Epilogue #2
“Congratulations, Booger,” my dad says, cutting in to give me a hug.
He holds me close, squeezing me extra tightly.
My parents still don’t know everything about what happened five years ago, but they do know enough to have taken an extra liking to Memnon who, in their minds, is terrifying but effective at keeping their daughter alive. And for all his rough edges, he treats me well.
Really, really well, I think as my Dad steps aside and Memnon comes into view. He prowls forward, Nero at his side. The tattoo he wears of the big cat peeks out from the open collar of his shirt.
My eyes drag up the column of his throat, past his sharp jaw and sensual lips; they skim up his scar before settling on his hypnotic eyes.
Even now my breath hitches at the sight of him.
Is my husband still absurdly wealthy? Yes. Has his sorcery ever returned? No. Is he still more villain than hero? The ghosts of every last trafficker on the Fortunas’ ledger would say so.
But to me, he has been and always will be Memnon, my Memnon. The boy who first spoke in my mind, who learned Latin to speak to me and who brought me back from the dead. The man who, even when he was convinced of my treachery, still only wanted to marry me.
When he reaches me, he dips down low and captures my mouth in his, one of his hands wandering to my belly.
Well done, my queen, he says in Sarmatian.
I smile against him, even as I feel a pang of sadness to be leaving Henbane, this time for good. Even with its dark memories, the coven was everything I could’ve hoped it would be.
Another cramp hits, and I break off the kiss to suck in a sharp breath, my hand going to my abdomen. This one is definitely more intense than the last two were, and it seems to draw itself out.
Memnon’s fingers tighten against my belly.
Est amage, he says, his brows pinched together. I don’t think that was a cramp. His eyes move from my abdomen to my face. I think it was a contraction.
Over a day later, I squeeze my eyes shut as a wave of pain seizes me up.
“This is your fault,” I manage to gasp out.
“It is,” Memnon responds. He sounds apologetic.
The two of us are in a witch-run midwifery clinic, and have been for nearly a day now.
It’s closing in on the witching hour, and the friends and family who were here earlier have long since left.
It’s only me, Memnon, and the midwife who is checking on me every hour, but who is otherwise dozing.
Even Nero is with my parents at the moment.
There’s soothing music playing from speakers, bushels of lavender tucked away in the corners of the room, crystals of amethyst and rose quartz, and images of the mother goddess.
I’m too miserable to appreciate any of it.
Memnon leans against the hospital bed and smooths back my hair, taking my hand into his. “I can numb the pain again.”
That’s what he has been doing, as has the midwife who’s been tending to me, though her efforts in particular have been in vain.
But even Memnon’s spells don’t hold for very long. Either it’s because the pain is too great for magic to muffle for long periods of time, or because this is a rude glitch in mother nature.
I think I want an epidural.
“It’s too late for that, I’m afraid,” says Tracy, the midwife, as she breezes into the room.
I hadn’t realized I’d voiced that desire.
“But I can try to relieve the pain again,” she says, echoing Memnon’s words from a moment ago. She peers at the very non-magical monitor checking my vitals and the baby’s.
“Pain relief would be nice,” I say, a bit defeated. Because of the nuances between fae and earthly magic, I already know it won’t take. But I also haven’t shared this tidbit of information with Tracy, so I go along with her offer.
From the nearby drawer she pulls out a tincture, then has me sit up. She parts the back of my thin cotton gown and rubs the goop onto my spine and murmurs the same soft spell she has been for every hour.
“By night by day, through blood and bone, remove the pain, let peace be sewn.”
I exhale through the building sensation of another contraction.
“Better?” Tracy asks as Memnon watches it all like a hawk. A muscle in his jaw keeps fluttering, and across our bond I sense his own tension at my state.
I nod, swallowing. It is not even a little bit better.
“Any changes in labor?” she asks.
“It hurts more,” I say honestly.
She gives me a soft look. “That does happen toward the end of it.”
“How much longer will she have to endure this?” Memnon asks, his tone commanding. Only I hear the pleading edge to it.
Tracy comes around to my front and gives my leg a squeeze. “Not too long now.”
Last time she checked, I’d been seven centimeters dilated and eighty percent effaced, for what good those terms did me.
She doesn’t check now, however.
Tracy glances over at Memnon. “When she starts needing to push, things will happen quickly. Please be aware that if you get lightheaded or queasy, you should make sure to take a seat or step out of the room. We wouldn’t want you fainting on us.”
Memnon’s eyes flick to mine. I have fought in battles, cut down countless enemies, and she thinks my child’s birth will frighten me?
To the midwife he simply says, “I will be fine.”
I brace myself for the inevitable moment where everyone in the room will get an eyeful of my pussy.
It’s a pretty pussy, Memnon comments.
We’ll see if he says the same thing when it becomes a gaping portal in a little while.
“There’s water on the side table,” Tracy reminds me, “and you can hit the call button on the bed whenever you need me.
“Try to rest. It’ll likely be morning before you’re fully dilated and effaced.” She gives my foot a final squeeze and slips back out of the room.
Memnon watches her leave with narrowed eyes.
“Why are you looking at her like that?” I whisper.
“No reason,” he says casually.
I should probably be concerned for Tracy. “She’s just doing her job,” I say.
“I’m unimpressed.”
“It’s not her fault her magic doesn’t work well with mine,” I say.
Memnon sighs, then places a hand on my belly. His magic spreads over me, and I exhale the moment it sinks in.
But this time, his spell wears off pitifully fast, and by the time 3:30 a.m. rolls around, I am more than just uncomfortable.
I moan as a wave of pain comes, worse than the last. Things that are more enjoyable than labor: fighting off demons, running into battle, sustaining a mortal wound.
Memnon’s hand is back on my belly, but this time his pain relief spell doesn’t do anything.
I really should’ve tried to get an epidural when I had the chance, even if it meant giving birth in a non-magical hospital.
“You know what’s rude?” I pant out between contractions. “Mother Nature tricking us into making sex fun.”
Memnon leans close, stroking the sweaty skin of my face. “That’s not the rude part, little witch. It’s this part that was rude of her.”
I want to respond, but pain closes up my throat. The waves of it intensify rapidly, far more so than I expect. And then—
Maiden, Mother, Crone.
“I have to push,” I whisper. “I think—I think right now.”
I’m already biting back a cry that wants to escape.
Memnon’s eyes widen at my admission. I can feel his excitement and his concern. He reaches over the bed and hits the call button for Tracy.
I close my eyes as the sensation intensifies. Another cry slips out from between my gritted teeth as the pain consumes me. Each second of the contraction feels like an eternity, until finally, finally, it subsides. I draw in deep lungfuls of air.
Memnon turns to glance at the door to our room, and I can hear his stray thought. Where is the midwife?