Short Stories from the Network Series

by Katie Cross

  The pregnancy had been difficult, but the added weight of the Inheritance curse had been intolerable. She hadn’t moved from bed for almost a week, unable to bear the pain in her ankles and hips. He glanced at the potion bottle on the side of the bed, then back to the clock. Not time yet.

  The worst of it will fade in the days after the baby is born, Hazel reassured him daily. I went through the same thing.

  But he heard what Hazel didn’t say. That the pain of the curse would flare up with new strength from now on. Marie’s hands would ache. Her knees give out. Her body tremble with pain after standing for too long. Perhaps it would be manageable for a few years, but eventually Marie would endure constant agony twice that of her mother.

  Marie shifted, rubbing her legs against the sheets as she sought a comfortable position. Derek tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, trapping it between two fingers. The silky strands ran across his skin, supple as water. Her eyes fluttered open.

  “Ah,” he whispered. “She awakes.”

  She turned away, a hand clapped over her mouth. “Don’t talk to me,” she said from behind her fingers. “My breath smells terrible in the morning.”

  He stretched out next to her, laying a heavy arm across her torso and molding her body into his. He nuzzled her neck.

  “You smell like the first day I met you.”

  “Liar.”

  “Cynic.”

  A smile crossed Marie’s lips. The sound of a clattering pan came from the kitchen, followed by a slamming cupboard. Marie propped up on an elbow, a curtain of black hair sweeping down her face.

  The good gods, she was beautiful.

  “Mama’s already getting breakfast?” she murmured through a yawn. “But it’s so early.”

  He didn’t tell her it was hours past their normal wake time. What did it matter? They had the whole day to be lazy while listening to the rain and planning for the baby. Marie started to stand, but Derek kept her pinned. “I should help her,” she said. “It’s so hard on her hands—”

  “Definitely. You’re definitely going to be helpful in there, bumping into everything with your belly and tripping over your own feet.”

  Marie giggled. “My feet are several sizes bigger now, you know.”

  “You could swap shoes with any Guardian.”

  “It’s all your fault.”

  “I’ll give you my dress shoes as recompense.”

  Marie sank back into the mattress with a groan, kneading her fingers into the small of her back.

  “Ugh. I feel like I’m still going to be pregnant for my thirtieth birthday.”

  “In that case, we’ll need to get you a new bed.”

  She pushed him away and rolled onto her back with grimace. Derek gave her space, propping his head on a hand.

  “Are you trying to tell me that my breath is as revolting as yours?” he asked.

  “No.” She sucked in a breath. “My back hurts.”

  A knock at the back door rang through the little cottage. Marie froze, her eyes widening. Derek slipped off the bed, padded silently across the room, and lingered near the door.

  The high, shrill voice of Jenine Clovis pealed through the air. His lips curled up over his teeth. Jenine. The self-declared town gossip of Bickers Mill. She’d been prodding around for a while, attempting to find out who the father of Marie’s baby was. Marie had borne the gossipmongers with utmost patience, but she refused to tell them anything.

  Which only made them more rabid.

  “Who is it?” Marie asked, struggling to sit up.

  “That old hag.”

  Hazel opened the front door, but not much. Undertones of their conversation drifted through the air, but he didn’t strain to hear much of it. Within minutes, Hazel closed the door, her curving shoulders slumping with a sigh of relief. Derek pushed away, reaching for his shirt, but stopped. Marie’s face had scrunched.

  “Marie?”

  She reached for his hand and squeezed it. “Derek, I think … something is wrong.”

  “Wrong?”

  Marie bit her bottom lip. “Call my mother. Now. I-I think I’m in labor.”

  Years of training as a Guardian, a Captain, and then a Protector had honed his instincts and emotions into razor-sharp control. But all of that stalled. His mind looped around that word over and over again. Labor. Labor. Labor.

  Now?

  “Don’t we have more time?” he asked. “I thought you weren’t due for another week or two. I—”

  “Now, Derek!”

  He spun back to the door. “Hazel!”

  Hazel entered the room seconds later, hobbling on arthritic feet. She cast one look at Marie, placed a hand on her belly, and shooed Derek out.

  “Give us a minute,” she sang, shutting the door firmly in his face with a spell. “This is my territory from here on out, not yours.”

  “But—”

  “She’ll be fine. Just fine.”

  Derek pressed his forehead into the door and closed his eyes.

  Don’t let anything happen to her, Hazel, he thought. She’s all I have left to care about.

  No. She’s all I really have.

  The hours dragged on in agonizing torture.

  Marie went from talking, to silence, to moans, and finally to an occasional weak cry. He paced. Swore. Fetched water. Weeded the garden. Fixed a broken cupboard. All the while, the song of Marie’s pain wavered in the background. For the hundredth time, he went back to the bedroom door.

  “Let me see her, Hazel. Please, let me be—”

  “Go for the midwife. We’re close. We’re very close.”

  He pushed away from the door, summoning the magic in his mind. In all his life, he’d never been so bloody helpless.

  The quiet, aged midwife followed with just a nod. She’d taken a vow of secrecy weeks before; she would not betray his secret. They transported back to the little cottage right as Marie started to groan. The midwife bustled into the room, the murmur of voices followed, and the cottage fell back into strained silence.

  Suddenly, evening had come. He paced through Marie’s tremulous cries as the next wave came, dragging a hand through his hair. He pounded on the bedroom door with his fist.

  “How much longer?”

  “Soon, Derek. Very soon.”

  “You said that hours ago.”

  “Let him in,” Marie said. “Please let him in.”

  He grabbed the handle and shoved inside without Hazel’s permission, dropping to his knees at her bedside. “I’m here, Marie.”

  A wavering smile broke through the pain. He threaded their fingers together and draped an arm around her shoulders. The midwife worked at the end of the bed, moving Marie’s ankles and speaking under her breath. The room was comfortably warm, draped with towels, fresh linens, and a pot of steaming water. Hazel inspected a gleaming knife by the fire.

  Marie pressed her pale, sweaty forehead to his.

  “I’m so tired,” she whispered.

  “I wish I could take it from you, Marie. I would take it all. You would feel no pain.”

  She put her fingertips to his face. A tear trickled out of her eye.

  “I don’t know if I can do this.”

  “You can.” He pushed ropes of wet hair out of her face. “You must. Because we’re going to have a child. A perfect, healthy child.”

  She laughed, half-sobbing.

  “A boy,” she said. “It must be a boy.”

  Derek kissed her. “Whatever it is, it will be perfect, because it’s a part of you. You can do this, Marie. I know you can do this.”

  “Next round,” the midwife said as Marie tensed. “Just breathe through it, Marie. You’re almost there, love.”

  Half an hour later, the baby slipped into the world with quiet, steady cries. The midwife held the bloody, slippery thing as Hazel wrapped it in a fresh, warm sheet. Marie’s arms lifted, shaking.

  “A girl!” Hazel cried. “Oh, Marie. A perfect little girl.”

  Hazel passed
the little bundle to Marie, who pressed her against her chest with misty eyes. The squalling, bloody, oddly-colored child calmed on Marie’s skin, her swollen eyes slitted shut.

  “The good gods, it’s a girl,” he said. “She’s a perfect baby girl, Marie. Look at our beautiful daughter.”

  A rush of fear darted through Derek even as he felt a throb of irrevocable love for his wife.

  A girl. We had a baby girl. We have a daughter.

  The curse will continue.

  He shoved the thoughts aside, determined to enjoy the first moments with this new, incredible life. The thoughts departed, but not far. They hovered like a pesky fly, just out of reach, while the midwife finished her work. Marie nudged the baby onto her breast. Derek watched, awed by how little—how complete—the child had come out.

  “What should we name her?” he asked. “It has to have a lot of vowels.”

  “Vowels?”

  “You know, for yelling. She’ll be running through the forest like a hellion, and we’ll have to call out after her, you know.”

  Marie chuckled softly, running a finger down the downy softness of the baby’s hair. “What about Bianca?”

  He ran the name through his mind.

  “Not just Bianca. Bianca Marie.”

  Marie shot him a pained, rueful smile. “What if she doesn’t want to be named after her mother?”

  “We’ll add it to the list of reasons she’ll hate us when she’s a teenager.”

  “Bianca Marie,” Marie murmured. “I think it’s lovely.”

  “Marie, this—”

  Marie shook her head. “No,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I cannot speak of it, Derek. Not now. It’s not important. The only thing that matters is protecting her from it. We have seventeen years.”

  A shot of protectiveness nearly overwhelmed him. He pressed his lips to Marie’s thick raven hair.

  “Of course, Marie. Of course.”

  Exhausted, Marie lay her head back against the pillow, wincing as the baby worked out how to suckle. Soon, the babe gave up. Her lips slackened, plump and sparkling. She twitched, releasing a vigorous cry.

  “Take her.” Hazel nudged him toward the child. “While we help Marie clean up.”

  “Me?”

  Hazel’s eyes sparkled. “Yes. You. You’re the father, aren’t you?”

  “Er … yes.”

  Marie carefully passed the baby to him. He wrapped his arms around the frail bundle and carefully lowered into a rocking chair. Derek touched her tiny fingers, pulling the blanket more tightly around her until every inch of skin was covered except her face.

  “Bianca,” he whispered, “we’ll win, baby girl. No one is going to take you from me. No curse, no witch. Nothing will be stronger than you and me.” His eyes darted to Marie. “Except maybe your Mama. She’s stubborn, you know.”

  He closed his eyes and pressed a kiss to Bianca’s wispy hair.

  “Nothing.”

  All I Have

  Mildred’s appointment of Derek as Head of Protectors turned the tide for the Central Network against an unknown enemy that lurked in the shadows—although that wouldn’t be obvious until later years. When the next scene opens, Derek has been a Protector for several years under a witch named Jeramy, the current Head of Protectors. Derek and Marie have been hand fasted for three years. Bianca is two years old. No one knows about his family.

  In the following scenes, you’ll meet a witch named Andrei. His novel, The Swordmaker, is slated for publication as part of The Antebellum Collection in 2020.

  The silence seemed to cling to the snow.

  Evergreen boughs, heavy with ice, drooped to the ground. Snow drifts higher than Derek’s hip rolled through the loosely packed forest. The tip of his nose—no doubt red—prickled every now and then. Despite the cold, the air was dry. The snow like dust. Too cold to melt, it just whirled around, catching him in the eyes. Twilight had fallen, masking the winter wonderland in strange shadows and shifting light. If it hadn’t been so eerily quiet, Derek could have appreciated the quiet majesty of such a forgotten place.

  “There.” A witch named Andrei pointed to a cottage in the distance. “That’s the place. Ve have been vatching for days. Just in case.”

  Derek tracked Andrei’s arm, which pointed to a slipshod shanty in the distance. The boards, warped from exposure and age, seemed to trip over each other, some lying at haphazard angles, others separated with large gaps. Whoever lived inside was likely dead from the cold.

  “You’re sure?” Derek asked.

  “Yes.”

  “It’ll collapse the moment we go inside.”

  Andrei lifted an eyebrow.

  “Not everything is as it seems.”

  Andrei’s thick accent, slant nose, and teardrop shaped eyes made him a prime example of a Southern Network witch. He wore thick pelts and furs across his shoulders with pride. Despite the danger of being outside on such a night—predators grew hungriest in the winter—he showed no concern. His thick pants were tied with sturdy twine and rumored to be reinforced with enchanted strands of special silk.

  A witch transported into place on Derek’s left.

  “Not much of a place, is it?” Jeramy, the Head of Protectors and Derek’s boss, murmured. His eyes darted through the forest, the ground, the shanty, and everything else. A dusting of snow glittered in his red hair. Like Derek, he wore the fur caps and woolen coats of the Southern Network. Instead of blending in, they looked more out of place than ever next to Andrei.

  “Trust me. This is the place.” Andrei’s eyes glittered. He motioned to the dilapidated structure. “They take our young girls. Two are missing. Some have run away and not come back. One, Viktoria, vas just taken last night. My tribe is too frightened to act.”

  “Why?”

  Andrei’s nose scrunched. “They believe the gods punish them for not obeying the High Priest. That more punishment vill come.”

  Jeramy hitched an eyebrow. “Do you believe that?”

  Andrei scowled. “Ve vant these bad vitches gone. You must do this. Our Netvork does nothing. Ve are not strong enough vith magic.”

  “Your Network has done nothing?” Derek asked. It had been a stroke of luck that he’d stumbled on Andrei hunting in the forest that morning. After hours of stumbling around, transporting from place to place in vain, Derek had believed he’d never find the missing girls. Then he saw Andrei peering at him from the trees. A few well-placed questions later and Andrei had guided him to the right place.

  This place.

  Andrei shook his head in a sharp motion, cutting back and forth.

  “The Netvork does nothing for the tribes. They hate us. They lie. They take advantage of my vitches and try to take our silk and swords.”

  “The Network is the one buying the girls,” another Protector, Nathaniel, muttered from behind Derek. Nathaniel’s invisibility incantation disappeared. His umber skin, smooth and rich, hid him in the approaching night.

  Andrei stepped back, startled, and studied Nathaniel. His thin eyes narrowed. “Is this true?”

  Jeramy confirmed with a nod.

  “Nathaniel has been following the buyers for a week now,” he said. “Your local leaders are funding the kidnappings. We haven’t been able to track them to your High Priest, however. I can’t confirm that he knows he has witches crossing the Network border to steal our girls.”

  Andrei’s wide nostrils flared. For a second, his face flushed red. He paused, allowing it to fade.

  Derek stepped back, observing, while Jeramy explained their plans to invade the shanty and save the girls. Every now and then, Andrei inserted a comment or direction. The common language worked well. Even though Derek knew the Yazika language of the Southern Network, Jeramy hadn’t directed him to use it.

  “We’ll act once it’s fully dark,” Jeramy said. “An hour, give or take. Nathaniel, stay on the perimeter. Leave no tracks.”

  Nathaniel glanced at the trees.

  “Acknowl
edged, Brother,” he said before fading into another invisibility spell. The slightest wisp of snow drifted from the top of an evergreen nearby immediately after. Derek would have laughed if it weren’t so cold.

  Jeramy clapped a hand on Derek’s shoulder.

  “Derek, go to Andrei’s so we know where to transport. Once we recover the girls, I’ll follow your magic there.” Jeramy turned to Andrei. “We’ll transport them to your place.” His eyes slid back to the shanty. “Better build up the fire.”

  Andrei nodded.

  “I vill do this.”

  Jeramy’s hand fell. His eyes locked with Derek. “I’m going to update the High Priestess. I have a feeling we’ll need apothecaries. Meet me back here within the hour.”

  Jeramy disappeared with a whisper of magic. Andrei caught Derek’s eye and motioned him closer with a jerk of his head.

  “You are the vitch that discovered this problem, no?”

  Derek hesitated. It wasn’t that simple, but it wasn’t that complicated either. Over the last month, he’d been researching reports of young girls in the Southern Covens of the Central Network going missing. It had taken him weeks of scouting, tracking, following hunches, and waiting in the cold forest, hoping to see something, until he’d finally caught sight of the criminals and followed them here. The scheme had been bigger than he’d expected, encompassing not just Central Network girls, but tribal girls as well. Perhaps more.

  “Yes.” Derek nodded. “I stumbled on it.”

  “I make swords.” Andrei held up thick, knotty hands. “The best swordmaker that you vill find. Come. See them. Perhaps I have something for you. You vill not regret.”

  Derek followed Andrei through deep drifts without a word, soaking in the strange silence of the forest. Snow spiraled from a smoky sky in lazy circles. Every other step, Derek sank to his thigh. Andrei seemed to float on top of the drifts, aided by his wide netted shoes and lean legs.

  A cabin made of hewn logs, nestled deep in the thick, silent pines, came into view half an hour later. Rough shingles layered down the steep pitch of the roof, leaving room for a generous attic. Evergreens loomed high and close around the cabin. The thought of a warm fire made Derek’s fingers ache.