We looked.
The baby carrier was empty.
Okay, complicated. “It’s not a big deal,” I began.
“Excuse me, but it is,” she corrected sharply. “Your friend didn’t take the baby with her. No one has touched the baby. People are very likely spying on you. Your sister and father are definitively out to get you. You have out-of-town guests who may or may not be allies.”
“Hey,” I pointed out, “you’re on that list.”
“So where is your friend’s infant?” Fred was on her feet, like she was going to start checking cupboards and peeking behind furniture. “We need to find it right away.”
“Oh hey, Fred Bimm! Wow. So, you were always kind of bossy, huh? Even in your youth.”
I pointed to the teenager standing in the mudroom doorway. “He’s right there. Eric Berry, Fredrika Bimmm.”
Jessica’s newborn let out a deep chuckle. “We’ve met.”
“When?” Fred still sounded sharp, and now looked bewildered and suspicious. Annoyingly, this didn’t impact her looks in a negative way.
“Another place and time.” His big brown eyes lit up. “Any strawberries left?”
“Sure,” I said, and made room so the baby could saunter over and take a seat.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
“I don’t understand,” Fred said flatly. “You are not an infant.”
“That must be why you’re Dr. Bimm. Nothing gets past you.” Petty, yep, but for once, I knew something she didn’t. I was gonna enjoy it, dammit. And big surprise, Sinclair had left the explanations to me, since he’d wandered off with BabyJon. Typical: once again, the burden was mine. Case in point . . .
“It’s a long story,” Eric Berry said, snatching my half-empty glass without shame and draining it.
“Oh you little shit!” I yelped. “You know where the glasses are and the blender’s sitting right there. You only did that to bug me.”
“You know you’re the one I love to bug, Onnie Betsy.”* Because I am a shameless compliment whore, this worked on me. It didn’t hurt that the punk was gorgeous.
Jessica was cute, and Dick was handsome, but their kids were living proof that every redneck bigot got it wrong: biracial kids were the best-looking kids on earth. Eric had his mother’s luminous brown eyes and his father’s pale skin, except Eric’s had gold undertones. He had Jessica’s pointed chin and broad forehead, and Dick’s swimmer’s shoulders. His hair bristled out in a proud Afro; you looked at him and all you could think was, Is it as soft as it looks? Let’s find out!
I’d seen newborn Eric and toddler Eric, and first-grade Eric and sixteen-year-old Eric; this one was the oldest iteration, probably eighteen or nineteen. Not drinking age, but not far off, either. He was in what I called jean-colored jeans, because I’m not creative, and an orange T-shirt with white lettering: World’s Okayest Brother. He was sockless and wearing the shoes from the future I’d noticed on other visits, narrow black shoes that looked like a sneaker and a loafer had a baby.
And the best part? The twins’ beauty was the least interesting thing about them.
“Excuse me,” Fred said. “Explanation still required.”
“Well, we need a minute,” I pointed out. “It’s hard to explain. See, when Jessica was pregnant, some days she was only a month along and some days she looked ready to pop. But none of us noticed except my mom, because she didn’t live here. And where is my mom? BabyJon’s here; is she? Because this place is gonna be Defcon 5 for weird pretty soon; maybe the kids should scram.”
“That’s actually the least severe Defcon,” Eric pointed out helpfully.
I turned to him. “What, so Defcon 1 is more terrible than Defcon 5?”
“Nailed.”
“Stop with the future slang; I can’t always figure it out even with context. Also, starting at five makes no sense.”
“So what am I supposed to do about it? Bring your grievance to the USAF; they’re the ones who thought it up.”
“You’re saying that like you think I won’t. And a little respect, please, for your honorary aunt.”
“Nuh-uh.” But he grinned at me, a sweet smile that made the sarcasm more cute than irritating. A good trick. Maybe he could teach me.
“Will you two stop it?” Fred cried. “Betsy, stay focused. Although since the two of you seem singularly unworried, I’m not sure why I’m fretting.”
“Fretting?” Couldn’t resist the poke. “Is that what you call it?”
“Get back to the story,” Fred managed through gritted teeth, and thank goodness she didn’t inherit her dad’s choppers; she’d have bitten through her tongue by now. Blurgh.
“Okay, so, Jessica’s pregnancy was all over the place; it was just like her tie-dye phase except—if you can imagine—even more worrisome.”
“Oh good Christ,” Fred muttered.
“I’m telling it! So after a while we realized it was because her babies were shifting between parallel timelines, even before they were born! And that’s because—oh, I forgot to tell you that I accidentally changed the timeline since before I did that she and Dick had broken up because he was terrified of me, but when I came back not only were she and Dick together; she was pregnant and also I didn’t skin my husband and turn him into the Book of the Dead.”*
“What?”
“I warned you it was complicated.”
“Complicated I can handle. Learn to tell a story in a linear fashion.”*
I set my (empty!) glass down so it wouldn’t shatter in a zillion pieces when I clenched a fist. Oh, I was going to give this uppity jerk-ass such a—
“Fred, I’m a version of Jessica’s son from another timeline.”*
“Oh?” Fred turned an inquiring gaze toward him. I loosened my fist.
“Yes. For reasons I can’t go into, all versions of my sister and I have access to this house. And I’m vastly superior to the infant I’ve temporarily displaced, since at this stage of my life I’ve stopped shitting my pants.” He paused, then muttered, “Mostly, but in my defense, that was a completely out-of-control prom.”
“I thought you said it was complicated. That wasn’t complicated.” Fred extended a slim paw, totally showing off how quickly she caught on to all the weird around here. “Nice to remeet you, since apparently you know a version of me from your own timeline.”
“A wonderful version,” Eric replied at once, shifting into Shameless Flirt without a pause.
“Ewww. She’s old enough to be your mom.”
“Yes, but I know what a lovely person she is, and not that I place importance on physical features”—said the teenage boy—“but USFs age beautifully. You don’t ever appear to get wrinkles,” he continued, still holding Fred’s hand and ignoring my subtle retching. “Must be all the time in the water.”
“Nope. You’re not going to sit here and flirt with Fred Bimm. You’re just not.”
“Agreed,” Fred said with a grin, the finned hussy. “But I must say, it was fascinating to meet you.” She turned to look as Sinclair came back in.
“My own, the Wyndhams are here. Ah. Eric.” He nodded to Jessica’s baby, who was topping up my glass with his smoothie.
“Hey, Sinclair, howzit?”
“Ah, fine.” That was another annoying thing: future slang was almost incomprehensible. “Standing perm” and “snatch” and “howzit” and “zup.” I missed the subtle, classier slang of the past: “as if” and “lame” and “doy.”
“Intriguing.” Yeah, well, Sinclair would have to narrow that down a lot if he wanted us to have any idea what he meant. “Your mother only brought one twin over . . . and only one of you shifted from your time stream to ours.”
“Yeah, well.” A cheerful shrug from the twin in question. “It is what it is. Or what it will be. What year is it today again?”
“You are of course welcome anytime, child, but I must warn you, we have quite a few outside—”
“Undersea/human hybrid, more werewolves than usual, more vampires than usual and—let me guess—the press?”
“Quite.”
“I’ll ’moose pretty soon. Promise, chief. Gimmee.”
“Eh? Oh.” Eric had held out his arms for BabyJon and a bemused Sinclair handed him over. “Carry on.”
“And on, and on! Sorry, but I’m giddy—it’s so nifty being bigger and older than this guy for a change.” He scooped BabyJon close and held him with careless confidence, then brought him within nuzzling distance. “Yes it is. Yes it is!”
BabyJon had been eyeing the older boy with fuzzy bemusement, which turned into giggles as the kitchen filled with the “bbbblllllzzzzztttt!” of a raspberry to the belly.
Sinclair was lingering, which was odd. Not that he had anything against homey family scenes, but he had a houseful of werewolves to worry about, and the press outside. And an assembly of vampires was on the way. And other stuff he said.
“I don’t suppose you would care to enlighten—”
Eric cocked a dark brow at the king of the vampires. “You know the rules, O chieftain my chieftain. Sorry.”
“Mmmm.”
The rules. The twins had made it plain that they wouldn’t give us any hints about our (possible) future. For one thing, there was no guarantee they were right. Who was to say the past they remembered had anything to do with this timeline? For another, even if they were right, giving us foreknowledge of events might affect how those events unfolded. For a third, ow, it all made my brain throb.
Fred got up to go with my husband—apparently she wanted to meet werewolves, yawn—and Sinclair departed in the closest thing to a snit I’d seen in a while; unlike me, he loathed not knowing everything all the time about every situation. When I’d tease him about his inner (and outer) control freak, he’d smile and say, “Is such behavior not the reason I was able to survive two lifetimes before meeting you?” Well, jeez, when you put it that way . . . Me, I figured that mind-set was a setup for a daily nosebleed at the very least.
But that didn’t mean I couldn’t relate.
“So,” Eric the younger was saying. He’d looked outside and observed the weather, then glanced at the calendar on the fridge. “The ’rents have moved on for a bit.”
’Rents? Oh—Dick and Jess. For a bit? So they’d come back?
I’d hoped/suspected they would. Every iteration of the twins who showed up knew the mansion and everyone in it. Knew where the glasses were, the spoons, knew who everyone was all the time, teased Tina about her absurd vodka collection, complimented my shoes, were respectful and sweet to Sinclair, and Marc was apparently some kind of super-uncle in their eyes. When Jess and Dick had moved out a few weeks ago, even then part of me knew that one way or the other, they’d return. Maybe not this year, or next. But they’d be back, would raise their children here. Knowing that had been one of the reasons I’d been able to let my friends go.
“I think it will be fine,” the boy said carefully, and I appreciated his effort.
“Yep, I think so, too.” Y’know, eventually. Probably. Good thing there weren’t any rules about me telling him stuff. I couldn’t see the harm in confirming what he’d deduced . . . or remembered.
“It’ll work out, Onnie Betsy,” he said, and his eyes were his mother’s—dark and kind.
“Well, I hope so. Your mom hasn’t said much, but I feel bad that your dad had to quit his job because of all this.”
“Oh. That. Don’t fret, li’l fretter.”
“I’m thirty-some years older than you are,” I reminded the whippersnapper.
“And an inch shorter . . . so far. I’ll tower over you, ha!”
“You’re barely cute when you sneer like that.” This was a total lie. Little jerk.
He shrugged off my objective criticism of his shit-eating grin. “Not to worry, Onnie. One way or the other, Dad’s always fuzzy.”
“That’s a load off.” Always fuzzy? What, like a grooming thing? Gross. Didn’t I have enough to worry about? Now I had to picture Dick’s intimate landscaping needs?
“And you’re gonna be fine, too, little big brother.” Eric pretended to nibble on BabyJon’s fingers, which the baby thought was just the best game ever.
“Hope so.” I sighed. “He’s one in a sea of weirdos. At best, he’ll only be lost in the crowd. Which sucks. At worst? Doesn’t bear thinking about.”
Eric laughed at me, but he had such natural charisma it didn’t make me want to punch him in the throat. “BabyJon is the only one you don’t have to worry about. You’ll come to harm before he does.”
“That’s a nice thought.” Wait, was it? Yeah. Yeah, better me than him, definitely. “But I worry about everyone. You, your sister, your folks, Sinclair, Tina, Marc. Even—”
“Laura and your father.”
Whoa. Did he know them, in his timeline? Were they alive? Were we in touch?
Had I killed them?
“Well. Yeah, them, too.” And I could never admit it out loud. The whippersnapper was wise and cute! “And sometimes myself even.”
“Just remember when things seem like an enormo pile of tiger droppings: BabyJon’s the last one you need to obsess over.”
“Isn’t this cheating?” I asked tentatively. “Not that I mind. But the rules you guys set in place—”
“Telling you is safe enough,” he assured me. He was so nice! The girls and/or boys must go nuts over him in his timeline. “You’re not known for your memory retention.”
Nice, and also awful. “That’s one way to put it.”
“No need to perspire over it, Onnie; it works for you. You’re the only person in the world who has somehow turned a case of the stupids into a superpower.”
“Chronic stupids,” I agreed glumly. Then: “You little prick.”
He laughed at me, and before I could come up with something appropriately devastating, the kitchen door swung open and there was Derik, the blond werewolf obsessed with lettuce who looked like an escapee from the pages of Martha Stewart Living: Kickass Gourmets.
“Hey,” I said, because I had to say something. “Welcome back.” I guess.
He didn’t reply. He wasn’t even looking at me. He’d stopped still and was staring at Eric.
I forced a cough. “Helloooooo?” It’s not that I needed the queen kudos. I hated the bowing, in fact, and the “Your Majesty” this and “dread queen” that, had put as much a stop to all of it as I could (though some of the oldies, like Lawrence, persisted). But returning my greeting would be nice.
By way of response, Derik scraped his hands through his short blond hair so it was standing up in spikes. He definitely seemed like he had something on his mind, and it wasn’t me. Good thing or bad thing?
He cleared his throat and managed a faint, “Hello?” Again: not looking at me. Or talking to me. Or responding to me in any way.
Eric saluted him from his spot on the barstool. “And to you, fuzzy sir!”
“Are you okay, Derik? You look weirded out.” Like you don’t know if you want to bite or bolt. Don’t bite! Then I got it. “Oh. It’s prob’ly the baby, right?” I gestured at BabyJon, who was giggling in Eric’s arms while the older boy blew on BabyJon’s fat, flat little feet. (My mom called them pork chops with toes.)
“Good guess, Betsy, but it’s not entirely the baby,” Eric said with a sly smile.
“He’s right,” Derik replied. He took a careful step closer and I could see his nostrils flaring wide as he tried to catch Eric’s scent. He was . . . straining toward the boy—that was the best way to put it—using every sense he had to perceive what was in front of him. “You’re . . . not really here, are you?”
“Now, that,” Eric said, and gave BabyJon a raspberry just above his bell
y button, “is pretty astute, fuzzy sir; full marks to you.”
“She’s here,” he said, pointing (rude!) to me. “And her babyson is here.” Babyson? That . . . actually wasn’t terrible. Better than sonbaby, which made BabyJon sound like some kind of a demigod.
“What are you talking about?” I wasn’t shrill—just a little loud. “Everyone here is here.” Hated, hated being the last person in the room to get what was going on.
Derik had zero interest in my output. His gaze never shifted from Eric, who was as placid as a pond. If Jessica’s baby was worried about being the focus of a nervous alpha werewolf in his prime, you sure couldn’t tell. Which probably also unnerved Derik. They were uninvited, and quick to think the worst of me, but in that moment I couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for him. A Wyndham got hurt, or frightened, or at least rattled almost every time we crossed paths. No, every time we crossed paths, now that I thought about it.
“They’re here; everyone’s here but you,” Derik said slowly, obviously figuring it out while he talked. “You’re more like a photograph. Like a trace of something, not the actual thing itself. How can that be?”
“Oh, that’s excellent.” Eric slung a yawning BabyJon over his shoulder and rubbed his little back, which was striped because my mom was a believer in fat babies flaunting horizontal stripes. “That’s the perfect way to describe that; gotta trap that in my brain to tell the sis when I get back.”
“Back from where?”
“Long story.” He handed BabyJon to me and stood. “Can I see the Fur and the Burr before I bolt?”
“Sure.” We never saw the iterations arrive, or leave. They were just suddenly there. Or not there. I didn’t question it.
“’Kay. Later, prognosticator.”
“Wait—” Derik began.
Eric ignored the werewolf, which was impressive. “Nice to see you,” he said with casual courtesy, and stepped past Derik to open the mudroom door. Fur and Burr had set up a clamor, which lessened only a bit when the door closed behind him.
Nice to see you. Not nice to see you again, which was interesting. It didn’t necessarily mean Eric had met Derik in his own timeline. It did mean that Eric knew a werewolf when he saw one. He also wasn’t remotely worried about it. That was interesting, too.