“She needs to be restrained,” he counters with terrifying calm. “One way or another, she needs to be forcibly controlled. This girl is one of the greatest flight risks we’ve ever had to deal with, and I refuse to jeopardize the lives of our soldiers and the safety of our citizens by hunting her across the city every time she decides to run. The damage she did to the airbase alone will take weeks to repair, and the costs—”
“So this is your big plan, then?” I say, tensing. “Keep her half-dead until you can arrange for a twenty-year-old assassin to move into her dad’s house? A dad she doesn’t know? A dad she doesn’t trust?”
“Okay, I hate to admit it,” says Kenji, “but James is right.”
“Why do you hate to admit it?” I ask him. “Why is it so hard to acknowledge that I might have a good idea?”
“If you really want him to answer that, we’ll need toschedule another meeting,” Warner says coldly. “It might take a few hours.”
“Now you’re just being a jackass.”
“Wow.” Kenji stares at me. “You know what, I honestly don’t know whether to be impressed with you or concerned for you. Either way”—he taps his head, then points at me—“something’s not fully cooked upstairs.”
“What?” I turn to him. “What are you talking about?”
“You have zero sense of self-preservation,” Kenji says in amazement. “What more does this man have to do to scare the shit out of you? Keep talking to him like that and he’s going to shoot you in the other leg—”
Juliette shifts in bed and we all freeze, heads turning in tandem to look at her. She goes still mid-motion, her hands hovering above her bump, dark hair grazing her waist.
“What?” she says.
“Nothing,” says Kenji too quickly. But the truth is, every time she so much as moves a muscle everyone freaks out a little.
She flashes us a tired smile, then rests her head against Warner’s shoulder, blinking softly.
He doesn’t normally sit on the bed during these unconventional meetings. Usually he hovers nearby, or perches on the edge. I get it; it’s a little weird arguing hard facts while sinking into a soft mattress with your pregnant wife curled up beside you. But today, he’s sitting right next to her.
In his socks.
Every week we try to have at least one or two meetingsat the house, a practice we started a few months ago when the doctors really began restricting Juliette’s movement. We used to sit in the living room, but that was before she started avoiding the stairs. I’m sure Warner never thought so many people would spend this much time in their bedroom. He probably hates it.
I really like it.
It’s cozy in here. Good light, lush fabrics, comfortable seating. Big windows overlooking the backyard. Warner’s constantly bringing her flowers and changing out the vases, so it always feels nice and smells good. It’s also maybe not a surprise to learn that he cleans his own house meticulously. Maybe everyone else is ready to piss their pants when Warner speaks, but when I see him I’m picturing the guy who spent a free Saturday afternoon cleaning out his kitchen cabinets. He does his wife’s laundry. He likes to iron. For years he’s dragged me out of bed at an ungodly hour because he’s decided I need to learn how to clean the gutters or pressure-wash the driveway or run ten miles uphill. I once watched him intently read an oven manual from cover to cover.
And I’ve never been able to get him to admit this out loud, but considering the fact that I personally assisted Warner with the landscaping out back, I can say with conviction that he planted dozens of rosebushes strategically, so they’d be visible from this room when in bloom. Even now, in this coastal winter, the artfully designed scenes outside the window are green and idyllic.
The man is an incurable romantic.
“Really, I’m fine,” Juliette says to the room, answering the unspoken question. “I swear.” She stifles a yawn, then makes a motion with her hand, like shooing a cat. “Keep arguing.”
Kenji clears his throat lightly, looking uncomfortable. “You sure you’re okay?” he asks.
“I’m sure,” she says, pinching a worn paperback out from under her leg. She leans forward to slide it onto her nightstand, and Warner automatically braces her.
We all seem to take the same, sudden breath.
I exchange a glance with Kenji, whose jaw tightens. Maybe Warner’s just being overprotective, but Juliette’s never needed support for simple movements. The doctors say she’s not supposed to do anything strenuous, but her bed rest isn’t otherwise hugely restrictive. She’s allowed to be up and moving for brief periods to use the bathroom and shower and attend to small tasks. Warner tries to get back to the house as much as possible—and the rest of us are all on a sort of tacit rotation—but she’s often alone for stretches of time. It’s never been an issue.
I wonder if things are getting worse.
Juliette seems weaker than I’ve seen her all these months, which is really saying something. The girls have been working with the doctors to monitor her progress, administering various methods of healing at increasing intervals—but I don’t really know what’s happening.
And I’m worried.
Not only am I a little clueless about pregnancy in general, but Juliette has a unique set of complications causing herproblems I don’t totally understand. She was purpose-built by her parents for use as an experimental weapon; she’d been nearly forcibly sterilized in the pursuit of generating one of the most powerful supernatural gifts I’ve ever seen.
Everything about her is designed to kill.
