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Chapter 3

I squinted into the darkness, watching the vague shapes of Anthros wandering the deck of the Twilight Promise, the meager bow-light not illuminating the crow's nest far above. I wasn't sure if there was someone up there or not--hard to see at night, and the bow-light ruined most night vision anyway--but if someone was_up there and keeping an eye out, there was every chance they could spot the _Sea Fang creeping up on its starboard flank before we even got in range of her bow-light.

Beside me, Itsuo knelt with his bow drawn but down, a quiver resting on his back as naturally as the silver-dotted fur on the old Macaque's face. I still didn't know why he was so accepting of me, after what I'd done to him; Thrasher had been his occasional lover, and I think the Simian missed him more than he admitted--and it wasn't even the worst thing I'd done to him. But he had forgiven me, or at least looked past it. His weird code of pirate ethics was something I didn't think I'd ever understand, at least not fully. Still,he was by my side at the moment, and I knew he'd remain there as long as I needed him. I just hoped it would be enough.

Across the chopping waves, a single lonely gig thumped against the port side of the Promise, rhythmic with the cresting waves. It sounded like a heartbeat. I could hear the creaking of our rigging in the heavy winds, the sound bringing back unpleasant memories. Think of the twins, I thought miserably. They need you. I took a steadying breath and returned my gaze to our quarry.

* * *

When Kiba and Valerian were born on the disgustingly humid afternoon of June 9th, 1217, the only Anthros in the room were Nola, me, and Geist. She insisted on being there, which mystified me at first. We'd been on the boat over six months at that point, and she rarely showed any interest in interacting with us during that time. I'd asked her advice once on how to get the crew to fall in line without pummeling them every damn day, and her response had been to shrug and say, "Figure it out." So, the fact that she wanted to witness the birth of her grandchildren--the very grandchildren she'd tried to kill in an inexplicable panic--flabbergasted us. But we reluctantly agreed, eventually. She was the captain, after all, so when she demanded it, we didn't actually have much say in the matter.

I had never seen another living being be born. A handful of women had been impregnated in the Pit, not always by consent. The guards always swept them away to the Spike in their last month or two of the pregnancy--if the pregnancy survived that long. With the manual labor and Korrix's fumes roiling constantly out of the Maw, it often didn't. If it did, however, they were sent up to the Spike to finish the pregnancy out. They didn't come back.

So, when my kittens were born, it was not something I was in the least bit prepared for. The miracle of birth was a glorious chaos of equal parts horror and awe. It was twenty hours of pure agony for Nola, bloody--gruesome even--and terrifying. There was no medical staff on a pirate ship. The closest we had was the Ursid carpenter, Ivan, and his medical expertise began and ended with how to create a tourniquet after hacking off an infected limb. Not exactly who you wanted to deliver your kittens into the world.

Shockingly, Mom actually proved to be invaluable. I guess it made sense, seeing as she'd birthed twins herself. She kept Nola calm, knew exactly what to do to keep the bed clean and ready, and cut the umbilical for both Kiba and Val with no problem, even disposing of the placenta with practiced ease--though not before cutting off a sliver of it and making Nola and me each eat a piece. "Tradition," was all she said. It kind of tasted like the beef Rika often ate at the Spike, but with an iron aftertaste like blood.

Our son, Valerian, had been snatched up and swaddled so quickly none of us--even Geist--had realized anything was wrong at first. His swaddling cloth twitched near his backside, making all of us jump a little, until a thick, serpentine tail burst out of the folds of the blanket to swish lazily back and forth. We stared in horror at the obsidian-scaled appendage, but that wasn't the worst of it.

It took a few moments of pushing through the denial of what I was seeing to understand what was most wrong, though. I thought Val couldn't open his eyes because they were caked shut with dried amniotic fluid, but that wasn't it at all. It wasn't that Valerian couldn't open his eyes.

Valerian didn't have any eyes. His lids were permanently draped over two empty orbital sockets.

* * *

Nola lay next to me in bed, finally passed out after almost an hour of panicked wailing, Kiba resting in her arms. I hadn't made much noise, but that was mostly because of the shock. I held Val, staring at my perky ears and gray fur mirrored in this tiny form, but his thick little scaly tail poked out from under the blanket he was swaddled in and twitched slightly. He was asleep, I thought, but without eyes it was hard to say. I felt my own eyes keep threatening to run over with tears. I'd never felt such an excruciating blend of emotions in my life. Pride, love, anxiety--but overwhelming all of them was my fear for Val. Nola and I knew the deformities had come from Agnes's vile serum.

But... what if that was only partly true?

What if the fact that our union was incestuous had played a role in our baby's defects? Mom had mentioned it was uncommon, but possible, as an off-hand comment while staring at her grandson in a way that I knew he was going to get stared at a lot in his life: with fear and revulsion. Right before she walked out, she said, "Might want to keep that tail under wraps. Pirates are superstitious. Won't take kindly to... that."

I had to wonder, too, what my kits with Rika looked like. They'd been born by now--she was almost a month ahead of Nola--and Rika had been scared of what the serum might do to the fetuses. Now I was scared, too. What were their names, I wondered? Our departure had been so abrupt, we never got around to the name conversation before everything that had transpired back in November.

I stared at Val, who yawned toothlessly and uttered a quiet squeak, and my heart burst. I didn't love him any less than his sister, but I was definitely more scared for him. Would he survive this? He seemed to be healthy in every other way, Geisthad assured us. She seemed to know what she was doing when it came to childbirth, so Icouldn't really do much except nod miserably. Nola had been inconsolable, hugging Val to her chest and screaming her grief, which had only frightened and confused the newborn. She finally calmed enough to feed the kittens before very reluctantly letting me take Val.

I was pretty sure he was sleeping. He nuzzled his face against the blanket wrapped around his head, and I held him like fragile spun glass against my chest.

Let me tell you something that's probably already been made abundantly clear: I am a coward. I've fought before, when I knew I could win--or when the only other option was death--but I never faced any of it with an ounce of courage. Nothing but sheer, unadulterated panic. This time was no different. Just looking at Val, born wounded and fragile, and his quietly squeaking sister in Nola's arms as they both dozed next to me, I froze, the way I used to before a super-powered Gift gave me the ability to act in the face of fear. Without it, I was useless in a fight. But every use was eating something precious, devouring and destroying my memories. I didn't know what to do anymore. Everything was drenched in fear.

I forced myself to move, to dip my head down and nuzzle my nose against my son's forehead. Val and Kiba needed me. They needed their father to be strong. I needed to stop being so damn weak all the time. If I didn't, my family was going to pay the price. I held my son closer to me and gently kissed his forehead. I would do better. I _had_to do better. For him. For all of my family.