Page 95 of Death Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

Faith stopped in front of Mrs. Harriet’s house. “Text me if you get worse.”

“I will,” I said.

She stared at me. “Do not say you are fine.”

I sighed. “I will text you if I am not fine.”

Faith nodded. “Better.”

Then she left, her car disappearing down the street.

Inside my suite, the air was cool and familiar. A small sanctuary of normal, if you ignored the fact that my normal included magical bonds to eggs and council politics that wanted me dead.

Harriet was there before I could even take off my coat.

“You look terrible,” she said.

I dropped my keys into the bowl by the door. “Good morning to you too.”

Harriet’s voice carried concern. “You smell like smoke and hospital disinfectant.”

“I had a rough night,” I muttered, shuffling toward the kitchen.

A plate sat on the counter.

Cookies.

Mrs. Harriet had been baking again.

I stared at the cookies, then at the empty kitchen.

I picked one up and took a bite.

It was still warm with a soft center, crisp edge, and chocolate melting slightly.

I chewed slowly and let the sugar hit my blood, grateful and annoyed at the same time.

“Thank you,” I said grudgingly.

Harriet sounded pleased. “You are welcome. I will leave you to rest.”

“Thank you,” I mumbled as she left.

I moved to my laptop and opened my email, even though I knew it was unlikely my friend had replied. The one I had reached out to earlier for information.

Still, hope was stubborn.

My inbox loaded.

No response.

I stared at the screen for a moment, then closed it. Disappointment was a familiar taste. It did not surprise me anymore.

I checked the time.

The sky outside my small window had lightened slightly. Dawn was close. The world was turning pale. Somewhere, Cal was racing the sunrise, ferrying undead into a crater before his body hardened into stone.

The egg bond tugged, steady and insistent. The baby was still stable, but the calling pressed at the edges, like a distant hum that refused to stop.