Crown of Ashes

by Addison Moore

  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 sh
e 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.” S
he 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.