“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 c
loset, 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.
Crown of Ashes Page 8
