Logan and I walk out into the navy velvet night. The sky is marbled with a mixture of boiling clouds and fog—not a star in the sky is able to make an appearance. A storm is brewing overhead, one that my mother swore earlier would be one for the ages. Just as we’re about to part ways, the sky lights up with apocalyptic promise as lightning decorates the heavens in a show of electrifying brilliance. The sky growls and roars, but I’d swear on my quickly waning life that Paragon just growled back with all the scathing anger that Skyla happens tohold.
“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 forme.
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 myfather.
“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 therepairman.”
“You wantcompany?”
“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 itG.”
“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 themorgue.
* * *
The Paragon Mortuaryis 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 thedead.
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 aliving.
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 withferocity.
“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 forshelter.
“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 livingbeing.
“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 tolaugh.
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 physicalobsession.
“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 tobe.
“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 likeit.
“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 secondthought…
“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 alaugh.
“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 spoiledrotten.
“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 ascoal.
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 wayinside.
“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 forme.”
“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 toM*A*S*H, “Suicide is Painless”.M*A*S*His some old seventies TV show my father still tries to catch now and again. I’ve never cared much for the themesong.
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 frayednerves.
“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 dyingfish.
Another round of lightning hits, and this time the lights in the kitchen dim down topitch.
“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 dreamingof.
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 outthere.
Another dull moan comes from behind, and this time I pivot on my heels, my heart doing its best to leap from mychest.
