She never had found out what Warren found most irritating: that she'd faithfully return to his bed after months of lying in another man's embrace, or that he, just as faithfully, would let her.
All she knew was that every time she returned to the sanctuary they'd end up yelling at one another until their throats were raw. So she never told him when the Tulpa got her pregnant. Or, after she'd changed her identity to go back undercover, when Xavier did the same two years later Her daughters were hers alone. Not pawns to be bargained with, manipulated, or—God forbid—destroyed because of Warren's jealousy, spite, or sense of duty.
But all of that was in the past, back when she still thought she could make a difference. When she thought she was invincible. Back, she thought as Warren stalked on ahead of her, when she believed she and this smelly, stubborn, and impossibly good man still had a future together.
They trudged on in silence.
* * *
Chapter 4
Nurse Nancy's real name was Melania. She was the Shadow Zodiac's Libra, firstborn daughter of Treya, granddaughter of Patrice the Cruel, and by the time Zoe learned all this, she was also dead. Not only had she been working at the decoy clinic when Phaedre and Gregor got there, but she'd been alone.
The only problem with this? She was alone. No child, and no faux adoptive parents. But before Phaedre killed her with a fire-tipped wand that burrowed through flesh to incinerate her core, she "convinced" Melania to tell her where they'd taken the babe.
"The Tulpa's house," Gregor reported back, when they'd all gathered at the Smoking Gun Inn, a battered roadside motel dumped conveniently in the middle of town. "And most of the Shadow Zodiac is gathered there as well."
Zoe's head shot up. "That's odd. The Tulpa never allows the Shadows into his home. Or he didn't when I was with him."
And if he'd changed that practice in the years since, Zoe would've ferreted the information out of Xavier, either with alcohol or sex or both. So it was a recent development. But like the others, she could now only guess at the reasons why.
Yet even odder than that… "Why would the Shadow leader take a mortal child into his home?" Warren wondered.
Because she's the granddaughter of his most hated enemy.
"I don't know," Zoe lied, keeping her eyes downcast, weaving the wide straw she'd made Warren stop for at the crafts store on the long walk back to the Inn that afternoon. He'd raised a brow but hadn't asked her why, pretending not to care.
Who knew? Maybe he really didn't by now.
She shrugged off the weight of his gaze and let them debate the pros and cons of risking their lives for one mortal child, keeping her hands moving in an even to-and-fro, like she had nothing vested in the outcome. She'd already made up her mind, so the particulars of their actions interested, but wouldn't affect her.
"Whatever you're doing," Warren said suddenly, "it's not going to work."
Her lips curved—leave it to him to know she wasn't merely weaving—but she didn't stop. Instead she said, "Did you know another name for the cornucopia is 'the horn of plenty'? In the past people would fill it up with fruit, nuts, and seasonal vegetables, and offer it as a blessing when visiting a neighbor's home."
"Zoe—" He sang her name, turning it into a long warning.
She went on, not looking up. "But before that tradition, it was a part of the ancient harvest festivals. See, bringing in the harvest meant stripping the land bare, which left the spirit that lived amongst the crop homeless. A corn dolly—or idol as it was more popularly known—would act as spirit's receptacle for the winter, until the idol could be furrowed under again at the start of the new season."
Yet in Greek mythology it was a goat's horn, and had the power to give its possessor whatever she wished for. How convenient that it was now associated with Thanksgiving, a holiday—or holy day—that the Tulpa considered one of the best. An extremely superstitious being, he believed celebrations, like ceremonies, gave shape to days and years of mortals, making their actions nice and predictable as they clung to their rituals. He used to say it kept them in their place, and he loved it when events conformed to his expectations. He banked on it.
Of course, Zoe had already blown that expectation once—blown it like an A-bomb—so she wasn't expecting a joyous reunion . And showing up on his doorstep on Thanksgiving Day was the least expected thing she could do.
But the more she thought about it, the more she was sure it would work. Because though the design of the universe was intricate and mysterious, nothing was left to accident. Here she thought she was powerless to influence anything of import due to her mortality, but by weaving this basket herself, by imbuing her work with her intent and passionate belief, she was doing the one thing all humans had the power to do. She was turning her deepest desires into reality.