“By the Goddess, will you shut up?” he said, and from behind the curtain, Al mumbled something. A little rocking horse with wings popped into existence, crashing into the ceiling before falling to the floor to quiver and go still.

“Listen to me,” he said, and I swallowed my words. “The Rosewood babies are going to start dying next week,” he said, and my breath caught. “If nothing changes, by this time next month, you and Lee will again be the only survivors of the Rosewood syndrome.”

“But you fixed them!” I said, appalled.

“Yes and no,” Trent said after he topped his glass off again. “I had to fix their genome to ensure Ku’Sox would hold to his end of the bargain and not harm Lucy, but I worked in a small error that wouldn’t express itself until it was replicated sufficiently. I couldn’t risk that he would get his way if he killed me.”

Horrified, I stared at him. He met my gaze levelly. “You killed them. The babies,” I whispered, and he shook his head.

“Not yet.”

“What do you mean, ‘not yet’?” Feeling betrayed, I stood. “Trent, they are all someone’s child!” I exclaimed, and Al snorted in his sleep, mumbling.

Trent looked up, agitated. “I mean, not yet. Rachel, the world isn’t ready for them.”

I cocked my hip, the fire warm behind me. “When is the world ever ready for change, Trent? When?”

Setting his glass down, Trent eyed me, bitter resignation behind his frustration. “What will happen if they live? HAPA knows they exist. The only reason you survived was because you can defend yourself. You want me to give the children to the demons to raise?”

He stood, and I dropped back as he began to pace. “Or perhaps you want me to hide them and their families? I could do it. But you know the demons will find them, and one by one, a demon wanting to see the sun and escape the ever-after will either steal them outright or take over their bodies.” Eyes flashing, he pointed at me, his hand wrapped around a wineglass. “I will not allow a parent to love a child who is murdering his pets and performing ghastly magic, not wanting to believe that their child died five years ago and they are raising a five-thousand-year-old sadistic demon until their child’s neural pathways are developed enough to work the lines. They are not meant to be.” Frustrated, he turned to the window, taking an angry drink, the firelight flickering on him.

From the cot, not a sound escaped, but I didn’t care if Al was listening. “But they are here,” I said softly, grasping his arm so he would look at me. “Trent. They are.”