“We won’t be gone long,” Brom says to Johnathan, holding him at an angle so that Johnathan can pretend he’s flying.He jogs down the hallway to the boys’ bedroom, making whooshing sounds as he goes.Meanwhile Famke pries Baltus away and takes him down the hall after them.
“We’ll bring you back a present,” I shout after them, feeling bad that I can’t take our children to this dinner party, though the invitation specifically said that minors were not allowed.
My wife gives me a look, elbowing me in the side.“We will not.Crane, you’re the one who said we need to stop spoiling them.”
“Well, Mrs.Crane, I meant thatyoushould stop spoiling them.Being the man of the house, I believe it’s my duty to lay down the double standards.”
Brom scoffs as he approaches us, adjusting his bow tie for the umpteenth time.“There he goes with the man-of-the-house business.”
“Sorry, Brom, it’s only fair since I’m the father of the brood and you’re the fun uncle.”
He gives me a loaded look, telling me to tread easily.
When Kat gave birth five years ago, the last thing we expected to see were twins.Two beautiful healthy twin boys, whom we named Baltus, after her father, and Johnathan, after the old spiritual Indigenous man who first showed me what I was capable of when I was young.We were overjoyed and at that point had already settled here in London, having bought this house on Baker Street.To the outside world, I was married to Kat, with Famke as our housekeeper, and Brom as my “brother.”
But as the boys grew older, we realized they were fraternal twins and didn’t look as alike as we initially thought.Johnathan was born hours earlier, is taller and leaner, and has my gray eyes, petulant mouth, thick black hair, and high cheekbones.But Baltus…Baltus was born looking slightly premature and is the spitting image of Brom.The darkest brown eyes, low thickbrows, strong wide jaw, and built shorter and stockier than Johnathan.
It seemed the impossible had happened, though not that impossible, if you look at the breeding of cows, which Brom was quick to tell us about, how often in the bovine world a cow can give birth to twins with each one sired by a different bull.Once a farm boy, always a farm boy.
While we have no proof that this has happened, and we often joke about Baltus being the evil twin and possible anti-Christ (a joke that Brom and Kat rarely laugh at but I find to be quite funny), I have taken to the notion that Brom is Baltus’s biological father in a miraculous way, and I think Brom feels that way too.
Granted, to the outside world he must still remain their uncle and I don’t think the children will know until they’re older that Brom isn’t their uncle at all, but until then, we must keep up appearances.The boys love Brom to death anyway.He gets to have all their love without laying down any rules.
I reach out and grab Brom by the back of the neck, pulling him in for a kiss.“My apologies, pretty boy,” I say, pressing my mouth against his.“Let’s enjoy this evening.”
The three of us leave the house and step out into the awaiting carriage, the spring evening air fresh enough to dilute the smoke from the factories across the Thames.The driver takes us past the prim white houses along Baker Street until we are pulling up to a sprawling mansion at the edge of Grosvenor Square.
“Whose party is this again?”Kat asks as I grab her arm and help her down from the carriage.
“Dorian Gray,” I tell her.“He’s formed a society for mystics.”
“So he’s a witch?”Brom asks.
“Not quite,” I tell him as we walk up to the door of the mansion.“I’m honestly not sure what he is.”
I ring the doorbell, hearing laughter and piano from inside, and the door swings open, held by a pretty-looking maid.
“Are you expected?”she asks sweetly, and I can tell from her aura that she’s a witch.
“Yes,” I say with a nod, taking off my hat.“Ichabod Crane, Katrina Crane, and Brom Bones.”
She raises her brow over Brom’s last name.Legally he’s still Van Brunt, but he long ago decided to shun his familial name as much as possible since it reminds him of his heritage, his ties to the Erusian coven.
“There you are,” Dorian says from the end of the grand hall, striding toward us in his tuxedo.
“He looks like Brom,” Kat whispers to me.“If Brom were to ever shave.”
Dorian does look similar, though he has both a jovial nature and a snobbishness that Brom could never possess.
“So glad that you could make it,” Dorian says to us.He shakes Brom’s hand and then takes Kat’s and kisses the back of hers.“Brom Bones and Katrina Crane, I take it.I am Dorian Gray.”
“She prefers to be called Kat,” I tell him, putting my hand on my wife’s lower back in a possessive manner, lest she be charmed by this man.Three’s not a crowd, but four certainly is.
“Of course, Kat,” he says to her, bowing.Then he straightens up and waves us over.“Come along, let me introduce you to the rest of the mystics.”
We follow him into a grand parlor with about a dozen or so people, everyone around the same age as us, if not younger,dressed well in their tuxedos and gowns, waiters walking around with trays of champagne and canapés.
My senses go wild and I know Kat feels it too.There are witches here, and if I’m not mistaken, a vampire or two, which immediately gets my hair standing on end.I have to remember the tryst I had with my vampire in order to recall that they aren’tallbad.
