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through my insides, to meet within my uterus. I felt myself conceive on this very spot, the ocean floor, with my whale lover above and beneath me. My eyes grew heavy, my body grew limp. My last image was of my beautiful Randar lifting me, smiling happily, cuddling me close. My face was buried against his throat. I slipped away into darkness.
    I bolted awake, gasping in great amounts of air into my aching lungs, until I vomited salt water upon my bedroom floor. I was completely drenched, as were the sheets and pillows. But I was alive. My hand went to my belly and I sobbed as I heard the first stirrings of my beautiful babe. One word was all it took. The thought lazily roamed up my torso to invade my thoughts, the slightest of the sweetest voice.
    “Mother.”
    The word was the most beautiful of sounds. My gift had been returned to me. My water witch, my soon to be fifth-born, was nestled snugly within my womb, awaiting her father. This time she would not be disappointed. Exhausted, I drifted into slumber, not bothering to change the bedding. It would seem the babe enjoyed the moisture of the sheets; for now, I was more than happy to be indulgent.

Chapter 4
    All Hallows’ Eve. There is neither good nor evil in the air, only children’s giggles and laughter as they traverse from home to home collecting their bounty. The art of begging has come a long way since the petitioning of “soul cakes” in return for praying for the dead. And if I must admit, I prefer the charming new styles of jack-o-lantern pumpkins and their humorous and scary faces, to those of smelly, carved tortured-looking turnip. What a silly way to attempt to ward off evil spirits. As if. It was no more helpful than I imagine garlic would be with a vampire.
    I slip soundlessly through the streets. Streets filling with chattering ghouls and goblins, adorable princesses and zombies and one walking aluminum foil box with a crooked antenna—an ancient TV perhaps? At least the costumes are more innovative than the traditional Frankenstein and mummies.
    I can’t help but smile in delight when I see a tiny witch of perhaps six Earth years, decked out in a long black cape and black pointed hat and matching shoes. She is carrying a quaint homemade broom, as though to ride on it, and then jabs at her older brother, who swats at her while she runs away, laughing. I chuckle with a memory: the only use I ever had for a flying broom was to send one sailing after a persistent suitor in the seventeenth century.
    My spine suddenly crawls. I turn slowly, filled with apprehension, and I see a widely-smiling man standing on the street corner, half hidden in the semi-darkness of a fluttering street lamp. He is dressed all in solemn black, except for a teasing hint of cheeky yellow socks. Strange, what an odd fashion statement, but then again, it is Halloween. He pointedly turns to stare at me; our eyes lock. His eyes are a black, bottomless, empty.
    I know who he is; we have met many times. The Grim Reaper. I shudder. Is he here for me or Alistair? He grins a toothy white grin and gives me a nod. Though his face is classically handsome, his stance nonthreatening, and his eyes are without malice, I feel apprehensive. He will not interfere in the outcome of my battle. What would happen would happen.
    His look shifts in a gesture and I see his gaze center on a child of perhaps nine or ten. I feel myself frowning. The small being wears a hideous mask and carries a sickle. The child’s body looks healthy enough as he skips along, a treat bag in one hand, the sickle in the other. I am wary. The taker of souls would only appear to me for two reasons: either he was there for me or because of me. Why show me the child?
    The child turns suddenly and I realize the hideous mask he wears is his actual face. A warning to beware. He mouths the word, “contrition”, and disappears. So too does the Grim Reaper.
    My body is tingling with my racing thoughts. My belly rolls and I place a