"Touch my Swarovski tree topper and die," Lucian warns, untangling a string of lights. "That's an antique from 1895."
I exchange looks with Erik, who's somehow managed to arrange his section of ornaments in perfect geometric precision. Of course, he has.
"Speaking of antiques," Erik says, reaching for another ornament, "remember the Christmas of 1901 when Lucian tried to—"
"We do NOT speak of the Mistletoe Incident," Lucian cuts him off, jabbing a finger in Erik's direction. "That story died with the Victorian era, where it belongs."
The corner of Erik's mouthtwitches—the closest he gets to a full smile. "I was thinking more about the caroling disaster."
"That choir deserved what they got. Nobody butchers 'Silent Night' on my watch."
I shake my head, sorting through more decorations. "You threw their sheet music into the Thames River."
"I was helping them retire with dignity!"
Two of the lighting crew approach our front door, and Lucian swaggers off to handle them, probably to micromanage every fucking bulb placement.
"I'll supervise outside," I mutter, following him. The words feel strange in my mouth—in all my lifetimes, I've never given two shits about holiday decorating. But now? Knowing how Dani's eyes light up at anything Christmas-related has me caring about where these poor bastards hang the icicle lights.
Christ. My mate's turned me into a pussy.
Over a thousand years of being a hard ass, and here I am about to critique the spacing of outdoor Christmas lights. If any of my enemies could see me now, my reputation would be shot to shit.
A worker drops a hammer that narrowly misses another's head. I shoot Lucian a pointed look.
"This is your idea of professional help? Where did you find these idiots—drunks outside your club at closing time?"
"They came highly recommended," Lucian protests, brushing snow from his christmas sweater. "By people who know people who... okay, fine, they were the only crew available on short notice. It's Christmas, you ancient grump. Not exactly peak season for finding elite light-hanging specialists."
"You couldn't have just called a proper electrician?"
"And miss watching you have an aneurysm over improper grounding techniques?" Lucian's brown eyes dance with unholy amusement. "Not a chance in hell, Thunderstruck. Your blood pressure alone is worth the price of admission."
I almost laugh, watching as one worker nearly topples off the roof. This is going to be a long day.
Lucian gestures broadly at the half-strung lights. "Everyone's a critic. Not all of us spent the Middle Ages hammering things, Viking Ken. Some of us developed taste."
"Taste? Is that what you call that neon monstrosity you call a nightclub? Place looks like the 80's threw up after a cocaine bender."
Lucian's eyes dance with unholy amusement. "Bold words from someone who thought indoor plumbing was witchcraft until 1901. Remind me again how you electrocuted yourself trying to install a ceiling fan in '86? Didn't your hair stand on end for a week?"
I fight the urge to smile, remembering how the electricity had barely tickled. If only I'd known then what I know now about my heritage.
The crew wraps up, probably motivated by Lucian's promises of obscene holiday bonuses. Every inch of the mansion drips with professional-grade lighting—warm whites along the roofline; icicle drops from every eave, and these fancy-ass twinkle effects in all the trees.
I flex my shoulders, enjoying the burn from moving their heavy equipment. It beats sitting around watching these guys work—a man doesn't stand idle when there's a job to be done, even if that job involves stringing up enough lights to be seen from fucking space.
Lucian sidles up, throwing his arm across my shoulders. "I'm proud of you, Griswold. Getting your hands dirty with the Christmas spirit."
I shrug him off. Lucian's check had enough zeros to fund a small war—this place is going to outshine the entire fucking neighborhood.
"Just wait until we fire this baby up," Lucian grins, bouncing on his toes like a kid hopped up on candy canes. "The power company's gonna think we're running a meth lab from our backyard."
Erik appears beside us, his eyes scanning the setup. "The electrical load distribution is optimal," he notes, probably the closest he'll get to saying 'it looks nice.'
We stride back inside, and it's like the North Pole exploded in every corner—garland, ornaments, and twinkling lights covering every surface that isn't moving. Warm white lights wrap every banister and frame every archway. A week ago, I'd have called this overkill, but now I'm staking my claim on this holiday shit. If we're doing Christmas, we're doing it right.
Rosa commands the kitchen like a general, hips swaying to "Feliz Navidad" as she moves between three pots. The scent hits me—roasting meat, spices, and the unmistakable sweetness of fresh cookies. My stomach growls with the need to taste whatever she's creating. The kitchen gleams with strands of lights woven through her workspace, reflecting off copper pots and industrial appliances.
