Chapter 167

The news arrived on a morning when the sun filtered through the windows in golden shafts, painting the kitchen in hues of honey and warmth. Lisa found me in the garden, her hands trembling as she clutched a small woven shawl around her shoulders, her eyes bright with tears that she kept blinking back.

"Krys," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I need to tell you something."

I set down the watering can, wiping dirt from my hands onto my apron. "What is it? Are you ill?"

She laughed then, a sound that caught halfway between joy and disbelief. "No. Not ill. Pregnant."

The word hung in the air between us, delicate as a soap bubble.

"Pregnant?" I repeated, my mind struggling to catch up.

Lisa nodded, pressing one hand to her stomach, still flat beneath her dress. "Victor and I... we didn’t think it was possible. Not after Lyle." She looked down at her own hand, spreading her fingers across her abdomen as if she could already feel the life growing there. "But I guess my time isn’t over yet and I can still have cubs. Victor is a mess...but he’s happy."

I pulled her into my arms, feeling her shake against me, and I realized she was crying. Not sad tears, but the kind that come when joy is so large it has nowhere else to go.

"How far along?" I asked when she finally pulled back, wiping her face with the corner of her shawl.

"Two months," she said. "Just two months. But I knew. A mother knows, doesn’t she? Even before the signs show. I felt the shift. The opening. The yes."

We sat together on the garden bench, the herbs and vegetables growing around us in neat rows, and I held her hands while she talked. She spoke of Victor’s face when she told him, how the proud peacock shifter had gone completely still, his colorful plumage quivering with emotion, then dropped to his knees in the middle of their kitchen and pressed his ear to her stomach as if he could already hear a heartbeat.

"He wept," Lisa said, smiling at the memory. "My proud peacock. Wept like a boy."

But then her smile faltered, and I saw the shadow pass behind her eyes. She looked away, toward the horizon where the mountains met the sky.

"I keep thinking of him," she said softly. "My Marcus. My first little one with the bright feathers and the braver heart than any child should need."

I squeezed her hands, understanding. Her peacock son, the one who had died saving his younger siblings, saving me, saving my four older cubs from a threat of the southern wolf tribe. He had been only a boy himself, barely more than a child, but he had stood between danger and his family with the courage of a thousand men.

"He would have been a big brother again," Lisa whispered. "He would have been so proud. So protective."

"He is proud," I said, my voice steady. "Wherever he is, he sees you. He sees this new life. And he is guarding it already, I know it."

Lisa turned to me, her eyes wet again. "Do you think so?"

"I know so," I said. "The dead do not leave us. They become the walls around us. The warmth in cold rooms. The extra heartbeat when we need it most."

She leaned her head against my shoulder, and we sat in silence while the garden grew around us, two mothers sharing the weight and wonder of creation.

Victor arrived later that afternoon, his peacock feathers fanned slightly in his excitement, ducking through the doorway with uncharacteristic hesitation, as if he feared the happiness might shatter if he moved too quickly. But when he saw Lisa, when she smiled at him across the room, his face transformed. The worry lines smoothed. The tension in his proud shoulders released.

Ravin found us all in the sitting room, and I watched the news travel through him like a wave. His eyes went first to his mother, reading her face, then to Victor, then back to Lisa. Understanding dawned in the set of his jaw, the softening around his eyes.

"Mother?" he asked, his voice careful.

Lisa nodded. "You’re going to have another sibling, my love."

Ravin crossed the room in three strides and pulled her into an embrace that lifted her off her feet. "Mother," he said, his voice thick. "Mother."

Leon arrived next, drawn by the commotion, and when he understood, when Lisa took his hands and placed them on her stomach, he went completely silent. The loud, brash lion who argued about everything, who complained and boasted and filled rooms with his presence, stood perfectly still. Then he dropped to his knees, much as Victor had done, and pressed his forehead against his mother’s lap.

"A little one," he whispered. "For you."

"For all of us," Lisa said, stroking his mane. "Another cub to keep me company when you all are busy with your own broods."

Lyle came last, the youngest of Lisa’s children, now a grown man with his own life but still her baby in so many ways. He stood in the doorway for a long moment, taking in the scene: his mother radiant, daddy Victor beaming, his brothers wiping their eyes like children.

"I’m going to be a brother again?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly on the last word.

"Again," Lisa confirmed, holding out her hand to him.

Lyle crossed the room and took her hand, then surprised everyone by pulling her into a fierce hug. "Good," he said into her hair. "Good. You need someone to fuss over. You’ve been too quiet in that big house."

"I have Victor," Lisa protested.

"Daddy Victor doesn’t need his clothes mended," Lyle said, pulling back with a grin. "And he eats his vegetables without being told. Where’s the fun in that?"

The room erupted in laughter, and I watched the family circle around Lisa, around this new secret they all shared, this new promise. It was good. It was right. Life moving forward, death remembered but not allowed to steal the joy of what was coming.

---

Summer approached on soft feet, turning the air heavy and warm. The wheat in my garden stood tall and golden, ready for harvest. The days stretched longer, filled with light that seemed to linger out of sheer generosity, as if the sun itself could not bear to leave the sky.

And my body changed.

I was four months pregnant now, carrying the Mer child that Caelion and I made together with such hope and anticipation. Four months along, with four more to go until I would bring this baby into the world. Into the water.

The thirst started gradually, as it had before. A dryness in my throat that no amount of well water could satisfy. I found myself drinking cup after cup, glass after glass, my body absorbing it as fast as I could pour it down. The skin on my hands felt tight and hot, flushed with the effort of sustaining a child who needed more than I could give them on land.

"It’s starting," Caelion said one morning, watching me drain my third pitcher of water before noon. His eyes were dark with concern and something else. Excitement. Fear. Love. All of it tangled together in the set of his jaw, the way his fingers twitched toward me then pulled back. "The Mer blood in the child is asserting itself. It’s drawing water to build the sac. To prepare."

"I remember," I said, setting down the empty pitcher with hands that trembled slightly. My mouth felt parched despite all I had drunk, my tongue thick and heavy. "With the other pregnancies, there were signs. Cravings. Changes. But nothing like this. This is stronger. Much stronger."

Caelion nodded, moving closer, his hand finding the curve of my belly where it swelled beneath my dress. His palm was cool against the heat of my skin, and I leaned into his touch without thinking, craving the comfort of it. "The child is healthy. I can feel it. The pulse of the ocean in your womb." He paused, his thumb tracing slow circles against my skin, and I felt the flutter of response from within, as if the baby recognized its father’s touch. "But Krys..." He hesitated, his eyes meeting mine. "We need to go soon. To the coast. To prepare."

I knew he was right. The thirst would grow until plain water was not enough. Until I needed salt. Needed depth. Needed the pressure of the sea to support the child within me, to give them the environment their body needed to grow strong.

Being out of water would become impossible. Not difficult. Not uncomfortable. Impossible. My body would crave immersion the way lungs crave air. The dehydration would come fast and fierce, threatening the child if I did not surrender to the ocean’s embrace.

"I know," I said, covering his hand with my own. My skin felt fevered, parched despite the water I had consumed. "I know it’s time."