“Aaron brought steaks,” said a wry voice from the door.
The smell that wafted off the plate in his hand had three grown men ready to beg. Jamie held out the pizza box. “Here, have an appetizer.”
“I like my arteries actually functioning.” Steaks landed on the table, along with cutlery, napkins, and a bottle of screaming hot sauce. “Not all of us can just magic pizza glue out of our systems.”
The cheese goo on his arm wasn’t looking quite so tasty. Jamie reached for the hot sauce, mildly disgusted. “Spoilsport.”
“He brought steaks,” said Daniel, sticking a fork into one the size of a small house. “You brought really tasty cardboard.”
Jamie gave the remnants of his pizza one last, sad look and forked a steak. “So are we here just to prove Aaron’s total food domination, or is there another reason?”
Everyone looked at the bearer of the steaks-he was the guy who’d called the meeting.
“Marcus.” That one word changed the mood in the room considerably. “He needs help.”
“He’s got it.” Daniel stole the hot sauce. “You feed him, I give him sling lessons, Jamie’s digging on Morgan’s past, Elorie’s supplying milk, and every witch in Realm is on standby. What’s left?”
“He’s clueless.” Aaron grimaced. “He doesn’t know about burp cloths, Morgan’s diapers are mostly on backwards, and the two of them are sleeping in an easy chair every night.”
Jamie winced-he’d done a couple of nights in an easy chair with Kenna. Not conducive to good sleep. Or walking upright the next day.
Daniel raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like you have spies.”
“Lizzie’s pretty chatty.” Aaron pushed a fork around his plate. “Most of us were pretty dumb when our kids arrived, right?”
There might have been an errant diaper or two. Jamie grinned at his brother-in-law. “At least I didn’t let my two-month-old into the Doritos.” The Nell of twelve years ago had not been impressed.
“It was one chip.” Daniel rolled his eyes. “And it kept him happy for an entire hour. How was I supposed to know it would turn his poop into toxic waste for a whole week?”
Jamie remembered. The whole Walker house had been on quarantine-even Gramma Retha hadn’t been willing to change Dorito diapers for her firstborn grandchild. He looked over at Aaron. “We’ll stipulate to dumb. Where are you headed with this?”
“Marcus probably isn’t any dumber than your average new father.” Aaron stopped at all the raised eyebrows. “Okay, maybe so, but he’s figured some things out.” He put down his fork and sighed. “Here’s the deal. This is going to be hard enough on him without having to learn about diapers and bath time and burp cloths whenever some woman occasionally decides to take random pity on him.”
Mike sighed. “I think they’re mostly taking pity on Morgan.”
“The man’s been an ass.” Daniel tossed a baseball at the ceiling. “He’s been telling people this stuff is women’s work ever since he was old enough to avoid Moira’s cauldron. Most of the women I know figure he deserves to struggle a little.” He shrugged. “I’m not sure they’re wrong.”
“They’re wrong,” said Aaron quietly. “Or rather, they’re right. It’s not theirs to do.”
It was always the quiet guy with the steaks who got you in the end. Jamie leaned forward and stole back the hot sauce. “You think it’s ours.”
“Yeah.” Aaron intercepted Daniel’s ball. “And I think I know how.”
Marcus contemplated the heap of black shirts on his floor. And the happily naked baby on his bed. “I think, girl-child, that it’s time to do laundry.” Neither of them had anything remotely respectable to wear, thanks to Morgan’s latest poop disaster.
It seemed impossible that so much goop could come out of such a small child. And diapers seemed very poorly designed for the job, given how much escaped them.
He was also a little concerned that the diapers weren’t the only thing smelling like poop. And very sure he’d never actually seen anyone bathing an infant. He believed it occurred-but the “how” was entirely a mystery.
He lived in a village full of hot-and-cold helpful women, but damned if he was asking any of them. Marcus juggled Morgan in one arm and scooped up his laptop in the other.
Google-a desperate man’s best friend.
Unfortunately, “how to give a baby a bath” produced all kinds of information-but it all required special bath devices or an infant capable of sitting up. He eyed Morgan. She’d never shown any indications of such a skill.
He slid her carefully into the center of his bed and propped her up in something resembling a seated position. It felt like trying to mold Jell-O. “I think you have to put in some effort for this to work, girl-child.” He got her into a basic tripod shape and let go. Morgan promptly folded in half, happily chewing on the toe now conveniently under her mouth.
Marcus was pretty sure his mouth and his toe didn’t meet under any circumstances. It also seemed clear that Gumby baby hadn’t mastered sitting up-and the toe-eating position seemed undesirable in a bathtub full of water.
Curious, he reached for his computer again. Babies sat up unassisted somewhere between three and six months old. “You’re not all that much older than the rest of the babies around here, then.”
Computer in his lap, he rolled Morgan onto her back. Even for a baby, it couldn’t be all that comfortable to be bent in two. She waved her toes happily in the air.
Her slightly stinky toes.
Dammit-babies weren’t supposed to stink. Even the cat had run in protest, and that was probably a bad sign.
His email pinged. Marcus ignored it. No way the womenfolk of the village would let him live down a stinky baby. His pride was on the line.
His Google chat pinged. He ignored that too. Someone on the worldwide web had to know how to bathe a three-ish-month-old baby. Maybe if he put just a tiny amount of water in the bathtub, she could lay on her back… And freeze-the heat in his bathroom was intermittent at best.
A big, flashing, neon-orange rectangle popped up on his screen. “DUDE. Check your email. The Fairy Godfathers.”
Marcus blinked-and it was gone. Gods. He was hallucinating.
His email pinged again. Annoyed, Marcus clicked into his inbox. And gaped. One new email. With one link.
He stared. Computer virus? Practical joke?
And then he remembered that he was currently lying on his bed with a mostly naked, stinky baby capable of spreading poop in all four cardinal directions even while fully clothed.
He clicked.
Danger stalked her village.
Moira walked out the door of her cottage, uneasy and unable to shake the sense of portent hanging over her shoulder. It wasn’t Morgan-the sun shone brightly in the noonday sky. Astral travel was a magic of the night.
A strange car drove up the main street of the village.
Ah. A visitor then. And perhaps, not a welcome one.
Moira moved slowly through her garden, collecting magic as she walked, and then stood by the gate and waited. There was only one way into Fisher’s Cove-and it ran through her kitchen.
The stranger got out of her car. A middle-aged woman, slightly frazzled. “Hello-I’m Denise Warren, from Child Protection Services. I’ve come to see a Marcus Buchanan about a baby?”
Now Moira knew what stalked her village. A woman with a kind face. Wind stirred suddenly in the garden. “Come in for a cup of tea, won’t you?”
“Normally that would be lovely.” Denise smiled, hand still on her car door. “But it took me a while to find you way out here, and I really do need to locate Mr. Buchanan.”