Department of Public Health - Division of Vital Statistics
1. PLACE OF DEATH
County of Cook
City of Chicago
Street and Number, No. 250 E. Superior St. Prentice Women's Hospital
LENGTH OF TIME AT PLACE WHERE DEATH OCCURRED? 0 yrs. 0 mos. 1 ds.
2. PLACE OF RESIDENCE
3 (a) PRINT FULL NAME Fetal death
Social Security No.
4. Sex Male
5. Color or Race White
6 (a) Single, widowed, married, or divorced
7. Birth date of deceased Fetal death
8. AGE:
If less than one day
Preterm 36wks
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MEDICAL CERTIFICATE OF DEATH
20. Date of death: Month May day 1
year 2011 hour 7 minute 26
21. I hereby certify that I attended the deceased from 5/1/2011 to 5/1/2011 ; that I last saw him alive on N/A ; and that death occurred on the date and hour stated above.
Immediate cause of death Prenatal hypoxic ischemic encephalopathy
Due to Intrauterine fetal hypoxia
Due to Class 3 maternal placental abruption
Other conditions
22. Was there an operation performed? Interventional caesarian Date of 5/1/2011
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24. Signed Edwin Matherly, M.D.
25. Filed May 1st, 2011 Registrar Patricia Newmont
'Certificate' is a misnomer, Ivan reflects, looking at the slip of paper declaring Hilary and Dion's son to be dead. It conjures to mind images of diplomas in oak frames when in reality this is more of a notice. A form. Death form, though, doesn't quite have the same ring.
He folds it once, and then again. Slips it into the first of the two envelopes before him. The envelope is far more formal, more elegant, than the brutal, unadorned piece of paper it houses. Cream-colored, wrought of heavyweight, silk-cut paper, the fibers in it sheen faintly when the light hits at the right angle. The address is printed on: some official recordkeeper of the Durante dynasty.
The second envelope is the same as the first, but addressed by hand: graceful, slanted penmanship, somewhere between block and cursive, lean and mobile. Ivan's handwriting. It bears Espiridion Nieves-Durante's name, and his deedname, and the word Rhya. Nothing more or less. It'll be delivered to whatever address Ivan's people dredge up. Sao Paolo or Rio de Janeiro or the fucking Amazon Forest, for all he knew. It doesn't matter. The note inside: that matters.
He reads it over once more. Fine paper. Fine penmanship. Fountain pen, very old-fashioned, next door to ink and quill. A very brief, very regretful note full of phrases like
It is with my deepest sorrow and regret that I must inform you...
and
...mate is expected to make a full recovery; however...
and
...physicians valiantly attempted resuscitation ... son could not be saved ... I bear full responsibility for this tragedy ...
and
...into the Umbra to atone in whatever manner Falcon sees fit.
His pen hesitates only a moment. Then it scratches briskly over the paper as he signs away the lie, folds the letter, slips it into the envelope. It feels light in his hands. Maxine is waiting for it. They are standing in the terminal of the small executive airport just outside downtown Chicago, and the jet is prepared, and his luggage -- and the boy -- have already been loaded aboard.
Ivan hands the letter to his personal assistant.
"Black wax for mourning," he suggests. "And stamped with the great seal, I think, the one with the crescent moons. Looks respectful and formal, and has the added bonus of reminding him that our tarnished little name is affiliated with the oldest of the Houses. Hopefully it'll dissuade him from forcing us one small Cliath closer to extinction.
"And have someone deliver it by hand. If not to him, then at least to his personal servants."
Maxine takes it in her neat hands, thoughtlessly and meticulously sharpening the crease of the flap with a slide of her fingers. "I could deliver it myself."
"And who would take care of all these details for me if he tears your head off? No, send Mikhail. He's worthless anyway. And put him on a plane in the morning. It'll give us a little more time. Is the girl on board?"
"She boarded half an hour ago with the child." No one calls the boy 'your son'. "And Dmitri as well. I've already forwarded all the details to him; addresses, contacts. First class return ticket in a month, after the boy is settled."
Ivan's smile is wan at best. "Thank you, Max. I'll see you in about a day."
"Safe flight, Mr. Press."
The interior of the executive jet proves that it belongs to his father: all conservative luxury. Dark woods, creamy leather. Four seats in a forward lounge area. Two presently occupied. A galley at the starboard front, the aft wall of which is knocked out to form a full bar. No tender tonight. An unusually large lavatory across from the galley. A truly huge plasma TV mounted along one wall, a computer on the other. And in the back, about halfway down the cabin: a single door to the private suite.
Dmitri is seated in one of the four seats, hawknosed and gaunt-cheeked, busily typing on a laptop. He looks up as Ivan boards, rising to greet him. The girl is cuddling the baby across from Dmitri, curled into another seat, almost swallowed by all that fragrant leather. She's cooing to him in Russian. She notices Ivan only when Dmitri stands and blushes to see him. Rising quickly to her feet, she dips a curtsey. "Он спит, как ангел, Mr. Press."
He detects a tone of nervousness, embarrassment. He thinks he might have fucked her once, a long time ago when she first joined his staff. He wonders if she was having some sort of fantasy, holding his bastard: this girl with her big family and her genes tuned toward caring for a big family of her own someday.
"Is he," he replies, careless. His smile is just as careless. "Well, buckle him in now. You can play with him later. We're about to take off."
The baby doesn't sleep like an angel for long after that. By the time they clear two thousand feet, he's screaming, his face purple with effort, his wails shockingly loud coming from such a tiny thing. He can't deal with the pressure. He's much too young to be flying.
Listening to the boy squall across from him, Ivan grimaces in his seat, flips his magazine pages noisily, puts in earbud headphones. Finally, he unbuckles the seatbelt and gets up. Dmitri watches him rise but doesn't try to stop him. The seatbelt light -- very discreet; this is a private jet after all, and the captain is a servant like the rest -- is still lit. Ivan ignores it, paces, gets himself a drink from the galley, returns. A bump of turbulence makes him brace a hand against the curvature of the fuselage, but he keeps his footing easily. He comes to stand over the girl, hand on the back of her seat.
"Can't you give him something?" he mutters.
The girl is cuddling the baby, rocking him, hushing him. "Sorry, Mr. Press. Он слишком молод."
"I don't give a damn. Give him something."
Dmitri speaks up quietly, closing the lid of his laptop. "I'm afraid she's right, Ivan. He's too young. You cannot drug an infant; who knows what it'll do to his system."
Ivan shoots Dmitri a glance that makes the valet shut his mouth and look mildly out the window. Nothing but blackness outside. Ivan turns back to the girl.
"Fine. No drugs; we'll just let the little bastard suffer. How long is he going to scream like that?"
"Я не знаю, сэр." Questioned so, she looks about to cry herself. "Он не может поделать. Его уши болят."
"I know that." It's sharper than he intends, and it makes her flinch. He clenches his teeth against further outbursts, throws himself down on his seat, makes it recline almost horizontal. "Well, do your best. And when he shuts up, go see what Evgeny's made us for dinner, hm?"
"Yes, Mr. Press." She goes back to hushing the child. She sounds like she's pleading with him. Ivan closes his eyes. A pounding is starting behind his eyes, distant but growing. He finds earplugs tucked into a compartment in the arm of his chair. How nice; Yuliya really does think of everything. He rolls them tight between his fingers, sticks them in his ears, and is relieved as the wailing grows more faraway.
He must have slept after that. His dreams are dark and full of shadows. He's looking for someone but he can't remember whom. He hears her say again,
don't let me hurt him
but when he reaches out there's nothing there to hold; nothing there to protect. He's standing on the edge of a vast dark sea and she's there, he's found her. She's throwing stones into the depths, and she tells him she wants to make a bridge, or maybe an island. No matter how many stones she throws they never rise out of the waves for her.
He wakes with a start. The boy is quiet now. He takes his earplugs out and opens his gritty eyes. His watch says it's three in the morning, but outside they've flown far enough that the sun has risen over western Europe. The girl is still awake. The child is in her arms. She's feeding him now, and his eyes are open and alert, curious. He flexes his arms instinctively, one hand glancing off her breast; there's something familiar and seeking about the gesture, and it pangs suddenly in Ivan's chest.
The Ragabash sits up. "Here," he says, "give him here. I'll feed him. Go see about dinner; I'm starved."
The girl gives him a startled look; didn't even know he'd awoken. She doesn't protest. It takes her a moment to gather herself and rise, crossing the lounge area and bending to lay the baby carefully into his arms.
It's the first time Ivan has held his son. The weight is so slight; almost insignificant. He doesn't know how to hold him. His rage, so mild by most standards, sets the baby to fussing almost immediately, legs kicking against his swaddling, head straining away from the bottle. Rooting against Ivan's chest briefly, then away. He's starting to cry, and there's a clench of helplessness like fury in the Ragabash.
"Hold him like this."
Dmitri is looking at him over his laptop. The valet is setting things up in Russia, Ivan knows. Making contact with the appropriate people; setting in motion plans laid weeks ago. Yes, we're coming. Yes, we'll need the wetnurse. Yes, we'll be landing in five or six hours.
Not busy with that right now, though. He sets the laptop aside and pantomimes holding a baby, elbows bent, arms forming a cradle, hands cupping up at either end.
"One hand under his bottom. The other under his head. You must support the head. We are odd creatures, born with heads too large for our bodies." Faint humor in Dmitri's tone, so rare that Ivan looks at him in surprise. "He is too young to lift his own head, so you must do it for him."
Ivan studies the man's arms. Then he mimics. "He's going to cry," he says tensely.
"He feels your tension. Just relax."
"He feels my Rage, Dmitri. He's twelve hours old. He can't handle this any more than he can handle a pill."
"With due respect, sir, when you were three days old your great-uncle invited a Theurge to your home at enormous cost. I was there, and I remember him. He was very old, this Theurge, immensely powerful. The walls trembled when he passed. I couldn't even look him in the eye. But he knew children, had held them and examined them and tested them for signs of the changing spirit for all his life. He handled you for nearly half an hour, and you survived. You didn't even cry very much."
Ivan scoffs. "I'm Garou."
"But he is your son. Anyway," Dmitri nods at the boy, "he's quieted now."
It's true. The boy is quiet again, eyes open. His face looks a little less mottled now, a little more filled out. Less a strange little alien to his planet; more a human being. He arches his back and kicks his feet, then settles again. His hands are tiny fists by his face. That draws a thread of humor through Ivan.
"You were born under the wrong moon if you want to be a fighter," he tells the boy.
"Here." Dmitri picks up the bottle and holds it out. "If you hold it at an angle and push the nipple into his mouth, you'll find he'll feed quite readily. Sometimes when they're very young you must be assertive."
Obeying, Ivan smirks. "Speaking from experience?"
"As a matter of fact, your mother fed you for the first few weeks. Then it was the wetnurse."
The smirk slides away. "Then she grew bored," Ivan corrects, "and so it was the wetnurse."
Dmitri lifts his shoulders slightly, not arguing. There's a brief silence. The boy suckles at the bottle, eyes closed now, quite content. From the galley rises the scent of venison and herbs.
"I want him well taken care of," Ivan says then, and quietly. "Nothing but the very best. I want him to have everything he needs and most things he wants, but ... I want him to know a little discipline too.
"I don't want him staying with this cousin of mine for long. I won't have him grow up a guest in another's household. I know the plan was to have him fostered with -- whatever his name is, Oleg -- until he's old enough to live with my parents, but we're changing the plan.
"When we land, I'll go with you to Cousin Oleg's. And then you'll stay behind to put things in order. Buy a house. Either the historic quarter or outside the city. Large, but not ridiculous. Furnish it as you see fit, but make it a home, not a showroom. And then get him nannies that won't spoil him rotten. No children of their own. No one else to split their love. Get him a housekeeper and two maids, a cook, and a valet. Someone like you. Someone he can grow up with and trust.
"And from now on, I want you to visit him at least once a month. It's important to me. I want to know how he's doing. I want him to know who his father is."
The boy's stopped feeding, he notices. He's fallen asleep. Ivan eases the bottle away, setting it down on the console between the seats. Then he goes to set the boy back in his carrier, laying him down, straightening to look down at him for a long time, arms folded across his sleek chest.
Eventually, the girl brings him his dinner. He takes it from her and goes back to the lounge area, leaving the boy sleeping in his carrier.
It's afternoon when the jet touches down in Novgorod. It's a cool, overcast afternoon. They're greeted on the tarmac by Oleg Piotrovich's men, who invite them to ride to the estate with them. Ivan declines politely but firmly. They ride in a car Dmitri has arranged for instead, following Oleg's Mercedes out to the outskirts of the city.
Novgorod is one of Russia's oldest cities. Ivan lived here for two years of his life, but he's only passingly familiar with it. More to the point: he lived at a Sept outside of Novgorod for two years of his life, a cub in training, a Silver Fang amongst so many Silver Fangs that he was no longer special, no longer the golden child, no longer the lynchpin on which an entire family, an entire universe of wealth, turned.
Two years here. Two years growing up. Two years learning a little discipline; not enough to make him a good man, but enough to make him a good Ragabash.
It's the girl that carries his son to Oleg's door. He walks ahead of her, Dmitri to his right, just behind. Oleg Piotrovich Priselkov greets him personally, bowing and scraping until his servants don't know how to abase themselves enough to trump his performance. A kinfolk third son of a second son of a cadet branch of the family, he has neither breeding nor importance in the grand scheme of things. His children are all girls, all kin. No one talks about his wife, but he visits her asylum once a season.
The manor is large, and has been meticulously cleaned for the visit, but the paneling is faded, and the rugs are beginning to look threadbare. Oleg's star is not on the rise, and never will be. When he received word that Ivan, sole Garou son of the family, was coming to visit, he must have been surprised. When he learned that Ivan would be bringing his natural son -- would be giving his natural son to Oleg's household to raise, along with vast sums of money to raise him with -- it must have seemed a windfall.
They're invited to tour the house. Here's the nursery, newly built. Here's the playroom, recently renovated. Here is the grand dining room, and the lesser one. Here's the ballroom; and yes, those chandeliers date back to the czars. That way is the scullery, where the cooks will make his son anything he might want. There are the gardens, with the children's playset amidst the trees. Here's the bedroom he'll occupy when he moves out of the nursery.
Here is a list of tutors for when he's old enough. This is his wetnurse. This is his nanny; would Ivan like for her to put his son to bed now? It must have been a long flight.
"No," Ivan says. "He's awake. He'll be fine."
And then they're back in the entryway, and Oleg is trying to convince him to stay for tea.
Ivan supposes, standing on that threadbare entry rug, smiling through his teeth and making the appropriate courtesies and excuses as briskly as he can, that Cousin Oleg will be quite crestfallen to discover the boy wouldn't be growing up here after all. He supposes Dmitri will break the bad news the way he always does, though -- gently, firmly, irrevocably. If one things about it, Dmitri has broken up with more of Ivan's girlfriends than Ivan has.
They're shaking hands now. Ivan promises to visit, to keep in close contact. Ivan thanks them. Oleg is beaming. He seems, Ivan thinks, genuinely happy. Genuinely pleased at the prospect of raising a little boy; a distant relative who shares his own blood. For a moment, Ivan pities him.
Then Oleg is retiring, leaving Ivan a moment alone with his people, his son. The new nanny waits at a discreet distance as the Ragabash and his servants gather. The girl kisses the child on the brow, murmuring for him to be good, think fondly of her, all that. Ivan resists the urge to tell her he won't remember any of this. She passes him to his father, and this time it seems a little easier, a little more natural, to hold him just so.
He's a warm weight in Ivan's arms. Ivan touches that fair, fine hair of his, unmistakably blond. Unmistakably his. The boy's eyes are gray, but perhaps they'll change as he grows older. Or perhaps they'll remain, a stamp that is uniquely his, different from either his mother's or his father's.
Ivan cups that tiny head in his elegant, longfingered hand. He thinks of his father watching fireworks with him on those rare occasions when he could be bothered to care. Thinks about his father cupping his hands over his ears, protecting him from the noise and the explosions.
He kisses his son gently on the brow. "Anton Ivanovich," he says softly.
Dmitri's hands are practiced and sure as Ivan hands his son over. "I'll see you back in Chicago, then," he says, and Dmitri nods. The girl comes with Ivan; it never occurs to him to ask if she'd like to visit her home. Her family. All those brothers and sisters of hers that taught her how to hold a baby, how to care for him, how to love him.
On the flight back, there are no babies crying, no carriers taking up precious cabinspace. Ivan is very tired. He hasn't slept in thirty hours or more. He doesn't want to sleep; he stays up and watches a movie, but when the credits roll he realizes he doesn't remember a thing. His phone buzzes. It's Dmitri, sending along pictures of a few homes he thinks suitable for the boy. He taps a few comments and hits send. He thinks about texting Hilary. Or calling her from the jet's phone. He thinks better of it, and writes Katherine Bellamonte a letter instead, telling her the same lie he told Dion. He doesn't think she'll believe it. But he thinks she'll understand, all the same.
He pours himself a drink after that. They're flying west now, chasing the setting sun. They can't catch it, and so they plunge into night. It lasts hours. It lasts the rest of the flight, and even when they land, dawn will still be hours off. He thinks of Hilary, frightened by the swallowing dark. He closes the shades.
He thinks of throwing stones into an ocean, trying to build solid land. He thinks of the futility of it, and how in the end, all their effort simply sinks beneath those dark waves with barely a ripple, barely a sound.
