It was a pleasant fall morning, and Robert McCall was cleaning up after a decadently late breakfast with his lover when his phone rang. "McCall," he answered, brisk but friendly.

"Hello, old son."

McCall grinned, surprised and pleased. "Hello to you. We've been expecting your call."

The voice on the phone was warm, content. "We have a daughter, Robert."

"Do you, now?" Mira glanced at him, wanting to know if she should leave the room. He shook his head and mouthed the word, 'Control'. "Today?"

"About an hour ago," Andrew answered. "She's beautiful, Robert. She's beautiful."

"Of course she is. And her mother?"

"She's fine. She thinks we should have a dozen."

Robert grimaced. "That would be the drugs talking."

"What drugs?" Andrew snorted. "Remember who we're talking about here."

"Ah, well, of course. What was I thinking?"

"How big?" Mira asked softly.

"I'm to ask how big she is," Robert repeated obediently.

"Seven-seven. Twenty inches. Perfectly average. Except that newborns aren't supposed to be beautiful. And she is beautiful, Robert."

McCall heard voices in the background at the other end, too, heard the baby cry and quiet. His friend was calling him from Lily's bedside, probably had his daughter in his arms as he spoke. Something twisted, deep in Robert's chest, something that he had not felt in a long time. "I am glad for you, my friend. For all of you. Give L … your wife a kiss for me."

"I will."

He went to hang up. "What's her name?" Mira asked.

"I … ah, Andrew? What is your daughter's name?"

Andrew told him. McCall laughed out loud. "That's rather cruel, don't you think?"

"It fits. I can't wait for you to meet her."

"We will proceed as planned, then. Be well, my friend. Try not to buy any ponies before I get there."

"It'll be tough, but I'll try." More murmuring behind him. "My wife would like you to call our other friends, if you will."

"I will," Robert promised. "See you soon."

He hung up, reported all pertinent data to Mira, and then picked up the phone again. Scott and Becky weren't home; he left a message with the details. He got Kostmayer on the first ring.

"Kostmayer."

"They have a daughter."

There was half a second of pause while Mickey processed who 'they' was. "Today?"

"This morning, yes."

"Figures."

"She was due."

Mickey snorted. "McCall, do you know what day it is?"

"It's, uh …"

"It's the 31st. Halloween. Perfect birthday for the little spook."

Robert chuckled his appreciation. "You're quite right there, Mickey. Except I don't think this child will be going into the family business."

"Yeah, right."

Behind him, a woman's voice, and the inevitable demands for height and weight, which Robert reported and Mickey repeated. Neither of them quite understood why woman were such sticklers for statistics.

"Oh, what's her name?"

McCall paused. "Helen Joy."

Mickey paused, too. "Hell and joy? That's not a name, it's a sit rep."

"A synopsis, anyhow. But it does seem to fit."

"Hell and joy," Kostmayer said again. "Helen Joy. Well, why not? How's Mom?"

"She thinks they should have a dozen."

"She would. Thanks for calling, McCall."

Robert hung up the phone. Mira brought him a cup of tea, then disappeared into the bedroom. He drifted into the living room and looked out the window, at the street below. It was clear and sunny, but he could see clouds of breath from pedestrians. It was cold here; it would be colder in Canada. He shook his head. He would never in a million years have expected Lily Romanov to end up with an ocean-front home in Canada. She had always seemed like a warm-weather sort of girl. But then, if he hadn't expected it, neither would anyone who might be looking for her.

Helen Joy. Indeed

But not the little spook. The little librarian, perhaps. The little accountant, or architect, or diplomat, perhaps, but not a spook. Her parents would never allow it.

Of course, if she was her parents' child, it probably wouldn't matter a damn what they said on that subject – or any other.

Helen Joy, he mused again. He hoped it was a summary and not a prediction. He smiled to himself. Control – Andrew – hadn't the faintest idea yet just how deeply his life had just been changed. The naming of the child had been whistling past the graveyard. He didn't have a clue.

Hell and joy.

McCall couldn't wait to meet her.

The baby slept in his arms. The day nurse clucked her tongue softly; she thought he was spoiling the child. But she smiled, too, and left them together in the rocker by the window.

The baby had been weighed and measured in the delivery room, then returned to her mother to nurse. Both of them seemed to get the hang of that process immediately. Andrew had hovered, utterly unneeded, until they sent him for more coffee.

He'd gone with the baby to the nursery, helped with her first bath, held her while they pricked her heel and comforted her through a dozen other infant indignities. She was a remarkable little creature, tiny and fragile and yet loud and stubborn, too. They dressed her in a diaper and a t-shirt, wrapped her in a blanket and put a tiny knit hat on her head – not pink or blue, but orange, in honor of her holiday birthday.

"Could be worse," Andrew whispered to her. "You ought to see what they make the Easter babies wear."

When they were done tormenting the child, he wheeled her down the hall to Lily's new room, with the promised view of Main Street. She was finishing her breakfast when they got there; Helen obligingly nursed again.

Emma came with a second breakfast tray, and Lily gave the baby to Andrew and ate that, too.

Then both of them, mother and daughter, fell asleep.

Andrew didn't blame them. It had been a busy morning.

He toyed gently with the name band around his daughter's tiny wrist. There was a radio tracker around her ankle as well. If he tried to get on the elevator with her, an alarm would lock down the whole hospital. It was a little disturbing, but necessary; Andrew approved of the precaution.

He glanced out the window. The sun was straight overhead now, and the autumn shadows had vanished for a few minutes. They would be back soon. And when the sun set, the streets would be swarmed with monsters. Ghouls and ghosts and vampires, and also princesses and race car drivers, astronauts and fairies. "We have the best house for Halloween parties," he whispered to Helen. "You are going to have the best birthday parties this town has ever seen."

She sighed in her sleep, and he put her up against his shoulder, careful not to prickle her soft skin with his beard. Her faint breath tickled his ear. Her newborn scent washed over him.

All the monsters here could be chased away for a handful of candy. And if others came, real monsters, they would be ready for them. Kill for you, die for you, he thought again. Live for you.

He glanced at Lily. She was still pale, almost glowing, her breath slow and regular. She was as efficient at carrying and delivering babies as she had been at everything else in her life. Impossible ease. He should have expected nothing less.

"You and your brothers and sisters," he whispered to Helen Joy. "And somehow I think that's going to be quite a crowd."

The End