I have seen horrors before—lives snatched away too soon, destinies dismantled, an entire stream of chaos erupting around me. This season of my life had dissolved into turmoil, left me shattered in a single night—all alone to pick up the pieces. My life, my mind, my heart had become a hall of mirrors. Everywhere I turn there is Gage, laughing, then gone like smoke, Demetri and Wes—their faces all morph into one. There is no telling who is who anymore. It is up to me to rescue, redeem, revive what I can. I will do whatever needs to be done. I’ll take an ax to the mirrors and break them all into shards, crushing them down into a pile of rubble until they somehow resemble my life once again. Demetri cannot win. I will not let him.

A dark spiral of stars leads out of the wicked Transfer as Chloe and I ride forward, each on our own prideful steeds. A spray of psychedelic lights, bursting in sunset colors, swirls all around us in a dizzying array of cosmic malfunction. Somehow, someway, I had harnessed all of my ripe anger into a clusterfuck of energy that tore a hole in Wesley’s haunt. The Transfer and its midnight sky are no more. In its place is a gaping misfortune that resembles a toxic primordial stew, no more capable of gifting life than its nutrient deficient soil. No, this was no life-giving force my anger has sponsored. This is raw, unadulterated rage come to fruition—something tangible to impress all the right people. There are so many people I’d like to impress with my anger these days, and tonight Gage Oliver, my husband, has gleefully, woefully, added himself to the list. I don’t know why his actions have shocked me. This is a world of fragile hearts. Where we don’t know how to support one another, only tear one another down. I wish I could say I heard the music before the song ever began. But I didn’t see this great deception coming. I was sidelined at best.

A tunnel forms ahead, comprised entirely of stars, liquid mercury waving us in with its solvent energy. Chloe calls to me from behind, but I let her voice whistle past me like dust in this nuclear breeze. Her voice grows more commanding, far more urgent, but I press on, unwilling, unable to stop myself from the task at hand.

This holy light of cosmic gases pulls us in with its powerful magnetic charge, but my drive to stomp out the fire that has erupted over the hillside of my life is far more potent than some invisible force—far more powerful than the destiny my mother has carved out for me. I spit on destiny. I spit on the thought of my mother, the puppet master, pulling my strings with her uncharitable heart. No. Gage Oliver is mine, and whatever the hell she thinks is going to happen, whatever the hell Demetri has bound and sealed with a wicked covenant shall be undone. I’ll undo it with my own damn hands if I have to.

And lastly, I spit on Gage. I spit on the man who had no faith in me, in us, in our love, to overcome his greedy urge to slip away to the dark side. This is not the way we go down. This is not the end to our story. Fuck you, Gage Oliver, for ever thinking it was a good idea to bow to your evil father. And most of all, fuck you for doing so in secret.

Chloe and I enter the tunnel of light and a horrific roar explodes all around us. Gravity increases its grip, as my body weighs heavy on the stallion struggling to gallop beneath me. Time and place shift like a kaleidoscope, and I understand this on a primal level. Whatever this place is, whatever is happening all around us, one thing I know for certain, we are ebbing toward a new horizon in a new time and space—one that is very far from the Transfer and its adolescent level of brooding. I only know one thing for certain—I’m coming for you, Gage. And I’m bringing Chloe Bishop with me.

A flash of lightning blinds me. It rattles me right down to my weary bones and ignites me from the inside like a flash fire. The psychedelic stars, the tunnel of incomprehensible light grows increasingly brighter until it bursts under its own incandescence and in its place a sullen gray sky appears, a grassy knoll with tufts of weeds, the hillside we’re on is steep enough to tax our horses until we end up on higher ground. Chloe and I pause on the open dirt road and scan the vicinity. Up in the distance lies an old-world village with structures made from stone, as dove gray as the sky. There’s an unexplainable heaviness in the air, the weight of yesteryear, of simpler, yet equally dangerous, days gone by.

“Well, well, Messenger”—Chloe bleats as she fixes her sight on the dismal horizon—“it looks like we’re not on Paragon anymore.”

“We weren’t on Paragon to begin with. You are quicker than that, aren’t you? At least I’m hoping you are. Don’t tell me I’ve just saddled myself with a nitwit,” I say as we plod our way toward the shanty town in the distance. If we keep at this comfortable pace, it might take an hour at most before we arrive.

“You’re the only nitwit around here, Skyla.”

“Watch it.” The words come from me so harsh and quick, I sound just like my mother. I glance up at the sky where the mother in question resides. She’s a bit bitchy, that one. Lizbeth, my stepmother with whom I live, would have chortled right along with Chloe’s rude quip and then most likely apologized for existing. She’s just that nice. But thankfully, nice is not a requirement today, in this life in general for that matter. Nice is never required when dealing with the monster that gave the order to kill my father, and who killed my husband—first husband, Logan, by way of slicing off his head. No, nice is something I never need to be with Chloe Bishop. We have a long sordid history together, and not one moment of it was nice.

Chloe positions her horse alongside mine.

“What’s this?” I smirk at the sight of her. “You never were good at coming in second.” Chloe is a self-appointed leader in all areas of her mangled, mangy life.

“I don’t come in second to anyone, Skyla. You of all people should know that.” Her long dark hair blows back, full and thick in the breeze. Chloe has a cutthroat look about her, as beautiful on the outside as she is ugly on the inside. “I come out on top if I have anything to say about it. I was your superior at West, remember?”

“In cheerleading, Chloe. I think we’ve migrated past those pompom riddled days—hellish as they were. This is the new us, where you live in the Transfer with that lab rat brother-in-law of mine, and I live on Paragon with—” His name catches in my throat. I’m so livid with rage, I can’t even speak my own husband’s name.

“Wow,” Chloe muses as we move through the countryside to our unknowable, yet drab, destination ahead. “One little foible and his very name makes you gag on the bile rising in your throat. Gage has turned into quite the four-letter word. You always were easy to trip up.”

My blood boils in an instant. “Trust me, nobody has tripped me up.” I’m not entirely sure that even I believe it. “I’m not anyone’s bitch, Chloe. Most certainly not yours. Don’t you forget it.”

“Right.” She scoffs at the thought. “You’re the one in charge.” Her foot extends to mine as she offers up a swift kick. “And you are, I suppose.” She exhales hard while taking in the evergreens quickly coming up on our left. “But you and I both know your lady boner for the dark-haired Oliver will bring you to your knees once again, quite literally.” Chloe moans to herself as if visualizing herself in a compromising position with my husband. I can almost guarantee it. Chloe has spent the last several years with a lady boner of her own to contend with for the dark-haired Oliver. “I bet Gage will make you get on all fours. You know, take you from behind. That will be his way of asserting dominance over you. He is the king.”

“I’m not sleeping with him.” Ever again if I can help it. That little stunt he pulled last night has left both me and my vagina recoiling.

“You will,” Chloe snaps. “He’s Gage Fucking Oliver—emphasis on the fucking. You always sleep with him. You’re a fool in many ways, but when it comes to men, you are razor sharp and greedy as hell.”

“Shut up, Chloe.” It comes out far too quiet and morose because on an intrinsic level I know this is true.

“You’ll sleep with Logan, too,” she goes on, unwarranted. “He won’t take you from behind like that. Too vulgar, not his style. Don’t get me wrong. He is a dirty, dirty boy. He’ll want you to ride him like that stallion you’re on now. You should have seen the agony and the ecstasy on that boy’s face as he gripped me, demanding I ride him harder, faster, stronger.”

“He thought you were me.” Just the idea of Chloe taking advantage of Logan that way makes me want to hurl. “And would you please stop sleeping with people under false pretenses? It’s getting old. Stop using Laken’s face, and for shit’s sake, stop using mine.” Laken happens to be the woman Chloe’s husband, Wesley, is obsessed with. She also happens to share the title of my best friend along with Brielle.

“Back to Gage.”

“Back to Gage.” I scoff. “Anyone ever tell you, you’re like a dog with a boner?”

“Gage can be my master anytime.”

“He will be,” I assure her. “If he has his way, he will be everyone’s master.” I can still see him there on that stone of sacrifice toasting to his new life, one with Demetri, as the leader of everything I oppose. “Wait a minute…” I squint ahead to the tiny ramshackle town coming upon us quickly. “Something tells me we’re not on Yankee soil anymore.”

“Took you long enough,” Chloe huffs. “I’ll give you another clue, oh fearless, brainless leader. We’re not even in the same century anymore.”

“Crap,” I whimper as we plod closer to our temporal destiny. Music erupts from one of the establishments on the cobble-lined street. It’s late in the day, evening ready to turn to an instant midnight, as bodies stream in and out of a raucous little saloon with enough candle power winking from inside to combust everyone stuffed in that carnal hall of desires in an infernal holocaust. Women in seedy dresses pour out of the entry with drunken men pawing at their cleavage, vomiting into the streets between their bouts of heartless groping.

“What are we doing here, Messenger? Aren’t there enough men in the twenty-first century for you?”

“I don’t know what we’re doing here, or where here exactly is, but I have a feeling we’re about to find out on both accounts. And I’m pretty sure we’re not here for the men, Chloe. Put your ovaries on ice for a minute. Your brain might actually kick in and function.”

Chloe and I park our exhausted horses alongside a few other majestic steeds tied and bound near the entry. It occurs to me as we stand outside of the open mouth of the establishment that I have no clue how to get us out of this dated, musty, dusty, rusty hovel for wayward women.

“It’s a bar,” Chloe muses.

“It’s a whorehouse,” I correct.

“Well then”—Chloe threads her arm through mine—“it looks like we’ve finally found that home away from home you’ve been looking for.”

Inside, music belted out by a live band accosts our hearing, five overgrown men with missing teeth and lewd intentions stitched in their greasy smiles fog up the stage. It’s loud as hell, the entire place is brimming with both boisterous activity and body odor—with wall-to-wall people—highly intoxicated as they might be—women in large bustling dresses, the backs longer than their short suggestive fronts, full and heavy breasts heave over their corseted tops, and suddenly the urge to nurse the twins hits me hard. I fed them just before I left. I nursed Tobie, too, Chloe’s poor speck of a daughter who is only a month older than my twins. My heart tugs at the thought of the boys’ perfect dark heads knit to my breasts. They’re my two precious little olives, and I miss them with an indescribable ache.

“Maybe we should go?” I shout up over the roaring laughter, the howls of drunken men, the shrieking of cackling women. The entire place has a Halloween night appeal, something otherworldly, something out of an old silent movie, and right about now my exhausted eardrums crave a lull to the madness.

“Maybe we shouldn’t.”

A lone man sitting in the corner smoking a cigar catches my attention, and I recognize those blessed by God features, those whiskey-colored eyes, those lips that I’ve tasted while drinking down his kisses.

“Logan,” I whisper and suddenly this entire new world feels like a dream. I take a step closer and the veil of smoke evaporates from around him, and just like that, his face morphs into someone else entirely as he speeds out of the room. “That was weird.”

“You’re weird.” Chloe leans in as we absorb the scene together. “Looky there.” She motions to the rear of the facility where a pianist tries to keep time with the band, invoking a disastrous sensory experience that I’m sure has long been declared illegal.

“What are we looking at? You want to dance on the stage? Introduce them all to a little Bishop twerking magic? I’ve got news for you. You’re on your own.” I take a few strides out in that direction and stop short. No, it wasn’t the piano Chloe was pointing at. It was the girl in the red satin dress with a corset I’ve seen before—the exact one I sported on a ski trip once. “Oh my dear God.” I walk numbly in that direction with Chloe on my heels. I see her, and not only do I know who she is, but her very presence puts in perspective where we are and the precise century to boot.

“1645.” A dull laugh comes from me. I should have known. This harried, whorish scene has unfurled many a time in Marshall’s living room. And a part of me very much wishes I were in Marshall’s living room instead.

Marlena. I smirk at how much she looks like the witch by my side. Marlena is Chloe’s long-lost something or other. For so long she’s inserted herself into our narrative, our century, our world, and now here we are crashing hers. I suppose it’s only fair. Although, I have no clue what good could come of this.

“I’m guessing she holds the key to this debauchery,” I say as we fast approach her, and just as we’re feet away, a man in a suit—dated as it might be—gropes her breast from behind. He buries his caramel-colored head into her neck and continues to squeeze the living shit out of her boob as if he were kneading dough. Normally I wouldn’t think twice to interrupt, wouldn’t care who the hairy scary man in the distinguished suit is, but I just so happen to recognize that head of hair, those strong hands that are currently exposing her left nipple as my very own spirit husband.

“Well, well, it looks as if we have a class A pervert on our hands,” I say it loud enough for all involved to hear as a few stray women strut by and fan themselves with their feathered boas at the sight. Yes, Marshall Dudley has been cause for more than a heated moment or two in just about any century. He’s a walking, talking erection, a human bottle of testosterone that attracts even the demurest of barflies.

“Oh, come on, Skyla.” Chloe brazenly removes his hand from her great, great, a million times great-grandmother’s tit, and Marshall opens a sleepy eye to get a better look at us.

His eye closes once again and his lips continue to move unabated by what he’s just seen, and just like that, he freezes. His eyes spring open and he straightens rather lazily. Marshall moves Marlena to the side as if she were merely on the assembly line for the night, and knowing Dudley she most likely is. He squints into Chloe and me as if trying to place us before his eyes widen, hard and round, and his shoulders fly back as if at attention.

“Ms. Messenger—Ms. Bishop.” He nods to the two of us before his crimson gaze narrows to mine with the slight look of disappointment. It’s technically Mrs. Oliver and Mrs. Edinger—Marshall knows that all too well. He’s simply in the business of disparaging our marital status, thus reducing us to the monikers of yesteryear while we were still his charges at West Paragon High. Everything seemed so easy back then. But the nickname makes me feel nostalgic for all things past. That must be why I rarely fight him on it. “What in the world—let me rephrase this—who in the universe has brought you this far and why?” He glances over my shoulder. “Where is your nasty supervising spirit?”

I’m assuming he’s talking to Chloe, considering her nasty supervising spirit is Demetri—nasty being the operative word.

“Skyla is the spirit who whisked us out to never-never land.” Chloe offers a smug grin at the women who seem to be steadily amassing around us. “And quite successfully so. What the hell are we doing here, Messenger?” She slaps away the hand of an aggressive onlooker who’s doing her best to fondle the fabric of Chloe’s jeans.

“Ms. Messenger.” Marshall takes me by the elbow and stalks us off toward a room in the back. “I’d like a word with you in private.”

“By all means.” I shoot Chloe a look as she continues her slapping spree with the grabby hands surrounding her. “God, wouldn’t that be great if Chloe ended up in some seventeenth-century dungeon? To the tower with her!” I laugh while shouting over the lunatic-inspired piano music. I swear on all that is holy, it sounds just like that annoying player piano back at Marshall’s estate.

“Whose ghost do you think haunts those keys, Skyla?” Marshall lands us in a dark corner, and oddly enough the scent of his cologne, the girth of his chest, that angry yet lewd smile twitching on his lips is every bit just the way I know him centuries later—cuttingly gorgeous to a fault.

“You can hear me.” I sigh into the idea dreamily.

“Of course, I can hear you. I’m touching your flesh.” He gifts my elbow a quick squeeze. “What’s going on here? This isn’t your time or your place. In fact, I’ll go as far as saying this isn’t any of your business. Where are Jock Strap and the Pretty One?” He grunts, craning his neck past me. “Is this some sort of interdimensional takeover? Of what use is any of this?”

“Trust me, I have no idea. Chloe and I were in the Transfer and we rode out on these majestic beasts. There was this tunnel of stars—”

“Tunnel of stars?” The cords in his neck jump. “Who gifted you these beasts?”

“They were just there.” Marshall’s familiar scent envelops me and I lean in if for nothing else but the comfort of home. “I instinctually understood they were for me.”

“And Ms. Bishop?” His features harden as if I’ve purposefully unleashed a demon, and I might have. “What possessed you to schlep her along for the ride?”

“I have no one else, Marshall,” I hiss so fast, it comes out like a threat.

“What about me?” He glides his finger over the curve of my cheek and a fire sizzles along with his touch. A strong vibration, like that of a tuning fork, rides through my bones, quivering down to that tender part of me that has secretly craved him from the beginning. Marshall has always held the ability to incite me without putting in much effort. And I frown at him because I happen to know he heard. “I have crossed oceans, continents, ethereal planes, and left the heavenlies for you, my dear—and still you give me no consideration?”

“Not true. I consider you just a notch above the enemy. It was you who showed me that dreadful sight tonight. You stood by my side while you-know-who drank Celestra blood—most likely mine by the way—before locking himself in a covenant with the dark side. Which means you could have easily revealed Demetri’s nefarious plan earlier in the day, and I could have talked some sense into that stubborn ass I married.” Still can’t seem to bring myself to say his name.

“Skyla.” He inches back a good foot. “I could no more deter what happened than you could. Don’t embroil me in your anger. Be glad I’m not above revealing the intentions of others—timely as they are. I have no alliances other than you.”

“You have the Sectors.” Marshall is Sector of the highest order. The Sectors have outranked the Fems ever since—I suck in a breath. “Hey, isn’t this the century where the Sectors and the Fems—”

He brings his finger to my lips and navigates us farther into the back where another little alcove reveals a tawdry looking stage and women flashing their granny panty fannies to an audience of inebriated, drooling men. It’s then that I notice a large burly looking stick that rises from floor to ceiling in which each of the fanny bearing girls in question takes it for a spin.

“Dear God, is that a pole?”

“Yes, Ms. Messenger.” He grunts while taking in the scene. “Of all the things human men can spend their time engineering, they build poles for naked women to spin on. Poles. Glorified sticks for topless dancing girls. Man hasn’t moved all that far from his barbarous beginnings. A naked woman is still the greatest enchantress to the beasts in question.”

I scan the vicinity at the room full of scantily clad women and frown. “My favorite Sector hasn’t moved all that far from his barbarous beginnings either.”

I wrap my arms around his waist and pull him in close as if we were a couple. Marshall would love for us to be one, and according to my candy apple mother in the sky, we eventually will be. “There is a spiritual battle brewing here.” I raise an eyebrow in lieu of a wicked grin. “This is where you turned the tide, and now the Sectors rule over the Fems!”

“Hush,” he says it so sweetly, so seductively, something in me trembles deep inside. “You have it backward. The Fems turn us over for a time—and then, of course, we come through victorious.” He gives a little wink. “But there is another war brewing, Skyla. And it percolates around you.”

A vision of me challenging Gage tonight at the christening comes to mind. I declared a new war, one between the Fems and my people—and I declared it would begin with him. My heart breaks at what’s transpired between us.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” I shake my head while plucking Marshall off me. “If that’s what this little visit is about, you can forget it!” I shout to the ceiling for my mother. God knows she’s listening. I all but have a twenty-four seven homing device hardwired into my genes, and most likely she’s the only way out of this seventeenth-century screw-up. “Yes, I declared war against the Fems, but if I’m being honest, we both know how that last war turned out. And for what? I’m not sure I should be stepping in that pile of dog shit once again.”

The Logan lookalike with the cigar passes behind Marshall and offers me a smile curated from sorrow. His eyes lock with mine before he evaporates deeper into the smoky room.

“Skyla,” Marshall balks. “You have no say in the matter. What Jock Strap has done is a well-placed chess move by the enemy. They are after you, my queen. They are looking to remove your knight from his sublime position.” His lips curl up at the edges, proud of his own euphemisms. “The Sectors must remain. If you disagree in any capacity, I bid you to imagine what a world under Fem rule would resemble. Humans would lose many vital freedoms. The Factions would lose all rights, all control. There would be one law, one sage—or should I say Gage, that should and will be obeyed.”

“He would never do that. He would never commit to evil.” The words garble as I struggle to evict them from my throat because Gage has already done it.

“Skyla.” Marshall wipes a lone tear from my cheek that I hadn’t even realized I shed. “This war”—he nods over his shoulder as if referencing the Sectors and the Fems—“it was never over. My victory is short-lived, relatively speaking. Your victory has the ability to last forever.”

“A war.” It comes out in less than a whisper, and the entire room seems to strum around me like a harp.

“A war,” Marshall echoes back, and his voice reverberates right down to my marrow.

“Who is the enemy,” I whisper as if it were a real question.

“You already know.”

Chloe comes up with a man in tow. “Look who I found lurking in these parts?” She guffaws so obnoxiously loud, for a moment I wonder if Darla Johnson has possessed her. There’s just something about Brielle’s mother that lends itself easily to a cackling girl in a bar—especially with a man in tow.

I glance up, fully expecting to find the Logan lookalike, but am met with her brother, Brody Bishop, instead.

“Brody?” Personally, I welcome the sight—I welcome the sight of the both of them. I’d rather have a thousand Bishops flung in my face than continue with that demonic conversation regarding a war of all ludicrous things. For the life of me I can’t believe I’m going down that thorny path again. Although this war will be different. I’m not letting the heavenlies, or my mother’s destination station, decide when and where to thrust me into mortal combat. I’m not about to lose my mind to make it to some nebulous finish line only to have Logan Oliver’s head hacked off. No thank you. My war. My rules.

I openly growl at Chloe since she was the one who hacked off Logan’s head to begin with. Chloe is my personal hell. A tiny laugh huffs through me because I have plans for my own little personal demon that make me tingle all the way down my angelic little spine.

“Mack Bishop,” Chloe corrects.

Brody’s twin gives a jovial laugh before gesturing to Marshall. “Who are these sluts you’ve furnished us with this fine evening, Dudley?”

Sluts? I sneer at Chloe. Leave it to her to drag over the gutter trash—her long, long relation no doubt.

He lifts a brow toward Marshall. “The wench who resembles Marlena tells me she’s from the New World—from a distant time. What malarkey is this? Women wearing pantaloons, no less?” He tips his head back and guffaws at the idea, and we get a toxic whiff of his eighty-proof breath. “God forbid this news travels to the throne. King Charles will have the entire lot of them dragged back by their ears.” His hand circles around my waist and he gives my bottom a healthy pinch.

“Ouch!” I shout while slapping him reflexively.

He licks his greasy smile in approval to my less than enthused response. “I’ll take the spirited one. I always appreciate a good rumble under the covers.”

“The only thing covering you will be the lid of your casket if you try that again.” I take a step forward and get in his face. “Try it again and see how fast you end up on the wrong side of British soil.”

“I’m the spirited one.” Chloe shoves me into Marshall’s arms. “And neither of us is sleeping with you, Mack Daddy. Where did Marlena go, anyway?” She squints into the crowd.

“My sister?” He cocks his head. “Who the hell knows.” He sucks from the wooden mug in his hand. “The little whore is rolling around on her back, I reckon.”

Wow, he said whore like it was a term of endearment. It’s nice to know we see eye to eye on some things because I happen to agree with his nutshell analysis of Marlena. And what the heck does Chloe want with the little whore, anyway?

“You hear that, Chloe?” I take a moment to rib her. “Your long-lost granny is off getting VD somewhere while lying on her back. The two of you have so much in common, and yet it’s sort of a miracle you have relatives at all.” Actually, if memory serves correct, Marlena tosses herself off a cliff soon after she discovers her lover was sent to the tower—wait, that’s only partially correct. Marlena contracted the Black Death. The Black Death! THE PLAGUE! “Holy crap, I just remembered this entire time period is crawling with all things bubonic.” I snatch Chloe by the arm. “We need to get the hell out of here before we’re bubbling with boils. The afterlife sounds nice in theory, but I’m in no hurry to taste and see for myself.”

Marshall keeps pace beside me as we navigate our way through the chortling can-can girls with their skirts to here and their tits to there, hanging out for the world to see. Dear Lord, this is a den of heathens if I ever saw one. The main saloon is filled with bodies so dense it’s like swimming through a human wall just trying to hit the exit.

“There she is,” Chloe growls and leads us to the left a bit until we’re face-to-face with Marlena and a skanky looking girl with a tiny turned-up nose, red knotted hair that holds the promise of a rat’s nest, pasty skin, and large round eyes that seem hungry to steal our souls. So odd. So unnatural, and honestly, so unnecessary.

“Come on, Chloe,” I hiss. “I’m sure Marshall can summon that demon into his living room anytime you want. We have kids to think about. I’m pretty sure there’s no routine vaccination for the diseases they’re hosting. Hell, there probably aren’t even proper names for them. This isn’t head lice we’re dealing with. This is life or black death!”

“Marlena.” Chloe sizes her up as if claiming her prey before she pounces. “I believe we have unfinished business.”

“Business?” I chirp. “Chloe, if you need to stay behind, I absolutely have no problem with that whatsoever.” Forget the deal I worked out with her. Leaving her in these tampon, yeast infection cream deprived times might just be a special brand of torture. A dull smile comes to my lips, and the edgy redhead next to Marlena snaps her jaw at me as if she were rabid. Dear God, she probably is. Great. I can add rabies to the short list of things to be wary of.

Chloe scoffs as if a vacay in jolly old England wasn’t even on the short list of hellscapes she’s willing to burn time in. “I’m in the Transfer with Wesley.” She keeps her eyes trained on Marlena. “He is my master, and I do as he says,” she grits the words through her teeth as if a vision of Wes and his X-rated commands just whistled through her brain.

“What?” I try to shake Chloe from her bizarre need to confess her sins. “Nobody cares who you bow down to on the mattress, Chloe. And what’s this master shit?”

Chloe’s trance-like state remains unshakable as she continues to glare at her older, not all that wiser twin. “Traitors don’t sit well with me. I suspect I’ll be seeing you soon.”

Marlena scoffs openly at Chloe’s threat as if it were no more than a toddler throwing a tantrum. Little does she know that Chloe is far more lethal than any toddling babe. She’s amassed quite the impressive body count—an attribute that had me leaning toward teaming up with her myself.

“I suspect you’ll be seeing me when I’m good and ready.” Marlena gives the flick of her wrist, exposing an exquisite black fan made of fine lace. If I didn’t think it was laden with bionic super germs, I might have asked her to lend it to me before jettisoning off to a far more comfortable time and place. It’s stifling in here, causing the thick, ripe body odor to roll to a boil. Can you say air conditioning and fire code? Two things I never thought I’d miss.

“Great.” I slap my hands over Chloe’s back in an effort to move her toward the exit. “Now that we’ve got all the fun details worked out, I’m sure you two will enjoy a rather hostile tête-à-tête sooner than later. But as for you and me, it’s time to make Brexit.”

“Not so fast.” Chloe’s feet seal to the floor like concrete, taking a step toward the snarling redhead. “Who’s this little impish bitch?” She scowls at the—for lack of a better term, impish bitch that seems to be gloating next to Chloe’s whore of a grandmother.

The redhead exposes a mouthful of unfortunate orthodontic events. “Cassandra Graham.” She offers a hand to Chloe, and she wisely ignores it. Swear to God, the girl has gangrene setting in on three different nails. The sapphire ring on her finger snags my attention, but it’s not the precious watery blue stone that has me ogling it—it’s the thin slice of light running through it—a cat’s eye. I’ve seen that before. I used to want one in the worst way back when my father was still alive. We had seen one on the finger of one of his coworkers, and I inquired about it. As soon as he said the words cat’s eye, my young self was smitten with the idea of having a feline ocular vessel gracing my very own finger in the form of a blue stone. Blue as Gage Oliver’s eyes, and I smirk at the thought.

Her smile expands, revealing the fact she’s missing nearly every other tooth, the few she has seem a bit rusted looking, and I’ve gone from annoyed to feeling immensely sorry for her. Modern dentistry can be added to the list of things to be thankful for in the millennial age. “I know who you are.” Her gaze drills straight into mine and a shiver rides up my back. There’s something unnerving about her. Something very familiar yet haunting.

“Do I know you?” I back into Marshall, and that smooth vibration tingles along my spine. Everything about Marshall has the power to give me all the assurance I need.

“No.” Her voice holds the slightest echo, and for a moment I wonder if my ears are responding to the raucous band pounding out a storm. “But you will, Skyla Oliver—nee Messenger. I’m not through with you.” Her lips turn down on the sides and her face melts as if it were made of candle wax. “Not through with any of you.”

Marshall places his hands over my shoulders and a powerful vibration wails through me—far more powerful than any of the vibratronics he’s previously unleashed. If I didn’t feel the need to ditch this tawdry tavern, I might opt for a nightcap and a nice long cuddle session with my favorite purring pervert. Instead, I do the only thing sanity will allow—I yank Chloe toward the exit.

“Swear to God, Messenger”—she pants as we struggle to thread our way through the boil of bodies—“if this morphs into a nightmare, I’m going to—”

“You’re going to what, Chloe? Knife my head off? How very old school of you.”

Focus, Skyla. Our paths must part. We shall reunite soon enough. Marshall strums the words right into my mind, and I can’t help but give a private smile. It doesn’t get more old school than Marshall drilling his thoughts straight into my skull. It sort of reminds me of my time at West Paragon High where Marshall enjoyed tormenting me, exchanging kisses for visions. It reminds me of sweeter days gone by when Gage was ever so faithful and Logan—

A clearing opens in the crowd, and just as I’m about to make a break for it, a man steps in front of me and I bump right into his rock-hard chest.

Speak of the devil—or angel as it were. It’s him again. That beautiful face, those citrine eyes. Can it be?

“Logan?” He sheds that wild smile of his that still makes my heart go pitter-patter. “I knew it was you.” Which version I’m not so certain. There’s the Treble-based version back on Paragon—and, of course, the holistic version in heaven. But this one wears a drab brown suit, and his bow tie is quite literally a string tied into a bow. He looks every bit as fashionably ritzy as the Transfer dwellers, and it occurs to me this is the century that those nefarious ghosts are most likely from.

His brows rise with amusement as he pulls a cigar to his lips and takes in a slow, smooth drag, but my heart is still melting over those gorgeous eyes, those lips I’ve kissed a thousand times.

“What are you doing, smoking a cigar?” I offer up an open-mouthed smile at this dapper, sexy, old-world reboot of the first boy who stole my heart.

His lips twitch a smile, but he’s holding back, laughing ever so slightly.

“When in Rome.” He blows a steady stream of smoke into my face, powder white, holding the scent of holiday spices, causing me to give a few hard, quick blinks. Along with the smoke, along with the power of seduction Logan holds in his voice, those heated nights of our short-lived honeymoon tread through my mind, achingly slow and heartbreakingly beautiful to witness even from afar—Logan and me openly lusting after one another, without a stitch of clothing between us. His face buried in my chest, between my legs, his lips pressed to mine for hours on end. Our time in the bath, warm as tears—Sector tears, he corrects—his teeth grazing over my flesh, his hot, lusty whispers, the steady lashing of his searing tongue. Logan is in me, fueling me with his love, thrusting himself high up into the deepest part of my being. Logan glides over me, stealing wet kisses, doing his best to pound his body into mine, and an aching moan escapes my throat. My body quivers at his command, and I’m right there. Logan dives down and offers one last frenetic kiss to the most tender part of me, and I let out a cry as my body shakes and quakes. My entire being cries out in pleasure, in pain, as I let out a vicious primal roar that lets the entire universe know I exist. That Logan and I once existed.

My lids flutter as if struggling to open, but in truth I wish they would remain sealed for far longer than this sliver of time. Reliving my honeymoon with Logan is the last thing I expected. It’s the last thing I would have asked for, but in hindsight it’s probably what I needed. Every part of me is aching over what Gage has done to me, to us, to our sweet little boys. Logan’s distraction, though odd, was strangely welcome—reminding me of simpler times, happier times and gave my subconscious a bit of respite from the dark-haired prince who hacked my heart to pieces. It’s as if the lights went out in my world and then the floor was taken from underneath me. Here I am falling, endlessly, painfully, into the deep abyss of grief.

But these aren’t simpler times. Before my lids even crack to welcome the dawn, I can feel the throb of pain filling me. Gage has crashed a sledgehammer over my life, over my physical body, and now I will never be the same. My heart has shattered. It has twisted itself into something unrecognizable. Thoughts of Chloe and those dark promises I whispered into her ear last night echo through my mind, and I break all over again. It is a horrible hell you’ve delved into when you need Chloe Bishop’s help with anything.

My room forms around me, the sturdy furniture—purchased by Demetri, the carpeted walls—compliments of Tad. A strange glow emanates from the foot of my bed as my mother gives a slight wave from the chair. Not Lizbeth, not the mother one might suspect would be in my room holding one of the twins to her bosom, but Candace, the mother nobody would believe could be conned into a little babysitting while I jettisoned around metaphysical planes and, apparently, time continuums. As soon as she showed up in my room last night to offer up a bit of celestial comfort, I sat her iridescent bottom down and handed her a pacifier—two of them to be exact. It was late, and I had just fed the twins, but sleep was the last thing on my mind, which is ironic considering the fact I haven’t slept in months.

“My dear, you truly need a rocking chair,” she admonishes while struggling to adjust into a position of comfort in that old wooden seat I’ve only used a handful of times. She’s holding Nathan, or perhaps it’s Barron. As horrible as it sounds, I can’t really tell. If my vision wasn’t blurred with sleep, if they were in my arms, I might know the difference. Might being the operative word. But the only way I can be sure is by the fact I’ve painted Nathan’s right toenail blue and Barron’s red. As much as Gage cringes each time he’s met with the cute little corn niblets that adorn their feet, I know he’s appreciative of my determination to keep them straight. Even though the boys are fraternal, they look nearly identical. I’d feel terrible if there were a mix-up at this early stage in the game. I’m sure in a year we won’t have a problem telling them apart. I hope.

“The horses last night—the ones from the Transfer—” I scoot to the edge of the bed. “Thank you.” There—no pussyfooting around. The old me would have asked if she had anything to do with them, but the new me knows better. If you want to stay ahead of the game—correction, if you want to be in the game at all—you must come from a place of knowing with this unearthen being who bore me. Shoot straight from the hip and avoid circular conversation and logic like the plague—speaking of which…

“They’re the finest stallions in my stalls.” She brings a tiny dark-haired angel my way and drops a tender kiss to his forehead before completing the handoff. That one simple kiss brings a swell of relief. I didn’t know how she would feel about the boys, considering who they sprang from. Gage isn’t her first choice for me.

“Dear child.” She scoffs and I can’t help but feel as if I’m looking in a mirror—more so that I’ve somehow managed to multiply and now am able to move around the room in duplicate. “There are only three beings in the entire universe who can call me Your Grace. I dare not hold their father’s sins against them. The Good Word overturned that ruling centuries and centuries ago. Heavens no. I’m not interested at all who spawned them, so long as they have your lifeblood in them. They are as good as mine. Now”—she flattens her airy white dress with her hands, and sparks fly around her in a fit of cosmic dust—“I’ve left Sage under the careful supervision of your father. We’re taking her to the herd races. There’s nothing quite as jolly as watching a plethora of species compete with such zeal. She’ll be seated on one of the royal yaks.” Her fingers land over her mouth as if holding back a prideful laugh. Sage is the daughter I lost. My twins were actually triplets until one was no more. “A beautiful beast of burden, if I don’t say so myself.” She lands a cool kiss to the top of my head. “Goodbye, my darling.”

“Wait.” I slip my hand over her wrist and those strumming vibrations filter from her. “I had a bit of a strange trip after Chloe and I left the Transfer. It was beyond weird. There were Marlena and her perverted brother, Mack, and a snarky looking skank named Cassandra. She said she knew me. Who is she?”

Her lips twist with a clear look of disdain. I know for a fact my mother is more than familiar with all of the aforementioned parties.

She retrieves Barron, offers him a kiss, and lands him in my arms as well. “How did you get back?”

“Logan—he blew cigar smoke in my face.”

Her brows peak. “Logan! How lovely. Did he say anything to you?” She suddenly looks less than amused, and now I wonder if they’re harboring some deep, dark secret.

“I asked him why he was smoking.” I make a face because I suspect my mother knows exactly why and then some. “He said when in Rome, and then I woke up.”

“When in Rome!” She laughs and claps her hands as if she not only understood the implications but was able to relive those heated nights right along with me. “Ah, yes”—she clutches her hand to her chest, her eyes closing for a moment—“Roma, my sweet, sweet, Roma. Forever you shall live in the recesses of my heart.”

The sound of a car hitting the brakes screams from outside, followed by the horrible crashing sound of metal hitting metal.

“Oh dear.” She scuttles to the window and cranes her neck toward the road. “That didn’t take long,” she snips under her breath.

“What didn’t take long? God, that sounded terrible! It sounded like a freight train meeting with a wall. It wasn’t a black truck, was it?” God forbid Gage get tangled and mangled before I can let into him properly. Not that I plan on anything other than the silent treatment—and that’s just for starters.

She’s quick to wave me off as she heads toward the closet. “You’ll find out soon enough. Merry Christmas, Skyla. Remember, better to be the giver, always and forever.” She turns and her entire being is swallowed up in light. “The giver holds the power—the receiver is only a little better than a beggar.” She scowls over at me. “Don’t beg, Skyla. It’s most certainly not becoming. You spring from a royal lineage. You are a victor in every single capacity. My daughter is the head and not the tail.” Her voice begins to evaporate right along with the rest of her. “This life is but a vapor, but eternity is yours and belongs to those you love. You are sealed—bought with a price. You are a—” and that’s as far as I can possibly strain my ears to hear. But the silence in the room is short-lived as the wail of an ambulance tears through this little corner of Paragon, on this, the first Christmas Eve my children will experience.

I lounge in bed with the boys for the next few hours, feeding them, counting their perfect little toes, their tiny stubby little fingers, and I can’t help but smile through the tears. I’ve shed a river, no thanks to Gage. What has happened? Why did it happen? Gage didn’t trust me enough to get us through this. Deep down, I know he was right to do so. I’m not sure who I’m angrier with—him or me. But it’s the resolution of how we might crawl away from this latest, greatest disaster to rock our world that breaks me. Chloe rings through my mind like a gong. If Gage thinks he will easily skip to the dark side, without so much of a mention of it, then I’m curious to see what he’ll think of the hard medicine heading his way. I consider the irony for a moment. Chloe Bishop has been a lot of things to a lot of people—a savior isn’t one of them. But there was no one else, and no matter what vomits from the situation at hand, I will be forced to stand by my decision.

That demonic stone my mother gifted me a while back—that demonic number that’s etched over it comes to mind. There is a time, set and determined, that signifies the end of Gage Oliver’s life—of my life as well. And together we’re finding ourselves on the wrong end of the hourglass. I try to push all thoughts of him out of mind as I reach for my phone, half-expecting a spastic number of panicked texts left by the traitor himself, but instead, I find just one. We need to talk. Such brevity after a wild night of reckless abandon, on his part anyway.

Gage and I might need to have one serious sit-down, but not only am I in no mood to do so but I have a party to get ready for. If my earthly mother loves anything in this world, it’s a good get-together where she’s able to off her questionable cuisine to friends and family.

It’s late by the time I get downstairs—ever so carefully carrying both boys in my arms as my mother greets me with a wild cry.

“Can you believe it’s Christmas?” She claps up a storm before taking a startled Nathan from me. “What is this they’re wearing?” She scoffs at their matching gray tracksuits. Oh no, no, no!” she trills as she scoops Barron up as well and traipses right back upstairs. “I picked up the cutest outfits for these two little elves! You’ll just die when you see them!”

“I’m dying, all right.” Please, God, don’t let them come back dressed as elves. I smack my lips while looking at the jovial decorations. The banister is rung with garland, half-dead poinsettias are strewn about, the entire house drips Christmas in its every chaotic format. Dozens of candles sit calmly illuminating their peppermint-scented splendor into the vicinity. I could stare at the tiny red flames all day, so peaceful and quiet. That’s the funny thing about candles. No matter how docile that flame looks, you still run the risk of getting burned. My marriage seemed docile for so long then—bam, I was left charred and smoking in a single night.

I walk down the hall only to be greeted by a miniature plastic Santa dressed as Elvis who shakes his hips as I walk on by. There’s a fully decorated tree in both the living room and the family room. The one in the living room is winter white with matching lights and shiny red ornaments, a total rip-off of Emma’s sanitized ode to the holidays. I happen to know for a fact the Olivers will be here tonight, so I suppose this is my mother’s way of making her feel comfortable—or perhaps, it’s my mother’s way of giving her the finger for being so rude this entire last year. Rude has long since been Emma’s MO with me in particular. But tonight, I’d happily deal with a thousand rude Emma’s rather than a single Gage Oliver. Now there’s irony for you.

My phone bleats in my back pocket, and it’s a text from Laken. At the mall! You need me to pick up any last-minute gifts?

That witch I leashed myself to bounces through my mind. Yes. I text right back. A bottle of perfume—Chloe. I’ll pay you back.

Laken doesn’t waste a minute. You don’t have to pay me back. You’ve got boys in diapers. And are you sure about that perfume? I’ll gladly pick up any other scent with a far less nefarious name. It’s not actually for Chloe, is it?

Laken and Coop left early last night so I doubt they witnessed the late, great demise of Gage and Skyla Oliver.

It’s for Chloe.

A moment thumps by, and I can only imagine what she’s thinking. In that case, I’ll let you pay me back. Kidding, sort of. Are you feeling well? You’re not having some mental breakdown, are you?

My mental health in general seems to be on a sliding scale as of late. Well enough. Swing by when you’re through. We’re having a get-together. It’s going to be real.

I follow the red tongue of the shag rug my mother lined the hall with right into the family room and bypass my stepbrother Drake and his wife slash my bestie, Bree, on the way to the kitchen.

“Christmas,” I mumble to no one in particular.

The thick scent of everything delicious lights up my senses, which can only mean Emily is at the culinary helm. Just seeing Em with her dark hair pinned to the top of her head, her dead-serious expression as she glares at me momentarily before getting back to the fine art of cooking, marks me with a sense of grief. Emily Morgan is a Viden, and Gage happens to be in charge of that slightly disenfranchised group. The Videns were formed through the union of Rothello of the Soullenium and a human host who gladly—or unwittingly offered up her uterus to him. Nevertheless, he sold his people to Demetri for a pittance, and thus Demetri gifted them to his most beloved son. I most likely wouldn’t hate Demetri so much if he hadn’t killed my father, pulled my husband to the dark side, and quite on purpose impregnated my mother with her youngest daughter, Mystery, aka Misty. Bastard. That about sums up Demetri Edinger in a nutshell.

“Merry Christmas to you, too, Skyla!” Brielle hops over, adorned with a festive sweater—a deer with a 3D ruby red nose that blinks on and off.

“May Kissmas!” Little Beau Geste mimics his mother, and little Misty and Ember sing something that closely resembles that in a choir of coos. Misty and Ember almost look like sisters with their dark hair and matching blue eyes. But Ember is Emily’s lovechild with Drake. She’s dating Ethan now, and well, in true Landon form, it’s twisted.

“Same to you,” I say, lackluster. I can’t bring myself to use the proper, cheery wording a day like this commands.

“There’s nothing happy about this day,” Tad grumbles from behind his laptop and I roll my eyes at the sight of my ridiculous stepfather. “Your mother is infiltrating us with the enemy to my checking account. Do you know how many mouths she’s saddled me to feed?” He lets out a robust bah humbug further cementing his status as the Scrooge in question. “Good thing ol’ Demetri will be here with bells on. I can always count on my good buddy to donate toward the bottom line.”

“As if.” I scoff at the thought. Little does Tad know Demetri is the enemy that routinely helps himself to infiltrating my mother’s bottom line. And dear God, I hope that’s not true.

“What’s gotten in your craw?” Drake barks and belches at the same time as he makes his way to the fridge.

“I’m tired,” I offer in lieu of the truth. Come to think of it, that is the truth on a raw, I’ve-got-twins-hooked-to-my-udders-every-three-hours level.

“Tired?” Tad belts out a maniacal laugh as he clamps his laptop shut. “Welcome to the new normal! Bet you thought being a parent would be a breeze, didn’t cha?” He leans forward with a renewed vigor as if my depleted state somehow enlivened him. “Bet you thought your mother would add those two little bugaboos to the family burial plot blooming in our bedroom, didn’t cha?”

I’m not sure whether to be more offended over the fact Tad just referred to my children as bugaboos or the entire conversation in general.

My mother waddles back in, hauling two adorable tiny Santas in tow, and my heart melts. Suddenly all is right with this twisted world again.

“Look at you!” I marvel at the two tiny faces with their olive-toned flesh, those midnight black caps of hair, and those eyes—large cobalt swimming pools I’d love to dive into, and yes, without even the hint of a smile, all four dimples dip in and out over and over. Dear God, my heart melts anew each time I lay eyes on these boys, and oddly each time I do just that, it feels as if it’s all going by way too fast. Gone are their newborn frames with the frailty of brand new life, replaced with full cheeks, arms, and legs that show off yummy rolls of robust flesh. So sweet, so achingly small. I pick up Nathan and take in his powder fresh scent. “They look fantastic.”

Mom touches a finger to each of their noses. “I hope you’ve been extra good! Mee-Maw and Tampa have a very special surprise for you!”

Just as I’m about to spew out some lame quip about expanding that child cemetery in their bedroom, I’m stopped cold still trying to digest that moniker I’m assuming she’s relegated to Tad.

“Did you say tampon?” Dear God, if I have to educate my mother on the many reasons hygienic social etiquette dictates this is a very bad idea, I will slap the two of them silly for thinking it ingenious. Or perhaps myself so I can finally wake up out of this nightmare it seems I’ve drifted into.

She titters like a schoolgirl while leaning in. “It’s Tad-Paw, you know, like Paw-Paw, but Tad insisted his name be a part of it. Anyway, the kids can’t quite say it so, um, yes, he’s been answering to a name shared with a feminine product. I’m just sort of going with it.” She’s quick to wave it off.

I hate to break it to her, but Tad has been the equivalent of a feminine product for several years now. In a way, it’s the universe calling it as she sees it. The whole world is sort of going with it.

“What an unfortunate turn of events,” I lament, and for the first time I mean it. Tad the tampon will never live this down. I might just make sure of it myself.

“Speaking of unfortunate events.” She leans in. “Did you hear that horrible accident that happened this morning? It was right here on the corner. I heard some poor young girl didn’t survive. Can you imagine? Losing your child on Christmas?” She thrusts Barron into my face as if forcing me to face that painful realization.

“God, no, that’s just terrible. I feel for the poor girl, too.” As cliché as it sounds, life is the most precious gift, and to lose it when you have an entire lifetime ahead of you is truly a heartbreak. And sadly, I can imagine how it feels to lose a child so young. I lost Sage. And just like that, my grief factor goes up exponentially.

I take a few steps closer to the kitchen and a horrible sour scent eats away at my nose, but I’d swear it has nothing to do with the meal Emily is whipping up.

I lean in and whisper, “Why does it smell like Drake tap-danced all over this house with his bare feet?” I wrinkle my nose as the scent drills in deeper.

Mom waves it off with a chuckle. “That’s our new thing, right, Emily?” Crap. The last thing I wanted to do was insult the five-star chef that’s been making all of our culinary dreams come true as of late. My mother is a nightmare in the kitchen, and Emily is a hallelujah choir at the foot of the living throne. And now that she thinks I’ve insulted her, I’ll probably be relegated to eating crap cakes—quite literally—for the rest of my stay at the Landon house of horrors.

Mom clears her throat as if a major announcement is afoot. “We no longer use commercial cleaning products in the house. It’s all white vinegar, all the time! No chemicals. And it’s green! Wait?” She looks to Em, confused. “White vinegar is technically considered green, isn’t it?” She rolls her eyes. “You millennials and your lingo. I’ll never keep it straight.” Mom coos into Barron’s tiny little face, “Yes, you will be smelling Uncle Drake’s feet from here on out!”

“The Landon house.” I blow gently into Nathan’s little face, and he squirms happily. “The gift that keeps on giving,” I tease and Mom gives me a wet kiss on the cheek.

“And you know you love it!”

“Because the alternative is living next door to Emma.” I give a quick wink, and we share a laugh on behalf of my monster-in-law. Dear God, that was harsh even by my own standards. It’s true. Gage somehow coerced me into using the payout that Ezrina and Nev gave me from the Gas Lab into buying a money pit smack next door to his mother. If that isn’t a sign of fatigue induced psychosis I don’t know what is.

The doorbell rings, and an influx of guests flood in. My heart picks up pace because I know Gage will be here. I’m not exactly looking forward to seeing Logan either after that scuffle that broke out between us, but still, Gage has garnered the majority of my ill will.

My mother-in-law, Emma, swoops in smelling as if someone dipped her in frankincense and myrrh, and I can hardly breathe. She snaps up one twin and passes him off to my angel of a father-in-law, Barron, then quickly plucks the other out of my arms as well.

“Merry Christmas to you, too,” I say under my breath as she waltzes to the living room with nary a holiday greeting.

“She means well.” Barron comes in and plants a kiss on my cheek while holding his namesake. He winces at me as if anticipating an outburst. “I’m sorry about what happened last night. I don’t fully understand it. Gage won’t say a word. But if it’s strong enough to keep the two of you apart on the holiest night of the year, then this must be pretty serious.”

“Serious, indeed.” My voice quivers as I blink back tears. “Our boys will always come first.” There it is, the battle cry of every couple that’s on the rocks.

Mom claps her hands and stomps her feet as if she’s at a hoedown. “This is a very casual buffet! Please take your plates, fill ’em to the brim, and find a seat wherever you like!” She speeds over to Emma and gives her a friendly tap over the shoulder, but judging by Emma’s sourpuss, you’d think my mother just initiated a throwdown. “It’s fair to say, last night went a little sideways. I’m sorry about that.”

Sideways? I snort at the thought.

If by sideways she means death, murder, and betrayal, then she’s got that right.

“Anyway, I’m toying with the idea of writing a cookbook. Casseroles are my specialty.” Mom stoops farther into her insanity, and Emma shoots me a quick glance as if asking for backup. As if. I hope my mother torments her for a good long stretch of the evening. It’s all her son’s fault I had zero sleep last night. And it’s all her son’s fault I’ll spend the rest of my days in bitter tears. Mom goes on and on. “Oh, and the broths! The broths I could do.”

My stomach churns at the thought of that dirty sock juice she’s been known to conjure, and I’m quick to lose myself in the crowd.

Bodies continue to flood in—Marshall, who I actually manage to smile at, and Demetri, sans his demented niece. Thank God for small miracles, but still, Demetri. I look past the two of them at the door gaping open, letting the fog seep in like an unwanted guest, and then finally Laken and her husband, Coop. Only Laken doesn’t come in. She simply wags a bag at me from the entrance. Her caramel-colored hair is in perfect ringlets, and her lips are painted a cheery holiday red. Laken is a stunner on an average day, but putting in a little effort lands her to supermodel heights. And Coop, well, he reminds me so much of Logan my bones ache.

I speed over and pull them into a group hug.

“Come in.” I step back, trying my best to coax them inside.

“We can’t.” Laken makes a face, but I manage to lead them deeper into the foyer. “Dr. Booth and my mother are having us over. I just wanted to make sure you had all you need.” Dr. Booth was once my psychiatrist, but as fate would have it, we’re just friends now and he’s dating Laken’s mother. She hands the gift bag to me between pinched fingers as if she were handing off a dirty diaper, and considering she knows it’s for Chloe, it probably amounts to the same thing. “That was some christening last night.” She glances to Coop. “We’ll get together soon and figure out what to do about those rogue Videns. We can’t have Spectators running around the planet. Mass hysteria is something we don’t want. And for sure we don’t want to piss off the government.” Spectators is the official-unofficial name of those zombie-like creatures Demetri has transformed the Viden youth into. I’d give anything to reverse the effects on those poor people and turn Demetri into the one and only zombie coot.

“Yeah, well, it’s too late for that. I’m betting the feds have sent in people by the droves. Two of their own are persona non grata, and I’m pretty sure we’ve managed to piss them off.”

“Evening,” a harrowing deep voice warbles from behind, and I turn to find Demetri shedding his Cheshire Cat grin as he makes his way to the stairwell where Darla Johnson, Bree’s Mom, his blonde bombshell of an ex, stands. I crane my neck and spot Mom safely on the other end of the living room holding one of the boys. Figures. Emma probably shoved Nathan into her arms once she got into the coagulated meats portion of her cookbook. It’s no wonder my mother is so obsessed with Demetri. He’s basically a coagulated meathead.

“Don’t let the fact it’s an old coot kind of a night scare you from coming in.” I say that out loud even though Laken and Coop didn’t have the pleasure of hearing my internal tirade.

“Don’t worry about it. We can’t stay. We’ll see you later!” Laken kisses my cheek. “We need to talk,” she whispers before trotting past Demetri. If I were smart, I’d trot right along with her.

“Skyla, Mr. Flanders.” Demetri nods to the two of us before waltzing into the Landon living room as if he were welcome, and sure enough, my mother tackles him like a three-hundred pound linebacker and douses his face. “Merry Christmas fancy European kisses!”

“Looks like all holy hell is breaking loose tonight,” I murmur before giving Coop a brief hug goodbye.

“We have to talk, Skyla,” he whispers ominously into my ear just the way Laken did a second ago, and I’m left to wonder if the left hand knows what the right hand is doing.

“What’s this about?” I try to keep my voice low and even-keeled.

“It’s about Wes.” Coop’s eyes darken. “I think he stole something very personal from Laken.”

“Like what? A lock of her hair? A contact lens?” God, does Laken even wear contacts? Who the hell knows, but I do know one thing for sure, I wouldn’t put it past Wes to steal an entire eyeball if given half a chance.

Coop’s heavy eyes bear into mine, and I can feel the pain emanating off him like heat off a Transfer tin roof. “Her virginity.”

“Her what?” I try to absorb this for a moment. I know for a fact that Laken and Coop have been the fornicating kind for quite some time because Gage and I once walked in on them doing the dirty deed—Coop does love Laken with an all-consuming passion. And secondly, they got hitched last summer, and they consummated that good time all over Whitehorse, the house that Logan built for me, that he also happened to penetrate Chloe Bishop in last spring. Ah, yes, good coital times. “But Laken said you were her first.” I bear hard into Cooper Flander’s desperate eyes, and for a moment it feels as if we’re both stretching to believe it. “Or at least she implied it because she also happened to imply that she never slept with Wesley.” Oh dear God, or did Wes and his constant desperation for the girl imply it? The good Lord knows Wesley’s desperation has commanded him to have Chloe morph into Laken’s likeness time and time again, so maybe that’s what this is about? Wes has clearly confused reality and the chaos that goes on in his sex lab with Chloe.

Coop shakes his head, slow and dazed, his gaze still transfixed onto mine.

“The past is not always our friend, Skyla.” The muscles in his jaw pop, and he looks vexingly like Logan, a hot twin, if I may, although I’m presently pissed at Coop’s hot twin. Coop and Logan, it turns out, are long-lost relations of my dear and deviant spirit husband, Marshall Dudley himself.

“That past!” I close my eyes. “I will hang Wesley Edinger by his jingle bells if I find out he’s manipulated his way back in time to steal Laken’s V-card.”

“Did I hear my name?” Wesley Edinger pops up behind Cooper and jolts us both to life.

There he is, looking every bit the Gage Oliver knockoff. That midnight hair, those eyes so bright, and the dimples that beg forgiveness. A horrible grief rinses through me, leaving me thick with its aching residue. But it’s that cherub he’s holding tight, dressed in her crimson velvet dress and arms that stretch to me, that makes me melt. It’s safe to say, Tobie, October Edinger has stolen my heart.

“I’ll take the baby. You deck him.”

Wes pulls baby Tobie out of my range and dodges past the two of us on the way in.

“Merry Christmas, Coop!” he has the nerve to call out.

“I’m going to kill him.” Cooper nods and leaves for the car, but there was something about the nonchalant way he said it, the complacent smile that ebbed at the edge of his lips that has me believing every word. I’m not convinced any of Demetri Edinger’s children could ever really die, but if they could, Wesley would be a good start in cleansing the planet of all its ills. And horrifically, Gage might be a close second.

I close the door, and no sooner does the latch connect than a gentle knock emits from the other end. I pop it back open only to see Wesley again, and then my tired, newborn fried brain does the Edinger Oliver math and deduces that no, in fact, this isn’t the least nefarious of Demetri’s children. It’s the most wicked of them all—Gage.

In that single moment, it feels as if an eternity slips by. I see our bumpy past, our heartbreaking future all in one swoop as I gaze deeply into his ocean blue eyes. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. Does he see the heaven we once shared or the hell he thrust us in? Yes, everything I whispered to Chloe last night can be squarely pinned on Gage Oliver’s Italian suited shoulders.

And it’s only then I notice the scruff has been clipped from his face. He’s clean-shaven. I almost want to laugh. He’s let Emma groom him. Worse yet, he thinks I prefer this choirboy version of him. Mr. Clean Cut. Mr. Innocent. This version would no more take a walk on the wicked side than he would drive a digit over the speed limit. Clean-shaven, licked clean, spit-shined just for the occasion to placate my good senses. Like I would ever fall for that.

My thighs tremble at the sight of him, and my knees beg to fall to the ground in worship. Damn traitors.

“I like you better with the scruff,” I muse and ironically mean it even though my body is about to have the big O simply from that lust-riddled look he’s shooting my way. I bet that’s one of his new superpowers. Big Daddy reissued him all of his oldie but goodie Femtastic powers last night. That was one part of his rambling dissertation I did understand. The rest of it was hocus-pocus, welcome to the dark side for the most part. Gage had both abandoned and betrayed me—that much I know is true.

Gage moves from the shadow and into the light, and then I see it and my heart thumps once with the requisite pride. A bright pink handprint stains his left cheek. The exact spot where I belted him last night in a fit of primal rage. Yes, I am damn proud of that token of my affection. My one and only Christmas gift to the boy I once would have died for. Dear God, a part of me wants to slap myself.

He frowns, sending his dimples digging for attention, and it’s then I notice that his hair is crisply parted on the side—and no doubt licked back by his mother.

“Skyla,” he whispers in that low, achingly desperate way only Gage knows how to do. He leans in, pleading with me before he ever says a word. “Do you trust me?”

“No. Not really.” There. I didn’t miss a beat because honest words are rarely hard to come by.

Gage closes his eyes a moment, the look of defeat marked over his features. “Merry Christmas, Skyla.” He holds out two gold boxes between us, and I step aside to let him in. If this horror of an evening is bound to take place, I say let’s get this holiday hoedown over with.

“Put them under the tree.”

He steps in, full suit, cobalt tie the exact color of his eyes as if he had it dyed to match, and knowing Emma this is a very real possibility. He probably woke up and found it in his stocking with a note reading, From Mommy Dearest! The one and only woman you will ever be honest with in your life and love and cherish forever and ever!

“Skyla,” he whispers, heated into my ear, and his cologne, a new and unfamiliar scent, assaults my senses with its violent seduction efforts. “There are things you need to know.”

“I know enough.” I make an attempt to step around him, and he blocks my path with the wall of his body, leaving me eye to eye with his dress shirt. The crisp white fabric is hypnotic. The way it creases with the tautness of his rock-hard chest is criminal. My fingers tremble to touch him. My lips part for just one simple kiss. I hate the way my hormones render me defenseless around him. I haven’t always reacted this way to Gage. In the beginning, I was too sidelined by Logan. I’d do anything to have that mild indifference back if only for a while.

Gage latches his eyes over mine, and I’m forced to look at him. I spin my wedding ring with my thumb like an absentminded habit. For a moment, I toyed with taking it off last night, chucking it in his face, but nothing in me was able to pull off the feat.

“You and I will speak,” he says it with a firmness unfamiliar to me, his demeanor unforgivably demanding. He bears in hard with his gaze, his anger percolating just below the surface. “You will hear what I have to say.” And with that, he turns and walks into the party, to the triumphant cries of his mother and mine.

My heart gives one last wallop in his honor as if it needed to stabilize itself again after our brief exchange.

My eyes snag on Marshall’s, and I head on over.

“Ms. Messenger.” His lips twitch with that you-will-come-hither-and-we-both-know-it look of affection. He’s so infernally arrogant it only adds to his charm. “You appear well-rested, considering your little side trip to the Mother Country just a few short hours ago.”

“Yes, well, vengeance does become me.” And, apparently, a little light drive doesn’t hurt either.

“And who would it be that fills your pretty little head with such a diatribe?” His brows dip in that panty melting way that only Marshall’s can, and for a brief moment, I’m ashamed that my raging hormones still succumb to his sexual superpowers. As much as I might have extreme displeasure with Gage, he is still my husband—still the one and only person who has the God-given right to melt my panties. A few fleeting thoughts of those perverse dreams I’ve had starring my favorite Sextor flit through my mind, and I don’t bother to catch them.

Marshall growls low and aggressive like a rabid dog ready to attack.

“Down, boy,” I whisper. “You know, you don’t have to read every thought I’m having.” I glance out at the motley crew my mother has amassed. “Where’s Logan?”

“Recuperating. I’m sure he’ll drag his carcass in shortly.” He smacks his lips.

“What do you mean recuperating?” Come to think of it, I did dole out quite the beating last night, but mostly it was Gage who bore the brunt of my rage. I glance across the room and spot him holding one of the twins while speaking to my stepbrother Ethan, and Emily, and that handprint I gifted him calls out to me like a siren, waving back at me as he turns his head from side to side. My ghost hand it seems is congratulating me on marking him with humiliation. “Did he spend the night with you?” I’m sort of hoping Gage did choose Marshall’s instead of his mother’s. Although, either way I’m sure Emma helped lick his wounds.

“They both did.” He gravels it out in annoyance. Both I assume includes Logan in the mix. “I disdain the way they insist in suckling off my teats as if I were their mother. It’s time to wean them, Skyla.”

I offer up a blank stare at my most treasured Sector. Though inappropriate almost ninety-nine percent of the time, he’s as entertaining as all hell.

“Language.” He gives a sly wink.

“I think there’s a correction to be made. It’s my teats they’ve been suckling off. I glance back and my gaze snags on his. Gage is watching me. Everywhere I go I can feel his eyes digging in like claws.

Brody and Brookelynn, Brielle’s sister and Brody’s one true love, file between us, and for once I’m relieved to see a Bishop. They’re either back on again or they’re making nice for the holiday. Either way, I’m glad to see them. Behind them streams Darla, or as I like to call her, the entertainment for the evening.

“Gimme those grandbabies!” she whoops, snatching one of the twins from Demetri’s clutches, and I shiver. I hate how accessible my entire life has become to the man who killed my father. I’d give anything for my father to stroll through those doors next. After all, this is Paragon and stranger things have happened, like Ethan strolling in with Logan’s soul embedded in his body, but that was high school and even that shit parade seems like a glory day memory in contrast to this new and unimproved shit parade I’m dealing with. I shoot Gage a curt look from across the room only to find him standing next to his nefarious twin—glaring at Marshall as if an ass beating were imminent.

I turn my body just enough to deny him the privilege of gaping at my countenance—now there’s an ironic term.

“Where’s Ezrina?” I ask, trying to sound chipper, begging to sound as if I care about this gathering at all. I did invite both her and Nevermore—Heathcliff, myself. I realize that Nev is going by his more formal name these days, but he’ll always be Nevermore to me at heart. Once upon a time he was trapped in the body of a raven and gifted to me by Gage. And there I go perseverating on those dammed good old days once again—and I mean dammed as a literal term.

“Rina isn’t feeling well.” Marshall’s brows furrow at the thought. “She’s decided to convalesce at Whitehorse. I’ll stop by in the morning and give them your love.”

“Thank you. I would appreciate that. And what’s up with not feeling well? If anyone should be feeling well twenty-four seven, it’s Ezrina. She’s got an entire state-of-the-art lab at her fingertips. If she can zap dead counts back to life, I’m sure a little head cold has nothing on her.” Ezrina happens to occupy Chloe Bishop’s old body and vice versa. Only, Chloe is now relegated to Ezrina’s old servitude in the Transfer per post war orders. The war that I won. The war Celestra won, and apparently didn’t have to because another war looms in the not-so distance, and this time it involves a much closer, much more clean-shaven enemy—my darling dimpled husband. “Don’t tell me Chloe’s body is defunct already.” I smirk at the thought of the murderous wench I’ve chosen to lie in bed with. I may have made a proposition she couldn’t refuse last night, but, in the end, it’s a benefit to the Factions—more to the point, a benefit to me. Sometimes you need to offer a personal sacrifice for the greater good of all mankind.

I glance over my shoulder at Gage. I’m sure that’s the exact logic he used to trot over to the malevolent side with Daddy Dearest.

“Skyla”—Marshall pins me with those molten lava eyes—“what kind of agreement have you worked out with Ms. Bishop?”

“A delicate one,” I whisper. “And would you stop reading my mind like it’s some gossip-worthy diary entry? I happen to value my personal space, and the fact you keep prying into my gray matter unnerves me.”

It’s a gray matter, all right. Nothing with Chloe is ever black and white.

The doorbell rings, and my heart thumps once because I’m fully expecting Logan to show up. But it’s not the other Oliver I’m pissed at. It’s the one I happen to like, Liam, and attached to his person is a very furry Michelle Miller. She’s chinchilla from head to toe, and a part of me wants to be there when Emily spots her. Emily is as vegan, organic, nutty granola as one can get, and if you dare cross your eyes at an animal, she will knife you. No joke. And just as I’m about to head over, a pale ghost of a girl, pretty in an extra-ordinary, extra-bitchy way, if that’s your thing, dark eyes, dark hair, dark soul—Chloe Bishop stains the entry. Chloe’s skin usually holds a healthy bronzed glow, but since she’s been a part of the underground brigade, she looks like a creature that just crawled from under a rock.

“Merry Christmas!” she chirps, sauntering inside as if she owns the place, strapped in a red bandage dress that looks as if it were soaked in blood. Come to think of it, this is Chloe. Of course, it’s soaked in plasma. Chloe accessorizes with red blood cells the way others do earrings.

“Chloe Jessica Bishop! Welcome!” Mom is the first to throw herself at the daughter of darkness. And I’m a little disturbed that my own mother knows Chloe’s middle name, although it shouldn’t surprise me. Last year while Chloe grumbled her way through nine long months as a human incubator, she and Mom bonded over all things vaginal. I wish my mother wouldn’t bond with Chloe. I wish I wasn’t bonding with Chloe.

“You look so beautiful!” Mom trills as the party rages on. “Didn’t I tell you that nursing would get your uterus right back into shape?”

I smirk because I happen to know that Chloe isn’t nursing. I’m the one nursing Tobie, or at least I was last night.

Chloe grins. “Why, thank you. I’m as happy as a cat with nine tails.”

Marshall turns to me with a vexingly stern expression that lets me know I’m about to be admonished. “Who invited the beautiful pussy?”

I open my mouth, then close it. I can’t tell if Marshall is simply enjoying his play on words or if there’s an iota of a literal connotation behind it. Mr. Dudley—math teacher extraordinaire—made his sexual rounds when he first came to West, and for the life of me, I can’t remember if Chloe was a victim of his one-man gang bang that seemed to span the entire female student population—sans me, of course. Oh hell, Chloe is never a victim.

“Skyla.” Marshall closes his eyes, and my heart sinks because already I know how disappointed he is in me for befriending the viper—it mirrors the amount I am in myself.

Ellis and Giselle pour through the door with a man in tow that is so exceedingly tall he needs to duck just to enter the lowly Landon estate. He wears a cap of red hair and has a rather dull look about him. His eyes ping around the room as if someone in the vicinity owed him money—and seeing that he’s at the Landon home they just might.

“Who invited the Nephilim?” Tad croaks and half the room groans. Tad is such a tampon he forgets that he, in fact, is a descendant from that angelic spawned breed. Only Tad knows how to make a guest feel truly unwelcome.

Ellis, my favorite stoner, strides over with his larger than life friend.

“Meet Asbury Winters”—Ellis beams—“Host’s newest acquisition to the basketball team.”

“It’s clear we’re destined to win every game,” I tease and give his behemoth hand a quick shake. I catch Gage stewing in his own jealous juices from across the room—still staunchly by Wesley’s side, but this time he’s cradling both boys, and my heart melts just a little. The twins look exactly like Gage. It’s as if I had nothing to do with their DNA makeup, and considering the source of Gage’s DNA, I pray that’s not the case. Giselle pops up next to him and plucks a twin from his arms, effectively blocking me from his line of vision. Giselle is Gage’s once deceased sister who died as a toddler but thanks to my celestial mother’s mercy, and Emerson Kragger’s body, Giselle officially lives to see another day. She’s sort of never outgrown that toddler mentality though, but to her credit she is working on it.

“What brings you to Host?” Marshall lifts his chin. Marshall is tall by anybody’s standards, but Asbury here dwarfs even him.

“My girl.” Asbury nods into the heart-shaped admission. “She and I are pretty serious. Her father is going to sign her over to me when she’s sixteen.”

I glance to Ellis. Dear God, where is this going?

“How old is she now?” I’m afraid to ask, but it had to be done.

“Thirteen.” The overgrown science experiment nods as if it were no big deal.

I scowl at Ellis for ushering this perv into our presence, and Ellis leans in close to my ear with a look that spells out something just this side of horror himself. “Hey, dude”—he whispers to me—“I took a shit last night and thought of you.” My mouth falls open because, holy hell, I have no idea what craptastic sentiment could ever follow that. “Damn—I can’t believe you had two kids the size of cinderblocks squeeze out of your bottom. I’m considering heading into the priesthood just to avoid putting poor G through that.”

“Poor G? Make no mistake about it—it will be poor Ellis if you ever knock up G.”

“Hey”—the cyclops Ellis hauled in barks—“where’s the prime rib? I’m starved.”

Ellis whoops. “That’s what I’m talking about, man! Let’s scour this place until we get all the food in our bellies.”

“Good luck with that,” I say under my breath. If prime rib is what they’re after, they’ll be scouring the house right into the next millennium. And food in their bellies? I suggest they watch Soylent Green. It amounts to the same principle around here with or without Em at the helm.

The door opens once again, and there he is—caramel-colored hair, classic good looks, eyes as citrine as a sunrise. Logan Oliver glows like an ethereal being. No, really—he’s sort of literally glowing.

I shove an elbow into Marshall’s ribs. “What’s up with the Chernobyl tan? And should he be anywhere near the boys?” As in my precious angels that I can’t wait to snuggle in bed with in the next few hours.

Marshall grunts. “It appears there was a bit of an issue last night. Taking a nap facedown in the rain after a good lightning strike can do a number of things to a person, living or dead.”

“What is that supposed to mean? Does he have a lightning rod in his pants now?” Face it, Logan has always had a lightning rod in his pants. That boy is hung. So is Gage. I’d say it runs in the family, but it turns out they aren’t even remotely related.

Marshall balks, “Skyla, must you always revert to the crass? And I’ll have you know, yes, indeed, young Oliver has good genes. He acquired them from me, didn’t he?” His lips curl in that proud way only a lightning rod owner can. I’ve no doubt Marshall is hung like a Clydesdale. If those seductive night wanderings I’ve experienced are even remotely true to life, Marshall’s lower half should be considered a weapon of m-ass destruction.

“I may be crass, but I learn from the best, Professor Dudley.” I give a quick wink as I head over to Logan. He looks a bit stunned as if he were still trying to get his bearings from that electric slap he received from above last night, and at any moment I expect to see him staggering around the foyer, but he doesn’t. Logan walks up smoothly. His smile expands just for me, and he holds my gaze with those glowing amber eyes just before he offers a firm embrace.

“Merry Christmas, Skyla. I left the gifts for you and the boys at Barron’s.” He pulls back with that sad film over his features, the one he mastered not long after we met. “I’m hoping you’ll stop by tomorrow.”

“We won’t be able to make it.” Ever again, I want to add, but I know that’s not true.

Skyla. His lids lower, and that eerie iridescent light emanating from him seems to dim with disappointment. His thoughts press on, but I’m only able to grasp every third word, sorry, Gage, listen.

I shake my head, trying hard to hang onto the powers that bearing the twins afforded me, but those seem to be fading like the many other things in my life.

“It’s not working. I can’t read your mind unless I touch you,” I muse, perusing the room as my sisters pass around the eggnog on trays. Both Mia and Melissa have donned sexy elf costumes, complete with pointy green stilettos. Emma’s obnoxious laughter lights up the room, and with the dizzying array of Christmas carols blasting from the boom box in the corner, I’m surprised the twins aren’t screaming hara-kiri by now.

Logan presses out a cool smile. “Then we’ll have to go back to touching.” He wastes no time in threading our fingers together. His amber eyes bear hard into mine, and a spear of heat expands the length of my stomach. Skyla Laurel Messenger—Oliver. His smile stretches just enough, but that pained look takes over his features. Talk to Gage. Don’t drag this out. You and I both know you’ll regret losing a single moment with him.

I pull my hand free and smirk. “I should have known it was going to be an infomercial for the dark side. You shouldn’t go so thick on the propaganda. It’s not a becoming look on you. He’s abandoned your people, too.”

Before he can put in a rebuttal, Michelle Miller hops over in her sky-high FMs with Liam by her side, and we exchange the necessary holiday niceties. Michelle is a dark-haired beauty that has always reminded me a little of Chloe—deeply tanned skin—super model features, soul as black as night. Okay, so maybe that last descriptor is a little harsh. And Liam, well, he’s just another Marshall knockoff along with Logan and Coop.

Michelle runs a finger along Logan’s cheek, and that rage I’ve been brewing all night long demands to unleash all over her. “A thousand bucks says you and Lex are the next to tie the knot!” She tosses her long curls over her back and cackles up a storm.

“Not this shit again,” I mutter under my breath. And just like that, Chloe pops up as if on cue.

“Skyla is right,” she snarks while standing shoulder to shoulder with me in a shocking display of solidarity, and every eyebrow in the vicinity goes up, including mine. Crap. I should have gone over the short list of rules with Chloe. The first and most important of them being act natural. Declaring me right in any matter is a clear telltale sign that all is not right with the world.

Chloe drapes an arm around my shoulder, and I cringe as I glance to Logan. His eyes are the size of soccer balls, because for one, I haven’t bothered to kick the Transfer troll back to the curb.

“Skyla and Logan were meant for one another.” Chloe preens for my approval, but I can see the devil dancing in her eyes. “Have a little decorum, Shelly.” Chloe glances over her shoulder at Dudley and bites down over her bottom lip seductively as if she were gunning for some of that Clydesdale action tonight. Her deep, black, bordering on auburn hair lies heavy over one eye as she turns back to face her old Bitch Squad recruit. Back in the day, Chloe was the leader of the mean girls at West Paragon High, which included Michelle, Lexy, and Emily. Not much has changed in that respect other than the fact I find Emily livable at best, considering we’re held up under one roof. Plus, Em has mad skills when it comes to all things future. Emily is sort of a heavenly prognosticator, reciting visions from the Almighty Himself, and since most of her visions concerning me are, well, concerning, I tend to keep my distance.

“Damn right! Brielle pops up from behind and jumps on Chloe’s back, causing her to let out an indelicate oomph. “God, it’s nice to see my besties getting along! What the hell. It’s Christmas, right?”

“Yes, what the hell?” Logan needles me with a private inquisition, but I refuse to go there with my glowing ex-husband. Logan and I were married for the short span of three days. It was bliss, and, as per usual, when I’m in any state of bliss, my mother up above puts the kibosh on that good time.

Chloe wraps an arm around me, and I can feel Logan stilling, reasoning whether or not I’ll be in need of some serious help momentarily. I might be, but at this point I’m so wrapped up in rage I can most definitely take her.

“Skyla and I are working on rebuilding our relationship,” she mewls, meek and innocent, but I can hear the dark laughter already brewing in her chest. “We’ll be spending much more time together in the future, so you’d better get used to it.” She gifts Logan a sly wink. “Aren’t you lucky?”

Logan opens his mouth as if to say something just as my mother starts in on a howling spree. “Attention!” She claps and stomps her feet. Tad belts out one of his eardrum splitting whistles, and every baby in the room startles to life. I glance over to my own two cherubs, but they’re both knotted up like turtles with their legs tucked underneath them, each fast asleep—one with their grandfather, Barron—one still safely tucked in his father’s arms.

“It’s present time!” Mom calls out. “Let the festivities begin!”

The entire house explodes in a fit of roars and laughter as gifts and wrapping paper alike go flying. I’m sure Emma is having a seizure at the scene. It takes twelve hours to open three gifts at the Olivers’.

I glance down at the small gift bag I’m still holding that Laken picked up for me and hand it to Chloe.

“This is for you.” I force a dry smile. “It’s just a little something to brighten your spirits.”

Chloe wastes no time in dipping her fingers into it and plucking out the amber bottle.

“Chloe”—she plants a kiss over the glass—“my favorite perfume! How did you ever know?” She pulls me into a strong embrace, and it feels strange, traitorous to be touching her this way. Touching Chloe, embracing her in any physical or emotional way wasn’t necessarily a part of our agreement, but for the sake of showmanship and rebuilding what we never really had, I go with it. “I have something for you, too.” She fishes something out of her pocket and places it gingerly in my hand.

“It’s a ring,” I say, surprised as I study it a moment. It looks familiar—platinum or silver I can’t tell. It’s vintage, that’s for sure, but there’s something about that cat’s eye sapphire that graces the top that clings to me like some distant memory long-forgotten—something about the way the precious metal is fashioned into two claws holding the blue heart together, and then it hits me and I gasp.

“Chloe!” I smack her on the arm before trying to stuff the haunted ring back into her hand, but she laughs and pulls away.

“Now—that’s not how you say thank you, is it, Skyla?”

I pull her in and bury my lips in her ear. “You stole this from that hellion Cassandra? Are you insane? You of all people should know that manipulating the past is a piss-poor idea.”

“Relax.” She pulls back and fluffs my hair with her fingers. “You of all people know that you can’t really change anything.” My heart sinks when she says it because for a time I tried to save my father—the one she killed—or instructed Demetri to do so. They’re both guilty in my eyes. “What’s a little petty theft among friends and relations?” She scowls at me a moment, her jowls trembling as if she were rabid. “Relax, Messenger. It was gifted to me, and now I’m gifting it to you.” She trots off toward Demetri, most likely to gloat over her latest acquisition—my assumed friendship. Neither Chloe nor I are in this to rebuild something we’re not really interested in. We both came into our agreement with our own motivations, our own determined will to make it happen. And we will. If anything, Chloe and I share a ripe desperation, something animalistically charged and undeniably powerful.

I jab the sapphire ring on my right ring finger. It’s not the ring’s fault Chloe has committed an interdimensional robbery. It might as well be cared for and appreciated.

Logan wraps an arm around my waist and leads me into the deep end of the Oliver pool where Emma, Barron, and Gage huddle with the boys. Crap. I’ll need a life preserver to survive this night, and Logan is proving to be more of a lead weight than a buoy.

“Skyla”—Barron dances his way over with his namesake in his arms—“dare I say you have the most well-behaved children here.”

“I agree.” I press a gentle kiss over the back of baby Barron’s little warm head, and he nuzzles further into his grandfather’s chest.

“You’re welcome to join us tomorrow if you like.” He extends the invitation with hopeful eyes, but I catch Emma twisting her lips.

“Of course, she’ll be there,” Gage offers and I force myself to look at him. It feels heavy and weighted just to meet with his gaze, and as ripe as my anger is, I can feel the tears just below the surface. There’s a careful apprehension between the two of us. I’m still wearing my broken heart, and he’s still wearing that slap I issued like a fresh tattoo.

Just as I’m about to think up a dozen reasons why I will not in fact be there, Mom and Demetri round out our circle.

“Well, look at this!” Mom bubbles. “It wouldn’t be Christmas without all of our favorite people here!” She throws her arms around Demetri, pulling him into a sort of awkward side hug, and just the sight sends my stomach churning. It’s one thing to have a secret lovechild with her favorite Fem, but to openly molest him for all to see—namely me, it makes the bile rise to the back of my throat.

Demetri’s eyes glance to my waist, and it’s only then I note that Logan is still securely attached. It’s funny how Logan has become such a part of me, so integrally connected to my body and soul I no longer perseverate on the little details—platonic as they may be, and, in this case, they are every bit platonic.

Logan straightens and his hand slides back to his own side. “Wonderful party.” He nods to my mother.

“Thank you!” Her entire face lights up to rival his own. “I’m thinking now that the twins are here we should get together far more often. I’d hate to wait for the holidays to roll around for us all to be in the same room. We’re family now!” She waves a hand at Emma. “Besides, don’t you think for a minute that these two lovebirds will let those sheets cool for too long.” She giggles incessantly at the potential state of my uterus. It’s clear someone has been hitting the eggnog a little too hard. “I’m expecting a basketball team from you two!”

“I think we’re done,” I spit the words out, looking right into those overgrown sapphires that belong to Gage Oliver. And I mean done in the most literal sense. A dull ache infiltrates me from the inside. Gage and I can never really be done, not with two precious souls between us—three counting our daughter who never made it out of the womb. My entire affect sags at the thought of Sage missing her first Christmas, every Christmas here on out.

Mom chortles at my response and smacks Demetri over the arm. “And we thought we were done, didn’t we?”

The entire lot of us leers at the two of them with sober expressions.

Oh my shit. I swear on all that is holy if Demetri has knocked up my mother again I’ll find a way to hack him to pieces.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask the obvious question.

Demetri chortles right alongside the loon still clutching him tight. “I think what Lizbeth is trying to say is that the best intentions sometimes go awry, Skyla.” He bears those dark soulless eyes into mine as if he were stabbing each one out with a pitchfork. “We make plans and God laughs.” The smug grin returns to his face. “God laughs when we try to manipulate our circumstances.” He glances to Chloe in the not too far distance, and my stomach bubbles with the promise of an eruption. “Some things are simply meant to be. You cannot stop destiny—you cannot stop fate.”

I step in close to him while Mom, Emma, and Barron busy themselves fussing over the twins. “Tad might annoy the ever-living hell out of me—and yes, I might wish I could light his head on fire a time or two, but he belongs with my mother. Keep your greasy claws to yourself, would you?”

Demetri’s demented grin expands. “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” He strums out a laugh. “Oh, what the heck, it’s Christmas, Skyla.” He gives a sly wink. “This one’s for you.”

Mom pulls me in and wraps her arms around me tight. “I mean we found our way back to one another after all of those years.” Gross. “Never mind all of this deep thinking. It’s Christmas! And in about five minutes I’ve got a surprise for the kids.” She leans in and cups her hand around her lips. “We have a very special guest getting ready to make an appearance!”

Marshall leans in. “And this is my gift to you.”

A series of choking sounds and choice expletives emit from the stairwell, and everyone stills and turns in that direction.

Down tumbles Tad, clad in a red Santa suit and a full fuzzy white beard that looks as if he chopped up Mia’s massive teddy bear collection to fashion it. He’s donned a pair of large, rather ill-fitting boots that might actually be the cause of his forthcoming paralysis judging by the way he’s taking the stairs four at a time, and I swear a leg just wrapped itself around his shoulders.

“Hock, hock, hock!” he barks it out like a threat—and dear God, he can’t even get the terminology right. Mom chortles up a storm as does everyone else, and the room breaks out into a jovial mood.

Mom herds Misty, Beau, and Ember to the forefront of this madness. Thank God Almighty the boys are far too young to participate in the slaughtering of Santa. Tad Landon is a lot of things, a knockoff Santa he is not.

“Emma, get the boys!” Mom harps while waving wildly.

Emma snatches Nathan from Gage, and she and Barron are quick to comply with my mother’s silly wishes.

I head over and, upon closer inspection, note Tad’s Santa suit looks as if it was used to clean the inside of a deep fryer. Funny, I don’t remember him ever donning the felt monstrosity before. Must be new, or more to the broke point, new to him. It’s spotted and tattered with tiny holes sitting prominently on his shoulder.

Tad howls and whelps until he finally manages to stick the landing and stands proud at the base of the stairs.

“All right, round up the ankle biters!” He holds out his hands in an animated manner. “Who would like to be the first to sit on Santa’s lap?”

His sleeve dips close to the candle on the end table next to him, and just as I’m about to move it out of the way, his entire arm erupts in flames.

“Jiminy Cricket! Bull hockey! Great Caesar’s ghost!” Tad shrieks as loud as a schoolgirl as the flames lick ever so close to his head, and he begins on a wild spin. The room explodes in screams and shouts as Tad’s entire suit erupts in a blaze with a loud roaring whoosh. Drake and Emily pull the kids to safety while Ethan throws a vase at Tad’s head—and holy crap, that sounded like a skull cracker! I’m assuming he meant to douse him with its contents, but in a state of panic—and a burst of Landon brain cells—he’s sent Tad staggering instead.

“Lizbeth!” Tad pauses—his entire body rife with an angry inferno, his eyes just as furious. “So help me God!” And just like that, his faux beard bursts into a wall of fire.

“My God, his head is on fire!” I scream, and at exactly that moment Demetri steps into my line of vision and offers a congratulatory nod.

An entire choir of shit circles around the room as the unbearable heat skyrockets, and someone swings the front door wide open—most likely in hopes Tad will fly right out. But he doesn’t. Tad spasms around the foyer, shrieking for help that doesn’t seem to come. Mom swats the crap out of him with a broom she’s pulled from the closet, and just like that, his Santa hat ignites like a fiery cherry on top.

“Holy mother of God.” I glance around in a panic for something, anything to put the damn fire out. So help me God, Tad Landon is not going to barbecue himself on my children’s first Christmas.

Logan pulls the red runner off the floor, sending both Liam and Michelle flying straight into the bathroom as they go airborne.

“Move,” he shouts to my mother as he beats Tad with the woven fabric. Marshall comes over and tosses an old quilt over him, and the heat along with the unnatural light all defuse in an instant, and yet my mother quickly plucks it right back off.

“Are you insane?” she balks. “That was my grandmother’s!”

Every jaw in the room unhinges as my mother’s need for nostalgia outweighs the fact her husband nearly burned alive before our very eyes. Come to think of it, maybe Tad’s disco inferno was just as much for my mother as it was for me? I take a moment to glare at Demetri. If it was my wish to see his head burst into flames, maybe it was her wish to finish him off? Oh my God! I am very much fearing for Tad Landon’s life.

Tad rolls around to douse the remaining flames while everyone disperses, and Logan ends up wrapping him in the rug like a giant red burrito.

The wail of an ambulance slices through the unexpected silence, and I spot Mia, Melissa, and that oversized beef-eating basketball star each on their phones recording the event to regale the Internet with no doubt.

The party disbands in less than thirty seconds and leaves a skeleton crew hovering around the charred moaning pile that was once my stepfather.

Marshall kisses each of the boys good night before nodding my way.

Did you enjoy your gift? He gives a sly wink before glancing to Tad who has seemingly recovered enough to belt out every curse known to man.

“No,” I mouth in horror as poor Tad moans and groans his way through another choir of expletives.

Marshall pulls me into a quick embrace. “Do thank Demetri. It’s poor form not to. Remember, it’s the thought that counts.” He pulls back and shakes his head ever so slightly as if something went wrong, and it sure as hell did. “That was my gift as well, Skyla.” He picks up my hand, and his jaw redefines itself. Chloe’s ring is already dazzling in the light. “Charming.”

“Chloe gave it to me. It looks vintage.” I bite down on my lip. I’ve never been able to hide a thing from Marshall.

“It is.” And I’m pretty sure he knows why.

I hold it out for a moment and admire it in the light as the medical team hovers over Tad. “I have always wanted a cat’s eye sapphire. How do you think she knew?”

“I believe you’re looking for the term star sapphire. Ms. Bishop’s bustling mind remains an utter mystery to me.” He fondles the ring on my finger a moment, pulling it closer to him for inspection. “However this, my love, is neither a star sapphire nor a cat’s eye.” He pauses and takes a breath. “In the old days, this was referred to as lapis lazuli. They were baffled by its clear properties, but that was due to the fact precious sapphires were not readily available to them in their region. It’s why the structure of the throne has an interchangeable term.” A breath expels from him as if he were caught off-guard, and I inch back to get a better look at him. Nothing and no one has ever evoked that response in him. “This is chipped from the living throne of the Most High, Skyla. That slice of light you see is no iris.”

I gasp at the thought. “What is it?” It takes everything in me not to shake the holy crap out of him.

“Temper.” His lips curl at the edges as Gage pops up beside us holding both twins, and that sweet spot for him melts all over again. “It is the portal to a power only the creator Himself is privy to. We’ll speak again soon enough. You might want to keep this around.” He flicks the pendant floating at the base of my necklace. I’ve worn the protective hedge, The Eye of Refuge, off and on over the last two years, mostly along with the mirrored heart Logan gifted me for my birthday years ago, but I unceremoniously plucked that one off this morning before I donned the piece. I’m not feeling the love like I once did. I couldn’t bring myself to wear that mirrored heart—not with its proclamation of his love written on the side of it. Not after what I witnessed last night.

“Why do I need this, Marshall?” I glare at him a moment. I’m so damned tired of being left in the dark.

Oh, Skyla. He closes his eyes a moment. “Good night.” He bows to Gage a moment before ditching out into the icy night air.

Barron and Emma head over.

“Good night, you two.” Barron offers the hint of a sad smile. “Skyla, we look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

Emma gives a curt lift of the hand as they head out the door, and Mia is quick to bolt after them. I’m sure it’s to see her new boy toy who is not actually a boy. Rev is closer to my age than he ever is hers. He’s Dr. Booth’s renegade of a son—sort of a wannabe biker bad boy only I’m not so sure he’s a wannabe.

“Good night,” I say as I take the boys from Gage. “I’d better get them to bed.”

“I’ll help you,” he says it more as a fact than a general offer, and something about his commanding demeanor all night sends my rage factor soaring one hundred Femtastic points.

“No.” It comes out cold, unfeeling, and I don’t like this new version of myself, of us.

“Skyla.” Gage leans in with that toxic cologne of his. I know the exact one, the blue water that sits in a bottle above his old desk in his old room. Gage’s bedroom at his parents’ house is untouched even though he’s lived with me for the last year and a half. Last night was our first night apart, and tonight will mark the second. I hope he’s ready to have the bed to himself for a good long while because I’m about to rain down a hailstorm of long and lonely nights. “It’s Christmas.” His brows plead as only they know how. “Let me stay. We can work this out later. I just want to be close to the boys.” He cradles the back of Barron’s head with his hand so tenderly my bones ache straight to the marrow.

Emily comes over with that dead expression she wears like a haunted mask. Her midnight hair sits in a tumble of curls knotted at the top of her head. Over the years, Emily and I have established a friendship of sorts. Kind of.

“I have a vision for you,” she says, depleted of any enthusiasm.

“No,” both Gage and I say in unison with the matching fervor required to reject whatever horror awaits us on the other side of that twisted prophecy. Em’s visions never bode well for me in general.

She cracks the hint of a smile. “That was good.” She starts back toward the living room. “Doesn’t matter. It’ll happen anyway.”

The boys begin to squirm, and I start in on a slow bounce before heading for the stairs. The medics wheel a howling Tad out the door, and my mother runs screaming after them.

“Skyla”—Gage slices my name out sharp as a razor, and I catch both Logan and Liam glancing over from the living room—“you will be there tomorrow. I want a family picture next to the tree.”

I will be there? I will? Who is this dominating man barking out orders as if I were actually inclined to follow them. An incredulous huff gets locked in my throat at this familial command that involves a half-dead evergreen.

“Is that so?” My eyes round out with fury. “I want things, too, Gage.” I lean in, seething with a fury I can no longer contain. “I want a husband who would never dream of betraying me, who would never nail the coffin shut on our marriage without even telling me.” A rush of adrenaline takes over as I struggle to catch my breath, and the boys suddenly feel heavy as iron. “Don’t you tell me what to do and when to do it. That will never fly.” A part of me feels victorious for getting all those venomous words out sans the use of a single expletive. Now that the boys are here, I’m changing all of my corrosive ways, sharpening my honor, spit-shining my soul just to be the best person I can for them—unlike some people. I glare openly at the man I love. “I took my beating heart and sewed it onto yours. You had me. You had all of me. And what did you do? You vomited us up at Demetri’s feet. The very idea makes my head spin with rage. Don’t you think you’re getting away with this. Don’t think for a minute you will ever be the victor. Try anything and I will cut the ground from underneath you.”

The air stiffens between us. An uncomfortable fury snakes around us like a noose.

“You will be there tomorrow.” His eyes widen with something just this side of anger. “We will take a family picture.” His voice is stern, commanding. This is a new side of Gage that I have never seen before, expectant, demeaning, and as much as I hate it, that sweet spot between my thighs starts to quiver.

I speed my way up the stairs with the boys in tow as they writhe—their anxious whimpers turning into a full throttle cry as if they hated what’s happened just as much as I do. No sooner do I get into my bedroom than I slam the door behind me and bolt each and every lock.

The boys wail away, on this, their very first Christmas Eve, and tears stream down my face right along with them.

No, there will be nothing silent about this holy night.