part0017

T he child played near the hearth. It was a cool night. October, the night of the Hunter’s Moon. His toy was a train, which he ran along the carpet. He made soft little choo-choo noises as he played. Hawes watched from the couch, his lips curving indulgently. Each time he laid eyes on the miracle in front of him, his heart swelled. The boy was like his mother, had her beauty, had her softness and had… well… had her grace.

To think he almost lost them both four years ago. What would his life be without Grace, without this child? She came close to death the night she leapt from the cliff, from the premature labour, from loss of blood. Cordea and Mersin saved her and the child. She fought to live and he was glad for it. He never left her side, and when she opened her eyes, he cried. It was the first time his tears fell, and they seemed foreign and awkward, but he couldn’t hold them back, his heart was so full.

He handed her the baby, so small and fragile and she held him in her arms, cradled him to her breast. Hawes watched as her eyes softened then moistened. Her hands trembled as she tugged at the little fingers that curled into fists. She kissed the child’s head, then looked to Hawes. “He’s beautiful,” she whispered, then the tears fell. He held her while she sobbed, held them both, his strong arms circling them, infusing his strength into them. His family, his world.

The child rallied quickly. He had the blood of the wolf and hellhound in him. The boy’s growth and good health gave Grace the strength she needed to gain her own recovery, but the difficult birth rendered her unable to conceive again. Despite Hawes’ love, his forgiveness, she couldn’t let go of what she almost did, what she could no longer give him. It showed in everything she did and said, to Hawes, to the boy. Every day was a challenge for her, to be better than the day before. To be a better mate, a mother, a lover.

He moved them out of the forest, into the city, for the sake of them all. He freed Nordil to rule the underworld in his absence, recruited Edon, the wolf he almost killed that first day, to lead his pack. His obligation was to his family, to his son. He carried the unbearable weight of responsibility to raise the boy well, ensure he grew into a good man so that when he stepped into the role as leader of the three realms, he would rule benevolently.

Grace came into the living room then, carrying cocoa and crackers, placing them on the coffee table, then curling up in Hawes’ arms. He pulled her to him, kissing the top of her head and licking the shell of her ear, a promise of what was to be after the boy was asleep. She giggled and tucked her body into his embrace. Enough to make him rigid, enough to make her wet. He could smell her readiness and had to restrain himself from fondling her.

“Little one,” Grace called softly.

The boy looked up at his mother, his dark eyes studying her. “Time for bed?” he asked as if he knew the intent of his parents.

“Not quite. Come have a drink of cocoa and a cracker.”

He walked over to his parents, climbed onto his mother’s lap and wrapped his arms around her waist, clinging to her. “I love you, mama,” His eyes stroked her face and she hugged him to her as Hawes squeezed them both.

Then they separated, the boy kneeling on the carpet so he could sip at his drink. “Tell me again how I was born?”

Hawes lips tugged downward. The child never tired of the story and each retelling made Grace weep. The boy always listened intently, his eyes glued to his father’s face as Hawes told him of the day his mother and father fell off a cliff to the rocks below. How Hawes cushioned Grace’s body to save her life. How the fall had caused premature labour and the child was born three months too soon. It was a blessing,” Hawes always finished the telling of it. “To have you in my arms and my heart earlier than I expected.”

The boy listened closely, his sharp intelligent eyes roaming between his mother and father as Hawes spoke. He took a last drink of his chocolate and crawled up into his father’s lap. “Papa, I have this dream about my birth. Someone trying to kill me.”

Hawes stared down at him. The child, the boy, the product of the prophecy. What should he tell him? What did he need to know? That his mother threw herself over a cliff with the intentions of killing herself and the boy. That Hawes saved her life even as she begged him to end it. That she was distraught when she woke, horrified at what she almost did and Hawes forgave her because she gave him something he had not known before. She gave him love.

Finally, he said, “Fate kept you safe and alive, in the care and love of your parents.”

The boy narrowed his eyes. “Why?” His voice was like Hawes’, strong, emphatic, challenging.

“Because that’s what fate does.”

The boy stilled for a minute, his eyes clouding as he thought. Then he smiled at his father, love, adoration, reverence. “So fate is my friend and protects me from those who lie to me, those who try to kill me.”

Hawes smiled back as he ran a soft hand down the child’s round cheek. “And me, son. I would kill anyone who tries to harm you.”

The boy nodded, extracted himself from Hawes’ arms and walked back to the hearth, sitting beside his train, holding it in his hands. “Then why does she still live?” he asked softly, so softly.