Get over your past. Get over yourself. You want to put it all behind you, but you don’t actually let it go!”
In a blur of motion, he suddenly stood on his feet, pushing the table several feet across the floor with a screech.
“I’m done now,” he growled, and in an instant, he was gone, leaving me standing there, wondering what was happening to us.
We argued about everything else, as well, and sometimes I wanted to give up on it all. I daydreamed about living a normal life. I fantasized about forgetting my responsibilities and letting everything fall as it may. But then I’d remember what that meant—losing Tristan . . . losing Dorian. Then what would be the point of life anyway?
Besides, I had a duty and a purpose. I had a responsibility to the Amadis, to mankind, to fulfill that duty and purpose. And being responsible meant carrying on even when I didn’t want to. Even when I wasn’t sure why I should care.
We made love every night, doing what we could to produce a daughter. At least that never got old, especially because half the time it was make-up sex.
By the middle of September, panic imprisoned me in its tight vice. I’d bought every store on Captiva and Sanibel out of pregnancy tests. Since the Ang’dora, I didn’t have periods. A truly awesome thing, unless your entire life—and everyone else’s—depended on your getting pregnant. Because Mom had somehow been able to drop an egg, we had to hope I would, too. Hope. It wasn’t exactly springing eternal within me, but I held onto as much as I could. Every morning I peed on the stick only to see a negative result, and every night I prayed this would be the time. Even in the midst of a heated argument, I knew I couldn’t lose Tristan again.
Although I hated relinquishing them from my sight, afraid it might be the last time I saw either of them, I urged Tristan and Dorian out the door one morning, sending them off to the beach. Blossom had brought me an herbal mix over a week ago, a blend that primed the ovaries and hormones to facilitate fertilization. She said witches had been using it for centuries without fail, including long after menopause. We didn’t know if it would work for me, though, and I’d been too scared of any side effects it might have. But like most people drowning in the waters of desperation, I was willing to grasp at any possible lifeline.
Following her directions, I boiled water and poured it over a tablespoon of the leaves in a coffee mug. I let it steep for the required ten minutes, then stirred it, lifted the cup to my lips, and gagged at the smell. How can this be good for me when it smells like gasoline?
“Well, Sasha,” I said to the puppy at my feet, “here goes nothing.”
She cocked her head as I pinched my nose and pulled in a large gulp. And immediately sprayed it everywhere.
Not only because it tasted worse than it smelled. But also because two people had suddenly appeared in my kitchen. Sasha instantly became the size of a Saint Bernard, her stripes, wings and fangs all on display. She growled at the intruders—Mom and Charlotte.
“What the hell?” I sputtered, wiping the tea from my shirt. “You scared the crap out of me!”
“Didn’t Owen tell you we were coming?” Char asked as she started purposefully walking around the house, pulling all the window blinds shut.
“No. I haven’t seen Owen today.”
“He met us at the airport,” Mom said. “He must not be back yet.”
“What are you doing here?” I demanded, still annoyed at their literally popping in with no notice.
“Where’s Tristan?” Char called from the living room.
Something about her tone, about the way she asked the question struck me like a mallet, rattling my bones. Shaking my soul. I knew why they were here. My stomach rolled then fell to my knees. My chest tightened, and I gasped for air. The cup slid from my trembling hands, shattering against the tile floor. How could Owen do this to us? He knew they were coming, even retrieved their luggage because they couldn’t flash with it.
“You’re . . . here . . . to take . . . him?” I squeaked out between breaths. “Oh, my god. You’re really . . .”
I sank to the floor, unable to finish the sentence, my hand over my gaping mouth.
“You can’t have him,” I