“Darcy. You blew up my car, again!”
Oh, buggeration, what was that word, it was on the tip of her tongue. Come on, think. “Sorry?”
Flicking her perfectly coiffed hair back behind an ear, Alma’s hazel eyes blazed. “Hand over the rocket launcher. Now!”
Darcy made a production of passing over the rocket launcher currently strapped to her back. She bought them in bulk, the loss of one was no big deal, though it was her favourite. Oh, well, she’d just break into Alma’s place and retrieve it in a few days, once the dust settled.
“Look at this place, young lady. My garden. My fence. The conservatory is scorched. The party is ruined. All my hard work. All that effort…”
Darcy switched off, she often went to her happy place when Sarah went on one of her rants. What torture techniques should she open with? Something classic? Or maybe something new? She’d seen something the other day on TikTok that might be a perfect way to get the ball rolling. Her spider web twanged. Oh, her mother had wound down, breathing hard, glaring Darcy’s way. She needed a suitable response. Or, someone to shift the blame onto.
“These two twats came here today to steal Nell’s baby.”
Sarah’s gaze narrowed as she shifted her attention to the two females trapped in taffy, still on the ground, a fierce scowl settling over her features, Sarah’s mouth slowly lifting into a smile of anticipation. Neith and Qetesh futilely tried to squirm, to break free. Too many in the family forgot that Darcy had Sarah’s smile.
“Really? They came after my granddaughter. Why?”
“That’s what we’d really like to know. I’m going to be busy chatting about that very subject for the next few days.”
Sarah, her expression still fierce, glanced over at her youngest child. “I want in.”
“In?”
“On the interrogation.”
Um, her mother, High Council member and renowned research scientist, wanted to help interrogate the demi-twats?
“I’ll bring my chemistry set. And I have some bone borers and brain slugs I’ve been dying to try out on sentient flesh.”
Oh, well, that changed everything. Huh, after all these years, maybe they’d finally discovered a mother and daughter hobby they could share.
Chapter Eighteen
“Hold him steady.”
“You hold him steady.”
“Nico!”
“I’ve got him. No, I don’t, he’s listing. He’s—”
“Drum.” Nell’s voice cut through the din. “Drum. Look at me. Up here, no, don’t look down there. For the Lady’s sake, someone pin up a modesty sheet. Ow, ow, OW!”
“Doc!”
“I’m fine, well, not fine, that was a doozy. Ow, ow, I’m not enjoying this.”
“Breathe, Nell.” Devon advised from her position at the end of the specially designed bed in the new luxury birthing suite the council had commission soon after Great-Aunt Alma, the family matchmaker, had returned to the fold.
“You breathe.” Nell snapped back, clearly not impressed with the paintwork chosen to promote serenity.
“Nell. Drum. Breathe.” Nico instructed. “Everyone, hee-hee, haw-haw.” Bloody Hell, he was hot in the blue medical smock one of the midwife nurses had tied him into when they’d stumbled through the birthing suite doors. Nico’s primary job since that moment was to keep Drum upright as he swayed around like a piece of untied cargo on a ship’s deck during a storm. It was proving beyond challenging. The woozy Warrior was seven feet of muscle on muscle, and currently his complexion was greener than algae.
The sound of panting filled the room. The modesty screen over Nell’s belly was raised, but Drum was too tall, and couldn’t seem to stop glancing down in that direction.
“Okay. We’re almost there. No, no pushing just yet.”
“I need to push.” Nell yelled.
