Her hand stops on my neck, and I sense the “switch” just as it happens. It’s not Syn looking at me now. It’s Aoife. It’s hard to explain, but I see it. Syn once tried to tell me how it felt like she was two different people. Her past self, the weapon James raised her to be, and the person she is now, the woman who wants more out of life than the destiny she was given.
“Where’s Dierdre? She left about five minutes before we did.”
Syn tosses the paper towels into the red biohazard wastebin. “She wants to see you, but I told her to stay in the waiting room.”
“I tried to call her. Why didn’t she answer?”
Tearing open a packet of antibacterial ointment, Syn deftly applies it to the shallow cuts covering my face. “I couldn’t reach her either. Luckily, we passed by her on the road on our way here. Apparently, her phone died, and she couldn’t find her charger.”
Dierdre’s safe. That’s all that matters.
As Syn works on my cuts, she winces a few times.
“The baby?”
Another wince. “He loves to torture me by using my bladder as a trampoline to do backflips.” She sucks in a breath and grabs her stomach. “Nope. He’s doing a full Olympic gymnast floor routine. Ouch.” Her reassuring smile doesn’t lessen my concern.
I splay my hand over her taut, hard abdomen. I don’t like to see her in pain of any kind. “What can I do?”
“Induce labor?” She finishes tending to the cuts on my face, and sparks ignite over my skin when she trails her fingertips down my arm to my hand, turning it over. “You’ve got some cuts here, too,” she says, swiping her thumb over the palm.
My phone goes off, the chime loud in the quiet that has suddenly filled the room. It’s probably Pyotr, letting me know he found Dierdre in the waiting room.
“Superficial. Nothing bad.” It becomes hard to breathe, the simple brushstrokes of her thumb causing havoc with my heart rate.
She brings my hand to her mouth and sweeps her lips over the D-E-V-I-L inked over each knuckle. “I’m going to kill whoever did this,” she whispers.
The door cracks open, and Constantine pokes his head in. “Sweet girl, he keeps asking for you.”
Syn lights up at the news. “He’s out?”
His coal-dark eyes land on our joined hands. “In recovery. Still groggy from the anesthesia. They’re going to move him up to a private room.”
“Coming.” She turns back around and hugs me. “Thank you…oh, fuuuck.” We both look down at the wet puddle spreading across the floor around her feet.
“Syn?” Constantine says in alarm, rushing into the room.
She looks up at him, the biggest smile creasing her cheeks. “I think my water just broke.”
On June fifth at eleven thirty-nine p.m., Fénix Aodh Fitzpatrick came screaming into the world.
A boy.
Just like Syn said.
Seven pounds, ten ounces. Twenty-one inches long. With a full head of dark hair and dark eyes like Constantine’s.
The second I saw him swaddled in Syn’s arms, he stole my heart.
Just like his Mama did.
Thirty-Three
August
The dog daysof summer are hotter than the ninth circle of hell where the humidity is jacked up to a thousand, the mosquitoes are ravenous, and sweat covers you the instant you step outside. Those are the best days for a game of flag football in the backyard.
Tristan tries to intercept the pass I throw to Constantine, then watches helplessly as he runs to the other side of the yard and scores a touchdown to the trumpeting of Cocky B’s crows.
