I stand barefoot on the back porch, leaning against the railing while the Louisiana morning warms the garden. My “OUR BUSINESS IS DYING” mug is still steaming, filled to the brim with praline-flavored coffee. For a brief, glorious moment, the house behind me is still. Quiet. Peaceful.
The phoenix ash garden has grown enormously over the last ten years, fueled by a child prone to emotional combustions. The phoenix ash has been spread across the entire garden, making the entire backyard glow faintly. The clusters of flowers have never been bigger or more beautiful than they are right now, the roses, lilies, and hibiscus blooming astronomically larger than when I first took over the garden maintenance. I grow most of the arrangements for the business now, and families often comment that the flowers feelalive.
They aren’t wrong.
The garden thrives on the strange balance of our lives: death, rebirth, and our continued happy living. The circle keeps everything moving as it should.
I take a large sip of my coffee, basking in the life I’ve created for myself and my family. Over a decade ago, I inherited a dilapidated business, dusty and unused, sealed in time by a dying owner. Now, it was the busiest funeral home in the parish. Between funerals, cremations, memorial services, and the occasional raising of the dead, my days are rarely quiet anymore.
And I loved every second of it.
The patio doors burst open, and my whirlwind of a daughter flies out in phoenix form, shifting to stand directly in front of me.
“Papa!”
Peace has ended.
My daughter, Hecate Nefret Abbas, was tall for her ten years, all wild dark curls, pale skin, and bright golden eyes that flash when she gets excited. Which happened entirely too often. She was also an alpha, just like her daddy.
“What’s on fire?” I ask, wrapping my arms around her in a tight hug.
“Your mate set the toaster on fire,” she beams.
“Of course he did,” I sigh in exasperation. I take another sip of coffee to scrounge up some mental energy to deal with Ember’s habit of setting fire to random objects in our home.
Upstairs, the kitchen looks exactly like it always does in the morning. Chaotic. There were pamphlets spread across the table from the services scheduled this week. I keep the administrative work in the kitchen because the office tends to end up full of Hecate’s glitter projects, and if you know glitter, then you know that shit never goes away.
A stack of fresh flower clippings sits by the sink waiting to be arranged. And standing in the middle of the kitchen is Ember. My mate. My husband. My eternal love.
And potentially my first murder victim.
“Ember,” I draw out his name when I finally lay eyes on him.
“Habibi,” he turns slowly, cautious about my tone. “It wasn’t my fault this time. I swear it.”
“Why is the toaster smoking?”
“Daddy used phoenix fire because the toaster was too slow,” Hecate tattles with a giggle.
“Snitch,” Ember scrunches his nose at her, but his eyes are alight with humor.
“How many times have I told you not to use supernatural fire for cooking?” I ask for what feels like the hundredth time.
Hecate hops onto her chair and grabs a slice of burnt toast. “You said that last week, and the week before that, andthe week before that,” she says while crunching a bite of toast between the gaps of her teeth.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and beg the gods to give me more patience.
This is my life now.
Most days are filled with grieving families, interspersed with paperwork and the quiet solemnness of preparing the dead. Eric and Ewan still visit, sometimes bringing Geraldine with them. Eric is Hecate’s godfather, and he takes his job very seriously, bringing treats and toys every visit.
Hecate likes greeting families at the door and handing out the pamphlets. I suspect she just enjoys playing boss and telling people where to go or what to do. Alpha instincts are strong after all.
The phone on the wall rings, loud and shrill.
“Eternal Embers Funeral Home. Ember speaking. Yes, we can arrange that,” he answers, scrawling a note on the pad we keep by the phone. “…Yes, we can do a Viking-themed memorial service.”
I rub at the headache forming at my temples as he gets the rest of their info and hangs up the phone, face alight with excitement.
