Page 22 of The Baker’s Shadow

Until now, I never thought to ask.

But Malak came from there. Crawled up from the marsh on a night when the moon bled copper, following my grief like a beacon.

What else is in the Hollow?

What else has always been there, just outside my awareness, waiting for me to notice?

A daemon is living in my bakery.

I’m pregnant with something that shouldn’t exist.

And for the first time in three years, I feel alive.

I slide down the door and sit on the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees. The pulse in my stomach beats steady and strong. Not quite human. Not quite monster.

Something in between.

Just like me.

CHAPTER 8

Kaia

I sit there on the floor for I don’t know how long. Five minutes. Ten. The hardwood is cold beneath me, seeping through the thin fabric of my dress. My apartment is silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of Mrs. Chen’s television from down the street.

The pulse in my stomach beats steady. Strong. A constant reminder that nothing will ever be normal again.

I need to get to bed.

I push myself up, using the doorknob for leverage. My legs shake like I’ve run a marathon. The hallway to my bedroom stretches out impossibly long. Ten feet that might as well be a mile.

I make it three steps before the hunger hits.

It’s not gradual. Not a slow creep of emptiness. It slams into me like a wave, hollowing me out from the inside. My vision blurs. My knees buckle. I catch myself on the wall, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth plaster.

The baby’s pulse flares hot. Demanding.

Feed us.

“I don’t know how,” I gasp.

My legs give out completely. I slide down the wall, ending up on the floor again, this time in the narrow hallway. My hands press against my stomach, and the heat there is almost painful. Like something is burning me from the inside out.

I try to breathe through it. Count to ten. But the hunger just gets worse, spreading through my chest, my limbs, my throat. I’m drowning in it. Choking on emptiness.

A creak from downstairs.

I freeze, listening through the roar in my ears. Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Moving through the bakery below me.

He’s pacing. I can track his movement by the soft groans of the old floorboards. From the kitchen to the front counter. Back to the kitchen. To the office door. Back again.

Like he can’t settle either.

The footsteps stop. Then I hear them on the stairs. Each step measured. Careful. Getting closer.

He shouldn’t be coming up here. We agreed. Boundaries. Distance. He stays down there, I stay up here, and we pretend this arrangement will work.

The footsteps reach the landing outside my door.