Die By Night

by Kaitlynn Aisling

  “Is that why you so rarely leave?”

  The telling of the story upset Gavin more than the earlier talk of his father. His fingers are twitching; his amber eyes are alight from within. He takes a few deep breaths and stretches out his fingers, before cracking the knuckles on his right hand.

  Once he’s settled himself, he reaches one finger to stroke a strand of hair away from my eye and curves it around my ear.

  “I will no’ let that happen to you, little mate. I promise that I will keep you safe.”

  The curious melting in my heart starts up again. Liam kicks and the world spins on its axis a few more degrees. If I don’t manage to get control of myself, I’ll end up like Gavin’s mother, locked up with a constant guard in fear for my children’s lives.

  After Gavin’s story, the mood changes once again. He seems tenser. He finishes the tour of the huge house, complete with three stories, and then shows me to our room. I don’t argue with my room assignment. He’s already explained how it’s one of the most defensible rooms in the house, along with the nursery.

  The fear seems much more real to me now. I saw Nolan die. I witnessed it. Yet, for some reason, hearing the story of Gavin’s mother losing her newborn child to vampires while her husband fulfilled his kingly obligations brings the danger home to me.

  She’s me. I’m her. Liam is that infant. And that’s horrifying.

  There will be no nanny in our home. I tell Gavin that as he begins unpacking our duffel bags, my airport buys filling the stately dresser. He agrees quickly, his expression closed off. His mind is elsewhere.

  If they have to renew the treaty, does that mean that Gavin will have to do that while I’m here? Is it overdue because he was in America and originally didn’t think he’d come back?

  “Gavin?”

  “Huh,” he grunts.

  He’s moved on to pulling a large chest from a shelf within the closet.

  “How often do you have to renew the treaty?” I ask.

  “Every five years.”

  He’s answered me, but it’s not the information for which I’m searching.

  “When is the next treaty renewal?” is my follow up question.

  He opens the chest to reveal women’s clothing. I guess it was his mother’s.

  “In a month’s time,” he answers.

  He pushes the chest toward me. I kneel down beside him and look through the clothes, letting the whole treaty thing go for a moment. I spot a New York City tee shirt in the mix.

  “Your mother?” I ask, holding the shirt up to the light.

  “She was American,” he answers.

  That’s another similarity between us. It’s eerie.

  “Did your dad find her in America?”

  I’m grasping for any differences. Any differences.

  “No, she moved here after completing a study abroad program. She taught me much before she died, but mostly she taught Hawke. I was expected tae learn the duties of a rìgh, and thus was trained in traditions and pack law. Hawke, on the other hand, trained with the guard tae become my right-hand and protection. After training, he’d often come here and mam would teach him about the world, while I studied the history texts.”

  That explains why Hawke seems so much more advanced and modern than the rest. He had outside influences.

  “How did she die? How old were you?”

  “I was but ten when she passed. She was diagnosed with cancer before my da found her. The mark allows for a longer lifespan, somewhat altering a Were’s mate’s body chemistry, but the mark canno’ protect against existing disease. She entered remission after she met my da, and they had sixteen wonderful years together.”

  “Did he know . . . when he claimed her, did he know she was sick?”

  “Aye, he did. It made no difference tae him.”

  Gavin clears his throat and shakes his head, as if shaking off the conversation.

  “You can wear these until we find more suitable clothing.”

  “Gavin, I can’t. I can’t wear these. It doesn't feel right.”

  I can’t be her. I can’t lose my child, and I can’t bear the sad, antiquated life that Gavin has to offer.

  “You’re right,” he agrees.

  He doesn’t appear upset; rather he seems relieved that I’ve refused. It bolsters me a little. Maybe he doesn’t want me to be her either.

  He stuffs the clothes back in the chest, shuts it, and pushes it beneath the bed.

  “I have enough clothing to last me awhile anyway. I’m going to be the obnoxious tourist,” I remind him.

  He smiles, most of the sadness gone from his expression.

  Unfortunately, there’s something else he said that I find upsetting.

  “You said the treaty renewal is next month. Do you have to go yourself, or can you send someone in your stead?”

  I know the answer before he opens his mouth, and the fear comes rushing back.

  “I must go. They will terminate the Wards without warning if I am late or attempt tae send anyone else. It would be dangerous for me no’ tae go. The vampires would raid and you’d be unprotected. But I promise I will return in time for the birth o’ our daughter.”

  “Well, I should hope so. I’ve just reached five months. I mean, I know I’m big for my trimester, but jeez.”

  My fear doubles as Gavin slides backward, his lips turning down at the corners once again. There’s something he hasn’t told me, and I already know that it’s yet another thing I don’t want to hear.

  “Gavin . . . ”

  “Lass, I doona know how tae tell you this . . . ”

  Oh, God.

  Placing my hands against the wood floor, I shove upward to my feet. I don't think I want to be sitting for this.

  “Mayhap you should sit down?” he says, contradicting my thoughts as always.

  He stood when I did, and he’s doing that male placating gesture, pushing air down with his palms in front of him. I’m running through all the possibilities, but I don’t want to accept the most obvious.

  Back when we had our dog, Masha, we used to take her out for walks in the neighborhood. My mama loved Masha like another child. She would set up play dates for her with the neighbor’s terrier, Sandy. Then one day, Mama told me that Masha had to play with another dog for a while, because Sandy was going to have puppies.

  Soon after, I learned that the gestation period for puppies is different than that of humans. Most notably I learned that dogs carry their young for a little over two months, rather than the human standard of over nine months. I know dogs and wolves are very similar.

  I sit down.

  “Gavin, when is this baby due?”

  He clears his throat again.

  “Close to a month from now.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The dreams of rattles and skulls that I dealt with months before are much more intense with the restricted timeline hanging over my head. I imagine Gavin doesn’t get much sleep next to me, with my constant tossing and turning.

  There’s nothing that’ll drive home the point of your unnatural offspring like knowing it’ll take six months for him to mature and be born. So in the middle of the night when I jerk awake, gasping, for the third time, I snuggle back into Gavin’s chest and draw his arm around my stomach.

  If he mentions it in the morning, I’ll claim ignorance. I’ll say I was sleep cuddling. But for right now, I need his strength. I need it badly.

  It seems to help, my mark a comforting warmth against my neck. Eventually, finally, I drift off to a dreamless sleep, as if Gavin is magically protecting me from the nightmares.

  When I wake in the morning, Gavin is already gone. There’s so much to do. I need to contact Meagan and my family to update them. But how do I explain the updated timeline for the baby’s birth? Of course, my family didn’t originally know about the pregnancy. The only one who knew from the beginning was Meagan. That won’t make it any easier.

  I could always say the baby was born premature. H
ow many months in do I need to be for the baby to survive on its own? I wonder if Heather knows.

  There’s a soft knock on the door, followed by, “May I enter, Rìgain MacCrae?”

  Speak of the devil.

  “Come in,” I call.

  “Good morning, Rìgain,” Heather says upon opening the door.

  “Come sit, Heather,” I offer.

  I scoot upward to lean my back against the ostentatious headboard and fold my legs underneath me. Then I pat the bed in front of me.

  Heather’s eyes widen in surprise, but she doesn’t hesitate. Does she think of it as an order?

  “If you want,” I amend quickly.

  She smiles and settles in front of me.

  “You’ll fit in well, Rìgain.”

  Might as well set them straight from the get-go.

  “Please don’t call me that. It’s not a title I’ve earned,” or fully understand, “And it’s not a title I’m ready for.”

  “Maybe not so well after all,” she says.

  Her smile doesn’t last, morphing into a frown, which I assume represents her disapproval.

  “Look, Heather. I don’t know you, and frankly, I’m not too sure I trust you. But I have to start somewhere, because for the next couple of months, I’m going to be here, and I understand that I need you.”

  “You’re scared.”

  “Yes.”

  If she thought I wouldn’t admit it, she was wrong. I’ll take the title of scared over the title of wolf-queen any day. All day, ev’ry day, baby.

  She tilts her head in that wolfish way that reminds me of Gavin.

  “I don’t understand you,” she admits.

  “I don’t expect you to, because I don’t understand you either. I don’t expect us to be best girlfriends. But I need an ally. Gavin isn’t going to be happy unless I’m wrapped in cotton wool and tucked away in this house. I can’t live like that, not even for a couple of months.”

  “What do you think will happen in that time?” she asks, her head straightening.

  Her light brown eyes are staring me down intently. I think I read somewhere that in werewolf packs, the wolves are expected to lower their gazes before an alpha. Does that mean Heather doesn’t respect me? Or does that mean she’s trying to do what I’ve asked and not treat me as some parody of royalty?

  Her stare is a little unnerving. I don’t think I can measure up, and it’s suddenly important to me that Heather sees me as an equal.

  “I’ll give birth, and your pack will somehow manage to kill all the vampires,” I answer slowly.

  As the words leave my mouth, I realize just how much of a pipe dream that is. They’re outnumbered, outclassed as far as technology, and we’re already retreating. Just what do I think will change in two months, or even a year? How in the world is this pack going to manage to take down the vampires? Their standard mode is retreat. The vampires have them running scared. Isn’t that the whole purpose of the Wards and the treaty with the witches?

  “Gavin sees this as permanent, doesn’t he?” I ask.

  To my dismay, I can feel the tears slipping down my face with the words. Acceptance and realization seem to be joined hand in hand in my mind. I’ve been content to pretend, but I don’t have the luxury of that delusion anymore. Not really. I have maybe thirty days to prepare for the birth of my son. Little Liam doesn’t have much of a chance, and I feel guilty over that. He didn’t choose any of this, yet he’ll be the one that’ll suffer the most.

  “You might want to have this discussion with the rìgh.”

  “I’m asking you. There’s no plan for me to ever go back to the states, is there?”

  She shakes her head.

  Liam starts tumbling around inside me as the room spins a little at the edges. The morning sickness that I’d thought I’d conquered comes rising up with a vengeance.

  Cool fingers rest against my forehead, and I look up to see Heather’s face is grim with concern.

  “You need to eat breakfast. It’ll settle your stomach.”

  “I think it’s going to take more than that.”

  The smile is back, making Heather look less renegade soldier and more feminine midwife.

  “We have pancakes,” she offers.

  Well, in that case . . .

  Heather leaves me to myself to take a quick shower and change. I don’t really need a shower, it’s not like I’ve exerted myself, and in the cold I haven’t been sweating or anything. I take one solely for the routine nature and comfort of it. It’s probably considered a waste of resources, though. I don’t understand this way of life. The pack dresses normal, as far as I can tell. It’s not haute couture, or even modern, but it is normal. Yet their behaviors seem dated and old-fashioned. They’re a hard group to figure.

  I pull on a Vancouver sweatshirt with a screen-printed picture of the lit globe of Science World on the front. It’s kind of sad to have all of these clothes featuring sites I’ve never seen firsthand. The outfit is completed by another pair of sweatpants, these bright yellow with black lettering down the side spelling “British Columbia.”

  As I walk down the stairs, I try to imagine Gavin as a child running through this country mansion. Did he ever slide down the banister? Did he sled down the stairs? Or bang his elbow on the hard corner there? Then again, by the sounds of it, Gavin didn’t have much of a childhood. Instead, maybe Hawke slid along these wood floors playing chase, while Gavin studied Were law and political strategy.

  When I enter the kitchen, I’m shooed out by an elderly woman kneading dough at the island. Heather catches sight of me and directs me to the dining room. The wood table in the dining room gleams just as brightly as the floors. Gavin is already sitting at the head, studying handwritten notes, but as soon as I enter the room, he looks up and smiles.

  “Guid morning, little mate,” he says in that pleasant rumble of his.

  The sound of his voice combined with the fresh stubble along his firm jaw causes me to take a little misstep before I grab the back of my chair. He was serious about not shaving after giving me his razor at the airport. Or maybe this is just a ploy to remind me of my assumed promise about kisses.

  “Good morning,” I answer back.

  Hawke comes up from behind me and pulls out my chair for me. I wonder if Gavin even realizes that he’s already settling into a kingly role now that he’s back home. Or maybe I’m just being judgy. Maybe Gavin’s just too focused on his work to think about his second being chivalrous on his behalf, because now that I’m at the table, Gavin’s attention is once again diverted to the papers in front of him.

  The rest of our fractured pack is still focused on me however. It’s as if they are waiting for me to eat before they do. Hawke slides into the seat across from me. Heather sets a plate in front of me with a hefty stack of pancakes, eggs, and baked beans. When Gavin continues to read his papers, the rest stare at me, obviously hungry, so I take a small bite of my eggs. Hawke winks before diving into his own pancakes.

  The food is good, but I notice that Gavin, Heather, Hawke, Connor, and even the elderly lady who was cooking earlier all have a mug of coffee; I do not. I have a glass of milk and a glass of orange juice.

  I cough a little, but no one looks up. Hawke is devouring his food too quickly to have the ability to talk. Heather and Connor are staring at Hawke in mixed amusement/disgust, the cook is smiling, likely pleased her food is being enjoyed so heartily, and Gavin takes one bite in between staring down those papers and writing intermittent notes.

  “Hmmm, ummpphh,” I clear my throat loudly.

  This time Gavin does look up.

  “Yes, dear?” he asks.

  His grin is fairly wicked. I’m tempted to growl back at him, give him a little bit of what he’s dishing out. Instead, I decide to take the high road, as rough and uncomfortable as that road may be.

  “May I please have some coffee?”

  “Caffeine is no’ guid for you or the bairn.”

  “OK, Gav. I’ve dra
nk enough cow milk since becoming pregnant to have developed spots. I need coffee. If it must be decaf, then that is a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

  Connor is now listening attentively. I wonder if Connor will contradict his king if Gavin gives in.

  “Decaf. O’ course, lass. However, that will have tae wait til after a supply run. We doona keep it in stock.”

  Connor’s sigh of relief is quite loud at that.

  It’s no big deal in the grand scheme of things. But if he thinks I won’t be trying to sneak a cup when he’s not looking, well, then he doesn’t know me very well. I chuckle a little at the thought of it, which earns me raised eyebrows and a suspicious look from Connor, but Gavin is already back to reading his papers.

  “What about chocolate syrup?” I ask, staring at the dreaded glass of milk.

  And really, do they think I’m going to drink orange juice and milk at the same meal? I know there is such a thing as an Orange Julius, but there’s also such a thing as blue cheese salad dressing and that isn’t a good idea either.

  “I’m sorry,” Gavin says simply.

  So, no.

  When Hawke jumps to his feet for seconds—really, where is he putting it all?—Connor, Hawke, and the cook begin discussing what’s happened while they were gone, which is notably nothing.

  “So, what’s your name?” I ask the cook.

  I’m not sure how she fits in, because it’s not like she’s Were or one of the pack, as she wasn’t with them in America. She must be the one who kept the house clean while Gavin was gone. Was his intention always to return? He didn’t sell this place, and he made sure it was well kept in his absence.

  “Glenna,” she answers quietly.

  She wears a faded cotton headband over her braided, graying red hair. Her clothes are simple: a floral, long-sleeved dress that reaches mid-calf, and black flats.

  “Soo, Glenna . . . ” I can’t come right out and ask, “Who are you?” I settle for the less obnoxious, “How long have you known, uh, the pack?”

  “I’ve been with the MacCrae family for near as long as I can remember,” she replies with a kind smile.