Crown of Ashes

by Addison Moore

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  It’s for Chloe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “And you know you love it!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Sideways? I snort at the thought.

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

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

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

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

  I speed over and pull them into a group hug.

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

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

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

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