Emilia stared at the pregnancy test box on the sink, it was expired—a pink beacon in the gray light of dim bathroom—and tried to breathe through the nausea clawing up her throat.
Not possible. We used protection. Mostly.
But the dates didn't lie. Three weeks since the hotel. Three weeks of puking her guts out in gas station bathrooms, of her hands trembling every time she walked past a mirror.
Linda's voice crackled through the bathroom door. "You done in there? Some of us need to piss without inhaling your existential crisis."
Emilia stuffed the unopened test into her jacket pocket. "It's food poisoning." she yelled from the bathroom.
"From what?" Linda yelled back through the closed door "The half-eaten protein bar you found under the car seat?"
"Yes!"
Linda kicked the door open, her moss-green eyes narrowing. She'd dyed her curls jet-black last night, the color clashing with her tawny fae skin. "You're a terrible liar, Conti. Always have been."
"Says the girl who convinced a Kamikaze enforcer he'd swallowed a live hornet."
"That was a glamour - pecks of being a fairy with magic to make people see what I want them to see, not a lie. Big difference." Linda leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You gonna take the test or what?"
Emilia brushed past her into the main room—a glorified closet with a hot plate and a mattress bleeding yellow foam. The best they could come up with in a short time.
"We need money. Real money, not whatever you scrounge pickpocketing drunk skin-walkers at La Luna." Emilia told her.
Linda snorted. "Got a better idea? Pawn your dad's watch? Oh wait—"
Emilia groaned.
"Dad will have trackers on anything with the Conti crest." Emilia paced, her boots crunching over dead roaches. "Liliana's not answering her burner. If Vittorio's got her…"
"Your sister's got three kids and another bun in the oven. She's probably just drowning in diapers." Linda's tone softened. "Sit. You're making me dizzy."
Emilia sank onto the mattress. The springs groaned. "What if I found Luca? He's got connections...I hope. Maybe—"
"No." Linda's eyes flickered, her pupils slitting like a cat's. "We agreed: no contact. Not after he almost got us both smoked."
"He saved us!"
"He delayed us. Big difference." Linda tossed her a protein bar. "Eat. You're shaking."
Emilia stared at the wrapper. It reminded her of the expired pregnancy kit.
Big difference between Two lines and One line. It was Life or death in plastic.
She stood abruptly. "I'm going out."
"Like hell you are. Conti's got eyes everywhere—"
"To get air, Lyn. Five minutes." She slammed the door before Linda could protest.
She made it past the amateur traps she helped Lyn set three weeks ago. Made it down the dirt road towards the butchers shop.
The butcher shop's alley reeked of ammonia and rot.
Emilia stopped and leaned against the graffiti-smeared wall. She needed a new pregnancy test. A good one.
Across the street, a pharmacy sign buzzed: Open 24 Hrs.
Just walk in. Buy it. Know.
It was as simple as that but her feet stayed rooted. Fear enveloping her entire body. And so she sort comfort from her dead brother's memory.
Paolo's face flashed in her mind—his smile as he'd taught her to shoot, the way he'd cradled his pregnant wife's belly hours before the Marchettis gunned them down.
Emilia blinked. The comfort she was looking for was taking a dark turn.
A shadow moved to her left.
Emilia spun, reaching for the knife in her boot—
"Easy, killer." A boy emerged from the mist, no older than eighteen, his cheeks hollow. He held up a Ziploc bag of white pills. "Feel good pills. Half price if you suck my dick."
Emilia looked at him. "Not interested."
The boy shrugged. "Your loss. But hey—" he nodded at Emilia "You need a test, the clinic on 9th does 'em free. No ID."
Emilia stiffened. "How did you—"
"You've got the look. A lot of girls I know have the look" The boy vanished into the fog. "Good luck, mama."
Emilia turned around and walked back to the safehouse.
When Emilia returned, Linda was dissembling a Glock on the windowsill, her hands moving with preternatural speed.
"Where's the gun from?" Emilia asked.
"Traded my earrings to a goblin fence." Linda didn't look up. "They were fake, but he didn't need to know that."
Emilia sat down beside her "I'm keeping it." she said.
The gun stilled. "What?"
"The baby. If there is one." Emilia's voice wavered. "I'm keeping it."
Linda stared at her. Then she burst out laughing—a sharp, jagged sound. "You're joking. Please tell me you're joking."
"Why is that funny?"
"Because you're Emilia fucking Conti! Daughter of the most vindictive human crime lord in Orleans, leader of the human faction, engaged to a werewolf Alpha who's ruthless and powerful, currently hiding from both in a crack den that smells like raccoon AIDS!" Linda stood, her glamour magic rippling. "You think a baby survives that? You think you do?"
Emilia lost it.
"I survived you!" She screamed at Linda.
Linda flinched. She didn't forget how they met either.
Six years ago, they'd met in the Orleans Court's dungeons—back when Linda was still Linara, a lesser fae caught stealing food from the Fae Queen. Emilia, sixteen and heartbroken from her brother's death, had been imprisoned for sabotaging her father's arms deal, two days after she had to identify his body from the city morgue.
It was a cry for help but Vittorio wasn't interested in helping. He sent her to the court's dungeon for punishment — Orleans version of juvi.
She met Linda there.
"You're not screaming like the others," Linara had said, her fingers tracing the cell bars. "Why?"
"Screaming's what they want,"Emilia replied.
They'd escaped together—Linara melting locks with winter magic, Emilia shattering a guard's kneecaps with his own baton.
By dawn, Linara was exiled from her sector, her true name stripped. She chose "Linda" from a street sign, and never spoke of the Court or home again.
*
"You're right," Linda said quietly. "You did survive me. But this?" She gestured to Emilia's stomach. "This isn't a jailbreak. It's a death sentence."
Emilia picked up the Glock, reassembling it with hands steadier than her heart. "Then I'll need Luca."
"No. You need an abortion"
"No. If we can make it out of Orleans. If I can find Luca, he will..."
"If? If" Linda's wings shimmered into view—iridescent and moth-like, a sign of fraying control. "You'd trust the guy who ghosted you after a one-night stand?"
"He didn't ghost. He stayed behind to—"
"To die? Yeah, real heroic." Linda snatched the gun. "You wanna leave a message for your fuckboy? Fine. But when this blows up, don't come crying to me."