“A titmouse.”
“Yeah, or like, a gopher. It could end up like a giant purple gopher who’s, like, a vegetarian.” As Mary started laughing harder, he stroked her arms. “What about a Cavalier King Charles spaniel.”
“Oh, come on—”
“No, no, I got it. I know what it’s going to be.”
Mary rolled over in his lap and smiled up at him. “Be gentle. I’ve had a rough morning. Well, except for the shower part. That wasn’t hard at all.”
Rhage held up his forefinger. “Okay, first of all, something was hard in there. And you know that firsthand.” As she laughed again, he nodded. “Uh-huh. That’s right. And as for the beast’s alter identity—how about an enormous purple jack-alope.”
“They don’t exist!”
“Fine. A snape.”
“Also doesn’t exist.”
“Then I could make the dreams of snape hunters worldwide come true.” Rhage smiled. “Who could turn us down then. After I pull a public service like that?”
“You’re absolutely right.” She stroked his face. “We need to put the acupuncture/jack-alope plan into immediate effect.”
Rhage scrunched down and kissed her. “I love it when we’re on the same page. I just love it.”
FIFTY
When night fell, Layla was largely nonplussed. One of the disadvantages of living in the training center underground was that she was unable to set her internal clock to the rhythms of the sun and moon. Time was just numbers on a clock face, meals appearing when they did, visitors and traffic coming and going in random patterns that eventually meant little in terms of night and day.
Her sleep had fallen into a cycle of six hours of wakefulness followed by three hours of fitful dreams. Repeat, ad nauseam.
Usually.
This evening, however, as the electronic clock showed a glowing red eight followed by a sixteen after the two vertical dots, she closed her eyes with a purpose beyond that of sleep.
She had agonized over this since her resolution after the ultrasound. Had run the yes’s and no’s through her brain until she thought she would go mad.
In the end, she had made up her mind, for better or for worse.
Probably for worse. Because that was just how things always went for her when it came to Xcor.
Taking a deep breath, she found that everything irritated her. The sheets felt itchy. The pillow under her head was not in the correct position, and her moving it up and down didn’t help. The weight of her belly seemed enormous, an entity separate from the rest of her body. Her feet twitched as if someone were tickling them with a feather. Her lungs seemed to only partially inflate.
Take out the “seem.”
And the darkness of her room amplified everything.
With a curse, she discovered her eyes had opened themselves, and she wished she had tape so she could make her lids stay shut.
Concentrating, she forced herself to breathe slowly and deeply. Relaxed the tension in her body starting at her toes and going to the tips of her ears. Calmed her mind.
Sleep arrived in a gentle wave, submerging her beneath common consciousness, setting her free of the aches and pains, the worry and fear.
The guilt.
She gave herself a moment to enjoy the weightless float. And then she sent her core self, her soul, that magic light that animated her flesh, not just off the hospital bed and out of the room, not just down the corridor and free of the training center . . . but out of the realm of earthly reality.
To the Sanctuary.
Given her pregnancy, it was unsafe for her to travel to the Other Side in her physical form. This way, however, she covered the distance with grace and ease—plus, even as she left her body, she could sense her flesh back under the sheets and was thusly able to continuously monitor her corporeal incarnation. If aught were to occur, she could return in the blink of an eye.
Moments later, she was standing on resplendent green grass. Overhead, the milky sky provided illumination from no definable source, and all around in the distance, a forest ring established the sacred territory’s boundaries. White marble temples glowed pristine and fresh as the night they had been called into existence so many millennia ago by the Scribe Virgin, and brilliantly colored tulips and daffodils were like gems spilled from a treasurer’s satchel.
Breathing the sweet air, she could feel a recharging happen, and it reminded her of her centuries spent serving the mother of the race up here. Back then, all had been white, no shades or variation in anything, not even shadows thrown. The current Primale, Phury, had changed all that, however, freeing her and her sisters to live lives down below, to experience the world and themselves as individuals, instead of as cogs in a homogeneous whole.
Unconsciously, she put her hands to her belly—and had a fright. Her stomach was flat, and she panicked—only to sense her body’s function down on Earth. Yes, she thought. The flesh was with young; the soul was not. And this representation of her was a moving mirage, both existent and nonexistent.
Gathering the folds of her ceremonial robe, she ambulated across the rolling expanse, passing the Primale’s private quarters where the impregnations used to occur, and continuing on until she stood on the threshold of the Temple of the Sequestered Scribes.
A quick look around confirmed what had been true not just since her arrival this moment, but for such a time since the Primale had released them all: As beautiful as the Sanctuary was, as much as it had to offer in terms of peace and refreshment, it was as empty and abandoned as a useless factory. A gold mine with no more veins to plunder. A galley with bare cupboards.