“A good plan for all of us,” Ethan said, and we headed upstairs.
• • •
“There is not a Margot basket big enough for this day,” I said when we were alone again. I pulled off my boots, let them drop heavily to the floor.
The voice had been so sad, so angry, so frustrated, and it felt like those emotions still clung to me. And when that door was opened, the other emotions I’d pushed aside—the grief I still felt from our visit to the green land—rushed forward again.
Gabriel, Claudia. The messages about the possibility of our child were getting grimmer, and the possibility of having a child seemed to slip further and further away.
Ethan grunted, walked to the desk, looked over the basket she had assembled. And then smiled. “I believe you may want to reconsider that statement, Sentinel.”
I doubted reconsideration was necessary, but indulged him with a look at the basket.
“Mmmph,” was the closest approximation to the sound that I made. “I’m not really hungry.”
I walked to the window, pushed back the heavy silk curtain with a finger. The world outside was dark and cold, frost already gathered on the glass.
“Not hungry?” Ethan joked, pulling his shirt over his head. “How is that possible?”
When I didn’t answer, he moved closer, turned me toward him, and frowned down at what he saw. “You’re troubled,” he said, stroking a thumb along my jaw.
I paused, fearing I’d sound ridiculous, but remembered he was my husband, my partner, my confidant and friend, so I trusted him with it.
“I was thinking about the green land, and the child we saw there. It hurt. Seeing her, and having her taken away.”
“We weren’t really there,” he said kindly, “and she wasn’t really taken away.”
“It felt real. It hurt like it was real, and Gabriel said nothing was guaranteed. What if that’s really our future? In our time, instead of Claudia’s, but the same kind of loss?”
“It wasn’t our future,” Ethan said. “It was an illusion.”
But sadness had gripped me, wrapped fingers around my heart, and wasn’t ready to let go. “And even if it was,” I began, and turned back to the window. “Look at the city, Ethan. This is our legacy: violent sorceresses, enemies on our doorstep, humans driven mad by magic. Why would we even want to bring a child into this world? Into Sorcha’s world?”
“It’s not Sorcha’s world,” Ethan said, his tone as sharp as a knife. “It is our world. She is intruding, and we will handle her as we always have.”
I shook my head. “Even if we could have a child, children are fragile.”
“Children are resilient, and our child will be immortal.”
“So we assume. But we don’t know that. Not really. We don’t know anything about the biology, how it would work. And if she’s the only one—the only vampire kid? What kind of life would that be? What kind of life would she have?”
“Where is this coming from?”
; She frowned.
“Smoke. And the lake. And the wind blowing in from the prairies. Hot dogs and hot beef and summertime grills. Bodies and sweat and tears.” She opened her eyes. “It’s like someone made a perfume of Chicago—all of it together.”
Ethan and Catcher inhaled deeply, held the air in their bodies as if to measure its contents.
“Pizza,” Ethan said.
“Yeah,” Catcher said. “I mean, a lot of exhaust and smoke, but there’s a thread of sausage, maybe?”
“The delusions aren’t delusions,” I said. “They’re hearing Chicago.”
“The voice is sentient,” Catcher said. “Chicago isn’t. That’s not possible.”
“There shouldn’t be snow on the ground in August,” Mallory said. “There shouldn’t be people trying to harm themselves to alleviate their delusions. We don’t have the luxury of ‘possible’ right now. But,” she added, “I think you’re right about the city—Chicago is a really big place. If it was possible a city could be sentient, and if Chicago was that lucky, one-in-a-million city, I’m pretty sure there’d be more than a single voice and some stink.”