The Protectors war

Then he gri

"I expect She would," Juniper said. "And yes, you can go play."

The boy's smile grew dazzling, and Juniper felt her heart turn over as he threw his arms around her neck.

"Graim thu, maime!"

"I love you too, son of my heart. Scoot!"

Most of the Willamette communities had envoys sitting along the high table. There was her friend Luther Fi

A scattering were from the smaller groups south of the empty zone around the ruins of Eugene; some of those were Witch folk like her clan, and had taken to imitating Mackenzie customs, or taken them and run with them, often to embarrassing lengths-the leaders of the McClin-tocks were not only dressed in kilts, but in the wraparound Great Kilt rather than the more practical tailored feile-beag style her folk wore. Some others were the saner type of survivalist, of which southern Oregon had had many, some just survivors. There was even a kibbutz.

Juniper and her party were sitting at the center of the upper table, near Mike Havel and his folk. The Bearkillers were hosts here, and the Mackenzies honored guests and allies-which was good, but a bit awkward in one respect:

Well, shit, this is a problem, Mike Havel thought, watching the boy run. Oh, is it ever a problem.

He had to hide a grin as Rudi's mother tousled his hair before he jumped off the bench and dashed shouting to join an impromptu soccer game not far from where the trestle tables stood on the great lawn, bare feet flashing and kilt flying-that and a Care Bears T-shirt were all he was wearing; most had a broader comfort range with temperatures these days.

He had something of her pale coloring, though there was as much gold as red in the hair that fell in ringlets to his shoulders, and his eyes were gray-green. Feet and hands promised he'd have a tall man's height when he got his growth; right now he was all arms and legs. He was already agile as a young collie, though, vaulting across a friend's back and cartwheeling from sheer exuberance. Even in youth his face had a promise of jewel-cut handsomeness, square-jawed and straight-nosed, and a trace of the exotic-high cheekbones, a tilt to his eyes. Those were the legacy of Havel's blood, east-Karelian Fi

Well, to screwing our brains out beneath the pines for one glorious night. Damn, how was I to know she'd get pregnant? The whole thing was real odd, almost like a dream.

That she had gotten pregnant was the problem, this last little while. Turn the boy's bright hair raven dark and he was his father's spitting image, minus a quarter century- his actual blood father, not Juniper's handfasted husband Rudy, who'd died with so many others when the Change hit precisely nine years ago, caught in an airplane taking off from Eugene 's airport. Young Rudi had been born nine months later, but this year it was finally unmistakably clear that he'd been conceived some time after Rudy Starn's life ended in flame.

I can't really regret fathering him. His inward grin grew wider as he applied himself to the breakfast. It was a hell of a lot of fun, to begin with. And he's a great kid, and it looks like Juney's making a good job of raising him.

Wistfully: I wish I could see him more often, show him stuff: being a father is a lot more enjoyable than I thought it would be, but Christ Jesus, they grow fast!

His twin daughters, Mary and Ritva-named for his mother and his father's mother-had brought out a soccer ball, and the kids started kicking it around in a whooping impromptu game that swarmed over the lawns. It didn't much resemble a pre-Change match, starting with the forty-odd kids of various ages playing, moving on from there to the hound dogs joining in and culminating with a fair bit of grabbing and tackling. The twins had a particularly wicked method: one of them would drop, curled up into a ball, in front of someone's shins and the other would accidentally-on-purpose run full-tilt into their backs. They were identical-snub-nosed, with straw blond braids and cornflower blue eyes that slanted like his-and young Rudi went flying head over heels. The pair of them were only a few months younger, and they proceeded to pin him to the turf in a laughing tangle. All three were good-natured as tussling puppies but still exhibited half-learned judoka holds.

"You know, back before the Change, some schools thought playing dodgeball during recess encouraged too much aggressiveness," Havel said with a grin, nodding towards the scrimmage.

Most of the others at the high table laughed with him; a large percentage had children of the same age range. Not many people past their prime had lived through the first year after the Change, and the leaders were mostly in their thirties, like him. Even Abbot Dmowski, fortysomething and fiercely celibate, smiled in a lean way; he was an uncle, according to the intel reports.

The only one not smiling was Signe Havel.

Ooops, Mike thought. Perhaps not the most tactful remark.

With their faces close together, the parentage of the three was quite obvious; so were the maternal admixtures, with the originals sitting so close together, and people must be noticing-and Signe Havel had a much better eye for the little nuances of social interaction than he did.

Falling over your own large feet again, Havel thought.

He could see Signe Havel turn her head and follow Rudi with her eyes-and those eyes narrow, anger the hotter for her suspicion not being quite certain.

"OK," he murmured in her ear, leaning close. "But this ain't the time or place to discuss things. And it isn't the kid's fault, anyway."

"No, it's yours," Signe said-but she kept her voice equally low.

It's too bad, Juniper Mackenzie thought as the younger woman turned to glare at her. And we were good friends before she realized. Perhaps Mike and I should have told her; it's not as if I wanted to take the man from her, or there was anything between us after that one night but friendship. I wanted to. Well, done is done.

In self-defense she loaded her plate with buckwheat pancakes studded with dried blueberries, slathered on applesauce and butter, added bacon on the side, and poured herself a big glass of rich Jersey milk. Then she dug in, making small talk with her neighbors. She'd learned acting skills as a traveling musician before the Change, and more since; being a leader was mostly keeping up a show.

Signe Havel-nee Larsson-was a Nordic beauty in her midtwenties, tall and sleekly curved, her hair a golden fall and her features perfection, save for a slight nick in the straight nose and a corresponding scar on her cheek-and the small blue mark of an A-lister between her brows. Besides her own twin girls playing with the pack, a two-year-old son sat in a high chair not far away with a na