16. If It Were a Better World #5
"I'd prefer you tell me this is all a nightmare and I'm actually still in my apartment in California eating takeout. And oh, I don’t know, maybe lie to me and tell me I'm gorgeous just so I feel less like trash.”
"Sorry, fresh out of those miracles." Kalemon pulled a stool closer and sat, her expression softening slightly. "How many contractions today?"
"Two. Maybe three if you count the one that felt more like the kid was practicing kickboxing."
"Braxton Hicks or real?"
"How the hell should I know?" Allora pushed herself upright with effort, her hand supporting her lower back. "I'm a virologist, not an obstetrician."
"Fair point." Kalemon reached into her satchel and pulled out a clean cloth. "Drink the tea. It'll help with the swelling."
Allora eyed the cup suspiciously. "What's in it this time?"
"Raspberry leaf, nettle, ginger. Same as yesterday."
"It tastes like dirt."
"Then drink it faster."
Despite herself, Allora smiled. This had become their routine over the months: Kalemon bullying her into self-care, Allora complaining but complying, both of them pretending this was normal.
Two women from Earth, trapped in a fantasy world, one pregnant with an impossible child, hiding in a gothic mansion owned by a possibly insane Awyan terrorist who may or may not be planning to use them as pawns in some elaborate scheme.
Totally normal.
Allora took the tea and sipped. It did taste like dirt. She drank it anyway.
"Any word from our gracious hostess?" Allora asked, keeping her voice light.
Kalemon's expression tightened slightly. "She's in the Black Garden. Again."
"Doing what?"
"Who knows? Communing with darkness? Plotting world domination? Rearranging her collection of dead bodies so she can harvest the organs?"
"So, Tuesday activities."
"Essentially."
They settled into the ease that only comes from surviving impossible things together. Outside, birds sang in the spring air. Inside, shadows clung to corners like they were being paid to lurk.
Allora set down the empty cup and looked at Kalemon, really looked at her. The woman had aged in the months they'd been running. New lines bracketed her mouth. Gray streaked her hair more prominently. But her hands were steady, her eyes clear.
"Thank you," Allora said quietly. "For staying, risking your life and…for all of this."
Kalemon's expression softened. "Where else would I go? Back to that miserable waystation? Wander the countryside alone hoping not to get murdered by bandits?" She shook her head. "We're in this together, kiddo. For better or worse."
"Mostly worse."
"Agreed."
Another contraction hit, milder this time but unmistakable. Allora breathed through it, her hand gripping the edge of the daybed.
Kalemon watched her closely. "You're close. Another week, maybe two at most."
"And then what?" Allora asked, her voice tight. "We just stay here? Raise the kid in a haunted mansion with a woman who calls her servant Thing?"
"You have a better plan?"
Allora shifted on the daybed, trying to find a position that didn't make her spine scream. "How's the portal research going?"
Kalemon's expression soured. "We're in the middle of nowhere.
Apparently this is where rich Awyans go to vacation when they want to be melodramatic in peace.
It's off season, the library Leira has is full of books on philosophy and warfare and approximately zero texts on Canariae history or portal mechanics.
" She gestured vaguely at the window. "Access to information is impossible out here. "
"Great," Allora muttered.
"Maybe after the baby is born we can figure out a way to snatch that bag of yours from the Canariae prison encampment," Kalemon continued, her voice taking on a planning tone. "Get that tracking device back. It's the only tool we have that might actually help us find a portal."
Allora's hand stilled on her stomach. "Too bad there's not a way to use Awyan energy to charge the batteries of your devices."
Kalemon went very still.
Allora glanced up. "What?"
Kalemon's hand rose slowly to her chin, rubbing thoughtfully. Her eyes had taken on that distant, calculating look Allora recognized from their days working together in labs. "Maybe there is."
"What?"
"Awyan magic." Kalemon leaned forward, her voice quickening. "It's energy. Measurable, tangible energy. We've seen it move objects, create shields, generate heat and light. If I could create some kind of converter, a way to siphon magical energy and transform it into electrical current..."
"You think that's possible?"
"I don't know." Kalemon stood, already pacing. "But the solar charger worked on light energy conversion. Magic clearly generates electromagnetic fields—I've felt them around Leira's wards. If I could isolate the frequency, build a rudimentary capacitor using materials from Leira's workshop..."
"She has a workshop?"
"In the east wing. Full of very suspicious instruments I've been cataloging." Kalemon's eyes were bright now, the exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "If I could MacGyver something together, we might be able to charge at least one device. Maybe not fully, but enough to get readings."
Allora felt a small flutter in her chest, one she hadn’t felt in months. Hope.
“She’s protecting you,” Kalemon said carefully, her voice settling back into its earlier steadiness. “Whatever her reasons, she’s kept you safe. Both of us safe. That means a great deal.”
"Or she's fattening us up for the kill."
"Also possible."
Allora laughed, the sound cracked and tired. "God, I miss when my biggest problem was grant applications and lab politics."
Allora had just begun to sink into the pillows when the door creaked open without a knock.
Leira.
Backlit by sunlight, a fitted black riding coat and breeches clinging to her like a second skin, she stepped inside trailed by a curl of lavender-scented pipe smoke. Her eyes dropped instantly to Allora's stomach.
"So," she sang, "how's our little parasite doing?"
Kalemon arched a brow. Allora groaned.
"What do you want?"
Leira leaned in the doorway, puffing elegantly on her Awyan pipe as she inspected her nails. "Just making sure you haven't exploded yet. Honestly, you look like a swollen sheep that wandered into a silk bed and never left."
Allora lurched upright—well, as close as eight and a half months would allow—and hurled a pillow.
"Get out, Leira! I am not in the mood for your bullshit today!"
Leira caught the pillow midair and clutched it to her chest like a prize, giggling. "Feisty as ever. You'll miss me when I'm dead."
"You'd still talk then," Allora shot back.
Leira snorted, flicking a curl off her shoulder. "Anyway. I have business. I'll be gone for a while, so sit tight and try not to give birth on my pristine floors like a pregnant dog."
Allora's mouth fell open.
Leira continued casually, examining her pipe. "I've seen how dogs like to walk around during labor, leaving those delightful birthing trails everywhere. Blood, fluids, placenta smeared across perfectly good marble." She shuddered delicately. "It's an offense I simply will not tolerate."
"ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?!" Allora shrieked, grabbing another pillow.
Kalemon's shoulders started shaking. She pressed her hand to her mouth, her eyes watering as she tried desperately not to laugh.
Leira raised one elegant hand in mock surrender. "I'm just saying, if you feel the urge, aim for the rug. It's replaceable. The floors are fourth century Inrid Dynasty."
"GET OUT!" Allora roared.
A snort escaped Kalemon. She immediately clapped both hands over her mouth, but her whole body was trembling with suppressed laughter.
Allora's head whipped toward her, eyes blazing. "This is NOT funny, Kalemon!"
Kalemon's face turned red. She made a strangled choking sound, desperately trying to swallow the laughter that was fighting its way out.
Leira smiled serenely from the doorway. "See? Even she appreciates my concern for proper hygiene." She pushed off the doorframe. "I'll be back in a few days. Do try to keep the bodily fluids contained."
She pulled the door shut behind her with a soft click, but not before they heard her delighted laughter echoing down the hallway.
Kalemon finally lost the battle. A laugh burst out of her, followed by another, until she was bent over wheezing. "It's not—" she gasped between laughs, "—it's not funny, I swear?—"
"Then why are you LAUGHING?!"
"It’s not what she said…it’s the imagery…I just can’t…!" Kalemon wiped tears from her eyes. "And she said it with such—such concern for her floors?—"
"I hate both of you," Allora muttered, crossing her arms over her belly as much as she could.
"I'm sorry," Kalemon wheezed, trying to compose herself. "I'm sorry. That was terrible. Absolutely terrible." Another giggle escaped. "Birthing trails."
Allora threw the last remaining pillow at her.
Kalemon caught it, still grinning. "Okay, okay. I'm done. I swear." She took a deep breath, wiping her eyes. "But you have to admit, that bitch has a gift for being the worst person alive while somehow being hilarious."
Allora groaned and sank back into the remaining pillows. "This is my life now. Pregnant, homeless, hiding in a gothic nightmare mansion, being insulted by my captor's mother who compares me to livestock."
"Could be worse," Kalemon offered.
"How?"
"She could have compared you to a pig."
Allora just glared at her.
Kalemon raised her hands in surrender, but she was still smiling.
For a moment, she said nothing, clasping her hands in thought. The air felt heavy, stilled, as though the whole house were listening. "What are you going to do?" she asked at last, her voice quiet but edged with steel. "After the baby's born?"
Allora didn't answer right away. Her gaze drifted to the tall windows, where fog curled over the garden like a slow tide. Her hand pressed to her stomach. The child shifted beneath her palm.
"I have decided to leave the baby here," she said finally. "With Leira and a note."
Kalemon's head snapped toward her, eyes widening. "You're serious."