by H. E. Trent
“He’s not,” Allan said. “He’s not dead?”
She put up her hands. “He may be now. Owen had been poking around and he made the right inquiries to the right people, I guess. She said the last group of Jekhans to evacuate Earth offered him safe passage off the planet, and for the sake of the family, he took it.”
“And apparently there are people who know that?”
Court nodded and took a shallow breath. “I need to go into Buinet…and…help Brenna. It’s my fault she’s in jail.”
The doctor took her hand and squeezed. “Easy, now.”
Trig tensed as if to get between them, but Murk put up a hand to still him. It was an odd thing indeed if Murk was the one thinking rationally at the moment. Perhaps hormones were shifting in new and odd ways.
“I don’t believe you’ll be going anywhere for a while.” The doctor laid a hand on the top of her belly which, to Murk’s eyes, seemed to be a little lower than it had been at breakfast. “If I were a betting man, I’d wager that you’ll be nursing a young one by morning.”
“No, I—” She shook her head. “I can’t have this baby now. I’ve got things to do, and I’ve got a few more weeks. I’m early.”
“I don’t believe you are. Tyneali gestation is about six weeks shorter than human. Jekhans split the difference.”
“I—”
The doctor turned to Murk. “I will go fetch some supplies and return.”
When the doctor didn’t immediately move, Murk realized the man was waiting for permission.
The doctor’s gaze flitted to Trig, so Murk looked at him, too.
Trig’s eyes warned, “I wouldn’t,” but his mouth was quiet. He’d never been a man to hold his tongue.
Murk nodded at the doctor.
“I’ll be back shortly,” the doctor said. “Get her into a warm bath if her pain seems unbearable.”
His grandson followed him to the flyer, but Allan hung back. He gritted his teeth, cracked his knuckles, and stared at the darkening sky. “I’ll go to Buinet if you want my help,” he said after a moment.
“Why would you do that?” Trig asked.
“I’ve got some comrades I want to look for. Got separated during a big fight early on. They were supposed to go with us when we abandoned our post, but they didn’t meet us at the rendezvous point.”
“And you haven’t checked on them after all these years?”
“I tried. Our traders who work in Buinet made inquiries when they could, but they didn’t have informants on the inside like Courtney did. They couldn’t get access to the right databases, and no one they talked to could remember seeing the people who fit their descriptions. They would have been noticeable here. Big black guy with a knife scar on one cheek and a dark-skinned Persian-American linguist.”
“Persian…” she whispered, and her forehead furrowed, too.
“You’ve seen him?”
“Maybe. There was a man at the police station. A detective who worked in Zone Seven a lot. I didn’t ever speak to him, but Brenna said he was one of the few people around who could speak all three major Jekhani dialects. His name is Salehi.”
“That’s him!” Allan’s eyes lit up only to quickly dim. “That’s him. Why is he working for them?”
Court sighed and swallowed hard. “Maybe the better question is why wouldn’t he.” Her face contorted into a mask of pain. “I’d like to try that bath now.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Dark.
Pain.
That was the order in which Court’s brain registered her condition. The bedroom was pitch black—dark as midnight—and her body ached. From head to toes, she hurt. She felt wrung out, used up.
Empty.
Did I…
Hesitantly, she placed a hand on her belly and found it deflated. The birth hadn’t been a dream. She braced her elbows behind her and tried to push herself upright.
“No need to get up,” Trig whispered from nearby. He wasn’t on the bed, but close. Perhaps beside it?
She rubbed her eyes and tried to pick out shapes in the dark, but was slow to find him.
“I’m here at the bedside.”
“Where’s my baby?” Nauseous dread rolled over her. I would remember if something bad happened, wouldn’t I? Everything was a blur besides the pain. Her back had felt like it was going to break open and the contractions had just kept coming. She’d been delirious. Did the doctor give me something? Her mind was so foggy and slow.
Trig’s chair creaked, and the small lamp at the bedside illuminated at its dimmest level. Heavy bags hung beneath his eyes and his hair was mussed, but still pinned. He tilted his chin up. “She’s there. With Murk.”
Court looked to her right. Murk lay sleeping on his side, shirtless, with a lump swaddled against his chest. The lump was so still and quiet that Court held her breath until she was certain she saw the rise and fall of breathing.
And then the rage set in.
That baby was hers.
“Were you just going to let me sleep? When were you going to let me bond with my own baby?”
“She’s Murk’s baby, too,” Trig said, sounding far too reasonable.
“She needs to be fed and—”
“You didn’t need to be awake to latch her on.”
Her mouth opened, but tongue faltered for lack of words. “I…didn’t…”
“Shhh. She’s okay. He’ll take good care of her.”
“Pardon my tone, but I believe I have a say in that.”
“Jekhan men take the burden of child rearing when babies are young. Mothers aren’t expected to—”
“Don’t even start that shit with me right now. I’m not Jekhan. I want to hold my baby. Do I get to do that, or do I have to wait until she’s three to get a moment?”
She. A little girl. My little girl.
“I’m certain if you want to hold her, Murk will let you.”
“Let me?” Court’s voice came out in a pitch that should have only been discernible by dogs and certain pieces of electronic equipment.
He shushed her, and she glared at him, agape.
“We’ve got this backward,” she said. “This should be the other way around. She should be clinging to my chest right now, seeking out my breast, memorizing my scent.”
Trig cringed. “You may reach an impasse there.”
“She needs me. I’m not going to be anyone’s glorified wet nurse.” She forced herself upright, cursing her stiff, aching body with each movement. “I bet you even named her without my input.”
“She has no name.”
“Well, good. Maybe I can elbow my way in and offer a couple of suggestions.” She leaned over and nudged the blanket back from the baby’s face. Murk’s eyelids fluttered open, but Court didn’t waste any time studying his expression. She didn’t really care how he felt at the moment, just as they obviously didn’t care how she felt.
She stared at that squished, pink, bruised face and everything came back to her. “Oh, sweet little thing.” Court had been delirious when the baby finally came out. The baby had been facing the wrong way in the womb and had needed a little help. She’d taken too long to cry out, and Court had panicked—yelled and shrieked. The doctor had pressed something to Court’s nose, and she’d blacked out. He must have given her some sort of sedative.
Dry blood crusted beneath the baby’s squished nose, thickest atop her upturned lip.
“Why is that there? Why is she bleeding?”
Trig sucked in some air and let it out slowly.
“You need to brace yourself? Really?”
“I don’t want to alarm you. That’s all.”
“Spit it out, Trigrian. Tell me what’s wrong with my baby.”
“Nothing major. I promise. Some Jekhans are born with a nostril defect. A trait inherited from the Tyneali. The nostrils are too narrow to function with human lungs because there are extra…skin flaps, I guess.”
“You cut them? You operated on my baby while I was passed
out?”
“I said not to. Murk said yes. Murk had the flaps as well at birth, and as her father, obviously, he had final say in the matter. The doctor said removing the flaps soon was crucial so the baby could breathe while nursing.”
“Did she cry?”
His long delay in answering gave Court the response she sought. She couldn’t be any angrier. Anger needed energy to sustain, and she simply didn’t have any.
“She won’t remember it, Courtney.”
She turned to Murk, and whispered, “Give her to me.”
He didn’t move much. His jaw hinge twitched and forehead furrowed, but he made no movements to hand over the child—her daughter. It seemed he was negotiating the handoff in his mind, as if there were a doubt she should be allowed to hold her. He swallowed. “Give…her back.”
“When I’m good and ready.”
He let out a breath and shifted the baby away from his chest.
Court sat up and let him put the squishy being into her arms. The baby whimpered in her sleep, and panic set in again. The panic then wasn’t because Court worried she hadn’t survived, but because now, she understood how utterly unqualified she was to be anyone’s mother. Yet another thing she’d given very little thought to during the eight months leading up to the moment.
She rubbed her thumb pad against one chunky cheek and let out an indulgent sigh.
Yes. Utterly unqualified. Her mother should have been there, or a nurse—anyone who could tell her what to do. Her instincts were off because she was so busy warring with Murk, whose instincts seemed to be working just fine for him.
She couldn’t just hand over her baby and let Murk do all the work. That wasn’t pride, but a natural yearning to connect. To have someone belong to her and to rely on her. Court just hoped she didn’t fail her.
Murk leaned over and unbuttoned Court’s dress at the neck.
She stared at him with all the malice she could muster until she understood what he was doing. Helping her nurse. Tired as she was, being angry was easier than exercising common sense. Maybe she had to admit that she had a little hormonal dysfunction of her own.
The baby latched on unerringly and gnawed lazily at Court’s breast. She knew what to do even if Court didn’t.
Trig cleared his throat. “We…usually don’t name our children for a week or more after the birth. Jekhans like to wait until the child reveals something about him or herself.”
Again, she opened her mouth to argue, but was able to stop herself. The custom wasn’t unreasonable, though the child being unnamed for much longer pained her. For so many months, she’d been calling the little girl “the baby,” and now that she had a face and had opened her eyes—dark blue at the moment—calling her such a generic thing seemed disrespectful. Court had thought of names, both boy and girl names, but none really fit. Even her favorites paled in comparison to the child they would be attached to. Maybe a week would be what she needed to think up something else. Something meaningful.
Murk eased closer, rubbing the baby’s back as she nursed on and off in her half-dream state.
“I imagine I’m not allowed any privacy at all,” she said.
“No,” Murk said simply. Obviously, he wasn’t going any-fucking-where.
She rolled her eyes.
“I can leave,” Trig said. “There’s no reason for me to be here now that I’m certain everyone’s okay.”
“I was speaking in general terms. On Earth, women are allowed some quiet time to bond with their babies. I can’t help but to feel a bit like a zoo animal right now. As if I’ve been in captivity all my life and my keepers aren’t convinced I’ll do all the right things and will abandon my baby as soon as she becomes inconvenient.”
Silence hung heavily. They didn’t argue, so obviously the men had thought she would.
“Give me tonight,” she said. “It’s probably almost morning, anyway.”
“No,” Murk said. No thinking required, evidently.
Trig stood, leaned over to kiss Murk, and then departed. “I’ll sleep with Jerry,” he called back. “Need to be up early. Allan will be here first thing.”
“Why?” Court asked.
“I’ll tell you in the morning over breakfast. Sleep while you can.”
“Where is he going?” she asked Murk. He gave her one of those condescending long blinks she’d thought were especially for Trig and then settled onto his side. He gave the baby a little tickle to the chin, and Court realized she’d stopped suckling. Apparently, her parents were distracting her from her meal.
Content that she was nursing again, or at least simulating the act, Murk looked at Court.
There was no soft-eyed gaze for the mother of his child, there. He looked positively territorial—as if she were a pterodactyl preparing to fly off with his treasure…and that he’d treat her as a threat if she tried to walk away with it.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You were there when I pushed this baby out, right?”
He gave a slight nod.
“So we’re clear on the fact that she’s flesh of my flesh. Ninety-nine point nine percent certain she’s yours, too.”
His expression blanked.
“You know that saying? Mama’s baby, daddy’s maybe? Anyone could have planted her, but she took root in me and I birthed her.”
“She’s. Mine.”
“I don’t want to argue you on that, but, see, on Earth? Well, the culture is a lot different. In custody disputes, the children almost always follow the mother.”
He may have been pale before, but at that moment, he blanched, only for a flush of red to immediately flood his cheeks, his neck, and up into his strawberry blond hairline.
“Simmer down, Cujo.” She switched the baby to the other side. The longer she looked, the more she could pluck out some of those telltale McGarry features in her tiny face. The wide-set eyes. No matter what happened, her family would take in the baby and love her just like everyone else. They’d fight for her and be her greatest defenders, even if Court wasn’t around. Children couldn’t grow up in vacuums. And they shouldn’t grow up without their mothers.
She glared at Murk, who drummed his fingers on the mattress top impatiently. His gaze went from her face, to the baby, and back to her face again. The message was clear: give her back.
Court settled against the headboard and fixed the baby’s blanket around her. “When I’m good and ready.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Court arched an eyebrow at Murk who was snapping his fingers at her yet again. She stood in front of the newly installed main house kitchen sink, rinsing out cups one-handed while nursing Kerry. The name had been a concession—the result of one of numerous fights in the past five weeks. The name suited the little girl for the moment because her baby hair was black, and that was what the Gaelic root ciar meant. Murk had done the research. The hair likely wouldn’t stay black—it was already shedding and paler fluff filling in—but the significance stood. Court had said that if the baby had to have the surname Beshni, she had to put her foot down somewhere. So, she had one Terran name, one Jekhan name, and the names in the middle were still up for debate. At least they weren’t calling her “the baby” anymore.
“Just give her to me.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead, let out a ragged breath that reminded her far too much of a drug addict needing a fix, and made a gimme gesture at her. The doctor said he couldn’t help the neediness—that she shouldn’t try to wean him off his dependence on Kerry—but Murk was annoying the shit out of her. The doctor didn’t go as far as to say that Court should just hand the baby over to Murk outright, but Court suspected that was because he valued his life.
Court turned off the water and shifted Kerry to her other arm. “I liked you more when you couldn’t talk.”
“Why do you insist on antagonizing me?”
“I don’t insist. You haven’t given me a lick of space in five weeks in all the times I’ve been holding Kerry. You’re right on my back and won’t even g
ive me enough space to sneeze.”
“If you have some ailment you need recovery from, hand the baby to me and go take your peace.”
“I’m being metaphorical.”
“And I’m being hopeful.”
“You’d wish illness on me? Go fuck yourself, Murk.”
He shrugged. “That would probably be the only way you’d let go of her. Sometimes, I’d wonder if you’d clutch her to your chest while dying and not even release her after rigor mortis has set in. You’re being purposefully obstinate.”
“And you’re being a Jekhan jackass, so we’re even.”
Growling, he grabbed a hank of his hair and yanked. “What…is your problem, woman?”
She blinked. “Well, I’d say part of that problem is the two-meter hulk right in front of me. You know, if we’d been an actual couple, I would have left you weeks ago.”
He gaped. “You would not have!”
She nodded. “I would have. I’m a reasonable woman when I want to be. I know how to bend so I don’t break. I like you. You’re sexy and you can reliably get my rocks off, at least as far as I can remember. It’s been so long since anyone besides the good doctor touched me, and there was certainly nothing sexual about that particular pelvic invasion. But, even if we were having sex right now—even if I were slightly more than a walking milk bar for your daughter—you’re a schmuck.”
“Schmuck?” He shook his head. “What does that even mean?”
“Synonym for jerk. Jackass. Asshole.”
“Courtney—”
“Don’t Courtney me in that scolding voice. I’m a grown-ass woman, and I need you to consider this. Just once, try to consider this, because I really don’t think you’ve been giving thinking your best shot lately. The way you feel when you’re away from her—I feel that way too. I promise you, I do. She’s not just some pill—some medicine—for me. I’m wired to see to her needs and to protect her to the best of my ability until she can care for herself, and even beyond that point. When you try to take her from me, I feel just as anxious as you do when you see me carrying her around.”
“I understand that.”
“No, you understand the theory, maybe. If you saw me as anything more than a convenient vessel to bear your child, you’d know I love her and would think twice about snatching her from me.”