Caitlin Kittredge - Bone Gods

Dreisden answered the door at the Order, and looked her up and down before he stepped aside without a word. Juniper was in the sitting room, reading with her feet tucked under her. Pete tried to sneak by, but Juniper saw her and jumped up.

“Oh, Petunia. I was so worried. So many awful things have been happening.”

“Yeah,” Pete said. “Couldn’t agree more.” She moved toward Morningstar’s study again, but Juniper stopped her.

“Pete.” She chewed on her lip, a mirror of Pete’s own nervous gesture. “I know you hate me,” Juniper said.

“I don’t hate you, Mum.” Pete held up her hands. “I don’t want to reminisce and forgive. I just want to talk to Ethan and then leave and never see any of you ever again.”

“I made a mistake,” Juniper said. “When I left. I had to leave your father, but I thought that meant leaving you girls, too, and I was wrong. And I wouldn’t have seen that without the Order, because the people I was with before didn’t give a toss about family or any of it. So hate me if you want, Pete, but please stop thinking the Order is the reason for it.”

“Mum,” Pete said. “You and I never got along. We are never going to get along. And that is truly the least of my worries right now.” She knocked on Ethan’s door. “Don’t give it another thought on my account, please.”

“Pete…” Juniper started, then stopped. “It’s all right. I hope you’ll believe me. In your own time.”

“Give me sixteen years or so, and I just might,” Pete said.

Morningstar opened the door to his study, and looked at her for a moment, eyebrow cocked. “Do you have something for me?”

“We talk in private?” Pete said. Morningstar stood aside, and shut and latched the door after her.

“I don’t see anyone with you. Anyone responsible. Why is that, Petunia?”

“Because I gave him to the cops,” Pete said. Morningstar’s face went red, and he started for her, hands balling into fists.

“I warned you. I warned you and I wasn’t fucking playing games, you stupid little girl.”

Pete pulled the reliquary from her bag. “I did bring someone, though. Maybe not the hand holding the knife, but the responsible party nonetheless.”

Morningstar stared at the thing, not moving, not blinking. A tremor passed through him. Pete knew instinctively that this was the closest she’d ever see Ethan Morningstar to fear. “Fuck me,” he said softly.

Pete dropped the thing into his hand. “Can’t think of a better bunch of nannies for the reliquary of Nergal.”

Morningstar turned it in his hands. His face was pale and his fingers were quivering. “I didn’t want this,” he whispered.

“Well, it wants you,” Pete said. She shouldered her bag. “And I’ll assume that makes us fucking square.”

Morningstar still clutched the reliquary, as if he couldn’t decide between throwing it or embracing it. “The Order considers this a service,” he said. “If you need anything in the future, you can call on me.”

“Yeah.” Pete stopped with her hand on the doorknob. “You can do me a favor, Ethan.”

“Anything,” he said.

“Never bloody come near me or anyone I know again,” Pete said. “And this isn’t a request, just advice—stop wearing that stupid fucking hat.”

Jack was still in hospital. Lawrence had moved him closer to their flat, but the stab wound had been deep and he’d been in and out of the ICU with complications. Pete felt rude checking her watch while Dr. Abouhd was drawing her blood, but all he did was raise an eyebrow.

“Visiting hours,” she explained.

“I see,” he said. “Anyone special?”

“Nobody you know,” Pete said. Abouhd filled the vial and handed it off to a nurse. She’d had as many visits in three weeks, and repeated this process before. The third try didn’t fill her with much hope that Abouhd would actually find anything.

“Still dizzy?” he asked her. “Still feeling sick?”

“Ever since a couple of days before I came in,” she said. Abouhd looked inside her file, shut it, and faced her, rolling his stool back and forth a bit with one foot.

“Let me ask you, Pete—when was the last time you had a period?”

Pete held up her hands, fighting the urge to leap up, since she was in a backless paper gown, panties, and not a great deal else. “No,” she said. “No, that’s not … I mean, that can’t have anything to do with this. I think I may be anemic.”

Abouhd gave her a regretful half-smile. “Your results were positive. I’ll do another test, of course, to double-check, but I wanted to tell you in person.” He took out his pen and scratched on his prescription pad. “If I can ask—you’re not married, are you?”

“No.” Pete could hear her heart beating, but nothing else. A baby. Jack’s baby. But not Jack’s fault. That one was on her.

Abouhd said something, and then rolled closer and tapped her on the knee when she didn’t answer.

“Eh?” Pete said. She should have known. Should have been careful, cautious Petunia. Especially since she knew Jack, and knew his typical MO when it came to women. Should have at least glanced at a bloody calendar.

“I said, do you have any idea what you’re going to do?” Abouhd said. “There’s several lovely people you can speak to if you need help with the decision…”

“No,” Pete said. “I know who I need to speak to.”

“All right.” Abouhd handed her the scrip. “I wrote you up for vitamins and a few other prenatal goodies, but Pete…” He sighed and then stood. “I’m telling you this as someone who’s known you a while, not as your doctor. Don’t let anyone tell you what to do here. I know you’ll be fine.”

“That makes one of us,” Pete told him. Abouhd put a hand on her shoulder.

“Good luck, Petunia. You can get dressed.”

Pete took her time, now hoping she’d miss visiting hours. But when she’d made a follow-up appointment and waited through two full lifts, there were still ten minutes on the clock.

All right, Caldecott. Stop being a fucking coward. Go upstairs, tell him, and take care of your business.

The traitorous part of her whispered that Jack never needed to know. She was barely a month along. Nobody would ever need to know. She couldn’t deal with being pregnant, never mind having a baby. What sort of mother would she make? She’d be shit, even more shit than Juniper.

But then she’d have to look at Jack and wonder what he or she would have looked like. The Hecate had given her a chance.

She was at the door to Jack’s room, and his eyes fluttered open. They’d taken him off the heavy opiates as soon as possible. Former junkies didn’t get morphine drips. Jack winced as he tried to sit up, but he grinned at her.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, luv.”

Pete sat in the hard plastic chair next to the bed, and gently pushed him back to his pillows. “None of that,” she said. “You pop your incision, you’re going to be in here another month.”

“Incision,” Jack said. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“Why?” Pete said. “You can do better?”

“I’m calling it the great bloody hole in my guts where my girlfriend stabbed me with a fucking knife,” Jack said. “I think it’s catching on.”

Pete didn’t smile, and Jack’s mouth turned down. “What?” he said. “I didn’t bloody do it, whatever it is. I can’t get out of bed without taking a header, so I swear, I’m innocent.”

“I want to tell you,” Pete said. “But I’m … well.” She rubbed her forehead. “I’m scared, Jack.”

“Luv.” Jack sat up, then grabbed at his abdomen. “Fuck. Come over here before they have to operate on me again, will you?”