Page 49 of When the Sky Breaks

“I envy your certainty,” Neal murmured, kissing my hair.

“Doesn’t take any responsibility off us, of course,” I continued, looking up at the clear desert sky. “Doesn’t mean we’re not still fighting against an immortal, tyrannical psychopath, doesn’t mean the giant purple demon octopus isn’t ours to dispatch, but it’s nice to think . . . maybe there’s someone up there on our side.”

“I can see how that would be comforting,” Neal agreed, tugging me closer.

“But for tonight that’s enough philosophy,” I said. “For tonight we sleep. And we get the hell out of dodge tomorrow. If I have to spend ten more minutes with Reverend and Mrs. Whittaker I think I might strangle one of them.”

“As long as she doesn’t call me ‘doting’ again,” Neal said, smiling faintly as he tucked me into his arms and pulled the blankets up closer around us. “Or worse, ‘modern.’”

“Neal,” I whispered in the dark.

“What is it, love?” he murmured.

“Just, stay close. Please? Don’t let go of me?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said gently, kissing my head and then drifting to sleep.

Nineteen

Sorcha

Houston was big, noisy, and smelled awful from the loads of cattle set to ship out east on the river network. It was nearing dusk when we arrived, and the streets were full to bursting with dockworkers, locals, and travelers passing through on their journey west. I was immediately unimpressed. After weeks on the road I was ready to be somewhere nice, somewhere clean and civilized, somewhere I could find a tidy little hotel for the night and luxuriate in a few days off my feet and out of the saddle.

I’d somehow kept myself going with the promise of stopping here and getting on a train. But now, with the stinking river and the veritable horde of rough manual laborers, I would readily choose the snowy Sangre de Cristo peaks instead. At least trekking made sense now. It was, if nothing else, painfully familiar. Milkweed didn’t seem to enjoy the atmosphere either, having tucked himself head down in my deepest skirt pocket and had refused to emerge since we arrived.

As late spring bled into high summer, Houston was unbearably hot and humid. I was used to a hundred degrees at noon, but without even a trace of water in the air. Here it felt like trying to breathe in hot soup, and I found my already aggravated symptoms flaring even further. Every inch of my skin was damp and I was inexplicably itchy. I was well past my wits’ end as Neal flagged down a dockworker and started asking about train times.

“You want a train?” the man replied, brows knitting together in confusion.

“To New Orleans, ideally,” Neal said. “Anywhere we can head east.”

“Can’t even get to the Louisiana border without a boat or a stagecoach,” the man informed us. “That is unless you plan on walking through the swamps all that way.”

And with that, he returned to his work. I just glared.

“Ansel,” I nearly growled, “you said the rail lines connected to Houston.”

“My information may have been optimistic,” Ansel admitted. “But there’s sure to be options to keep us moving.”

“Ansel, I am going to throw you into that river,” I muttered.

“I’ll figure it out,” Ansel assured us. “Have a little faith, lass. I’ve only saved your life, what? Five times now.”

“I will throw you into the river,” I repeated. “And summon a catfish to swallow you alive.”

“And here I thought your powers didn’t work on fish?” Ansel drawled.

I glared.

“Let’s see,” Ansel mused. “Options . . . steamboat? Yeah, that’d be fun. Or what about a stagecoach?”

“Ansel.” I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried not to yell. “I have been vomiting multiple times every day for months now. And you are trying to convince me to get on a stagecoach?”

“It’s what, five percent of our total distance to Islay?” Ansel dug his heels in. “You’d be fine.”

“I’m fairly certain I’d get dehydrated and die,” I said, voice steely. “And then this entire trip and my entire pregnancy would have been worth absolutely nothing and Iksura would get control of the Outer Court after all. Is that what you’re going for?”

“Sorcha, just take a breath.” Neal wound his arms around my waist, steadying, calm, placating. I hated that it worked.