Page 39 of Monster's Secret Baby

I nod, not pushing my luck by arguing for more. I like to test Harmony, then make her break for me, but when it comes to Brooke, I have infinite patience. "Of course."

I take Brooke's small hand in mine, her fingers warm and impossibly delicate. We walk to the edge of the garden where tall grass meets wildflowers, the sky deepening into indigo above us.

"Watch now," I say, crouching beside her. "Thaliverns are shy creatures. They don't come when called or chased."

"Then how do we see them?" Brooke asks, her eyes wide with wonder.

I reach out, drawing a small circle in the air with my finger. A faint shimmer follows the movement, leaving a trace of silver light hanging in the dusk. "Magic is about intention, little bird. About believing something is possible before it happens."

Brooke's forehead crinkles in concentration as she tries to mimic my gesture. Nothing happens at first, and her lower lip juts out in frustration.

"Here," I say gently, taking her hand in mine again. "Like this." I guide her finger through the air, a slow, deliberate circle. "Feel the air changing? That's your magic pushing against it."

I release her hand, and she tries again. This time, the faintest glimmer follows her movement.

"I did it!" she gasps.

"Yes, you did." I can't stop the smile that spreads across my face, fierce and protective. "Now watch."

I extend my palm toward the shimmer we've created, and whisper words in an ancient language—words of invitation, not command. The air around us thickens with possibility, and then, like stars descending, dozens of thaliverns emerge from hiding places in the grass.

They're more luminescent than ordinary butterflies, their four iridescent wings catching the last light of day and fracturing it into rainbow prisms. They swirl around us, drawn to the magical circle Brooke helped create.

One lands on her outstretched finger, and she freezes, her mouth forming a perfect 'o' of astonishment.

"They're dancing for you," I tell her, watching her face glow with joy. "Because they recognize you as one of their own—a being of light and magic."

I glance back toward the garden where Harmony stands watching us, arms crossed tightly over her chest. The distance between us might as well be an ocean, but I'll cross it. One way or another.

I've been patient. I've been careful. I've schooled my rage into something that resembles restraint. For Brooke, I will always be tenderness itself, a safe harbor for her growing magic. But for Harmony—my Harmony—I am a storm barely contained.

She built walls while I was gone, barriers of stone and bitter memory. But walls can be scaled. Broken. Remade into bridges.

I will have her back. Not because I'm selfish—though I am—but because we belong together, the three of us. A family. My family.

And I will burn the world to ash before I let them slip through my fingers again.

19

HARMONY

The evening rush has just died down at Marda's restaurant. I wipe a cloth across the empty tables, humming softly under my breath while mentally planning tomorrow's garden work. Behind the counter, Brooke arranges sugar cubes into miniature towers, her little tongue poking out in concentration. She should be in bed, but Marda had a soft spot for her and I let her stay up on slow nights like this.

"Look, Mama!" Brooke balances a sixth cube atop her wobbly construction. "It's taller than the mountain outside!"

"Impressive engineering." I smile, tucking a loose curl behind my ear. "Five more minutes, then it's bedtime, little one."

The bell above the door jingles, and I turn, a customer-ready smile in place that falters when I see him.

A nymph steps inside, tall and unnaturally beautiful in that way all magical creatures are. His hair falls in silver waves past his shoulders, and the faint outlines of delicate blue wing markings shimmer across his high cheekbones. But something's... off.

His eyes. Gods, his eyes.

Where nymph eyes should be clear as mountain streams, his have a milky film over them, clouded like stagnant water. Dark veins creep from the corners, spreading across his temples like cracks in porcelain.

"We're about to close, but I can—" I begin.

"Fetch me whatever isn't disgusting." He drops into a chair, sprawling like he owns the place. His fingers drum against the tabletop, too long, joints bending at angles fingers shouldn't bend.

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