Because that was before I felt the way I feel about you, Dove. Before I knew those escapades would come back to haunt me unfavorably. Because we are friends.
Bah. It had been a mistake to share those tales with her. Tales I surely hadn’t expounded upon, but which Stevie, in all her romantic notions of intrigue and mystery, had dragged out of me against my better judgment.
They were meaningless encounters on both my part and the part of the women I shared them with. I can’t even remember what any of them aside from Miranda even look like anymore, since I’d met Stevie.
And even Miranda is fading fast.
And it has nothing to do with the fact that she killed me.
“Hellllo, International Man of Intrigue—why would I consider he’s not?”
Thus, I took a defensive stance. “Because now you know the child isn’t mine—because I’ve told you he isn’t mine.”
She bobbed her dark brown head with her fresh caramel highlights. “Ah. Now we’re playing the trust game, right? I take your word for it that you didn’t have an affair with Inga and that means I trust you. A show-of-faith thing, yes?”
“Yes,” I said, fighting the urge to spit the word out. “Or no. It’s not a game. My word is good. It’s always good, Stephania. I’ve never lied to you and I have no intention of starting now. This baby is not mine, and I have no idea why Inga would drop him here, or how she even knew…”
Stevie’s eyes lifted upward and she sat up straight. “You’re remembering something?”
Indeed, I was. As Stevie would say, good gravy. “I am, in fact. On a particularly trying day during arms negotiations, her father demanded I entertain her. So, Inga and I took a drive and I brought her here to show her this house. I’d only just bought it, and I was pleased with my purchase.”
Of course, by then, Miranda was already allegedly dead. I’m leaving out the fact that I’d bought the house to keep her memory—the memory of us planning a life together—both alive and well.
Stevie’s jaw tightened. Unfortunately, Miranda remains a sensitive subject for us. “All your secretiveness and much-needed explanations as to how you know for a fact Miranda killed you aside, you told Inga this was your house?”
For now, I chose to ignore her questions as to my certainty about Miranda being my killer. “I did. I told her I’d bought it for a woman I was involved with. I just didn’t tell her that woman was dead.”
Stevie frowned, the two lines in her forehead deepening. “Wait. You brought her here, where you were supposed to live with Miranda? That doesn’t seem very spy-like, Win, or very deep undercover.”
“At this point in our relationship, she knew I was a spy. Shortly after that day, I was almost at the end of the mission when, without warning, I was pulled out and sent somewhere else. But I told her if she ever needed me, she could come here to find me. Bollocks, I’d forgotten all about that!”
Yet now, as I remember a small part of that day as clearly as if it were just yesterday, a draining one for Inga, who was going to try to escape her husband, her father’s right-hand man, I became more and more worried for Inga. She knew coming here was to be a last resort. I’d been quite clear I never mixed work and my very limited personal life.
And Inga vowed she’d never contact me unless she was desperate.
“You give yourself up to this woman, Zero? Did you have too much vodka the night before? Had you gone mad?” Arkady asked in disbelief.
I shook my head at him with a chuckle. “Nay, in fact, I was quite sane. Inga was instrumental in helping MI6 pursue her father. She could be trusted, of that I assure you. In return, I offered her my help whenever she needed it—if she ever wanted away from her husband and father. But alas, I was killed before I could close the deal and, after that, I didn’t know what happened to Inga.”
“Hint. She had a baby,” Stevie said, her impish grin back in place.
“Astute, Stephania. Now, here’s what troubles me. I don’t remember all of that day in its completion.”
“Huh?” she asked.
“I have very clear memories of most everything in my life, but there are fuzzy parts, and I don’t remember much after driving past the house.” I can’t tell her how distraught I was over Miranda then. Not yet. She believes I still love Miranda to this day—even though she betrayed me. Which, yes, makes me look like a fool. But I’d almost rather she believed that than know those feelings changed because of her—because of Stevie. But clearly, I’d allowed Miranda too much time in my head that day.
“So maybe you did make a baby that day, Winsical,” Stevie taunted.
“Bollocks! That much of my life I do remember, and I do not toy with another’s wife!” If I had blood pressure, I’m sure it would be through the roof after such an accusation.
“Fine, fine. Don’t get all huffy. None of that matters much at this point.”
“Regardless of what I remember, this must mean she’s in some sort of trouble. Inga’s not the type of woman to leave her child for any reason other than she’s in dire straits.”
Stevie cocked her head. “How do you know? Did she have other children?”
How did I know? I suppose it was just instinct that told me Inga would never leave a child of her own. Her childhood had been so cloistered and fraught with danger, I’d think she’d feel much like Stevie does, in that she wouldn’t want to repeat her father’s past mistakes.
What I could absolutely not understand was why she’d decided to have children with the husband she despised… Unless this little one was a product of an unplanned pregnancy.
Still, that didn’t sit right with me. Inga was very clear on her wish to get as far away from her husband and father as possible.
“Win?” Stevie prompted, one eye still on the sleeping lad.
“I suppose I feel comfortable enough saying she shares your sentiments about her childhood. I trust, if this truly is Inga’s child, she’d want it nowhere near her father, and she’d do everything in her power to protect him from being raised in that environment.”
Instantly, Stevie was on her feet as she bit the inside of her cheek and looked upward tentatively. “You don’t think… I mean, you don’t think she’s… Well, you know…”
“Dead?” I responded. “No. I can’t believe that. I won’t. The handwriting looks just like hers, but I do believe she needs my help.”
And there is the crux of my dilemma. How can I possibly help her without putting Stevie in danger? She is, for all intents and purposes, my eyes and ears.
And just as expected, Stevie did exactly what she always does. “Then I’ll help.”
“Stephania! Do you have any idea how dangerous Von Krause is? If in fact he was never apprehended, if he’s still making arms deals, he’s a ruthless monster who’d kill his own mother for money.”
She held up her hands and shrugged her shoulders. “Okay, so we keep the baby then, yes? That decided, I think we’d better start talking about preschool right now. Because you know what they say, you have to begin when they’re in the womb. Also, we need to discuss organic or make our own.”
“Make our own what?”
Stevie planted her hands on her hips and shot the ceiling a scathing glance. “Baby food, silly. We’re not going to give him all that processed gunk.”
I scoffed. “This from the woman who eats Twinkies for breakfast and washes it down with grape soda?”
“When I was a kid, that was called survival of the fittest, especially with Dita for a mother, bless her heart. I always promised myself if I ever had a child…er, or came upon one abandoned on my doorstep in the middle of the night by my ghost friend’s ex, I’d do the raising right. So, there’s the question of plastic diapers or cloth. I know, I know. Cloth’s a lot of work, but I think I can manage wash loads between my stints at the shop, and I bet Carmella and Enzo will babysit. Now, on to more pressing matters, like tummy time, and brain development, and college…” She paused momentarily and then, as though the proverbial lig
ht bulb over her head had gone off, she said, “OMG, college! We need to start preparing him now—”
“Stephania!” I yelled. I admit I was losing my temper, mostly due to the fact that Inga was likely in danger and I didn’t know how to extract her from it, but letting Stevie run wild with this left me unnerved, especially considering Von Krause was likely at the bottom of it.
But Stevie smiled sweetly into the bedroom. “Uh-huh?”
“Inga is not my ex, and we are not keeping him.”
“Well, we’re not giving him to the police so he ends up in the system either, and that’s not open for discussion. That means you have two choices, Winsical. Either we keep him or we find his mother. Cast your vote now, and be quiet while you do it, because I have no more formula for him and if you wake him, I’ll buy the Twinkie factory with all your money. Lock, stock and spongy-cake goodness with yummy cream filling.”
Heaven save me from this woman sent to torture me with her daredevil shenanigans and heart of gold.
“It’s our money, and fine, we shall tentatively dip our toes into the arms dealing pool. However, we must have rules, Stephania. There must be rules of engagement. Clear, concise rules.”
She flapped her hand at me in the way she does when she pretends she’s listening, but she’s really only appeasing me. “Rules, schmules. Yeah, yeah. Let’s hear ’em.”
Arkady whistled, but I’ll give him this, he did back me up. “My little artichoke heart?”
“Da, my Russian blueberry muffin of love?”
“Win is right to be fearful for you, malutka. Von Krause is a dangerous, despicable man. I spit on his kind!”
This made her pause and look skyward in concern. “Have you had a run-in with him, too, Arkady?”
“Nyet. But I have seen what he is capable of, sweet daffodil. Many of my men have fallen by his hand. I do not wish to see you hurt. I will not see you hurt. You must be very careful about how and where you inquire. Please trust Arkady and make promise you will be careful.”
Stevie’s face grew serious then, which, I’ll admit, buggered me no end. Why, when I say she needs to practice caution, does she fight me like a cage fighter? Yet, when Arkady charms her with his Russian accent and food endearments, she takes grave note?
She appeared to think about that for a moment before she nodded her head. “Okay. Rules. I guess one is, we shouldn’t send him a private message on Facebook complete with emojis?”
I breathed a sigh of relief. And realized I didn’t even care that Arkady had been the one to convince her Heinrich Von Krause, as he’s formally called, is a formidable, deadly foe.
“You’re charming as always, Stevie, but yes. I think Facebook is a definite no. Also, I caution, we must tiptoe into his territory like ghosts—”
“Hah!” Stevie snickered, slapping her thighs “Ghosts. Funny, Spy Guy.”
Something else to note about us ghosts. Contrary to some reported sightings, we cannot move from place to place—or at least Arkady and I can’t—not with great ease, anyway. If that were so, I could do so much more. As a for instance, I’d hunt Balthazar down and fix his hide for good. Alas, this is not the case.
Typically, we’re tethered to the person we communicate with on Earth. Certainly, I can go anywhere I wish in Mayhem Manor, the house itself screams Stevie’s life force. I can also observe her close proximity, which allows me to sometimes see and hear things she’d otherwise miss.
However, the earthly plane becomes dimmer and fades completely should I stray too far from her aura. I was successful doing so in the early stages of our friendship, including with a car salesman who owed me a favor and thought he could get away with not paying up. But since Stevie and I have bonded, for lack of a better word, that door is now firmly shut.
The afterlife is a strange and wondrous place, yes? Anyway, globetrotting to hunt for Von Krause is out.
“Okay, so no Facebook searches, Funstomper.”
“You know what I mean, Dove. If we fish around and he even gets a whiff we’ve bought a pole and some bait, he’ll find you. That I can’t have. I won’t have it. For all we know, he knows Inga’s dropped the baby here and he’s just waiting to pounce—biding his time until he can take him back—with his usual penchant for force. This is why I suggest you do call Officer Nelson and Sandwich. If nothing else, they offer protection.”
Stevie blanched, but then she squared her shoulders like the incredibly brave soldier she tries so hard to be and straightened her spine as she crossed the room and put a protective hand on the baby. “I said no, Win. I know what procedure is, and they’ll bring in CPS. That’s Child Protective Services here in the states. And how the heck will I explain his existence and connection to you, anyway? ‘Oh hey, Sandwich, meet my ghost friend’s ex-girlfriend’s baby she dropped off on my doorstep to keep him from harm.’ That’ll go over well. Ya think they might want to know how I know a dead spy? What if he gets lost in the system while they fool around? No. Absolutely not.”
“Stephania, you trouble me with your tough mini-spy act. You’re not equipped to handle a monster such as Von Krause!”
“He’d better not try to take this baby, Win. I don’t care how ruthless he is, I’ll do something horrible to him, and it’ll be ugly. Sooo ugly—bloody and yucky even, and I’ll do the same to anyone he sends in to do his dirty work, too.”
Arkady groaned. “Your bravery is to be commended, but it is unwise to make such statements, my sweet circus bear.”
Stevie smiled as she rubbed the baby’s back. “You mean mama bear, and I mean what I say. If he’s as horrible as you claim, no way he’s getting the kid from me. Now, what do we have to do to protect ourselves, and most of all, Baby-Spy?”
“Stephania, he is not mine, I tell you.”
“Right. I heard all about it. Let’s move on. We need to give him a name. Plus, how the heck are we going to explain him if someone comes to the door? You don’t think anybody would fall for the idea that I hid my pregnancy and didn’t gain much weight, do you?”
All right. She made me chuckle. No matter how dark my mood over my lot in death, Stevie can transform it in a mere second.
“I think Arkady is good, no?”
“No!” we both answered in unison, then laughed.
“No disrespect, old chap, but maybe something less fierce. He’s just a little guy. How do you feel about Reginald?”
Stevie wrinkled her pert nose. “Reginald? Seriously? Ugh. No. Sounds like an old guy who wears checkered suits and toupees.”
“Angus then.”
“Like the beef? They’d have a field day with him on the playground. No kid of mine’s going to get his lunch stolen because we named him after a cut of beef and virtually handed out a free pass to his classmates to tease him.”
“He’s not yours,” Stevie,” I reminded. “He’s Inga’s. Now, what say you to Fergus? A fine name, to be sure. Upstanding and strong.”
Stevie snorted, sitting back on the pillows, her hand still passively on the baby. “I bet if Inga knew you’d name your kid Fergus, she’d have dropped him at the 7-Eleven instead of here with you, you heathen.”
I let out a ragged sigh. I should have known this wouldn’t be easy. “All right then, here’s a list of names I rather like. Jasper, Giles, Hamish—”
“Hamish?” she squealed, covering the sleeping child’s ears. “Oh, they’d be all over that as early as preschool. I can just hear it now. Hamish the Sammich. No, siree. Not on my watch.”
However, I refused to be thwarted. “Tarquin, Euan…”
As we toyed with names late into the night, laughing and testing them out, and the baby slept, I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to truly be in the position of picking a name for a baby with Stevie.
A baby name for a baby we’d created.
Chapter 4
Stevie lifted her coffee cup and groaned until the first drop of caffeine hit her tongue, just as she’d always done each morning since I’d known her. Usual
ly that satisfied her, perked her up so to speak. Alas, not on this fine morning.
We sat at the kitchen table, looking out over the water surrounding the house, the little one in his carrier playing with his toes, blissfully unaware he’d kept an adorable ex-witch up all night. The sun shone brightly across the floor in buttery shafts where Whiskey lay, still with a watchful eye on the child.
Bel’s stomach puffed up and down as he caught a nap under a cloth napkin after a very long night. Strike clucked about the floor, picking at corn kernels Stevie had set out for him on some newspaper, occasionally brushing up against her leg to encourage her to reach down and rub his head. As I said, Strike is quite sweet, and he adores Stevie.
Anyway, aside from our newest addition, it was a typical morning at Mayhem Manor.
Stevie looked down at our turkey with sympathy, and asked, “Are you okay, Strike, my boy? Did he keep you up all night, too, buddy? I think he kept all of Asia up, if it makes you feel any better.”
Strike bobbed his head and went back to plucking his corn.
“I think I’ve decided on a name for Baby-Spy,” she said suddenly, running a hand through her mussed hair, fighting a yawn.
“Have you then, Dove? I do so hope it’s something college frat house-ish like Chad or Brad,” I teased.
“Again, that’d beat Angus.” She leaned on her elbow, her eyes sliding closed before she propped them back open again. “And yes, I have. I’ve decided on Loud,” she said to him, making him smile that adorably endearing, gummy grin. “I dub thee loud, because wow, buddy. You can sing it when you’re hungry.”
Oh, indeed, he’d sung. Three times after the first bottle Stevie had given him. He’d also used every hand towel from not only Stephania’s bathroom, but each guest bath as a diaper.
I laughed. “He does have the lung capacity of a strapping boy, does he not? His father would be proud.”
Ain't Love a Witch? (Witchless in Seattle Mysteries Book 6) Page 4