“When? Before or after the Moonchild spell deteriorates my humanity? Before or after my mom realizes she’s got another living target?” I didn’t mean to sound so bitter, but goddamn. It wasn’t fair. How the hell was I supposed to find a spell my mother had used in some black-magick sex ritual during my conception twenty-five years ago? One that didn’t follow any of the original medieval Moonchild spells?

Priya had alluded to the possibility that my mother had constructed the spell herself, compiled from different sources. What if she was the only one who knew the details? And even if someone else could re-create the spell, it might take years of research, decades of trial-and-error. If they’d tried a different version on my deceased brother and failed, then God knew how many versions they’d experimented with before they conceived me.

She’d murdered an eight-year-old boy.

Her own child.

I pressed my palm against my belly as a slow, hot panic dripped down my spine.

“She can’t find out,” I whispered.

“We’ll go find the PI tomorrow.”

What if tomorrow wasn’t soon enough? Curled up with my back against Lon’s chest, I could easily drift into a lazy daze in minutes. If she tapped into me tonight, would she poke through my brain and see my knowledge of the shrimp-sized baby inside me?

I turned in Lon’s arms to face him. “I can’t take the chance.”

“Cady . . .”

“You’re willing to risk it? I don’t believe that for a second.”

“I would lay waste to the entire state and everyone in it before I’d let anything happen to you or that baby. And I would gladly kill your mother a hundred times over. Should’ve done it in San Diego when I had the chance.”

I shook my head. “It was my choice to give her up to the albino demon. And it was the wrong one.”

“No use thinking about that now.”

“What if Priya’s right? What if she finds a way to cross over, takes possession of me, and disappears with my body and the baby?”

Lon didn’t say anything for a long time. He was upset. So was I. And the longer it took him to come up with a logical argument, the more panicked I got.

“We know she can tap into my thoughts,” I said, thinking aloud. “I don’t know how deep she can go, but when I had those dream conversations with her, you were there in those dreams, lying next to me. And she clearly remembered you from San Diego. She remembered you, and she knew we were together, because she wanted to hurt me by killing you.”

“Yes,” Lon said impatiently.

“By that logic, we can assume the only reason she didn’t know about the baby already was because I didn’t—not when she was tapping into my dreams.” I sat up in the lounge chair. “She doesn’t have some all-seeing omnipotent power, Lon. She could only see inside my head. Like you, when you’re transmutated. Or . . . maybe more like Arturo.”

“Memories.”

“Exactly. So if I don’t know I’m pregnant, neither will she.”

“But you do.”

“But you know a way to change that.”

Lon sat up, brows drawn together. His eyes flicked back and forth between mine. Then his face fell. “The book of memory spells.”

“Yes.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Why?” I challenged. “You’ve tried two of those spells, and they both worked. You retrieved my lost memories from childhood, and you wiped Riley Cooper’s memories.”

“That was a permanent wipe.”

“But there were other spells. Temporary ones. Think about it, Lon. You could remove my memory of the baby just until we have a chance to track down the PI or fly down to Florida or whatever we need to do to stop my mother.”

“Those spells are hundreds of years old. What if it wipes your memories for months?”

“Well, you did say the baby’s healthy.”

“It is, but—”

“And you said you wouldn’t let me do this alone.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Which means you’d be with me, so you could stop me from doing anything that would put the baby in danger.”

“But—”

“And it can’t last forever. Spell or no spell, I think I’ll eventually figure out something’s up when my stomach starts ballooning. Hell, if you’re afraid I won’t remember, you can just tell me about it.”

He lifted his chin in reluctant acknowledgment. But he wasn’t entirely convinced. “Memory spells are tricky, and you’ve just recovered from major trauma. You had multiple concussions. I could fuck something up. Turn you into a vegetable.”

“If we’re weighing risks, better that than endanger the baby. Plus, you said that I healed myself—miracle, remember?” I tried to smile, but neither of us was in the mood for humor. Something else crossed my mind. “Maybe the reason I didn’t remember I was pregnant until I saw the threads in my hand was that my body was trying to protect the baby from me.”

He made a small, miserable noise and pushed himself off the chaise. I watched him pace the length of the patio, bare feet arching beneath the hems of his jeans. When he made it to the deck, he leaned against the railing and stood there for several minutes, looking out at the dark, glittering ocean. Thinking.

I was thinking, too.

I didn’t want to be wrong about this. But when I considered other options—not doing anything, trying to hide myself with portable magick, summoning unknown Æthyric demons until I could barter with one who was brave enough to take out my mother in the Æthyr—it still seemed like our best shot.