“I’m going.” I swallow hard because, face it, everything about tonight will be hard.
“Good for you, Messenger,” Em says with the same enthusiasm one might reserve when stumbling upon a dead cat.
“You bet that’s good.” Bree whisks me toward the hall. “Now we just need to get you looking your best. Gage Oliver is going to eat his heart out when he sees you tonight. Nobody takes my bestie’s heart and breaks it. That boy is going to be in hell once he sees what he’s given up.”
“From your lips to God’s ears.”
And just like that, Bree and I get to work.
Marshall Dudley’s estate holds a supernatural appeal on any given day, but on this holiest evening of the year, lit up like a gingerbread house, it looks as if it was dropped out of heaven. Too bad it didn’t land on a Bishop. Chloe to be exact. The Wicked Witch of West lives to torment another day. I’ve given a lot of thought to my murderous intentions. My mother might have cast a protective hedge over Chloe when we traveled back in time last spring, but certainly those misguided intentions can’t last forever.
“What’s with the ghosts?” I ask as my mother unleashes the boys from their car seats. At least a dozen white ghoulish creatures are staked around the entry of Marshall’s home, each donning his or her own Santa hat. Spider webs have been tossed errantly around the porch, and if I’m not mistaken, they’re catching the light with red and green glitter.
“You know, all those Christmas carols are rife with keeping spirits bright, tales of ghost stories, ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future. It’s richly embedded into holiday tradition but never fully explored. I festooned the entire property inside and out as if it were a holiday haunted house. You don’t think it’s appropriate?”
“Oh, I think it’s appropriate. I think it is very, very appropriate.”
She snickers as she points to Tad. “And I brought my very own Scrooge! Oh, wait until you hear the great news, Skyla! Just you wait!”
She picks up each of the boys’ hands and scuttles off without me. Tad hobbles off after them, and now that I think about it, he is rather Scrooge-esque—too bad it’s a year-round event. Although he’s donned quite the festive ensemble, a bright green suit with an electronic bowtie that blinks on and off in red and green.
Mia and Melissa link arms while Gabe strides ahead of them like the gentleman he is not.
Ethan helps Em waddle to the door, along with Ember and Misty—two tiny cherubs singing out of tune and looking adorable while doing so. Drake heads over with Beau Geste while Bree lands an arm on my shoulder.
“Well, Messenger?” Brielle wrinkles her nose. “You look like a firecracker. You could have looked hotter, though.” Bree had two different department stores bring over their best personal shoppers with about sixteen dresses each. It’s safe to say she wanted me to have options. She then proceeded to tip each girl a cool thousand. Honestly? I hope Bree and Drake suck all the money out of Demetri’s faux bank account—and sadly, that’s exactly where they’re getting it.
“Yeah, I could have.” But I chose to eschew the skintight red sequin Mrs. Naughty Santa number that Bree voted for and played it safe with a black velvet dress strewn with pearlescent dots that just so happens to hug my hips and show off my new svelte figure.
I inadvertently went on the Gage Oliver is an Asshole Diet last October after he eviscerated my people. On the bright side, I’m now just as trim as I was before I had the boys. There is some practicality to debilitating grief. But God forbid if you don’t have a few pounds to lose. I would have hit heart-stopping levels if I didn’t go into this nightmare with a little padding. And because of that, I plan on gaining back at least ten pounds. Insurance against any more heartbreak the aforementioned asshole plans on thrusting my way.
“Come on.” Bree leads us down the haunted walk, complete with blue fog floating at our feet and music bleeding from some unknown speakers that sounds as if someone is moaning in nonstop pain. The playlist of my heart. My mother knows me, after all.
Inside, the crowded house is decked with garland wrapped in spider webs, gossamer hangs right along with the mistletoe, and there are just as many skulls as there are cherry red bows. Seems about right.
“Shit,” Bree hisses as she looks at something to our left.
“What?” I crane my neck, but there are so many damn bodies in my way—all of them dressed to the haunted nines, which really does beg the questionwhat century do these bodies belong in—but I can’t see a thing.
“They’re here.” She gives my hand a hard tug. “Gage and Chloe. Don’t freak. They’re holding the boys.”
“They’re holding the boys?” Instantly, I’m lit with rage. My body goes numb and spikes with heat at the very same time. It’s an odd sensation, but in truth I’m so all over the place with my emotions I can’t blame my poor body for not knowing which direction to go in with this. “Holy hell.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Bree’s eyes gloss over with tears just for me.
“No, I mean I’m going to give them holy hell.”
“Skyla! It’s Christmas.”
“Look around. It’s Christmas in hell, Bree.”
I brush past her into the ever-thickening crowd. The Christmas carols blare overhead, but the cheery sound is only rivaled by the chatter of the joyful crowd. The faces, those pasty,pastyfaces of souls long since gone by, turn to look my way as I struggle to make my way through their thick red crinoline bustles, the tartan plaid gowns with egregiously long trains, emerald taffeta—my God, it’s prom night for the long deceased. I spot Dominique Winters chortling away with a small crowd, and something in me enlivens as I make her my first target of the night.
“Skyla!” The sounds of a familiar husky voice boom from behind, but I eschew the familiarity for far more unfamiliar pastures.
“Dominique,” I say breathlessly as I come upon the small crowd of hussies from yesteryear. It’s a trio of can-can girls with their ruffled dresses in jewel tones of amber, ruby, and sapphire, cut high in the front to give any horny ghost a snatch-shot and long enough in the back to let the ladies in the room know where to stand.
“Skyla.” Dominique’s eyes cut to slits. Her blood red hair hangs long and luxurious in glossy tendrils like well-behaved garden snakes. Her lavender eyes sparkle with evil. Her skin is so paper-white it hurts to look at, and that dark mole between her left cheek and lip only adds to her wicked beauty. She’s donned a long, black satin gown that plunges generously into her décolleté and shows off those powder white tits for all to see. Most likely Demetri. But it’s that scar across her neck that brings me pleasure to look at. I put it there just a few months ago when I tried to kill her. I wanted her life, her body on a spit after I found out that she was the one who killed my Gage—the one I thought I knew. The one I mourned for, still do.
