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Cat turns even redder, but Xavier swoops in. “I believe that’s Catalina for, ‘Do it yourself, asshole.’”
Kai laughs, reaching for the chicken. The animal gives an undignified squawk as he sets it on the ground. Dave and Shadow are curious about the new animal. Dave takes the lead, sniffing closest to it until the chicken pecks his nose. My fearless protector whines and drops onto his stomach, his tail tucked between his legs. His bravado approaching the beast is gone and now he won’t get any closer to the chicken.
“I’m the only mortal,” Zara says, diverting attention from Cat, who looks like she wants to cry.
Octavia makes an annoyed noise.
“Mother,” Essos warns, his voice low.
“Well then,” my mother says with a nod. My parents have given up trying to hold their own among the gods, who are now bickering over the chicken.
I lean into Essos’s side and kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you. I’m embarrassed that inviting them didn’t even cross my mind with everything going on.”
“It’s what I’m here for—to make sure your every need, anticipated or otherwise, is well attended.” His kiss is soft and sweet, and his words make my body melt into his. I want to feel his hands on my bare skin. This dress, as beautiful as it is, is stifling my ability to feel my husband on me. Essos must read the desire on my face, because a knowing smile spreads on his lips.
“I wish my other parents could have been here.” It’s funny how quickly my thoughts and feelings about them have changed in the face of centuries of experience. I was so distant with Phil and Melinda when I lived under their roof, but now I miss them.
“Bringing live mortals to the Underworld didn’t feel like the right call. Your birth parents are only two souls, so it’s easy for me to tether them to me and protect them the way I would protect the girls during the Calling. I wanted you to have at least one set of the parents who loved you here.”
I kiss him again, wishing that my touch could ease some of the burden he carries. The kiss moves from sweet and reassuring to desperate and hungry, until I have to break away just to get a breath in.
“Eat first, play later.” He nips at my earlobe, and I turn to my plate. My taco craving lasted all of three days, and now I’m back to my early pregnancy craving for Essos’s carbonara. Even before I knew I was pregnant, I wanted it all the time.
I grab my fork, ready to dig in, when the meal in front of me changes from the carby goodness of pasta and cream and pancetta and peas into a spinach salad.
I love a good salad. There are times when I still dream about an amazing cobb salad I once had in Disney World, which wasn’t so much of a good-for-you salad as it was delicious. I also love a solid beet and goat cheese salad that hits that savory spot. But I donotwant a salad right now, and I do not want the one in front of me, which is the kind of halfhearted salad that has no soul. There are three sad-looking cucumbers on top, and a single cherry tomato on a bed of spinach. If I were a betting woman—and I am—I would say that there is just the barest drizzle of dressing.
“What in the fresh Underworld is this?” I’m trying to keep my cool, because beside me, my husband has already started to dig into his pasta carbonara. There is even fresh garlic bread in front of us, but when I reach for it, my half turns into a stalk of celery. Essos glances up to see what the problem is, his noodles lifted halfway to his mouth. My carbonara is always served over long noodles, like a spaghetti or an angel hair, but Essos loves to eat his with a penne or a rigatoni so the sauce can clump inside the noodles.
Essos’s head snaps toward his mother, who is daintily cutting up her veal saltimbocca, looking smug. As she lifts the fork to her mouth, my anger takes over, and it turns into a raw artichoke. All conversation around the table stops again.
“Did you do this?” I ask, hardly able to keep the fury from my voice.
“You need to eat better for the baby. All that fat product isn’t good for your arteries or the child. Until you’ve settled back into your immortality, I worry that your mortal weaknesses will harm my grandchild.”
Octavia meets my eye, daring me to set her straight.
“Mother,” Essos snarls, getting to his feet. “There is a very set, very finite amount of patience I have for you, and for you being in my home. I have acquiesced to your ridiculous demands, including but not limited to resurrecting your other son whomurderedmywife.” Essos pauses his diatribe to look at me. “You’re right, it is like shouting into the void when you say that.” Essos releases a calming breath before he turns to face his mother again. “Understand this—decisions regarding my wife and my child are no concern of yours. Every time you think you have something to say regarding them, I want you to envision how it felt for me to find her dying.”
Octavia flinches and I wonder if he projected that very image to her. Across from me, my mother looks stricken. There is no amount of information beforehand that can prepare a mortal for what it means to walk among gods. My father is rubbing circles on her back, a feeble attempt to keep her inevitable tears in check. We all sit in silence, waiting for Octavia’s response. Essos look at my pitiful plate and replaces it with an even bigger helping of the pasta.
Octavia looks at my plate again, one eyebrow arched. “I see,” she murmurs not meeting her son’s eyes. “If my presence is not appreciated, perhaps I shall go inside and see if there is someone who will care about my opinion.” She places her fork and knife at the sides of her place, the huge artichoke still attached to the fork’s prongs.
“Mommy,” Helene whines. “Don’t be like this. We are trying to celebrate Essos and Daphne. You’re being a drama queen.”
Essos drops back into his seat, his hand going to my back, mirroring my father in providing comforting strokes to my bare skin.
“Stay or go, Mother, whatever you want, but I’m not interested in playing games. Today is about Daphne, and about the Underworld—whatever is left of it—having its queen back.”
“She hasn’t been coronated,” Octavia points out, and I have to laugh.
“Octavia, what are you really trying to achieve by being here? Do you want to reconcile with your children, or is it just about Galen? Because if you only care about Galen, then leave. I’m serious. You’ve put your other children through enough grief with your blatant favoritism, and I’m not willing to stand for it in my house. You and Essos have some sort of deal for you to help tomorrow to keep me and my child alive, and I respect that, but your narcissism and emotional manipulation will not be tolerated any longer.” Essos squeezes my shoulder gently, silently supporting me. When Octavia doesn’t respond, I pick up my fork and twirl it in my pasta, then take an unnecessarily large and messy bite that has Essos fighting a smile. By the time I’m done chewing and have wiped my mouth with my napkin, she still hasn’t said anything. “If there’s nothing else, Octavia, I would like to enjoy this meal.”
“Nothing else,” she responds, her voice small, and some stupid maternal part of me realizes that her feelings are hurt. An urge to comfort her rises in me, but I tamp it down. She is the enemy, and I won’t comfort the enemy, even if I can feel tears prickling at the back of my eyes when I notice the ones slipping down her cheeks.
I force myself to look away from her and down at my food. I’ve been dying to eat a bowlful of this dish, and yes, because it is so high in fat and carbs, I try to limit how much of it I eat, because I am growing a tiny god or goddess. I might be an immortal, but eating spaghetti carbonara four times a day will still make me feel awful, and the baby probably not great. But it’s my fucking wedding.
A few looks are exchanged around the table, and Finn asks my parents rather loudly how they feel about being dead and the current state of the Underworld. I would like to hear their explanation about how Essos pulled their souls from the Underworld and stored them in a penthouse in New York City while Galen went through the Trials, but I’m too busy looking at my hands, because now the pasta is making me sad, and in my attempt to bury my tears, I’ve started to cry.
