Page 87 of Prayers for the Prickly

Curled in fur around my beautifully round and super prickly mate, I rubbed noses with him, and rested my head on a mound of blankets so I could watch him rest. He’d been sleeping a lot lately, but everyone insisted that was normal, so when I wasn’t working on projects, I was in the nest with him, napping since Nana suggested I’d want to get plenty of sleep myself, since it seemed like he was gearing up for the delivery. For now I just nuzzled him gently and inhaled the candy scent that always clung to him.

A soft squeak escaped him in his sleep, so I quit nuzzling, in case I was disturbing him, slipped from the nest, shifted, and pulled on the pair of boxer-briefs I’d discarded and nothing else, since I’d be getting back in beside him once I grabbed my sketchbook so I could get a little more done on the sketches for the Halloween ornaments I’d started working on earlier in the week.

Olly had gotten one look at them and immediately dubbed them our Haunted Cove line and started working on advertisements, which just meant I’d have to deliver. The first day of fall was rapidly approaching, not that Mother Nature showed any sign that she knew the weather was supposed to change. Indian Summer was in full force which meant we still had the air on full blast to keep August comfortable.

I slipped back in the nest in my boxers and got comfortable against one of the high sides. It provided all the support I needed as I opened to a fresh page and started mocking up a general outline for the ghost seal I’d planned to have guarding a haunted oyster bed.

As it always did, time melted when I started sketching, the seal coming together fast after all the afternoons I’d spent glimpsing the one that still sunned itself on the boardwalk. Was almost certain he was a shifter, but I’d never seen him in human form, or encountered a newcomer on my morning walks along that stretch of beach.

I started on the ghostly oysters next, on a separate page so I could draw them bigger than I intended to carve them while I worked out all the details. Capturing a raw oyster’s shape was easy, deciding what face to give it, when it was moaning and drifting over the oyster bed, that was another story.

Every now and again there was another squeak, and each time I looked over to see August still sleeping, though this time, I saw him wiggle and flail a tiny foot before settling back down. Reaching over, I tucked the blanket around him that his sleepy wiggles had displaced, another squeak, this one a little higher pitched, making me move slower, to make sure nothing I did drew him from his slumber.

For a moment, I just stared down at him, noting the way his lip had curled back a little as his snout wrinkled, a small flash of those tiny fangs visible before he settled back down again.

Was he uncomfortable? I didn’t want to add another blanket and make him too warm. This thin green one was the only one he’d been able to tolerate having over him for the past few days.

The longer I watched the more unsettled he seemed, so I scooted closer, wondering if it was the distance between us that was causing him not to sleep well. My leg was barely touching his blanket-covered side, but I knew the pressure against the blanket would be enough to let him know that he wasn’t alone.

Another squeak caught my attention and drew it away from the page I’d just made a couple of marks on.

Was he having a nightmare?

Was my drawing causing vibrations that were disturbing the nest?

Now I was torn, especially when another squeak followed. So I set the notebook and pen aside and scooted down, to lightly rub the top of his head.

“August?” I murmured, keeping my voice low. “Are you having a bad dream, sweetheart?”

N-no.

“I’m sorry if I woke you with my moving around, I won’t sketch in the nest anymore.”

It’s not you. My sides hurt and I’m uncomfortable and ohh…

He squeaked again, this one more high pitched than any of the others.

“Are you in labor?”

How am I supposed to know? I don’t know what labor is supposed to feel like!

“Something tells me it feels exactly like what you’re feeling,” I replied. “Do you want me to call your mom and Aunty Eunice?”

Oh goddess, yes please.

My phone was never far, encased in the back pocket of the jeans I’d discarded, which were easily reachable from where I sat, still lightly caressing the top of his head. That he nuzzled against my finger when he let out the next squeak left my gut clenching, anxiety washing over me as I wondered how long it would take them to get here, but more so when the hell someone was gonna answer the…

You’ve reached Monica Winterbottom…

I didn’t leave a message. Just punched the red phone icon and hit Aunty Eunice’s number, which in hindsight was probably what I should have done in the first place since she answered on the second ring.

Well, hello, Gregor, what can I do for you this morning?

“August is in labor, or at least, we think he is. He’s making a lot of pained sounds, can’t rest comfortable and says his sides hurt. He is asking for you and his mom. I tried her phone but it went straight to voicemail.”

We’ll be right there, honey, with everything we need. You just stay right there with him. Is that key you showed me still in that planter out front?

“Yes, ma’am.”

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