Finally, I placed my dagger and sheath on top of the backpack. That was all I could think of to take. The horn was depleted and I’d have to charge it under the dark of the moon. It wouldn’t do me any good to carry it with me. One last thought, and I was standing by my jewelry box. The trip would be long and arduous, and we would probably run into more danger than I wanted to think about. I slowly placed my wedding rings—all three of them—into the top drawer of the armoire. I didn’t want to risk losing them.
Then, as ready as I’d ever be, I clattered down the stairs to the kitchen.
Hanna was preparing more sandwiches than we’d have room for, but she wanted to help. Iris was giving her a hand, and the twins were playing quietly in a playpen. They were around eight months old, and they had Iris’s golden hair and their father’s twinkling eyes. I leaned down and chucked them under their chins, then gave them each a big kiss. Next to them was Astrid, who was also eight months old. Chase was in the rocking chair, watching the babies while Iris helped cook.
“Oh, Iris, they’re growing so fast. And Chase, I swear, Astrid looks more like you every day.” I wasn’t a maternal woman. Nothing in my body had ever screamed “Make a baby” and in my heart, I knew that path was not the right one for me. Having children wasn’t anywhere near my bucket list, though I went all googly-eyed over baby animals. Baby people? Not so much. I had no clue what to do with them. But I appreciated my friends’ children all the more, and I swore I’d be their crazy old Auntie Camille.
“They’re near to walking, and won’t that be a mess.” But Iris laughed as she spread mayo on bread and arranged the slices. Hanna followed her with meat and cheese, then Iris added lettuce and ketchup. “The Duchess has turned into a surprisingly doting nanny.”
“She doesn’t stint on taking care of Astrid, either,” Chase said, smiling softly at his daughter. “I walked in on them the other day and she was rocking her and singing a lullaby to her. I admit, the lyrics were unique, but it’s the mood that counts.” He laughed, then. “ ‘Go to sleep, little warrior, caught between worlds, Raise your banner and let it unfurl’ isn’t exactly what I’d choose to sing to my daughter, but hey, I’m not complaining.”
Iris burst out laughing. “The Duchess is convinced Astrid’s going to grow up to be a mighty warrior queen, Chase. I don’t know why, but like you, I don’t argue with her. It’s not worth it because she always wins.”
The Duchess was actually a duchess. Iris was married to Bruce O’Shea, or rather, Lord Bruce Golden Eagle O’Shea. His parents were a duke and duchess in the Leprechaun Court, and they were so moneyed that they made dragons look poor. The Duchess was haughty and always had the last word, but by now we had all figured out that she liked Iris well enough, and she doted on her grandchildren. She came to help Iris whenever Bruce got it into his head to take off on a research trip or whatnot. At the beginning, it had made Iris terribly uncomfortable, but now she welcomed the company.
“Well, she’s going to grow up to be amazing, that I agree with.” Chase lifted Astrid out of the playpen and held her up, then pulled her close to his heart and kissed the top of her head. “I love you so much. Don’t you ever forget that,” he whispered.
Watching Chase, I couldn’t help but smile. He had started out being a lecher who was out to get in my pants, then he’d been Delilah’s insecure lover. But once he and Sharah realized they had feelings for each other, he had blossomed. Now, as a father, he was hard to resist. He doted on his daughter, and he pined for her mother.
Delilah entered the room and swept up Maggie, who was securely trapped in her new, sturdier playpen. “Oh, Maggie my girl, how are you?”
“Don’t let her near the babies,” Iris warned.
“Don’t worry, I won’t.” Delilah sat down over by the table. “Where’s Menolly?”
“She and Nerissa are downstairs. I’m not sure what they’re doing but they said to not bother with dinner tonight, they’d take care of it. What that means, I can only shudder to imagine.” Hanna laughed. “Your sister, she is a fighter unparalleled but neither she nor that wife of hers can cook worth a damn.”
“Well, it’s rather understandable, given she can’t taste any of the food she cooks. My guess is takeout.” I wasn’t willing to defend Menolly’s culinary skills if it meant eating her food, but I felt it only right to point out why she was so lacking in the pots-and-pans department. Although, come to think of it, when we lived in Otherworld, before she was turned, Menolly hadn’t been much of a cook, either. She always did her best to opt out of helping in the kitchen.