The Dark Calling (The Arcana Chronicles #5)(73)

Evie called, wants her shtick back.

My short-lived excitement over a female leader had waned even more. Yes, I was suspicious of shrinks after my stint in a mental ward—but it was more than that. My current helplessness made it impossible not to envy her power. To resent it.

I was becoming a wreck here—just like the ships all around us. Why were my talents wasted?

Inside this tin can, I relived what it’d felt like to be aflame with power. The Empress didn’t get collared or contained.

Except for when living in a container? “I’ll bet Lorraine pep-talked you. She needs all of you down there, risking your lives.” Though the Ciborium refused to share in those risks, they got eighty percent of the salvage! “You’re like mice nibbling at cheese in a trap. Sooner or later, you will get caught. You will die. Her house always wins, and she knows it.”

Joules’s face turned red as he blustered: “She’s got a dream of rebuilding society! No one is forcing us down there.”

“Something isn’t right about her and the Ciborium.” Lorraine and her crew might not be cannibals or mad scientists, but greed was a form of evil too. In my mind, that made them my enemies. “We need to be on our guard.”

“Stop being an eejit. You’re up the duff and barmy to boot, and you’re never around her. Why should we listen to you?”

I slitted my eyes. “One day, Joules. One day . . .”

“Hey, now, you two.” Jack pushed away his half-eaten plate. “I thought we were managing here. We got a plan. Let’s stick to it.” Since he’d returned from the dead, his patience seemed to have no end. But his reasonable tone was driving me up the metal walls.

When would he demonstrate frustration? When would he make demands about our relationship? Instead, he’d kept us fed and gotten us a better place. Whenever I had nightmares about my escape from the castle, he would stroke my hair. He’d diligently sourced for baby things.

He slept with his hand over my growing belly, confident he’d feel Tee kicking soon and scared to miss it.

Jack might be controlling his emotions, but mine were about to spill over. I’d figured that if I could keep from screaming when my mom had been dying, I could handle myself in any situation—even this tin-can solitary. But no longer . . . “Down on this level, I can hear people talking.” Today I’d heard a woman’s sobs.

After deliberating, I’d pulled a hoodie over my hair and headed out to investigate. I’d gotten attention from male Jubileans, but nothing too bad. No one had nabbed me or anything.

I’d found a crying woman in a black veil and worn snow gear.

“What’s happened?” I gently asked.

She sniffled. “My wedding day. To three strange men.”

Finally! Proof that Jubilee wasn’t utopia. “Is the Ciborium forcing you to marry?”

“Forcing?” The woman scoffed. “I’m a widow with a kid. I lost three husbands in the last Rift.”

Now I stared down Joules, Kentarch, and Jack. “Today, gentlemen, I found out how often Rifts occur.”

Cursing under his breath, Jack shared a look with the others.

“Every twenty-one days on average.” Tick-tock. Approximately every three weeks, Jubilee suffered mass casualties, and called in an order for more workers to replace them. With one flare, people raced here to die. “Aren’t we overdue?”

Joules sputtered. “What do you expect us to do? Not work? I bloody like eating. I don’t want to go back to the lean times.”

Though my own recent starvation weighed on me, I said, “At the very least, don’t take double shifts. Limit the amount of time you’re in the trench.”

“We’re safer than others,” Jack assured me. “We got Kentarch to help us out in a pinch.”

“Excellent,” I said. “He can teleport your body back to me.”

“Evie, just be rational about this. After filling up the BOL cave, we’re tapped out. You and Tee gotta eat. Which means we work doubles.”

Jack continued to show such concern about the kid’s future. He’d met with Jubilee’s physician to get a sense of the man and came away unimpressed: The doc likes to be paid in liquor and had vomit on his coat. So Jack had tracked down a former midwife. He liked her better but wasn’t sure if he trusted her to examine me yet: Maybe this week. We can’t be too careful.

After Paul, neither of us were too eager for me to see a medical professional.

In the meantime, Jack had peppered the woman with questions. He’d learned how bad stress was for a pregnancy and what kind of food to be sourcing for. Based on information I’d given him, the woman had estimated my due date to be around Day 730 A.F., or Year Two.

My own birthday.

She’d provided Jack with a list of supplies we’d need by then, and he’d already unearthed half the items, stockpiling them at the cave—everything from diapers to baby food to a teething ring.

He’d even put together a tiny bug-out bag to go with ours.

One of my mom’s favorite sayings had been The difference between involvement and commitment is like ham and eggs. The chicken is involved; the pig is committed.

Jack was ready to go all-in.

But if we were going to make this work, I needed to pull my weight. “I’m getting a job,” I announced to the table. “The restaurant’s got an opening. When I start pulling in salvage gratuities, you can limit your exposure.”