Page 3 of Postpartum Spells & Infant Hells

"It's impossible to miss the tiny handprint on the outside of the glass. Do we have flying children trying to get to our babies?" His voice had become the calm before the storm. Gods help whoever is after our babies now. Aidon would tear apart the world to protect his family.

"Nothing normal-sized left that print. And nothing climbs to a second-floor window to peek inside. Especially with the wards we have circling everything. They had to have a pair of wings since there’s no ladder out there. Get dressed. I’m waking Murtagh, and then I’m going to walk every inch of the grounds myself."

His shadows began moving while he spoke. They poured down the wall in a flat black sheet and slipped out under the sash. Keeping my eyes on them, I watched them run their fingers along the siding. I was used to them by now, but the energy they were giving off made me shiver.

I stood there with my hand still on the curtain and lifted my gaze back to the print. It had to give me a clue. Or information about where it had come from. The chances of a cute little cherub angel flying up there were slim.

It had five small fingers, and none of them were smeared. The palm was too high to reach from the ground. Someone had hovered out there and pressed their palm to the glass. It was a message I didn’t understand yet.

It was impossible to get past the size. Some part of me had braced for a monster at the window all week. I imagined it with claws and sharp teeth. Was it one of the things that came hunting children in stories?

By the time I got downstairs and out onto the back porch with a mug of coffee, Aidon and Murtagh had walked the eastern face of the house twice. Tarja pressed her body in a tense line against my shins. “What are they looking for?” she asked in my mind.

“Signs of whatever left the palm print on the window upstairs,” I replied as a shiver traveled down my spine. The drizzle had thinned to a mist that beaded on everything while refusing to fall. The whole world smelled like wet cedar and turned earth.

Murtagh came up the porch steps, scanning everything and sniffing the air. "There's no trail, and I have looked twice. I covered it the first time in my wolf form to pick up any scents. After shifting back, I walked it, focusing more heavily with my eyes."

Tseki was right behind him. Frustration rolled off him in waves. He was the best tracker we had, and a trail that refused to make sense bothered him more than finding nothing at all.

“There’s no human or animal scent outside the window,” Tseki reported. “Not on the ground, the siding, or the sill. There isn’t a scratch on the house, either. I would’ve sensed anyone flying near the property. My dragon has been hypervigilant since Lyra infiltrated the grounds.”

“And there’s no dent where a ladder would’ve sunk into this slop,” Murtagh added. He glanced up at the nursery window. “I’m telling you, Phoebe. That handprint shouldn’t be there.”

“Aidon or I would’ve felt a portal open,” I said. “I’ve tried coming up with another explanation, but I’ve got nothing.”

The back gate banged hard enough to rattle the latch. My heart slammed against my ribs, and I nearly dropped my mug.

“Jesus, Layla,” I growled. “You scared the piss out of me.”

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Layla replied as she jogged across the sodden yard.

Mud covered her boots and pants to the knees, and she still had a flashlight gripped in one fist. She’d spent the night patrolling the back acreage. In the three years she’d guarded my family, I’d never seen that look on her face.

“Murtagh, I need you to look at some tracks before the rain washes them out,” Layla called.

She reached the patio, took in our grim faces, and slowed.

“What happened up here while I was gone?” Layla asked. “Everybody looks like the dog died.”

“Phoebe found a handprint on the outside of the nursery window,” Murtagh explained, jerking his chin toward the second floor. “Nothing got inside, but we can’t figure out how anyone reached the glass. There’s no trail below it and no sign they climbed or flew up there.”

Murtagh nodded toward the mud on her clothes. “Your turn. You came in looking like you’d seen a ghost, and I’m guessing it wasn’t because of the handprint.”

“I found footprints among the trees,” Layla told him. “I spent an hour examining them, but I couldn’t pick up a human, animal, or supernatural scent.”

She set the flashlight on the patio table and raised a hand before anyone could interrupt.

“The prints were child-sized and barefoot,” Layla continued. “I found three areas where the mud was soft enough to hold clear tracks. In each area, the child took four or five steps, and the trail stopped. No turn. No slide. No sign anyone picked them up or dragged them away. There weren’t any other footprints nearby, either.”

My grip tightened around my mug.

“The same trail started again about twenty feet away,” Layla said. “The stride and direction stayed consistent. It looked like one child was walking a straight path, except parts of that path were missing.”

“Could the ground have been too hard between the clusters to hold the prints?” Murtagh asked.

“I thought of that,” Layla replied. “Some patches were firmer, but not all of them. The child crossed mud that should’ve held a print and left nothing behind.”

Layla drew a slow breath.