Crown of Ashes

by Addison Moore

  “What brings you to Host?” Marshall lifts his chin. Marshall is tall by anybody’s standards, but Asbury here dwarfs even him.

  “My girl.” Asbury nods into the heart-shaped admission. “She and I are pretty serious. Her father is going to sign her over to me when she’s sixteen.”

  I glance to Ellis. Dear God, where is this going?

  “How old is she now?” I’m afraid to ask, but it had to be done.

  “Thirteen.” The overgrown science experiment nods as if it were no big deal.

  I scowl at Ellis for ushering this perv into our presence, and Ellis leans in close to my ear with a look that spells out something just this side of horror himself. “Hey, dude”—he whispers to me—“I took a shit last night and thought of you.” My mouth falls open because, holy hell, I have no idea what craptastic sentiment could ever follow that. “Damn—I can’t believe you had two kids the size of cinderblocks squeeze out of your bottom. I’m considering heading into the priesthood just to avoid putting poor G through that.”

  “Poor G? Make no mistake about it—it will be poor Ellis if you ever knock up G.”

  “Hey”—the cyclops Ellis hauled in barks—“where’s the prime rib? I’m starved.”

  Ellis whoops. “That’s what I’m talking about, man! Let’s scour this place until we get all the food in our bellies.”

  “Good luck with that,” I say under my breath. If prime rib is what they’re after, they’ll be scouring the house right into the next millennium. And food in their bellies? I suggest they watch Soylent Green. It amounts to the same principle around here with or without Em at the helm.

  The door opens once again, and there he is—caramel-colored hair, classic good looks, eyes as citrine as a sunrise. Logan Oliver glows like an ethereal being. No, really—he’s sort of literally glowing.

  I shove an elbow into Marshall’s ribs. “What’s up with the Chernobyl tan? And should he be anywhere near the boys?” As in my precious angels that I can’t wait to snuggle in bed with in the next few hours.

  Marshall grunts. “It appears there was a bit of an issue last night. Taking a nap facedown in the rain after a good lightning strike can do a number of things to a person, living or dead.”

  “What is that supposed to mean? Does he have a lightning rod in his pants now?” Face it, Logan has always had a lightning rod in his pants. That boy is hung. So is Gage. I’d say it runs in the family, but it turns out they aren’t even remotely related.

  Marshall balks, “Skyla, must you always revert to the crass? And I’ll have you know, yes, indeed, young Oliver has good genes. He acquired them from me, didn’t he?” His lips curl in that proud way only a lightning rod owner can. I’ve no doubt Marshall is hung like a Clydesdale. If those seductive night wanderings I’ve experienced are even remotely true to life, Marshall’s lower half should be considered a weapon of m-ass destruction.

  “I may be crass, but I learn from the best, Professor Dudley.” I give a quick wink as I head over to Logan. He looks a bit stunned as if he were still trying to get his bearings from that electric slap he received from above last night, and at any moment I expect to see him staggering around the foyer, but he doesn’t. Logan walks up smoothly. His smile expands just for me, and he holds my gaze with those glowing amber eyes just before he offers a firm embrace.

  “Merry Christmas, Skyla. I left the gifts for you and the boys at Barron’s.” He pulls back with that sad film over his features, the one he mastered not long after we met. “I’m hoping you’ll stop by tomorrow.”

  “We won’t be able to make it.” Ever again, I want to add, but I know that’s not true.

  Skyla. His lids lower, and that eerie iridescent light emanating from him seems to dim with disappointment. His thoughts press on, but I’m only able to grasp every third word, sorry, Gage, listen.

  I shake my head, trying hard to hang onto the powers that bearing the twins afforded me, but those seem to be fading like the many other things in my life.

  “It’s not working. I can’t read your mind unless I touch you,” I muse, perusing the room as my sisters pass around the eggnog on trays. Both Mia and Melissa have donned sexy elf costumes, complete with pointy green stilettos. Emma’s obnoxious laughter lights up the room, and with the dizzying array of Christmas carols blasting from the boom box in the corner, I’m surprised the twins aren’t screaming hara-kiri by now.

  Logan presses out a cool smile. “Then we’ll have to go back to touching.” He wastes no time in threading our fingers together. His amber eyes bear hard into mine, and a spear of heat expands the length of my stomach. Skyla Laurel Messenger—Oliver. His smile stretches just enough, but that pained look takes over his features. Talk to Gage. Don’t drag this out. You and I both know you’ll regret losing a single moment with him.

  I pull my hand free and smirk. “I should have known it was going to be an infomercial for the dark side. You shouldn’t go so thick on the propaganda. It’s not a becoming look on you. He’s abandoned your people, too.”

  Before he can put in a rebuttal, Michelle Miller hops over in her sky-high FMs with Liam by her side, and we exchange the necessary holiday niceties. Michelle is a dark-haired beauty that has always reminded me a little of Chloe—deeply tanned skin—super model features, soul as black as night. Okay, so maybe that last descriptor is a little harsh. And Liam, well, he’s just another Marshall knockoff along with Logan and Coop.

  Michelle runs a finger along Logan’s cheek, and that rage I’ve been brewing all night long demands to unleash all over her. “A thousand bucks says you and Lex are the next to tie the knot!” She tosses her long curls over her back and cackles up a storm.

  “Not this shit again,” I mutter under my breath. And just like that, Chloe pops up as if on cue.

  “Skyla is right,” she snarks while standing shoulder to shoulder with me in a shocking display of solidarity, and every eyebrow in the vicinity goes up, including mine. Crap. I should have gone over the short list of rules with Chloe. The first and most important of them being act natural. Declaring me right in any matter is a clear telltale sign that all is not right with the world.

  Chloe drapes an arm around my shoulder, and I cringe as I glance to Logan. His eyes are the size of soccer balls, because for one, I haven’t bothered to kick the Transfer troll back to the curb.

  “Skyla and Logan were meant for one another.” Chloe preens for my approval, but I can see the devil dancing in her eyes. “Have a little decorum, Shelly.” Chloe glances over her shoulder at Dudley and bites down over her bottom lip seductively as if she were gunning for some of that Clydesdale action tonight. Her deep, black, bordering on auburn hair lies heavy over one eye as she turns back to face her old Bitch Squad recruit. Back in the day, Chloe was the leader of the mean girls at West Paragon High, which included Michelle, Lexy, and Emily. Not much has changed in that respect other than the fact I find Emily livable at best, considering we’re held up under one roof. Plus, Em has mad skills when it comes to all things future. Emily is sort of a heavenly prognosticator, reciting visions from the Almighty Himself, and since most of her visions concerning me are, well, concerning, I tend to keep my distance.

  “Damn right! Brielle pops up from behind and jumps on Chloe’s back, causing her to let out an indelicate oomph. “God, it’s nice to see my besties getting along! What the hell. It’s Christmas, right?”

  “Yes, what the hell?” Logan needles me with a private inquisition, but I refuse to go there with my glowing ex-husband. Logan and I were married for the short span of three days. It was bliss, and, as per usual, when I’m in any state of bliss, my mother up above puts the kibosh on that good time.

  Chloe wraps an arm around me, and I can feel Logan stilling, reasoning whether or not I’ll be in need of some serious help momentarily. I might be, but at this point I’m so wrapped up in rage I can most definitely take her.

  “Skyla and I are working on rebuilding our relationship,” she mewls, meek and innocent,
but I can hear the dark laughter already brewing in her chest. “We’ll be spending much more time together in the future, so you’d better get used to it.” She gifts Logan a sly wink. “Aren’t you lucky?”

  Logan opens his mouth as if to say something just as my mother starts in on a howling spree. “Attention!” She claps and stomps her feet. Tad belts out one of his eardrum splitting whistles, and every baby in the room startles to life. I glance over to my own two cherubs, but they’re both knotted up like turtles with their legs tucked underneath them, each fast asleep—one with their grandfather, Barron—one still safely tucked in his father’s arms.

  “It’s present time!” Mom calls out. “Let the festivities begin!”

  The entire house explodes in a fit of roars and laughter as gifts and wrapping paper alike go flying. I’m sure Emma is having a seizure at the scene. It takes twelve hours to open three gifts at the Olivers’.

  I glance down at the small gift bag I’m still holding that Laken picked up for me and hand it to Chloe.

  “This is for you.” I force a dry smile. “It’s just a little something to brighten your spirits.”

  Chloe wastes no time in dipping her fingers into it and plucking out the amber bottle.

  “Chloe”—she plants a kiss over the glass—“my favorite perfume! How did you ever know?” She pulls me into a strong embrace, and it feels strange, traitorous to be touching her this way. Touching Chloe, embracing her in any physical or emotional way wasn’t necessarily a part of our agreement, but for the sake of showmanship and rebuilding what we never really had, I go with it. “I have something for you, too.” She fishes something out of her pocket and places it gingerly in my hand.

  “It’s a ring,” I say, surprised as I study it a moment. It looks familiar—platinum or silver I can’t tell. It’s vintage, that’s for sure, but there’s something about that cat’s eye sapphire that graces the top that clings to me like some distant memory long-forgotten—something about the way the precious metal is fashioned into two claws holding the blue heart together, and then it hits me and I gasp.

  “Chloe!” I smack her on the arm before trying to stuff the haunted ring back into her hand, but she laughs and pulls away.

  “Now—that’s not how you say thank you, is it, Skyla?”

  I pull her in and bury my lips in her ear. “You stole this from that hellion Cassandra? Are you insane? You of all people should know that manipulating the past is a piss-poor idea.”

  “Relax.” She pulls back and fluffs my hair with her fingers. “You of all people know that you can’t really change anything.” My heart sinks when she says it because for a time I tried to save my father—the one she killed—or instructed Demetri to do so. They’re both guilty in my eyes. “What’s a little petty theft among friends and relations?” She scowls at me a moment, her jowls trembling as if she were rabid. “Relax, Messenger. It was gifted to me, and now I’m gifting it to you.” She trots off toward Demetri, most likely to gloat over her latest acquisition—my assumed friendship. Neither Chloe nor I are in this to rebuild something we’re not really interested in. We both came into our agreement with our own motivations, our own determined will to make it happen. And we will. If anything, Chloe and I share a ripe desperation, something animalistically charged and undeniably powerful.

  I jab the sapphire ring on my right ring finger. It’s not the ring’s fault Chloe has committed an interdimensional robbery. It might as well be cared for and appreciated.

  Logan wraps an arm around my waist and leads me into the deep end of the Oliver pool where Emma, Barron, and Gage huddle with the boys. Crap. I’ll need a life preserver to survive this night, and Logan is proving to be more of a lead weight than a buoy.

  “Skyla”—Barron dances his way over with his namesake in his arms—“dare I say you have the most well-behaved children here.”

  “I agree.” I press a gentle kiss over the back of baby Barron’s little warm head, and he nuzzles further into his grandfather’s chest.

  “You’re welcome to join us tomorrow if you like.” He extends the invitation with hopeful eyes, but I catch Emma twisting her lips.

  “Of course, she’ll be there,” Gage offers and I force myself to look at him. It feels heavy and weighted just to meet with his gaze, and as ripe as my anger is, I can feel the tears just below the surface. There’s a careful apprehension between the two of us. I’m still wearing my broken heart, and he’s still wearing that slap I issued like a fresh tattoo.

  Just as I’m about to think up a dozen reasons why I will not in fact be there, Mom and Demetri round out our circle.

  “Well, look at this!” Mom bubbles. “It wouldn’t be Christmas without all of our favorite people here!” She throws her arms around Demetri, pulling him into a sort of awkward side hug, and just the sight sends my stomach churning. It’s one thing to have a secret lovechild with her favorite Fem, but to openly molest him for all to see—namely me, it makes the bile rise to the back of my throat.

  Demetri’s eyes glance to my waist, and it’s only then I note that Logan is still securely attached. It’s funny how Logan has become such a part of me, so integrally connected to my body and soul I no longer perseverate on the little details—platonic as they may be, and, in this case, they are every bit platonic.

  Logan straightens and his hand slides back to his own side. “Wonderful party.” He nods to my mother.

  “Thank you!” Her entire face lights up to rival his own. “I’m thinking now that the twins are here we should get together far more often. I’d hate to wait for the holidays to roll around for us all to be in the same room. We’re family now!” She waves a hand at Emma. “Besides, don’t you think for a minute that these two lovebirds will let those sheets cool for too long.” She giggles incessantly at the potential state of my uterus. It’s clear someone has been hitting the eggnog a little too hard. “I’m expecting a basketball team from you two!”

  “I think we’re done,” I spit the words out, looking right into those overgrown sapphires that belong to Gage Oliver. And I mean done in the most literal sense. A dull ache infiltrates me from the inside. Gage and I can never really be done, not with two precious souls between us—three counting our daughter who never made it out of the womb. My entire affect sags at the thought of Sage missing her first Christmas, every Christmas here on out.

  Mom chortles at my response and smacks Demetri over the arm. “And we thought we were done, didn’t we?”

  The entire lot of us leers at the two of them with sober expressions.

  Oh my shit. I swear on all that is holy if Demetri has knocked up my mother again I’ll find a way to hack him to pieces.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask the obvious question.

  Demetri chortles right alongside the loon still clutching him tight. “I think what Lizbeth is trying to say is that the best intentions sometimes go awry, Skyla.” He bears those dark soulless eyes into mine as if he were stabbing each one out with a pitchfork. “We make plans and God laughs.” The smug grin returns to his face. “God laughs when we try to manipulate our circumstances.” He glances to Chloe in the not too far distance, and my stomach bubbles with the promise of an eruption. “Some things are simply meant to be. You cannot stop destiny—you cannot stop fate.”

  I step in close to him while Mom, Emma, and Barron busy themselves fussing over the twins. “Tad might annoy the ever-living hell out of me—and yes, I might wish I could light his head on fire a time or two, but he belongs with my mother. Keep your greasy claws to yourself, would you?”

  Demetri’s demented grin expands. “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” He strums out a laugh. “Oh, what the heck, it’s Christmas, Skyla.” He gives a sly wink. “This one’s for you.”

  Mom pulls me in and wraps her arms around me tight. “I mean we found our way back to one another after all of those years.” Gross. “Never mind all of this deep thinking. It’s Christmas! And in about five minutes I’ve got
a surprise for the kids.” She leans in and cups her hand around her lips. “We have a very special guest getting ready to make an appearance!”

  Marshall leans in. “And this is my gift to you.”

  A series of choking sounds and choice expletives emit from the stairwell, and everyone stills and turns in that direction.

  Down tumbles Tad, clad in a red Santa suit and a full fuzzy white beard that looks as if he chopped up Mia’s massive teddy bear collection to fashion it. He’s donned a pair of large, rather ill-fitting boots that might actually be the cause of his forthcoming paralysis judging by the way he’s taking the stairs four at a time, and I swear a leg just wrapped itself around his shoulders.

  “Hock, hock, hock!” he barks it out like a threat—and dear God, he can’t even get the terminology right. Mom chortles up a storm as does everyone else, and the room breaks out into a jovial mood.

  Mom herds Misty, Beau, and Ember to the forefront of this madness. Thank God Almighty the boys are far too young to participate in the slaughtering of Santa. Tad Landon is a lot of things, a knockoff Santa he is not.

  “Emma, get the boys!” Mom harps while waving wildly.

  Emma snatches Nathan from Gage, and she and Barron are quick to comply with my mother’s silly wishes.

  I head over and, upon closer inspection, note Tad’s Santa suit looks as if it was used to clean the inside of a deep fryer. Funny, I don’t remember him ever donning the felt monstrosity before. Must be new, or more to the broke point, new to him. It’s spotted and tattered with tiny holes sitting prominently on his shoulder.