KIDS WILL BE KIDS

“What is it?” Jocelyn demanded, leaping from the sofa and heading toward the pass-through arch in the parlor.

Alejándra waved her arms wildly. “Storm is about to murder the little prince’s purple dragon!”

Curious to see the spectacle, all the destinies rose to follow, while Jocelyn called out to Nathaniel on a private telepathic bandwidth: Warrior, get your buns inside this house this instant—your son is terrorizing the other children…again.

Nathaniel immediately groaned in her mind. Why did we name that boy Storm, my love? We should have known better—there is so much power in a name… His voice trailed off, and that was fine with Jocelyn; she was too busy scampering down the steps, bracing herself for whatever she was about to find.

The scene in the basement was comically tragic: Little Storm Silivasi—with his bright, hazel eyes; curious, intelligent nature; and burgeoning intelligence—was inside the small kitchenette, behind the wet bar, hovering in midair adjacent to the top of two ovens. His raven-black wings were extended from his back and flapping furiously as he turned up the dial to broil. And as sure as Santa Claus has a white beard and eight tiny reindeer, the oven light was on, and the beloved purple Bobee was lying against the top broiler rack.

“Gimme Bobee!” Prince Phoenix shrieked, his voice shattering an expensive set of nearby crystal decanters. “Gimme, now!”

Storm Silivasi guarded the front of the oven like one of the valley’s formidable sentinels, his tiny arms crossed over his baby-chest, his chin jutting out in defiance. “No!”

Nathaniel flashed into the room, followed by Keitaro, Marquis, Kagen, and Nachari. “Boy! Are you crazy?” Storm’s father bellowed. He rushed toward the double ovens—and then he spun around and ducked.

Phoenix had found an ornamental set of six carving knives, displayed atop the counter, and he was flinging them, one by one, at Storm. “Gimme Bobee, now!”

A long, thin blade pierced Nathaniel’s arm, just above his elbow.

Marquis Silivasi slammed his fist against the bartop. “What the hell is wrong with your son, Nathaniel? The boy isn’t right in the head!”

“Marquis!” Jocelyn shouted, about to lose her temper.

“Don’t curse in front of the children,” Ciopori cautioned her mate, at last rejoining the other vampires from her shower.

“Curse in front of the children?” Marquis snorted. “The children are torturing little dragons and throwing knives across the basement!”

Alejándra rushed to the kitchen counter and wrapped her arms around Phoenix’s waist. “Prince,” she reprimanded, “put down the knives.”

Phoenix stuck out his bottom lip, and it was quivering. “I’m da pwince! And he must hang!”

“Good gracious,” Ciopori cried. “Who must hang?”

“Stohm!” Prince Phoenix squealed. Then he pointed at the hot, glowing oven. “I want Bobeeeeeee!”

As if on cue, Maria Ramirez, Alejándra’s niece, dashed into the crowded kitchenette and turned off the oven before retrieving—and replacing—each of the scattered knives. “Prince Phoenix called Storm a cheater,” she explained to Nathaniel and Jocelyn. “The boys were supposed to break the wishbone, but Storm pretended to put a booger on Phoenix’s end. When the prince refused to touch it, Storm took his Bobee and flew into the kitchen.”

“Is no one watching these children?” Ciopori huffed.

Marquis Silivasi shook his head in disgust. “Nathaniel, that child is out of control.”

Nathaniel snatched Storm by the back of his collar, yanked him away from the oven, and tossed his little vampire-butt over the bar, across the room, and onto the padded sofa. “He’s just high-strung,” he said in the boy’s defense. He retrieved the purple dragon from the range, blew icy shards of air over the dragon’s singed fur—hoping to mitigate the damage—and handed the toy to Maria. Perhaps she could replace the melted left eye. As he yanked the wayward carving knife from his arm, he exchanged an exasperated glance with Jocelyn. “Uncle Marquis,” he said with a snarl, causing Jocelyn to audibly gulp. “Handle your nephew.”

Jocelyn’s hand flew to her mouth, but she didn’t interfere with Nathaniel’s course of discipline. Perhaps it was time for someone other than herself and her mate to try to scare the child straight.

Storm dove off the couch, scurried to his mother, and huddled beneath her legs, gripping Jocelyn’s ankles like he was hanging from a cliff and she was his last inch of rope. “No, Daddy! No!”

Marquis Silivasi smiled. “Maria, bring me those knives.”

Storm’s teeth began to chatter as Nathaniel and Jocelyn’s housekeeper’s niece reluctantly obeyed Marquis’s order.

“Jocelyn, step back.” Marquis waited while Jocelyn retreated; then he laid all six knives in the palm of his hand. He squatted in front of Storm and began to twirl the blades like daggers, rotating them effortlessly, in and out of his fingers, tossing them like juggling pins with a boomerang effect.

Storm watched in suspended horror as the blades sailed past his arms, nearly grazed his sides, and halted within millimeters of piercing his quivering tummy. He gasped in alarm when one sailed by his ear, hummed like a high-pitched whistle, and drew a minor trickle of blood. His knees began to quake, and he started to cry. “Unka Marquis! I sorry.”

Marquis flicked his fingers, and all but one remaining blade sliced through the child’s shirt. It wedged between his delicate skin—and the flimsy material—and hung there like a macabre sculpture of gothic art. “Do you know what happens to a hand that steals another child’s toy?” he snarled.

Nikolai Jadon, Marquis’s own son, backed away from the confrontation and sat down on the couch, plopping a thumb into his mouth. The boy looked terrified, and Jocelyn cringed…surely not.

Marquis had never…

Not to Nikolai!

Oh, gods…

Surely. Not.

Storm shook his head and whimpered.

“We cut it off,” Marquis growled, leaning forward and flashing his fangs. “And do you know what happens to a little son of Jadon who cheats?”

“Good lord, Marquis,” Jocelyn chided. “Don’t you think that’s a little bit much?”

Ciopori placed her hand on Jocelyn’s wrist. “Let him finish, sister.”

Storm shook his head very, very slowly.

“We hang him upside down in a limber pine tree, douse the tree in blood, and then leave him there to dangle overnight.” He pressed closer until his nose was almost touching Storm’s. “We leave him for the wolves, the mountain lions, and the bears. Then we return in the morning to see what’s left.”

When Nachari Silivasi rolled his gorgeous eyes, Jocelyn thought she saw a hint of recognition in them, and it hit her. Oh, dear lords, Marquis had probably done that to Nachari when he was a kid. Hell, he had probably done it to all his brothers. She shook her head along with Storm: Thank the celestial gods Keitaro was back home. “The bears are hibernating, honey,” she felt the need to tell her son.

Perhaps honey had been the wrong choice of words.

Because the child’s eyes grew two sizes larger.

“Now then,” Marquis hissed like a venomous viper, “pick your poison, boy: your hand”—he gestured toward the child’s dominant hand, and Storm tucked it behind his back—“the forest”—he motioned his chin toward the basement window, and his eyes flashed crimson-red—“or an apology made in blood.” He held out his palm, suspended the knife above it, and made a slow, cutting motion in demonstration.

Storm turned a sickly shade of green. He swayed to the left, and then to the right, but to his credit, he stepped forward toward his uncle Marquis, held out his palm, and reached for the shaft of the knife.

And that’s when Nathaniel Silivasi stepped in.

“Oh, great gods, Marquis!” Removing a plain leather strap from the loop of his jeans, he yanked Storm’s britches down to his hamstrings and braced him over his knee. “Prince Phoenix,” he called, extending the strap to the child. “The offense was made against you; the punishment is yours to administer…without the use of knives.”

Prince Phoenix rounded the corner of the kitchenette, crossed the room in a heartbeat, and accepted the leather strap. His vivid blue eyes, which resembled his mother’s, deepened with intensity and purpose. And then he gently laid the strap on the ground, stood up, and opened his arms. “I sowwy, Stohm,” he said softly.

Storm smiled, pulled up his britches, and gave his monarch a hug.

Marquis Silivasi threw up his hands. “That child is spoiled rotten,” he grumbled.

Jocelyn had had quite enough. “Oh, be quiet, Marquis. You are such a barbarian.” She stepped toward her son, stooped down to eye level, and grasped him by both of his shoulders. “Keitaro Storm Silivasi: You are grounded for a week, young male. No video games, no television, and no playing with your cousins. When we get home, you will go through your toy box, choose your three favorite toys, and give them as gifts to your prince. And your father and I will not replace them.” She stood up, placed her hands on her hips, and glanced at a solar clock hanging above the double-ovens. “We have one more hour to go, my son. Do you think you can behave until then?”

Nathaniel picked up the strap, wound it back into the loops of his jeans, and lowered his voice to a snarl. “I swear on the goddess Cassiopeia, if Alejándra calls your mother or me one more time before this night is over, you will beg for your uncle Marquis. Are we clear?”

Storm gulped and nodded his head.

And with all the commotion—the antics of the children—the vampires had let down their guard.

The basement fire escape window exploded, and two humans in ridiculous costumes—a short, blond-haired idiot dressed as Santa Claus, and a tall, skinny elf in black suspenders and green high-water pants—crawled through the broken glass and leveled a gun at the vampires.

“Empty your wallets! Hand over your watches! And, ladies, remove your jewelry!” Santa Claus ordered.