Page 36 of When the Sky Breaks

Her skin was getting drier by the minute as her fever crept higher. She startled and yelped as lightning struck outside. The air reeked of ozone.

“Hate storms,” she muttered, burying her face in my shoulder.

“I’ve got you,” I murmured, trying to soothe her chills as the fever-induced pain got so bad I felt tears through the thin cotton of my shirt.

Then, moments before I was sure pain and exhaustion and temperature would win and she’d fall unconscious in my arms, there was a stirring in the brush just inside the chapel proper. Sorcha picked up her head, opened her eyes, and focused properly as a tiny, furry white bundle hopped out from between the cacti.

“Is that a . . .” I began but trailed off as Sorcha somehow found the uncoordinated energy to clamber out of my arms and scoop the little creature up.

“A jackalope,” she squealed.

“Sorcha, put him down, come back and sit,” I urged, but she didn’t even glance my way.

Instead she held the cryptid up so she could look it in the eye, I could see the pregnancy hormones taking hold and the logic leaving her expression. “I’m gonna call you Milkweed.”

“Sorcha, we can’t keep it!” I insisted as she finally glanced back at me.

“He is just a baby!” Sorcha replied curtly, tucking the jackalope into her arms and coming to sit with me again.

“But, Sorcha,” I protested. “My love, what are we going to do with it?”

“They’re smart,” she insisted, but her big green eyes, glazed with fever and fatigue and desperation, told a different story. And even as she said, “They’re useful. They can mimic. And they understand. He’ll be able to turn invisible when he grows up. Won’t you, Milkweed?” I could feel the unspoken plea: He’s cute and small and warm and the last few months have been horrible.

“You’re a good boy. Tell them!” Sorcha urged.

“Good boy,” the creature repeated, matching her tone and timbre flawlessly.

Ansel finally emerged from the chapel, blood staining his hands, sheaf of torn and stained papers clutched in one fist.

“That was a warning,” Ansel said.

“About what and from who?” Sorcha asked, the little jackalope having seemingly dragged her out of the fever haze enough to be conversant again.

“About you running the Court,” Ansel said. “And who do you think? It’s from Iksura.”

“She killed one of our operatives?” Sorcha balked.

Ansel nodded. “I’d sent him ahead of us to New York to try and get a read on Iksura’s claim about your title’s legitimacy, your age. All that. Apparently she didn’t like it. Papers are more of the same she’s been sending. Get married. Take a regent. You know the drill.”

“But this time she murdered one of our men to make that same point,” I said. “She suggested we annul our marriage, then that we kill our baby, now she’s escalated to this?”

“But how did she know we’d be here?” Sorcha asked.

“I don’t think she did,” Ansel replied. “Note’s identical to the last one she sent. I think she knows we left, surmised we were heading east, and then sent out her inquisitors to try and scare us into giving in.”

“But how does she even know?” Sorcha protested. “How could she get word that fast all the way in Europe when we couldn’t even get to New York in that time? Even one of your men grabbing fresh horses every chance he could.”

“Never underestimate her,” was all Ansel said by way of reply.

“Need I repeat that she’s not only leaving copies of her demands scattered across the country, but that she left this particular copy staked through a man’s stomach?” I put in.

“Which only makes it more critical that we get the legal precedent airtight,” Ansel said. “And that we get somewhere with resources, security, and communication that doesn’t require weeks’-long treks through the bloody desert.”

“So onward to New York?” Sorcha asked, brows knitting together as she gathered little Milkweed closer up against her chest.

“Onward to New York . . .” Ansel said, then trailed off, eyes finally catching on the jackalope in Sorcha’s lap. “What the hell is that? Where did you find a jackalope? Did you summon it in your sleep like the bobcat?”

“His name is Milkweed,” Sorcha replied, adrenaline draining, eyes beginning to glaze with fever again, body starting to shake with chills.