There have been two nights in my life that I have treasured equally above and beyond any other. The first, my wedding night with Skyla. I had dreamed of what it would be like, holding her, making her mine—body and soul, and that night surpassed every dream I knit in my imagination. The second was the birth of my boys, twins—one arrived on Skyla’s birthday, and the other just a few minutes later on my own birthday. Skyla, Nathan, and Barron are my world, my universe, my life. So when it came down to brass tacks and I needed to either pass down a curse to one of my children—Barron I suspected for reasons that revolved around his birth in particular—or keep the curse for myself, I did the only thing a true father would do—I sacrificed my life so that my sons, my wife, could live in peace. But in doing so, I’ve unleashed a fresh hell that will ensure none of us will truly live in unity. The curse is harrowing any way you slice it, and right about now it’s slicing my heart into a million irreparable slivers.

This would have been the third greatest night of my life, the first Christmas with my boys. Yes, I will see them in the morning, but what I wanted, what I needed deep down inside was to be in that bed with Skyla when the clock struck twelve. We would hold the boys between us, safe in our holy huddle. But Demetri had cast a pall on me—or rather I had cast it on myself. The curse in its entirety was made possible by my own decision to break faith with the Barricade—the very shit sandwich that I will root for, run, and enjoy posthumously. Yes, I have drunk the blood of a Celestra—my Celestra, Skyla—and entered into a covenant with my own demented lineage. I am a Fem. I am the sole—soul—proprietor of the curse I have brought upon myself. And in effect, I have become Skyla’s enemy. Or at least that’s Demetri’s hopeful trajectory of things to come. I have plans of my own, and none of them involve hurting my wife or her people. I’m holding onto hope like the slippery string of a helium balloon. And God Almighty help me, I will fight this curse tooth and nail. I will buck against destiny and fate and claw my way through life to remain loyal and loving toward the woman I married. Her people are my people. Her cause is my cause. Celestra must remain in power. The Countenance and their vindictive ploys for domination are vile and wicked, and I could never succumb to those evil ideals. They are not mine. I do not hold them.

I watch the gaping hole at the top of the stairs, hoping that Skyla will have a change of heart—that she’ll reappear and welcome me back to our bed, our life, but no such luck. Instead, I turn to find Demetri with his cool as a rotten to the core cucumber ever-passive grin.

“I’ll be accompanying Lizbeth to the hospital. Should I message you with your father-in-law’s prognosis regardless of the hour?”

“Yes.” It comes out terse without meaning to. I have a feeling it will be that way for a very long time to come with this father of mine. I’m nothing more than a means to an end to him. It’s Barron, the father who raised me, who shows me what true unconditional love is. Barron was just as pleased with me when I was a do-nothing Levatio without clout or standing in any of the Factions, let alone the Fems. And now that he knows I’m wrought from pure evil, he loves me just the same. “Text me regardless. Tell Lizbeth if she needs anything, I’m here.” Lizbeth loves me. She adores me. And she might just be my way back into Skyla’s heart.

Demetri leans in with those dark, empty eyes, and I can feel his mind taking ahold of my own like an iron hand. “You are loved, Gage Edinger. You are my prized creation, and you are most adored—and soon, you will be worshiped as well.” He stalks off into the night and bursts into a vaporous fog before his feet ever hit the porch.

Logan nods to me from the living room, and I head over to say good night.

“I’m taking off.” I give a quick glance around. “Where’s Wes?”

“It’s just me—unless they have a bed in the place everyone else is gone. Wes practically took Chloe by the ear. He’s demanding to know what has Skyla acting so strange. She gave Chloe a gift.” He cocks his head as if waiting for me to somehow quantify that.

“Dude, I do not know what the hell is going on.” My heart thumps out an unnatural rhythm as if speaking to me in Morse code. “See if you can get close.” I tick my head toward the charred stairs. “She loves you. She needs someone to lean on right now.” A knot the size of that crooked Christmas tree builds in my throat, and it’s painful as hell to get the next few words out. “Until she will hear me out—until she opens her heart back up to me, be a friend.” There. I said friend. Logan has never been good at being just a friend to Skyla, and if he were to cross that line again—albeit the last time he crossed that line it was with Chloe pretending to be Skyla—I wouldn’t interfere. In my mind and heart, I’m already as good as dead. What I did last night was throw dirt on my own coffin. Skyla knows it. I know it. And Logan knows it, too. It’s his time to shine, and quite frankly, it doesn’t matter where I point the damn finger anymore. It seems as if this train of destruction I’m on cannot and will not be stopped.

Logan pushes out a dry smile that dissipates faster than it stays. “I’m a friend to you both.” His eyes darken as he presses into me with his gaze. “You are both more than my friends. You are both my family. I will and have died for you. I’m not some replacement of yours waiting in line, Gage. I don’t want you weeping into your pillow, lamenting all that could have been with the woman you love—the woman who bore your children. She is your wife, Gage.” He says wife so caustic and fast it sounds like knife. Right now, knife feels a bit more accurate—the blade protruding from my aching, bleeding, weeping heart is indeed Skyla. But I’m the one that planted her there. I take full responsibility for this fiasco. “Do not give up.” He softens. “Do you hear me? Or does that thick head of hair prevent you from listening to the truth? Fight.” He smacks me hard on the arm.

A ripe anger burns through me like a flash fire. “I am fighting.” It takes everything in me to grit the words out. “I’m fucking fighting with more than I have to offer. Yes, I’m fighting for my wife. But I’m fighting for my boys, too. She has to understand that.”

“And she will. You and I will work hard to make sure she hears the truth and understands that your arms were tied.”

A dull huff of laughter pinches through the pain. “I sound like a pussy.”

“A pussy would have let his own kid take the fall.” He slaps me over the back as Mia and Melissa come screaming in with excitement, shouting something about it being midnight and that all presents from Santa are fair game. “Let’s get out of here, dude.”

Logan and I walk out into the navy velvet night. The sky is marbled with a mixture of boiling clouds and fog—not a star in the sky is able to make an appearance. A storm is brewing overhead, one that my mother swore earlier would be one for the ages. Just as we’re about to part ways, the sky lights up with apocalyptic promise as lightning decorates the heavens in a show of electrifying brilliance. The sky growls and roars, but I’d swear on my quickly waning life that Paragon just growled back with all the scathing anger that Skyla happens to hold.

“Holy shit.” Logan laughs as he glances upward. “How about I head home with you? We’ll hang out and watch a movie until Santa shows up.” He gives a little wink. Logan knows this is destined to be a shit night for me.

Before I can answer, my phone buzzes in my hand, and I’m hopeful as an orphan on adoption day that Skyla is calling me back—back to our bed, back to our life. But it’s not Skyla. It’s a text from my father.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, and the sky lights up in another show of glory. An uncharacteristically warm breeze wafts by, and both Logan and I glance at one another as if it might mean something. “I’ll take a rain check on that movie. The refrigeration unit is out at the morgue. I’d better head over and wait for the repairman.”

“You want company?”

“Nope. Go wait for Santa. Giselle’s at the house tonight. That means Ellis will be pawing at her in the living room. Make sure they keep it G.”

“Will do.” Logan takes off, and I wait until his taillights disappear before climbing in my own truck. I lean forward and try to catch a glimpse of light coming from Skyla’s bedroom window, but there’s none. Not that there would be. Skyla and I have gotten used to operating under moonlight in hopes to keep the boys asleep, not that they believe in sleeping. Our own sleep cycles have become sort of a theory or fond memory at this point. “Come on, Skyla,” I whisper, willing her to call me, but Skyla doesn’t call. I glare at the road all the way to the morgue.

* * *

The Paragon Mortuary is the pride and joy of my father, my proper father, Barron Oliver. Perhaps that’s an exaggeration. My sister and I are his pride and joy, and I’m pretty sure Logan is included in that equation. My boys are his pride and joy as well, but, yes, the morgue is far more a family member than it ever is a business. He worked here right after completing his degree in mortuary sciences, then went on with school until he received his doctoral degree. Eventually, he was able to purchase this haunt filled with rotting bodies along with the surrounding land. My father is a brilliant man, and of all of the brilliant things he could be spending his time doing, he insists on hanging out with the dead.

The morgue is designed to look like a replica of the White House, miniaturized of course, and brimming with corpses. You wouldn’t think we would get much business on the island, but even the neighboring islands have been burying their dead here for years. The cemetery in the back is owned and operated by my father as well, acres and acres of death and dying. It seems death has been my destiny all along, not only in the sense that it’s a once in a lifetime opportunity for every living soul, but it’s the way the souls in my family happen to make a living.

The sky crackles with brilliance, blinking on and off as if the light switch in the sky were broken. A lion-sized roar envelops the island, and the ground shakes with ferocity.

“Shit,” I hiss, getting out of the truck just as the sky overturns those heavy tar-colored clouds like a bucket and the world is drenched in an instant. Paragon craves rain the way humans demand oxygen. Sickles fall from above as I make a run for the building, and the sky lights up again like a torch. I pause a moment, admiring the sheer elegance of this spider web of light descending from the heavens. A spiraling bolt touches down over the crematorium, and the entire building lights up like an x-ray. “Holy shit,” I mutter as the sky blackens again, and I dive into the morgue for shelter.

“Hello?” I shout as I bolt the door locked behind me. It’s what I always shout when I’m alone in this haunted hotel, because for one, it gives me the fucking creeps to be here sans another living being.

“What’s up?” a friendly male voice calls from the back, followed by the clip clop of heavy footsteps in this general direction. I half-expect to find Wes here. He’s been interning with my father, studying corpses as if he’s about to write a thesis on the subject—if only Wesley would harness his wicked intentions toward a literary pursuit. The thought makes me want to laugh.

But it’s not Wes. It’s Rev, Dr. Booth’s son who’s been getting down and dirty with Skyla’s little sister, Mia, as of late. I frown openly at him for that reason alone. Mia is like my own little sister, and I hate that this roughed-up wannabe biker is her new physical obsession.

“What’s going on?” I’m only half-concerned to see him here. Rev, Revelyn, has taken a paying position as a morgue attendant, something a notch up from the intern he too used to be.

“I was about to leave when that damn fridge went on the fritz again. I called Al at The Big Chill. He’ll be here in about twenty minutes.” Rev is a bit on the beady-eyed side, with a face full of dark unshaven scruff and short fuzzy hair to match. He’s cut and lean, so I kind of get Mia’s budding obsession. He’s the bad boy to her good girl. And as much as Skyla and I hate to see it happen, it’s already happening whether or not we like it.

“Thanks. What were you doing here?” I’m only half-curious. Honestly, if this dude has some sick obsession with the freshly deceased, I’m not sure I want to know. On second thought…

“Hospital called and wanted to ship out a body, so your dad asked if I could cover. It should arrive any moment.” He nods me toward the back, and we start making our way to the prep laboratory—otherwise known as the kitchen. “How’d Christmas go? Get everything your heart desires? I bet your daddy really comes through on checking that list, purchasing everything twice. Must be nice to be loaded.” He belts out a caw of a laugh.

“What the hell are you talking about? Your father is the best psychiatrist on the island, and I’m betting he hauls twice as much as my father on a good day.” I’m betting half of Rev’s behaviors stem from the fact he’s spoiled rotten.

“I’m not talking about Barron.” He gives a dark chuckle as we enter the bowels of the prep station, and a red light blinks in a spasm, alerting us that we have a very dead visitor at the other end of that wall. I open the back—a glorified garage door that scrolls toward the celling with a yawn, and the EMTs waste no time wheeling in a body. Rev pulls back the sheet, revealing a girl, early twenties maybe, long red hair, skin as pale blue as the western sky, lips black as coal.

Rev signs off on the paperwork, and as soon as the transport team takes off, I shut the door again, stopping the torrential downpour from making its way inside.

“Go ahead and take off, man,” I say, helping Rev secure her to the gurney as we wheel her toward the defunct refrigeration unit. “I’ll get her in a drawer. Wish your dad a Merry Christmas for me.”

“Will do.” Rev shoves his clipboard my way. “And tell your dad I said the same—Demetri, in the event you’re wondering which one. He’s the loaded one, remember?” He gives a slight wink before disappearing back through the kitchen, whistling an eerie tune that I happen to recognize—the theme to M*A*S*H, “Suicide is Painless”. M*A*S*H is some old seventies TV show my father still tries to catch now and again. I’ve never cared much for the theme song.

A burst of lightning infiltrates the room, and an explosion shatters one of the windows facing the northern wall. The frenzied sound of glass crashing to the floor enlivens every one of my frayed nerves.

“Shit.” I jump back, sending the gurney over, right along with the body. “Fuck.” A peal of thunder so loud roars through the cavernous room, causing every single drawer behind me to rattle open a few good inches. I reach back and snap them all closed in an effort to keep the bodies as cool as possible. “Holy hell.” I swing the gurney back to its upright position, and the poor girl’s arms flail like dying fish.

Another round of lightning hits, and this time the lights in the kitchen dim down to pitch.

“Brown out. Just fucking great.” I turn my phone into a flashlight just as the room trembles with another viral growl of thunder. “Sounds like a bag of cats on fire,” I whisper, reaching for the clipboard that has sailed across the floor. It’s time to tag and bag this poor girl. I need to get home—somehow get to Skyla so I can see my boys on Christmas morning the way I’ve been dreaming of.

A dull moan comes from behind, and I freeze. I glance out the window for a hint of lightning, but it’s black as coal. It was probably just the rain. It’s coming down like hammers out there.

Another dull moan comes from behind, and this time I pivot on my heels, my heart doing its best to leap from my chest.

“Hello?” I call out and my voice echoes. The lights flicker back on for a moment before dimming once again. “Anybody there?”

A sharp cry gurgles from the body in front of me.

“Holy—” I reach forward and snatch the thin sheet off the corpse and do my best to unbuckle her from the metal bed as fast as I can. The girl lurches and vomits bile onto the floor in green soupy chunks. “Oh shit.” I fumble with my phone. “I’ll call for help.” Only my fingers can’t seem to navigate the numbers.

“No, don’t!” she calls out with a strangled cry. “Call my mother.” She tips her head as far off the gurney as possible and another waterfall of vomit splatters all over the place, wetting down the shins of my pants in the process.

I call 911 and shout an entire litany of obscenities into the phone while smacking the door open to the back of the facility for two very good reasons—one, it smells like the foulest puke I have ever had the displeasure to be around—and two, a fucking corpse just sprung back to life.

“It’s okay.” I try to soothe her while helping her sit up. Her face enlivens with color, that unearthly blue hue still lingers around her eyes. She’s pretty in a Goth-I’ve-just-come-back-from-the-dead sort of way. Her dark reddish hair is matted in the back, and her eyes shine a kaleidoscope of green and brown. “What’s your name?” I pull the clipboard forward to see if there are any outstanding details I can glean from it.

She grunts something unintelligible that sounds like Audra and spits onto the floor. “I need water.”

I rush over and fill a cup from the tap before giving it to her.

The name on the clipboard reads Melody Winters. Not a match by a long shot. Shit. Looks as if the hospital fucked up big time.

“What happened?” She looks around at the facility with a dizzying grin springing to her lips as her legs swing over the side of the gurney. “I was dead, wasn’t I?” The idea seems to have her elated. “My God, this is going to be great.” Her affect sobers as she turns to me. “How old would you say I am?”

I check the clipboard. “It says here you’re twenty-two.”

“Ah!” She lets out an inebriated sort of a laugh. “What a magnificent age!” She jabs her finger into her mouth. “Good God! I’ve got all me teeth!”

Me teeth?

“What year is it?” she hisses it out markedly less friendly, far more like a command, and something about her in general is setting me on edge.

“What year do you think it is?”

“Don’t you get fresh with me.” She scowls a moment before winking as if she were suddenly in the mood to flirt. “And what the hell kind of a candle is that in your hand?”

“It’s my phone.” Everything about this chick is off by a cadaverous mile. The sharp wail of an ambulance cuts through the storm, and I’ve never been happier to hear that sound. I’m tired. It’s Christmas. And for the love of God, this poor girl needs her head examined. She might have survived whatever tried to off her, but it’s clear her brain is a bit scrambled at the moment.

Her head juts forward as she tries to sneak a glance at it. “What exactly is a phone?”

And there it is. Maybe I should have kept Rev here a little longer after all. At least with him there’s an iota of a psychiatric connection, and this girl is in need of all things psychiatric. Poor girl—lucky girl all things considering.

“Don’t worry about it, sweetie. You’ve had a rough night. I’m sure once they get your fluids back to normal, you’ll be right as rain.”

The EMTs rush in and transfer her to their own gurney, and she gives a wild wave, laughing and applauding as they wheel her back into the night.

“I’m sorry, kind sir!” she shouts over to me. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”

Ellis Harrison, I want to say. “Gage Oliver!” Integrity wins out every single time. Although Skyla might not agree with that one.

I hose off the vomit from the kitchen floor and take off once big Al shows up with his refrigeration crew. He lets me know there will be a special after hours charge for Christmas Eve, on top of the special after hours charge he usually fucks us with. And I assure him it’s not a problem.

In truth, I’m getting used to being screwed on Christmas.

I head home, taking my clothes and shoes off on the side of the house before tossing them straight into the trash bin. For a moment, I let Paragon wash my naked body with her tears. I raise my hands to the sky, lean my head back, and drink down her fury, icy and harsh before teleporting to my bathroom into a waiting hot shower. This has been one hell of a long night, and once I get dressed, it’s about to get longer.

* * *

In theory, I have always been a genetic mutation. A mash-up of human and angel lineage blended together to form a creature with powers that humans can only dream to have. I had about a third of these powers growing up, if that. When I was about seven, my parents, my mother and my only father at the time, sat both Logan and me down, explaining to each of us what made us so special. My blood had cemented me into the Levatio standing, or so we thought. And Logan, raised as my cousin, in truth my uncle, had a very peculiar strain of this celestial disease. He belongs to the Celestra Faction, a smidge of Countenance thrown in for good wicked measure. Celestra is a rare, quickly dying breed with far more power and status than the other five Factions. My mother holds strong blood ties to the Deorsum Faction. She has a way to make weak-minded individuals do her bidding. I’m guessing she wishes Skyla were weak-minded. Others might argue she is, but Skyla is stealth, strong-minded and strong-willed, case in point her insistence to have nothing to do with me at the moment. Normally I would accept this. Normally I would give her all of the time and space she needs, but this is no normal night, and I can feel both my time and space on this planet quickly drawing to a close.

That stone Candace gifted Skyla at the christening comes back to haunt me. Damn witch.

The sky electrifies in a show of prowess, and the entire house shakes as Skyla’s mother growls over Paragon like a tiger with her tail on fire.

The stone boasts of my final countdown. That number has etched itself inside my eyelids. A round number that essentially is useless because it doesn’t let us know if it were seconds, weeks, months, or years we were dealing with—but the options are whittling away rather quickly. Even if it were years, it still doesn’t give me nearly enough time to spend with those I love.

I slap Skyla’s favorite cologne over my neck, pull on my old sweats that Skyla claims she can’t keep her hands off because they’re soft as rain—her words, not mine—and check myself in the mirror while combing back my hair. I would do anything, alter myself in just about any manner to have Skyla accept me, keep me, beg me to stay. I’d morph my features to match Logan’s if I knew it’d please her.

I sharpen my gaze in the mirror and will myself to do just that. A slow stretching, a warming of the flesh, and just like that, Logan Oliver is staring back at me.

“Son of a bitch,” I whisper and close my eyes, demanding my own features fall back into place. No sooner do I open my eyes than there I am.

Yes. I am no longer a Levatio of humble, low standing. I am Demetri Edinger’s son, a Fem through and through, my mother’s own blood nearly insignificant to my cellular structure. I glare at myself a moment.

There is one solid truth I know for sure. Skyla could never hate me as much as I hate myself.

The room, my inglorious reflection, all dissipate in a powder blue fog. I’m deteriorating, evaporating, heading to Skyla’s house old school—via teleportation. Ah, those old Levatio days. How I do miss them.

Skyla’s room—our bedroom, materializes around me in blinks and seizures. Bed or closet, bed or closet, this far in the game I usually have my destination mapped out, but at the moment my head screams closet—do not blink to life next to her naked body. But my heart, my balls, they both scream for me to do exactly that.

The warmth of Skyla’s body, the cushioned down of that all too soft mattress we’ve completely broken in—it seems my heart and my balls won out. They usually do.

Skyla rolls over and her eyes blink open like that of a doll, a quiet click. Those pale sky born eyes burn over my flesh and sear me with their wrath.

“Why are you here?” Her breath warms me with its minty scent, and my lips twitch to something just this side of a smile. She didn’t claw my eyes out, so that right there has to be a pretty good sign.

“I belong here.” It might be bold of me to say so, but it’s true. It takes everything in me not to run my fingers through that blonde mane of hers. Skyla’s hair is an entity all to itself.

Her mouth opens before compressing shut tight. The moon washes over her features, and Skyla glows like an emerging sunrise.

“You’re so beautiful.” My finger traces over her cheek, smooth as velvet. Skyla is perfection, quite literally, thanks to her mother. Candace Messenger ensured her daughter’s beauty, her sparkle, that spitfire that loves to cork to the surface more often than not. I’m in love with her, with each and every facet of the jewel that lies beside me.

“Smooth.” She reaches up and catches my finger as if insinuating that my words, my thoughts, were catering to her ability to read my mind.

“Every word is true as God.”

She gives a slight nod, her lips bowing to the tip of my finger, and I close my eyes a moment with that simple kiss. I can’t help but note the fact she’s still wearing her wedding ring, and everything in me soars with hope.

The boys squirm and grunt at the same time and begin in on a choir of quiet brays. Skyla reaches over and picks up Barron, and I scoop Nathan into my arms. Her blouse falls open as she lays Barron to her breast, and I give her Nathan so he can latch on as well. Skyla doesn’t prefer to feed them at the same time. She likes the one-on-one experience, but at night when she’s bone-tired, she gives in and lets them take all they want so she can catch a decent wink before the sun cracks the horizon.

I scoot in close and brazenly wrap an arm around her, landing my palm over Barron’s warm head of hair. My other hand lands over Nathan’s back, and I soak in the rhythm of this beautiful family God has gifted me.

“I want to say my peace.” The words swim around the room like a haunted whisper.

Skyla looks up, the whites of her eyes flashing with a refreshed level of rage.

Her hand shifts from Barron’s side, landing her finger over my lips. Even in this repressed light, Skyla is an undeniable work of art. I can’t drink her in fast enough, her perfect bow tie lips, the full curves of her body.

“I love you,” I say before playfully biting down on her finger. “I promise, I will never be your enemy.” My eyes linger over hers as a morbid sorrow blankets the room. “I will love you forever.”

Tears moisten her eyes, cutting through the moonlight like shards of glass. “Get out.”

And there it is. I knew those words were coming. With Skyla, you either feel the love or not—and tonight she’s decided to unceremoniously give me the boot. I lean over and place a kiss to each of the boys in turn.

“Merry Christmas.” I lean in to kiss her goodbye, and she turns away, landing my lips to the edge of her jawline. “I’ll see you at my parents’ house.” I flick her ear gently with my finger, and she flinches with a frown already pointed my way. “We’re taking a picture as a family.”

And I leave.

* * *

“A reanimation?” My sister’s eyes bulge with delight at the idea.

It’s ten after three, the time my mother deemed a perfect hour for Christmas dinner, and she’s already scowling at me from across the living room because Skyla is holding up her party. I don’t really see the problem. There’s not much of a party—just Liam, his main squeeze, Michelle Miller, Ellis and Giselle, me and nobody. I asked Logan to head over to the Landon house and help bring Skyla and the boys over, but that was over an hour ago.

“Dude.” Ellis shudders. “If a corpse puked on me, I’d effing puke right back.”

“I came close.” There’s the truth.

Dad clears his throat, obviously not as riveted by my tales of the crypt as G and Ellis. “I’ve dealt with the authorities twice this morning. One would hope they’re grilling the staff at the emergency room far more efficiently than they are me.” He glides his glasses back up his nose absentmindedly. It’s a habit of his that has always endeared me to him, and now that Demetri has put a dent in our special bond, I appreciate Barron, my true father, all that much more. “It’s as if they’re blaming me for bringing the dead back to life.”

Mom huffs, adjusting the Battenberg lace apron tied to her waist. She’s emulating a 1950s housewife to a T tonight—long wool dress, a string of iridescent pearls floating around her neck, bright holiday red lipstick, and her hair pinched in a neat bun. My mother is a powerhouse of a businesswoman with the most successful and largest daycare center on the island. She’s a master cook, master baker, and runs a household like a boss. The only thing she can’t seem to do is find a soft spot in her heart for the woman I love.

“They should be so lucky we could resurrect a soul or two.” Mom scowls at the thought. “The next thing you know, they’ll be slapping us with fines for housing sick individuals against their will! And just you wait—those feds that are crawling all around the island like a small army will be knocking on your door soon enough. I’ve got a good mind to put a sign out there, do not knock lest ye wake the dead.”

Giselle chortles at my mother’s attempt at humor, and a brisk knock erupts over the front door on cue.

I half-expect it to be the feds. My mother is right. Paragon is infested with government workers forced to take a break from their own holiday festivities in search of Moser and Killion. Those two aforementioned feds were slaughtered by a hungry Spectator in the woods behind Demetri’s estate the night of the christening. As much as Coop promised to clean up the place, you have to figure it’s laced with enough DNA to rouse the suspicion of any government agency.

I follow my father to the door as Christmas carols dance lightly through the air. Not the raucous old-school cheerful carols of last night at the Landons’, but a far more demure instrumental version that only the discerning ear could tag as a familiar holiday tune. Everything about this house is demure in contrast to last night’s fiasco. Not that Lizbeth’s decorating skills are a fiasco. They’re bright and happy, and that’s the exact environment I’d like my sons to grow up in. My mother’s décor leans toward Christmas art deco, more of the idea of the holiday in hues of white and silver than actually any hard evidence of the jolly elf himself. There isn’t anything here that screams Christmas sans the crystal white tree in the living room. That plastic wonder is carefully festooned with enough bright red ribbons and bulbs to make up for the rest of the monochromatic holiday theme.

Mom swings the door open with a frown, but quickly bounces a smile on her lips.

“Kresley, one of my favorite girls!” She leans in and offers a hearty embrace to the tall brunette at the door. I have never heard her reference Skyla as her favorite anything. “You do look lovely. Merry Christmas, sweetheart. Gage—help Kresley in. I need to tend to the kitchen.”

“Gage Oliver!” Kresley presses that lustful gaze of hers my way before lunging in for a hug and latching on for dear life. Kres is Wesley’s old girlfriend. She’s pretty in an aggressive pile on too much war paint kind of way. But it’s her personality that’s a solid turn-off for me. She’s a take them by the balls, hold no prisoners kind of a girl. And unfortunately for me, it’s my balls she’s after these days.

“Merry Christmas. Can’t breathe.” I choke out that last word exaggeratingly so, but I’d lie, cheat, and steal just to get Kresley the hell off me.

The minivan pulls up in the driveway with Logan behind the wheel, and I catch Skyla already glaring at me from over Kresley’s shoulder.

Shit. I pull away and manage to pluck myself free while scooping up the packages on the porch beside Kres.

“You are a hero!” She beams. “Mellie Winters is Grayson’s roommate’s sister.” She gives a curt nod as if I should understand any of the lunacy she spouted. “And boy are you ever the talk of the island right now.”

Skyla comes up quickly with a car seat in her arms before I can ask what the hell that was about, and I land the packages in the foyer so I can assist her.

Kresley tags along down the porch as Paragon kisses us with an urgent peppering of light rain. “She says you gave her mouth-to-mouth, held her hand until authorities arrived, and then gave her your number. She said you gave her life again. That’s incredible! Is it because, you know, you have Demetri’s blood in you?”

Skyla grunts as she dodges past the two of us. “I don’t even want to know.”

“I didn’t give her my number,” I shout after Skyla and take Barron still nestled in his car seat from Logan. “Thanks, man.” I pull him in quickly. Logan smells thick with cologne, and something about that simple act of hygiene makes my stomach churn. Logan smells good, looks great, and is dressed to the nines. Skyla and I are out of bounds, so that leaves—

“I chatted you up all the way here, man.” He slaps me over the back, and I give a wry smile as we head into the warmth of the house. It takes minimal skin-on-skin contact for Logan to read my thoughts, and yet it never seems to be on my mind. It’s a gift both Skyla and he share, along with their Celestra lineage. Skyla and Logan have always had it all in common, and the Treble Candace gifted him only seems to have brought them closer together. Skyla and I only seem to drift farther apart.

Mom quickly excavates baby Barron from his restraint and raises him in the air, his legs still curled under him from the nap on the ride over.

I speed into the living room to find everyone on their feet, greeting the boys first and foremost. Skyla’s hair looks a bit wild the way it does when she first wakes up in the morning, and my bones ache to witness that firsthand once again. Her eyes are bloodshot, and she has bags underneath them large enough to stuff both Nathan and Barron inside. I’d do anything to lighten her load, help her out when she needs it most all night long.

“I didn’t give anyone my phone number,” I reiterate while attempting to pull her into a hug, but she lunges at Ellis instead. “Certainly not a girl.”

The room quiets down, and it’s all eyes on me.

“Just clarifying.” I nod toward Skyla, and my father gives an iffy thumbs-up.

Kresley clutches onto my arm, her tits trembling out of her all too exposed cleavage, and I take a full step back because I refuse to fall into the titty trap Kresley has set out for me.

“You’re talking about Mellie, right?” Kresley is still enthralled with this, I can tell. Her arms latch over mine once again as if it were simply a magnetic response.

“Yes.” I carefully pluck myself free, my eyes still sealed over Skyla. “There was a corpse at the morgue, only she wasn’t a corpse. I knocked the gurney over, and she started to puke. The next thing I know, the paramedics are taking her back to the hospital. End of story.”

“That’s quite the whale of a tale.” Skyla smacks her lips, not looking the slightest bit amused.

“She was in a car wreck, Skyla.” Kresley is quick to admonish the love of my life. “Her family thought they lost her—on Christmas Eve of all nights. Can you imagine?”

“I refuse to,” Mom chimes in, still happily rocking Barron. “I’m just glad there was a Christmas miracle after all. There’s nothing more painful than losing a child.” She offers a stern look to Giselle as if it were her fault she was run over by a car—and it might have been. “But I also know the blessing of getting her back. I’ll have to send the Winters family a muffin basket.”

“Muffins, huh?” Skyla muses while glancing to Michelle. “I’ll have to remember that for the next reanimation.”

Giselle clicks her tongue. “I knew it was a reanimation. Santa wouldn’t let anyone die on Christmas Eve. He practically has to do a Christmas miracle. It’s in the Bible.”

“And on that note!” Mom hands Barron back to me. “It’s time to say grace. Dinner is getting cold.”

Skyla and I place the babies back into their car seats and set them a few feet from the table where we can keep an eye on them. They’re both fast asleep. Two miniature versions of myself sleeping and passing gas as they please. It looks like heaven, really. As nice as it is to have a peaceful meal, I’d prefer they scream their vocal cords right out of their throats now rather than at what Skyla and I have dubbed the witching hour. As much as I hated not sleeping with my family last night, as soon as I popped back into my old room, I drank down every glorious moment of shut-eye as if it were the finest wine, exotic, expensive, far too precious to guzzle all at once. And that’s exactly why I feel so bad for Skyla. The lack of sleep we’ve undergone is criminal, inhumane. It holds the power to make you insane. And if you wanted to get down to some psychological basics, it’s certainly played a factor in the madness that’s taken over our lives as of late. I’m not blaming my new covenant with my father on sleeplessness, but certainly how I’ve handled just about every situation has been skewed by having my better judgment rendered useless.

Dinner drags on with incremental conversation regarding the refrigeration unit at the morgue and my mother’s own Christmas memories.

Mom points to me with a cube of steak on the edge of her fork. “Now that you’re a parent, you’ll have to steep the boys full of your own Christmas traditions.”

“Now that you’re a parent?” Skyla whispers mostly to herself as if she’s still trying to process the slight. It would have been nice if my mother pluralized the noun.

“Of course”—Mom wags her bloody square of bovine toward the fireplace—“I’ve started you off in the right direction. I stayed up hand stitching those stockings for the boys last night. I used the exact felt and thread I used on yours all those years ago. I saved it for just this occasion.”

I glance back at the fireplace housing a happy row of stockings. Mom, Dad, Giselle, Logan, and Liam are off to the right, and to the far left, Nathan and Barron sit next to my own stocking. I glance to Skyla and catch the heavy look of hurt weighing down her features.

“I’m sure you’re still working on Skyla’s.” I give a tight smile to my mother.

But Skyla scoffs and waves the idea off before she can answer. “Save it, Gage. You and I both know that will never happen.”

“Then I’ll take them all down.” My words come out a little louder, a little harsher than I meant for them, and Logan shakes his head as if begging me to make a U-turn.

Liam grunts. “What’s going on at that end of the table? Quit your clamoring. Hold it together for the kids, would you?” He moans through a mouthful of food, and I take a moment to glare at him. Liam has been lucky with the ladies ever since he stepped foot on Paragon, and now he seems to be lucky in love with Michelle Miller, an odd combination considering her infatuation with Logan, not to mention Liam’s facial proximity to his. They could be twins. But I’ll let it ride. What I won’t let ride is someone who hasn’t even experienced a hiccup when it comes to matters of the heart sit there and tell me to hold it together when he has no clue regarding half the shit Skyla and I have gone through.

“I’ll quit my clamoring.” Skyla picks up her glass as if toasting him, but her eyes settle on mine with sharp intent. “I’m quitting a lot of things.”

“Well”—Mom balks as if it’s her place to do so—“we’ll be discussing my son’s right to those children with a prized attorney. Ellis, put your mother on standby. I won’t let a little hus—”

“Enough,” I roar so loud the cutlery trembles, and the boys both let out a sharp gasp and start in on a hacking cry. Skyla and I dive over them and scoop them into our arms without thinking twice. We may not see eye to eye at the moment, but we are a united front when it comes to our children.

Giselle taps a knife to her wine glass, and the room quiets down with the steady chiming. Even the boys seem to fall back to sleep as Skyla and I rock them.

“I know exactly what would make everyone feel better.” She giggles through each word. Giselle might be in her late teens, in her senior year of high school—no thanks to Emerson Kragger’s body, but her mind and spirit are still very much her preschool self. “Presents!” she shrieks so loud the boys are right back to crying again. Dinner is quickly abandoned as we retreat to the living room—mostly I think people are trying to escape the noise. Who knew two tiny beings could house such dynamic pipes?

Logan dons the Santa hat along with my dad, and before we know it, everyone has a small pile of gifts at their feet. Skyla and I have the bulk—which judging by the cartoon-inspired wrapping paper, I’m guessing they’re all for the boys.

Mom insists we do the traditional rounds—one each, oldest to youngest, so it takes forever to get to Nathan and Barron.

“Go ahead.” I nudge Skyla to tear one open, but she’s quick to shake her head, that pinched frown of hers never leaving her face.

“I’ll do it!” Giselle volunteers and dives right in. “It’s a toy!” she squeals. “It’s an aquarium that plays music! And when the lights go off, the fish swim and glow.” She clutches it to her chest, her elations quickly replaced with distress. “I must have this,” she pleads to Skyla with large watery eyes. Giselle is a stunner, a sweetheart with a strong will who seems to be faring well enough in the world. Although, at this moment I’m a bit afraid to see her so attached to a toy designed for a newborn. “I love fish! And I’m afraid of the dark. Oh please, oh please, let me keep it!”

“Sure.” Skyla doesn’t seem to mind at all. It has always warmed me how much Skyla cares for my sister.

“That’s actually from me.” Mom raises her brows as if this were of concern. “Giselle, all gifts for the boys that are from your father and me will remain at this house. God knows they have enough mishmash at the Landons’. I’ll see about getting you a replacement.” She offers G a quick wink, therefore staving off the inevitable tantrum.

“All the boys’ gifts from Emma stay here?” Skyla looks to Ellis, amused. It’s clear Skyla has deemed both Ellis and Michelle a safe place during this visit. I’m guessing that doesn’t bode well for Logan. “Giselle, why don’t you tear through the rest of the gifts right away. I have to get the babies to bed soon.”

“Oh goodie!” My sister is quick to comply, sending wrapping paper flying, and my mother scoops it into a trash bag right behind her. Soon Giselle is surrounded by every whirling, twirling gadget and gizmo a newborn, and perhaps teenager, could lust after. It’s a mountain of plastic, dare I say crap, and a part of me is glad all of it will be stashed far away from that tiny room Skyla and I share. Did share.

Skyla pulls up a box of felt blocks with animals and shapes depicted on all sides.

“I’ve really wanted these for the boys. Looks like I’ll have to get a set of my own.” She glances at my mother, and my heart sinks. Skyla should have the final say in what stays where as far as the boys’ belongings go. It’s becoming clear that Skyla would very much want every last box to do with as she wishes. My heart turns to stone toward my mother and her ridiculous demands. Who the hell cares where everything is stashed? Skyla and I should decide those things, not anybody else—certainly not my mother.

“We’ll take them home,” I say it loud and clear to avoid any confusion. “In fact, we’ll take all of it home.” I look over to my mother with her slap-shocked expression, her mouth gaping open in protest. “Skyla and I will bring over a few things to entertain the boys each time we visit. I promise, they will never be bored.”

“Those things stay here, Gage Oliver,” Mom snaps with a look of venom shooting my way, and now it’s me with my mouth open with surprise.

Skyla chuckles. “Those things stay here, Gage Oliver.” Her eyes meet mine with a sting. “And so do you.” She rises and gathers the diaper bag, readying to leave.

Giselle shouts for everyone to open the rest of their gifts at once, and much to my mother’s protest an unwrapping-fest ensues.

“Skyla, wait.” I’m about to impart my best plea when Mom pops up with a small bag and hands it to Skyla.

“This too is for the boys.” Mom offers Skyla her best smile. And even though her lips are hiked in the right direction, there’s something sinister in her tone and my gut twists. Who the hell knows where this is headed. “And this you may take with you.” She tips her head to Skyla as if to trump her.

“Oh, the suspense.” Skyla glances from my mother to me without the right amount of enthusiasm. “I can hardly wait.” She reaches into the tiny red bag and pulls out a small brown bottle. “Syrup of ipecac?” Skyla shakes her head at the two of us as if to ask the question.

“That’s right.” Mom beams. “Now that’s something they can really use.” Her eyes grow wide the way they do when she’s sure she’s bested someone. “It’s to be administered in the event they’ve accidentally been poisoned. Now if you’ll excuse me.” She traipses off toward Giselle and coos at whatever it is Santa has gifted my sister.

Skyla shoves the bottle back into the bag with a marked aggression. “I’d say thank you if I could, but I really don’t think I can. I’d better go before I accidently poison someone”—she glares hard at me—“and it won’t be either of the boys.”

“Don’t go,” I plead when I know I shouldn’t. In all honesty, it’s a bad idea that either of us stays. Skyla is right about my mother. She’s always been right, and it took almost losing her to see this. God, I haven’t lost her, have I? “Things are just about to kick into high gear. I have a gift for Giselle from the two of us. A walking talking robot that will follow her around that big mansion—and it even says her name. I got it half off. I couldn’t resist.”

“Oh? I think things have already kicked into high gear.” Her voice swings heavily toward sarcasm. “What with talk of custody delineation, the rousing discussion on how I no longer have access to my own children’s gifts, and let’s not forget the Christmas traditions you’ll be starting on your own. That stocking debacle is quite the ode to your new family—one without me.”

“I would never cut you out. You are my family.” I block her from bolting. “You are the reason I live and breathe. You and these boys are my life,” I grit the words in an effort to keep it together. “I will protect you until the day I die, and then I’ll protect you from beyond the grave. There is no power in this universe that can stop me.”

Her chest expands the way it does just before we get intimate. And what I wouldn’t do to get intimate with my wife one more time. Tonight preferably.

“Except Demetri,” she says as she scoops up the car seat and sets it on the sofa.

“Don’t put the baby down,” I bark it out like an order without meaning to. “We’re taking a family picture. I navigate her to the tree, surprisingly without protest, and hand my phone to Logan. “Just a few quick ones.” I cradle Barron in my right arm as Skyla holds Nathan closest to me. I glance to Skyla, my beautiful wife, the mother of my children, and my heart breaks because her rage toward me is so alive, so palpable on her face. This isn’t quite the moment I was hoping to encapsulate. “Smile, Skyla,” I whisper. “Smile for the damn picture.”

Her eyes round out, and her lips twitch in the right direction. Skyla has always loved it when I talk dirty. I’m guessing my alpha commands are having the same effect on her, and I’m glad because I’m fine with being stern if I have to. I’d growl and bark at her all day and all night if it landed me in our bed again.

We stand next to the tree, each with a sleeping boy in our arms, and smile for the damn camera.

And just like that, it’s a merry Christmas after all.