Kelley Armstrong - Otherworld Chills

It was more than having busy lives. Any child we brought into this world would arrive with a target on her back. Even Savannah, a disavowed child of the Nast Cabal, joked about how often she’d been kidnapped when she was young.

Then there was Savannah herself. She was our child in so many ways. As much as we loved her, there’d been a soft sigh of relief when she finally moved out and we had the house to ourselves. When it came to parenting, we’d been there, done that, and it might sound selfish, but I was okay with finally having my husband all to myself.

I understood, then, that Benicio didn’t realize he was trying to co-opt my body for his own purposes. To him, this made logical sense, giving us an excuse to satisfy a presumed longing while helping save the company from Carlos and his cohorts. Win-win.

I would tell Lucas that. But not tonight. My husband so rarely lost his temper that I wasn’t going to negate his right to be angry over this. Instead, I’d try to take his mind off it, which I did, until both of us fell asleep, too exhausted to fume over Benicio.

“You look like shit this morning,” Savannah said when I met her the next morning.

“Thank you. Thank you so much.” I collapsed into a coffee shop chair. “And I’d love to say the same back, except it would be a lie. I’ve always thought that saying about pregnant women glowing was a total lie. Apparently not. Bitch.”

Savannah choked on a laugh, but she grinned, too. While she’d been living with us, it’d been hard for me to get past the guardian–ward relationship. We’d always been more like sisters, but it had definitely been an “older sister” vibe. Now we’ve finally achieved that elusive status of true friendship. The fact that I was okay with calling Savannah a bitch delighted her. Or maybe it was just hearing me say the word.

I caught a whiff of her drink, and my stomach, already unsettled, roiled. “What is that?” I said, pointing.

“A decaf cappuccino. Yes, I know it still has some caffeine, but Hope says having one when I need it is fine, and my doctor agrees. Right now, it’s the only thing that will get me through another day of shopping.”

“The milk’s turned. Go ask them for another one.”

“Um, it’s fine, Paige.” She pushed it over. “Smell.”

I took a deep whiff and was out of my chair and on the way to the restroom in two seconds flat. Five seconds after barreling through the door, I was bent over a toilet, vomiting up what little I’d managed to eat at breakfast.

“Paige?” Savannah said outside the stall. “Are you throwing up?”

A wave of gagging inelegantly answered for me.

“You weren’t feeling well yesterday morning, either,” she said. “Are you sick?”

“I wouldn’t come near you if I thought I had the flu.”

“I know that. But you don’t get sick. Ever.”

“It’s food poisoning. Revenge of the cheap sushi from the other night.”

Silence answered, and I wondered if the smell of the vomit had her racing out before she threw up. But when I exited the stall, heading straight for the sink, she was there, her face drawn with worry.

“Food poisoning doesn’t come and go like that,” she said. “Believe me, Adam and I have eaten our share of bad-decision street food.”

“Well, then, maybe it’s sympathetic morning sickness.”

“I don’t have morning sickness.”

“Bitch.”

She didn’t grin this time. Didn’t even smile.

“You really don’t look good, Paige. I figured it was just a late night with Lucas. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have teased you about it. But you look …”

“Like shit?”

“Exhausted. That’s not normal. You can get two hours’ sleep and you’re little miss sunshine, raring to go.”

I finished rinsing out my mouth. Then I took my toothbrush and toothpaste from my purse. When Savannah didn’t rib me for carrying a toothbrush and toothpaste, I knew her concern was serious.

“Maybe I have caught something,” I said. “If so, I shouldn’t be around you. Let me call Adam. He’ll jump at the chance to reschedule his meeting. He might like doing research, but that doesn’t mean he likes hanging out with other researchers.”

I smiled, expecting her to roll her eyes and make some comment. She only watched me as I brushed my teeth.

“Is there any chance …?” She patted her stomach and then pointed at me.

I choked on my mouthful of minty water. “Absolutely not.”

“No form of birth control is one hundred percent. You gave me that talk, complete with statistics I can still recite.”

“I’m on long-term birth control. As close to foolproof as possible. So no, pregnancy is not the answer.”

“Have you had a period since Seattle?”

I capped my toothpaste. “What?”

“You had to do an emergency drugstore run when we were investigating in Seattle. I remember it because I joked about getting nine months of freedom from that particular joy.”

“Right, then. It was Seattle, which was last month.”

“Six weeks ago.”

“Then I’m a couple of weeks overdue. It’s happened before. As you love to point out, I have hit middle age.”

“You’re at least a decade from menopause, Paige.”

“I’m not pregnant. It isn’t possible.”

“Why?”

Because just twelve hours ago Benicio was telling us we need to have a baby. Waking up the very next morning to discover I’m pregnant is too coincidental to even consider.

A woman with two toddlers walked in, the kids shrieking and giggling, the mother looking harried but happy. She admonished them to make sure they wiped up. Then she spotted us and offered a wry smile and an apology as she bustled past.

I’ve seen other women watch little ones with the hunger of unsatisfied maternal yearning. Even Savannah, who hadn’t planned to get pregnant until she was older, had begun watching babies with that look in her eye, until Adam finally asked if there was any particular reason she wanted to wait.

I’ve also seen women watch little ones and shudder, unable to imagine the horror of that life. I’ve never felt either emotion. I see little ones and I smile, the same way I would at a puppy. I love puppies. Never had one. Never considered getting one. Just because you think something is wonderful doesn’t mean you want it for yourself.

“Paige?”

I took out my cell phone and waved her from the bathroom, saying, “I’m calling Adam to come shop with you. Then I’ll go see the doctor and make sure whatever I have isn’t contagious.”

She plucked the phone from my hand. When I tried to snatch it back, she just held it out of my reach, a strategy she’s been able to employ almost from the day I took custody of her.

“Let’s pop by a drugstore first,” she said.

“I’m not preg—”

“You’re going to the doctor while you’re here, right?”

“I only go to the Cabal doctor for my annual physical.” And apparently, given what Benicio said last night, even that was a mistake.

“I mean that you’re going to a doctor and telling her you’ve been sick for two mornings in a row. You’re thirty-four. Happily married. And your period is two weeks late. The first thing she’ll do is give you a pregnancy test. So maybe you just might want to get that out of the way, in private, beforehand.”

She had a point. I knew I wasn’t pregnant. The coincidence alone almost made me suspect this morning’s nausea was psychosomatic. But I’d rather walk in with my negative test strip and say, “I threw up this morning and this isn’t the answer.” The pharmacy it was, then.

An hour later, I was standing in our condo bathroom, staring at the double blue line on a white strip.