by R. J. Blain
Alex pointed. “Right around there. Hard flick of your nail should do it. If you pinch, don’t be too hard. His neck’s hurt.”
“Why don’t you do it?” I suggested.
“I got away from him,” Richard’s brother replied in a smug tone.
Gritting my teeth, I reminded myself I couldn’t kill either one of our guests. “You used me to do it.”
“I did,” he admitted.
“I hate you.”
“No wonder my brother likes yanking her tail. She’s a feisty one, Mr. Desmond.”
“She reminds us of this fact every day,” my father lamented.
“Which spot again?” I demanded, flicking my finger a few times with my thumb to warm up.
Alex pointed once again. “Right here.”
“You’re pretty confident.”
“Well, yeah. He’s a leech. Live and learn. For every time he lets me go on his own, there are two or three times when I have to go for his throat. You’ll get used to it.”
I wasn’t ever going to get used to it, but I kept my mouth shut. Narrowing my eyes, I focused on the spot and flicked Richard as hard as I could.
Richard gasped, his back arching. True to Alex’s word, his arms fell away from me, buying me enough time to pull away. His eyes flew open, his pupils so dilated I couldn’t tell if his irises were yellow or brown. Alex hoped over the back of the couch, landed beside his brother’s head, and rubbed the spot I had struck.
“Richard,” Alex said, his tone firm.
Shuddering, Richard panted, struggling to catch his breath.
“Wow,” Lisa said, holding her whisky to me. “You look like you could use a drink. Have the rest of mine. It tastes like turpentine.”
“How would you know what turpentine tastes like?” I countered, grabbing the glass. I drank it back in one swallow, my eyes watering as the liquor burned down my throat. Wheezing, I set the glass down on the table. “What the hell did I just drink?”
“Another?” my father asked, holding up the bottle.
I shuddered, grabbed my glass, and held it out. He splashed some of the golden liquid in it. “Thanks.”
The second shot tasted even worse.
“I can’t believe you’re giving the girls your liquor,” my mother complained.
“Relax, Wendy. It’s Christmas, and she just spent the past hour in Richard’s arms. I’d need a drink after that,” my father replied.
Alex laughed, still massaging Richard’s throat. “He’ll need a drink after that, too. Good hit, Nicolina.”
“Not a good hit,” Richard mumbled.
“Good afternoon, Richard,” my father said, standing up to slide onto the couch. Lifting Richard’s feet, he settled them across his legs. “Feeling better?”
“No. I think your daughter just tried to kill me again.”
Alex chuckled. “You deserved it, Richard. You grabbed her in your sleep and wouldn’t let her go. She’s been trying to escape you for over an hour.”
Richard shook his head, reaching up to bat his brother’s hand away. Massaging his neck, he winced. “I did what?”
“You grabbed Nicolina and wouldn’t let her go,” my father informed Richard, grinning. “There are pictures, and many of them.”
Richard groaned, draping his arm over his eyes. “I didn’t, did I?”
“You so did,” Alex replied.
Appeased by Richard’s embarrassment, I grabbed the bottle of whisky, poured some in my glass, and held it out to him. “It tastes terrible.”
“Fifty-fifty,” Richard mumbled, reaching for the bottle.
I gave it to him, ignoring my father’s protests. I eyed the golden liquor, decided if I ended up tipsy or drunk, it was my father’s fault for inviting Fenerec to our house for Christmas. “Deal.”
Richard took a long swig directly out of the bottle, his eyes watering as he swallowed. “In my defense, I had no idea what I was doing.”
“The judge and jury will take your circumstances under consideration,” I replied, holding out my glass for another splash. He filled it halfway.
“You’re going to die if you shoot that all at once,” my sister predicted.
In order to prove her wrong, I did it. My throat and eyes burned, but I got it all down. Tapping the glass to the table, I glared at her. “Hah.”
“I think you two have had enough,” my father said, reaching for the whisky.
“I haven’t even gotten started,” Richard said, taking another drink.
Alex claimed the bottle from his brother and offered it back to my father. “Sorry about him, Mr. Desmond.”
My father chuckled. “I understand. That hurts like hell. I should know. Wendy does it all of the time. Sometimes, I think she misses on purpose. Nicolina, however, has no excuse.”
“Keep digging your grave,” my mother hissed, getting to her feet and gathering up the glasses.
A pleasant numbness spread through my head and sitting down seemed like a good idea, so I did. I didn’t even care my back rested against the couch near Richard. “You told me I could.”
“I said you could have a drink, not half the bottle. You’re going to be drunk.”
“Merry Christmas,” I replied, pushing my glass in his direction. “Please, sir, can I have some more?”
“No, no you may not have some more. Wendy, control your daughter.”
“Oh, so when you give her your whisky and it goes straight to her head, she’s my daughter?”
“I’m going to shut up now,” my father said.
My mother grabbed the bottle out of my father’s hand, took my glass, and headed into the kitchen. “When she’s hung over and throwing up, you’re the one who gets to hold her hair. Maybe that’ll teach you why you don’t give teenage girls your whisky. The same goes for Richard.”
“Richard doesn’t have enough hair to hold,” my father protested. “He’s not a girl, nor is he a teenager.”
My mother pointed at my father, her eyes wolf-yellow. “He who stirs the bee’s nest deals with the stings.”
Sometime between when my mother went to check on dinner and my father started ferrying presents out of the closet, the liquor wormed its way into my head and stole my ability to speak without slurring or giggling. I leaned against the couch, not really sure how I got Richard’s phone or why I was looking through the pictures stored on it, but I didn’t care.
Richard had a gold mine of blackmail material on both my mother and my father.
Sprawled behind me on the couch, Richard draped his arm over my shoulder to point at the picture I was looking at. My father was a wolf, and he was completely entangled in ropes while standing on the deck of a cruise ship. “Boat belongs to a friend of mine. Bribed him into letting me throw Desmond and Wendy a party. Didn’t tell them it was a private one for two. Should’ve known; it was April Fools’.”
“He’s all tied up,” I replied, giggling again. “Why?”
“Traps. Had the crew set them up all over the place. Set the boat adrift off shore, circled it with a speed boat, and waited for the fireworks. I watched it all on the ship security’s live feed. Left them on it all night.”
“Would you stop that, Richard?” my father demanded, setting a wrapped box on the floor. “I have pictures of the payback, and don’t you forget it.”
Richard giggled. “Look at the next one, it’s better.” Like me, he was slurring. It took me two tries to swipe my finger across the screen.
My mother was dangling in a net, hanging ten feet from the floor, her paws sticking through the woven rope, her ears flopped in misery. Bursting out laughing, I pointed at the picture. “You got Mom.”
“I would like to remind you, Charles, that this is entirely your fault,” my mother stated.
My father sighed. “Fine. I forgot Richard was a lightweight, but I didn’t think he was worse than Nicolina. At least they aren’t fighting.”
“Only because they’re too drunk to remember they hate each other,” my mother grumbled.
I narrowed my eyes, decided it was too much work to argue, and went back to staring at the picture on Richard’s phone.
“I could have told you that,” Alex said, leaning down to point at the picture. “There’s your father in the background. Look carefully.”
I squinted, holding Richard’s phone to my face. Sure enough, my father’s wolf was in the background.
He was covered in glitter.
“Glitter!” Another giggle slipped out of me. “You’ve glittered before. Glitter fiend. Glitter everywhere.”
“Let me see it,” Alex said, taking the phone from me before I could come up with a reply. I was pretty sure I meant to say no. He tapped at the phone before handing it back to me. “This gem is from Frank.”
The dull gray wolf in the photograph was on his back in a rose bush, his rump in the air with his tail dangling in his face. “Who?”
“It’s Richard with his spring coat. He was chasing a rabbit near our house. It dove into the bushes. Richard tripped over his own paws and ended up ruining his roses. The rabbit had been tearing up his garden for the past month, and he decided he was going to catch it once and for all and eat it.” Alex grinned, swiping to the next picture. Richard, in his effort to escape the rose bush, had become tangled in the thorns. “It took us an hour to get him out.”
“Not fair,” Richard protested.
“Very fair,” my father said, setting a small rectangular box on Richard’s lap. “Merry Christmas.”
I twisted around to watch Richard glare at the wrapped package on his lap. “I thought we had agreed we weren’t exchanging.”
“Oh? You’re sober enough to remember that? I changed my mind. Don’t open it yet. Nicolina, I have something to show you. Sit on the couch next to Richard. You’ll like this.”
Something warned me I wasn’t going to like whatever my father was planning, but before I could protest, Alex was helping me onto the couch. I was too numb to make the effort to protest.
My father handed me his cell. “I was curious about Richard’s jet, so I started poking around to see where he had parked it. I found the hangar and asked for some photos. This was the plane before he flew it out of Yellowknife.”
My mouth dropped open. When I thought of jets, I thought of the commercial flights that flew out of Seattle all of the time. Richard’s jet looked like it belonged in World War I. “It’s a rust bucket.”
I couldn’t even tell what color it had been originally.
“Hey, that’s my baby,” Richard protested.
“You mean death trap,” Alex retorted.
“Baby.”
“Flying coffin.”
“Boys,” my father chided. He took his phone back, swiping to a new photograph.
In the first picture, the plane had landing gear. In the next one, it had a scraped up bottom and a crunched nose. “Oopsy,” I said.
“I’m still wondering how you hadn’t damaged your Porsche,” my father confessed.
“Bah, gentle landing,” Richard replied, making a grab for the phone. “Cosmetic damage. Didn’t even dent the wings that time.”
My father grinned. “You can open the box now.”
Richard’s expression turned serious and his eyes narrowed with a hint of yellow in his brown irises. “This is payback for the glitter, isn’t it?”
“Won’t know until you open it,” my father replied. “I suggest against turning it upside down.”
“It’s payback for the glitter,” Richard groaned. He tore the paper open to reveal a shoe box. “If this attacks me, allow me to point out your daughter is in the blast radius.”
“She’ll live.”
I glared at my father. “Daddy!”
“Maybe this present is more for Alex, and he should open it.”
Richard frowned, working the lid off the box. I leaned over to look inside.
It was filled with teeny tiny bits of metal. “Huh? Father, what is this?”
With widening eyes, Richard picked a shard out and held it up. It had a distinctive rust-colored stain on it. “Desmond, what have you done?”
“That’s all that’s left of your jet,” my father replied, smirking smugly.
Richard’s mouth dropped open and his face went whiter than snow. “My plane?”
My father took the box from Richard, dipped his hand into it, and let the metal fragments fall through his fingers. “Glitter. Since you like glitter so much, I thought I’d give you an entire plane’s worth.”
While I was drunk, I wasn’t so drunk I couldn’t recognize I was seated beside an infuriated Fenerec. I went to make my escape, only for Richard to wrap his arm around my waist and pull me to him.
He was growling.
I squeaked.
“Daughter for plane. Simple exchange, Desmond.”
My father arched a brow. “Is that so?”
Alex slapped his hands over his mouth. “You didn’t! Not his jet. Oh God, he’s going to kill you.”
“Merry Christmas, Alex. Your brother will no longer risk smashing himself into paste next time he goes flying,” my father announced. “The plane was dead, Richard. I just helped it along a little.”
“You destroyed my plane.” Richard’s grip on me didn’t ease, and I considered if I could flick his neck to escape again. As though sensing my intention, Richard ducked his head and protected his throat.
“Daddy, are you crazy?” I demanded.
“Sometimes. You’ll be fine, girl. Man up.”
“I’m not a man! I will not man up.”
“Girl up, then.”
“Charles,” my mother warned.
“You killed my plane,” Richard repeated. His pupils were dilated and his face remained pale.
“You broke him, Daddy,” Lisa said, leaning over Richard. “I think you broke him.”
“He killed his own plane, girls. I’m just delivering the death certificate.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to give presents for Christmas, not bad news,” Alex said.
Richard’s phone rang. I swiped my finger across the screen, forgetting to check who was calling. Staring at the box of metal scrap, I giggled as I said, “Desmond residence. How may I help you?”
Frank sucked in a breath before asking, “Nicolina? Is that you?”
“Mhmm,” I replied.
“Are you drunk?”
“Noo… Okay, maybe.”
“Is something wrong? Richard’s…”
I giggled as what my father had done sank in. “Daddy turned Richard’s plane into glitter, Frank.”
“Desmond did what?”
“Daddy gave Richard a box of plane glitter for Christmas.” I started laughing so hard I couldn’t sit up, and because of Richard’s hold on me, I ended up sprawled over his lap. “I love my Daddy.”
“Aw, thank you, baby. I love you, too,” my father said. “See, Wendy, she’s a perfectly affectionate girl when she wants to be.”
“You had to get her drunk,” my mother reminded him.
“What’s Richard doing?” Frank demanded.
I twisted around so I was looking up at Richard. He kept his arm over my stomach, still glaring at my father. “He’s giving Daddy the death glare.”
“The death glare?”
“Mhmm.”
“They’re not fighting?”
“Nope.”
“Do I need to come over there?” Richard’s Second demanded.
“Nicolina, put the phone on speaker, please,” my father said.
I hummed, turning the phone to see the display. Without letting go of me, Richard pressed a button on the screen before taking his cell.
“Hi, Frank,” Richard grumbled. “He killed my plane. I told him he could give me my plane back or I was keeping his daughter.”
“You told him what?” Frank bellowed.
“Daughter stealing,” Richard slurred. “She’s gotta be worth at least the cost of my plane.”
“Richard, are you drunk?” At Frank’
s incredulous question, I giggled.
“Fifty-fifty,” I reported.
“Oh God. Who let them have the phone?” my mother lamented. “Frank, I’m so sorry. It was Charles. Richard was sleeping, and Nicolina was trying to free Alex. Richard grabbed her. It took her an hour to escape, and after that, Charles gave her some of his whisky. She stole the bottle, and she shared it with Richard.”
“That’s right, blame me as always,” my father complained.
There was a long moment of silence before Frank laughed. “So you got Richard and Nicolina drunk, and now they’re doing what?”
“I’ll take a picture,” my father said, snapping photos on his cell. “Is your mate with you?”
“She is.”
“Image sent to her cell.”
I couldn’t tell how many people were in the room with Frank, but they were laughing.
“Did you really turn his plane to glitter?” Frank demanded.
“Sending a few more pictures to your mate’s phone.”
Sighing, Frank asked, “Richard, did you crash your jet again?”
“I didn’t crash it,” Richard replied, wrinkling his nose. “It just doesn’t like landing. It was born to fly, not sit on a runway.”
“Richard, how badly did you crash the jet?”
“I didn’t crash it; I landed it very intentionally, thank you. At the airfield and everything. I touched it down exactly where I meant to. Just because I had to land it without gear shouldn’t make any difference at all.”
“Richard!”
“Now you’re getting me in trouble.” Richard pointed his cell at my father. “I’ll give your puppy back when you give my plane back.”
“I’m not sure he can restore a plane when it’s been turned to glitter, Richard,” Frank said, sounding concerned. “They don’t make that sort of plane anymore…”
“Hi, Frank,” I said, making a grab for Richard’s phone. I missed. Scowling, I made a second reach for it, successfully capturing the device. “Should I be worried?”
“Shouldn’t you be asking your father that? Why are you asking me?”
I blinked. “Oh. Daddy, should I be worried?”
“My whisky killed her brain,” my father grumbled. “No, baby. Richard’s not going to hurt you. He’s just going to sulk, have one of your tantrums, and eventually figure out I did him and his entire pack a favor. Wendy, give me the other box.”
