Page 61 of Evan and the Alpha

18

Sobek

Idon’t have much time to worry about Evan’s family in the three weeks following their arrival in kel-Akurr. First, my omom passes away. It is gentle and peaceful, unlike my phapha’s death. Omom goes to his nest one evening after dinner. He sleeps. And he simply does not wake up in the morning; his body is cold and stiff. He breathes not; his heart has stopped beating. He has departed on his journey to other realms, to meet my phapha.

That means we need to plan the funeral. An omega’s death is always a larger affair than an alpha’s. Omegas are bringers of life; therefore, their deaths must be celebrated in a different fashion.

There is also the issue that my omom allowed one of the eggs from his last clutch to hatch. This goes against nature; with both him and my phapha dead, there is no one to care for the hatchling, who chirps and demands much of everyone around him.

Evan informs me flatly that we’re not allowed to kill the hatchling—as would be the right thing to do, rather than letting him suffer or die of exposure. Evan says we’re going to “take care of him,” which is, somehow, not a euphemism for putting the little thing out of his misery.

Evan means we’re going to raise him, take care of him like he is our own.

I am conflicted about this, in part because it goes against what I know. A child whose parents have died has no place in this world and will soon die of exposure or starvation, and killing them before they suffer is thus a mercy.

Evan and I also have to worry about our own child, who is currently growing inside Evan. I admit, I was disappointed when it was explained to me that humans have one child at a time. Kroakka bear many. I think this must be a function of how long Evan retains the egg inside him. If he were kroakka, he would be laying soon, but Evan just laughs at me and says he won’t be “giving birth” for months on end yet.

That is another issue, as it means I’m expected to continue providing for my mate much longer than most kroakka must. And, as Evan seems to be getting bigger, I think I may need to render more care as the months wear on. I’m not sure what the net effects will be on my mate’s body, but in conversation with Min the doctor and Evan’s own omom, I have discerned that pregnancy among humans is generally a debilitating experience. It makes little sense to me, but then, a lot of things about Evan make no sense to me.

So, I am torn: we already have many responsibilities and adopting a child that is not our own seems silly, as it will take resources from raising our own progeny. At the same time, I cannot deny that I like the thought of perhaps having more than one child.

That Evan looks particularly omega-ish with the hatchling cradled in the crook of one arm and his other hand over his swollen belly doesn’t hurt either.

Between planning the funeral and taking care of Evan, I have little time. Evan insists he doesn’t need much help, but he seems forgetful, and he’s getting a good deal slower. I think he needs more care than he thinks he does, or perhaps more than he’d like to admit.

I dump the hatchling—whom Evan has named Rex, for some unknown reason—on Yafir more often than not. Yafir, bless him, seems delighted by this. I suspect Yafir will soon make the decision to become an omega himself. I don’t encourage him one way or another; it is a very personal decision to become a life-bringer or an alpha, and each must choose his own path by looking deep into his own heart. I think I know what is in Yafir’s, but he must come to that conclusion on his own time.

Leaving Rex with Yafir frees my time, but there are still too precious few hours in a day to attend to all my duties. I meet with my beta brothers, who help me plan the funeral for Omom. I am still ending my phapha’s affairs, consolidating my position as the alpha of his territory. There have been half-a-dozen challenges to my position, little skirmishes that I haven’t told Evan about. I don’t want to distress him, especially not after Min told me it is not good for a pregnant human to be distressed.

I suspect Evan knows, though; he traces over bruises and little cuts, new scars, when we lie together at night. I say nothing of where they came from, but his silence tells me that I don’t need to tell him.

He waits up for me the night before Omom’s funeral. It’s late when I return to our lair, having needed to put the finishing touches on most things. Evan’s almost asleep at the table but still sitting up, the candles still burning.

“You should have gone to bed,” I scold. He needs his rest.

He yawns and stifles a smile. Then he rubs his eyes. “S’okay,” he mumbles. “Rex didn’t go down until, like, twenty minutesago.”

I want to object, to say this is why he should not be taking care of the hatchling, but he glances down and rubs his belly, mumbling, “Good practice,” and I forgive him instantly.

“Have you eaten?” I ask, moving into the depths of the shadows.

“Uh, yeah, a while ago.” He’s smiling when I look back at him. “Could go for something now though. I think baby’s doing a growth spurt—I’m just really hungry.”

I want to scold him again, but getting him something to eat is probably a better plan of action. I missed the evening meal, so I’m hungry as well.

Evan has been introducing us to human cuisine. I’m not overly fond of most of it; meat is still best, in my opinion. Cheese is strange, although delicious, as is a thing he calls ice cream, which melts into a sweet liquid. Bread is difficult to chew, and I dislike the plants he calls vegetables.Sauces and spices are wondrous.

I hesitate over what to choose for him, before finally selecting a slab of roasted impala, salted and cured. Evan prefers that to fish. I find rice in a dish, as well as some vegetables. (Evan is not fond of them either, from what I can gather, although he insists they are “good for the baby.”)

Evan has moved around the table by the time I return, my arms loaded down with platters. “I’m only one person,” Evan laughs when he sees how much I’ve brought him.

“I haven’t eaten either.” I give him a look. “And I believe you have two people to be concerned about.”

Evan flushes; it’s bright, even in the candlelight. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to his belly. “Guess I do, huh?”

It never ceases to amaze me how he seems surprised by this fact every time. Instead of commenting on it, however, I focus on slicing up the impala. Evan, for whatever reason, prefers smaller chunks to simply sinking his teeth into a thigh and tearing flesh from bone.

Perhaps because his mouth is smaller and his teeth blunt. I wonder, idly, what our child will be like. I’m not sure what I’ll do if it’s like Evan. How will I teach them to hunt and kill?