There’s staring. Whispering. Lots of tension regarding Havoc and Discord’s presence because it’s obvious they’re not from Brighton, even in their sharp suits that peek out from beneath their overcoats.
When someone mutters something disparaging about Mayhem, my mother puts an instant end to it by saying, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Havoc, come stand by me.”
Havoc glances at me in question.
I smile at him and release his hand. “Go.”
He marches over to her, with each step he takes watched by the intimate gathering of fewer than thirty extended family members and close friends. My mother’s chin is notched high, her arm out to him, and when he reaches her side, she slides her hand in his.
Never once does her gaze leave her husband’s casket.
Even now, Grace Ward is a class act at her darkest moment.
Discord moves around to her left, and it’s almost comical how tiny she is sandwiched between these enormous men. If you scanned the area too quickly, you would miss her. She’s a slip of a woman in black, looking like a light breeze could knock her over. I’m sure her regal pose would falter if it weren’t for Havoc and Discord’s support.
And who would blame her?
I snake my way around the closed casket to stand with Havoc and beckon over Nate. When my mother nods at the priest, Father Anthony begins the ceremony. My brother’s tension surrounds us, and I slip my arm around his waist to tug him close. When did my baby brother grow so much taller than me? He used to be a scrawny little kid half my size. Now, he rests his cheek on my head and releases a sad sigh that rips my heart in half.
“We’re going to be okay,” I whisper to him.
“I know,” he says, but he sounds so sad. “I’m going to miss you.”
Because for Havoc and me to be together, I’ll have to leave Brighton.
I know it.
Havoc knows it.
Even Nate knows it.
I lean into him and say, “I’m moving to Mayhem, not Mars.”
He lowers his head to whisper, “Dad would have liked him.”
My father would have been horrified by Havoc—until he got to know him. Then, he would have loved him.
Finally, I focus my attention on the casket, and all the air leaves my lungs. It’s too much to imagine my father in there. My heart can’t accept this truth even as my brain forces me to confront the fact. I slap a hand over my mouth to stifle a cry. Nate hugs me tightly, and thank God he does because I would have dropped to the ground if he didn’t have his arm around me as the priest’s voice drones on around us.
Father Anthony says something about God’s mercy and how my family should rejoice that my father will be welcomed into God’s kingdom. But I want my dad here, with us. But we don’t always get what we want. With that cruel reality tearing through me, I catch movement from down the road.
Lots of movement.
A horde of vehicles snakes up the narrow road that winds through the cemetery.
The commotion cuts my tears short. I elbow my brother in the ribs. “Nate.”
“I see,” he breathes. “Holy shit.”
“You can’t say ‘shit’ at a funeral,” I scold. It’s the most mundane thing to say, but years of ingrained manners are hard to forget.
It takes only seconds for everyone to notice the cavalcade driving toward us—led by Crow’s black Dodge Ram.
Behind him, it looks like he brought half the town of Mayhem. Or maybe just most of the Unholy, and when they park in a single line along the edge of the grass and exit their vehicles, Father Anthony stops the service. Every person swivels in their seat to gape in terrified awe as—I do a rough headcount, at least a dozen behemoth men—march up the field to join us. Behind them walks Faith, Jamie, Ana, and Tempest.
I blink at Havoc, astounded at this outpouring of love and support from the Unholy.
They’re dressed in their finest, cutting a fine collective figure and doing Mayhem proud as they approach my father’s casket to pay their respects.
