Mother Lovers

by Kassanna

  “Let’s go sit by the fire,” Qiang suggested.

  No sooner had they made it just to the punch bowl, a person nearly knocked her over.

  “You made it!” Angelina, the Keep’s resident dracontologist, came up to her and snatched her into an awkward hug. The scientist beamed.

  “Yes, we did.” Cheyenne nodded.

  “Qiang. Good to see you.” Angelina released her, but almost at once reached for the baby. “I see this little hatchling is…whoa, growing! I can’t believe I delivered her only a short time ago. Dragon shifter offspring never ceases to amaze me at how quickly they grow and adapt. It feels like she just hatched.”

  Cheyenne couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you.”

  Qiang kissed Cheyenne’s cheek. “Speaking of just hatched, Pax is beckoning me over. I’ll be right back.”

  “Those twin dragons never cease to keep out of mischief.” Angelina shook her head, and turned toward the front of the room.

  Ahead, children, in the open space closest to the hearth, danced around and manipulated a giant, papier-mâché Chinese Azure dragon puppet. The band continued to play as the kids acted out the story of the first Azure dragon.

  “So, what brings you here? You and the fire-breather ready to start a family?” Cheyenne asked.

  Angelina laughed. “Maybe, but you don’t have to be a mother to appreciate kids. Do I, Tai? No, you don’t.”

  She bounced the baby in her arms, making faces, and cooing.

  “I’m sorry. I meant no offense…”

  “None taken.” Angeline gestured to the play. “I’m here to celebrate motherhood. Most of the children here I delivered, so I like watching them all together like this. It is, well, a blessing. In a way, I’m their mother, too.”

  Cheyenne wanted to crawl under a rock. Thankfully, someone else caught Angelina’s attention. A woman had entered from the western corridor, swollen with child and looking miserable. Beside her, her mate had both hands filled with luggage.

  “Oh, there’s Anika.” Angelina kissed Tai-chu, and then added. “I’ve got to go, you cutie pie!”

  She handed the baby back to Cheyenne. Tai-chu giggled at the movement and tried to grab one of Angelina’s braids.

  “Cheyenne, I want you to have a good time. Dance. Drink the blue elixir cocktails and enjoy yourself. I see so little of you at these events. It’s your day, after all.”

  The dracontologist’s words hit her square in her emotional center. Today was her day, a day for all mothers. Memories flooded her of how she almost died, and so did Tai-chu. Had it not been for Angelina’s skill and effort, they would not be on this earth. Tai-chu’s birth had been difficult, but Angelina, although human, had managed to ease some of the discomfort.

  “I will. Um, thanks, Angelina, for everything.”

  Angelina paused with a frown. “Everything all right, Cheyenne?”

  Cheyenne nodded, suddenly too overcome by emotions at the memory of Tai-chu’s birth, Angelina’s encouragement and dedication to seeing the difficult hatching through to reply. She sucked in a breath, held it, and then blew it out.

  “Yes. I’ve never truly thanked you for helping me with her birth,” Cheyenne said with a quick glance at her beautiful daughter. The baby laughed joyously at some unknown happiness. Tai-chu had her father’s buoyant joy and optimism.

  Angelina gave her a one-handed hug. “You’re more than welcome.”

  With that, she hurried across the space to the couple waiting.

  Anika. The name sounded familiar, but then Cheyenne couldn’t keep up with the new mates moving around the Keep.

  Instead, Cheyenne searched around for her husband. The high-pitched voices of singing children carried through the room, and one by one conversations quieted. The performance of the Giant Azure Dragon continued into its second act, the fun part for kids and adults alike, the mothers spellbound by their childrens’ blooming joy.

  “One day, Tai-chu, you’ll be among those great dragon women.” Cheyenne kissed her daughter’s cheek.

  She saw Qiang wave at them, end his conversation with Pax, and start toward his family.

  When he reached them, he sighed. “Let’s go enjoy today.”

  Tai-chu reached out for her father, and he collected her into his arms.

  Cheyenne’s heart, feeling both heavy with the memories of her mother, and light with the quiet joy of being a mother, warmed as she watched Qiang with his baby girl. The warmth came from the realization that motherhood meant the very paradox of life and death, the pleasure of sex and the pain of giving birth, and the role of women to be emotionally stronger than fathers, while also being physically smaller than fathers.

  Paradox. Hope. Love. Family.

  All came to head this Mother’s Day celebration. Cheyenne took her husband’s hand and they found seats by the hearth.

  Mothers held the world in their arms.

  That should be celebrated, indeed.

  The End

  Whiskey Awry

  By

  Jeanie Johnson and Jayha Leigh

  Chapter One

  Mid-August

  Bourbon Berea absolutely hated wearing black…unless she was attending a funeral…of somebody who had needed to die, or somebody she’d personally killed. Then, it really wasn’t a time for mourning, but of celebration. Still, it would probably be tacky wearing glitter to a funeral.

  Despite the ensemble, Bourbon loved her job as a cellist. In fact, she wielded that bow almost as well as she wielded a crossbow. Still, if she had her way, she’d do something about the drab outfit. She either looked like a waiter or an undertaker. If she was going to be stuck wearing all black, she really should have a cooler job, like a ninja, a cat burglar, a SWAT team member, or a badass gunslinger for hire from the Old West. Bourbon smiled, imagining the look on her conductor’s face if she dared show up for a performance in a cat suit, a ninja mask, and a belted trench coat, with an assault rifle strapped across her back.

  When she became world famous, she was going to do something about that drab outfit. As it was, all she could do now was slip in black cowboy boots under her work clothes. Thus, when she got any opportunity to assert her style, she went for broke; hence, the filmy camouflage dress shirt and olive dress pants with matching camouflage strappy sandals. Thank goodness for her southern people, who took being country to a whole new level.

  Having just returned from another summer bouncing between Amsterdam and Vienna, she took the time to appreciate being home. West Virginia wasn’t as worldly as old European cities, but it was home. It was home because her daddy was there.

  Grizzly Berea was a big mountain of a man who moved mountains to make sure she had every opportunity in the world. That’s why she couldn’t leave him for long. Still, he made sure she went when it was time to go. She’d been touring the world, playing her cello for all and sundry, representing both the Berea name and West Virginia with pride.

  Living in a state where African-Americans only accounted for about five percent of the population, and sixty percent of African-Americans lived in two counties, sometimes meant hers was the only black female face she’d see. That’s why she’d decided to attend graduate school in Louisville, and do her doctoral studies in Lexington. She wasn’t lonely for black people, because her family wouldn’t tolerate that kind of prejudice. She was, however, lonely for some deeper-than-blood sisters who understood her on a soul level, rather than just a visceral level.

  As if her wishes were a prayer, the door to the building that housed the Division of Graduate Studies opened and in walked the woman who was going to be her new best friend. But before that could happen, she had to get over there and make her acquaintance. In a sea of black and white outfits and hushed tones, she strutted in wearing gladiator sandals and hot pink. The fact that she was wearing a convertible dress wasn’t what caught her eye; it was how she was wearing that dress. This sister was wearing the shit out of it.

  Yeah, this chick was definitely going to be
her new best friend.

  ***

  Having just returned from Italy where she’d apprenticed under one of the finest furniture makers in the world, Bluegrass, Kentucky was a culture shock. Kentucky, period, was a culture shock. Saratoga had seen more overalls in the past week than she’d seen in the whole of her life. She was itching to march to the state capitol and lobby for making the failure to wear shirts under bib overalls punishable by death…unless you had a ripped, muscular body that should be in somebody’s centerfold.

  When she’d strolled off the stage of Rhode Island School of Design with her master’s degree in furniture design, Saratoga thought she was finished with school. That was before she discovered that her brain crush was going to be a visiting professor in how-are-you-this-small-and-an-actual-city Bluegrass. There were professors, and then there were straight-up geniuses—and her brain crush was the latter. Later, she’d wonder what hoodoo took place in order to get the professor to the backwoods of Kentucky. Right now, she was determined to find room in her brain for a little more education, country-style.

  Perusing the room of ladies so proper they could be part of a queen’s court, Saratoga had resigned herself to a semester that, at best, was going to be boring.

  And then she saw her.

  This woman could’ve been an ad for deer-hunting products. All she lacked was a crossbow over her shoulder and a dead animal carcass being dragged behind her. Everything in Saratoga warned her to get gone, but a) there was no way she was running in stilettos; and b) she was a Brown and didn’t run from anything.

  She should’ve run.

  Chapter Two

  The kings of old had court jesters to entertain them; Saratoga Brown had Bourbon Berea, self-proclaimed badass and all-around whack job. Bourbon had singlehandedly caused Saratoga to wonder if there was a way to retract Kentucky’s statehood. Surely, any territory that would allow Bourbon to be a resident couldn’t be trusted.

  Five feet ten inches and two hundred pounds of something dangerous on the cusp of happening, Bourbon was the first person Saratoga heard at the reception for the Women Artists Lecture series hosted by the Division of Graduate Studies. Heard—not saw.

  “Dibs on the black chick!” echoed all across the hall. Not caring about the fine art of subtlety, Bourbon had shouldered her way through the sea of bodies and latched onto her. Her progress through the conservative crowd was an interesting sight, considering she was wearing a filmy camouflage-patterned blouse with olive dress pants. Of course, no looks-like-you’re-about-to-be-holing-up-in-a-deer-stand-at-any-moment outfit would be complete without a matching camouflage clutch.

  Hers was sequined.

  “Bourbon, your new best friend,” she announced. Announced, not said.

  “While I occasionally enjoy things that contain bourbon, mostly desserts, I wouldn’t say bourbon’s my best friend.”

  “I’m Bourbon,” she corrected.

  “Of course you are. Is this where I say that I’m Rum?”

  “Hell no,” Bourbon said as she threaded her arm through hers.

  For a plus-sized woman, Bourbon had surprisingly well-toned arms. Saratoga wondered if it was from something nefarious like dragging off the bodies of her unsuspecting victims. Since there was no way to delicately extract herself from Bourbon’s firm grip without causing a scene, Saratoga allowed Bourbon to lead her. She wasn’t too concerned, since she had a fine set of lungs she could put to good use. If that didn’t work, there were always the blades concealed in her three-inch stilettos.

  Having a best friend who was both a mechanical engineer and jewelry maker had its uses.

  Bourbon continued like this was a conversation she had all the time. “This is Kentucky, home of the three Bs: bluegrass, basketball, and bourbon.”

  “With the way you’re about to overflow your gown, you can add ‘boobs’ to that list.”

  “We could, especially considering the percentage of man-boobs popping up. I’m not a mathematician, but if I was, I’d do some doctoral work on the correlation to the rise of man-boobs in relation to the increase of individuals with nut sacks wearing skinny jeans.”

  Saratoga was mid-step when Bourbon dropped that little ditty on her. This chick was steadily racking up checkmarks on the ‘how to spot a serial killer’ check list. “Are you a serial killer?”

  “My wardrobe is way too awesome to consider that occupation. Or is it technically a hobby? Anyway, I have fantastic penmanship and while I can read music, I don’t know a dead language. I also don’t like lime. As for the serial killer deal, I don’t have the patience for that kind of thing. I’m more of a ‘kill a whole bunch of people in one fell swoop and get on with the rest of your day’ type woman.”

  Having a best friend whose entire family tree was chock-full of crazy people, Saratoga knew she shouldn’t ask, but she just had to. “Exactly how much practice have you had with killing masses of people in one fell swoop?”

  “None. I was just using that as an example. Like, you know, if I had to kill a bunch of people, that’s how I’d do it.”

  “You’re on the verge of creeping me out. If I see you make one sudden move, I’m going to stab you.”

  “That’s just rude,” Bourbon said.

  “You know what else is rude? Pulling out a freezer bag filled with a chloroform-soaked cloth or a syringe filled with some kind of regulated substance that you use to incapacitate me.”

  “You watch way too much television. Turn away from the Murder-Death-Kill channel and watch some Kentucky basketball or football.”

  “I’m not sure if you’re crazy or just nuts.”

  “People say I’m eccentric.”

  “I’m calling bullshit on that. Unless you are richer than the whole of the United Arab Emirates, you are just weird.”

  “Listen here, New Black Chick—as evidenced by your accent—I know you’re not from around these parts, so I’m going to warn you. It’s not polite to name call.”

  “My name is Saratoga…not ‘New Black Chick.’”

  “Saratoga? Like the battle in the American Revolution? Or the racetrack?”

  “Yes and yes.”

  “Interesting.”

  “You better be glad I’m wearing this dress, otherwise we’d be brawling.”

  “That’s why you shouldn’t wear tight things, because you never know when you’ll have to throw down.”

  Her convertible dress encased her curves, but that didn’t mean her dress was tight. “Do you find yourself brawling often?”

  “That’s on a need-to-know basis.”

  “I’m trying to figure out whether or not you’d go all single white female on me and follow me to the ends of the earth.”

  “A, I’m not white. B, I think you have your movies mixed up. C, shush, you’re causing a scene and people are starting to stare.”

  “I. Am. Going. To. Kill. You.”

  “Ha ha! Now who’s the serial killer?”

  “If I only kill you, that just means I’m a killer. You have to kill at least ten people to be a serial killer.”

  “Five…and you can’t kill them all at once, otherwise it doesn’t count. You won’t get much news coverage, and you definitely won’t get a cool serial killer name.”

  A woman with hair styled like a pixie and a body built like a brick shithouse swaggered up. “Excuse me for involving myself in this conversation, but I happen to know a little something about the subject of serial killers.”

  And that was the moment when Saratoga knew she’d love Bourbon Berea forever.

  While Saratoga had clicked the mechanism on her shoe that unsheathed her knife, Bourbon whipped a dagger out of her clutch. It wasn’t the fact that Bourbon had a dagger stashed in her purse that sealed the deal; it was what she said next.

  “If we share this kill, we each only get credited with a half kill…and I don’t know what they do with fractions when tallying the body count. Who do you think will play me on the reenactment? I’m leaning towards one of the ch
icks on that model search show. You know, the plus-sized chick, with the boom,” Bourbon said as she pointed to her bust line. “And the boom-boom,” she said, as she pointed to her hips. “And the boom-boom-boom,” she said, as she shook the junk in her trunk.

  “How about option C: where both of you put away your weapons so I don’t have to pull mine? Avoiding federal weapons charges—and an out-in-the-middle-of-the-woods mess—means I can keep my job as a federal attorney. And if there’s a reenactment of this whole thing, that model is going to play me…unless the one with the short blonde ’do puts on some weight…and in that case, she can play me.”

  Re-sheathing her shoe knife, Saratoga asked the obvious question. “Since we’re the only three black women present, who is going to play ‘black eyewitness?’”

  “Let’s discuss that over steak and maybe some kind of dessert with liquor in it.”

  “I don’t eat with strangers,” Bourbon said.

  Pulling a business card from her handbag, she extended it to Bourbon, before sticking out her hand. “Simone Pisgah. Now I’m not a stranger. Let’s go find food.”

  Bourbon’s eyes lit up. “You’re that chick that races bikes.”

  “Well, yeah, but I also have this little thing called a juris doctorate.”

  “Hooray for your accomplishment. I’m sure your diploma looks nice on your wall, but I don’t fantasize about dry-humping your degree. Now, that Dylan Robb® Harley® or that customized Ducati® you drive…yeah, I could date those bikes.”

  Saratoga just stared at Bourbon. “There is something really, really wrong with you.”

  “Says the woman who almost became a serial killer with me.”

  Simone laughed. “For the record, a serial killer is defined as someone who kills at least three people over a period of thirty days with a resting period in between kills. And also, they’re usually crazy.”

  “Three seems so low,” Bourbon complained as she chucked her dagger in her clutch. “Like you’re not even trying. No wonder this country is falling behind.”