense beside me.

“But... They live in little houses. They drive little autophones.”

“Automobiles. Mobiles are phones that you can carry about. Automobiles are things that carry the person about.”

“Humans are horribly confusing.”

“At their core, they're simple. They want love and basic comforts. The good ones don’t get too greedy, and the bad ones deserve everything that fae dish out.”

“But why are the vampires allowed here? Why was Saz?”

Bonwit gives me a look that shows he’s awfully concerned. “Can’t you feel it? This is a place where the energy calls to immortals and the others that aren’t quite human. It’s... Can’t you feel it?” He touches the air like he could pull up a handful. “Tuatha Dé Danann,” he breathes reverently. “That’s sweet. You wouldn’t know, I suppose. You’re always in your realm, and the energy is saturated with magic. It’s rich as Cernunnos here. It’s not like this everywhere I land, which is why I usually stick to Samhain, when the veils thin. This place? The walls between worlds are like water. Swim right through. Saz came in easy enough. I guided you here without a fuss. What I don’t understand is if this place is meant for beings of good or evil. If Saz came, and those bloodsuckers live here freely, we could find ourselves facing down demons in seconds, m’lord.”

At least I feel like I add something to the mission now.

“You go in quietly, Bonwit, and find the child’s nursery. I’ll stand guard and fend off whatever demons may come.”

Chapter Four: Deanna

Mothering. You are supposed to get nine months to prepare, maybe longer these days. People’s social media feeds are full of things like “hoping for babydust!” and “TTC #1!”

Okay, and maybe you don’t know until several months have passed. I’ve heard of that, too. But still. Most often—you get at least a couple of months’ notice.

Me?

I got zero notice. If not for the grace of God and express “here by 8 AM shipping” or “comes assembled” options, I would be curled in a hysterical ball, faithless to my image of competency, the image I’ve doubled down on since breaking things off with Aaron.

I might not be crying, but I’m on an adrenaline high with racing thoughts that won’t keep silent.

I sit in Rory’s “nursery,” which was bare and clean to start with. Now, it’s fashionably minimalist. A rocker. A crib (already assembled). A changing table with dresser drawers in it. (Assembled by myself, with the help of a tiny screwdriver.) A diaper pail, wipes, and diapers.

My crippling fear.

It doesn’t help that I didn’t order a baby monitor. I have now, and it’ll be here tomorrow.

I rock, eyes wide open, listening for breathing.

Mine is fast. I need to slow it down. Rory’s is there. So faint, you have to struggle to hear it.

I put him on his back. Swaddled. You’re supposed to do that.

That’s what all the moms and pediatricians say. Their kids don’t have wings.

What if I’m breaking his wings? What if he never flies because I didn’t know to put whatever kind of child he is on his side, or upside down like a bat?

I smother a semi-hysterical laugh and rock faster.

Okay, Deanna. You can do this.