Talking With Ghosts: Part 1 (a Tomb of

Ashen Tears Book 7) Kailee Reese

Samuels
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TALKING WITH GHOSTS (Part 1)
a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 7
Copyright © 2022 by Kailee Reese Samuels

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including, but not limited to, photocopying or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the
author, except in the case of author credited, brief quotations in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used
fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual events, locale, or organizations is
entirely and purely coincidental.

All characters depicted in sexual acts in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older.

E-Book Edition: March 31, 2022

ISBN 978-1-954477-01-8

Editing by The Red Pen Queen

 It’s fiction.
It’s romance.
It’s love.

For best enjoyment, please pause between episodes.

 BOOK S BY K RS

a Tomb of Ashen Tears Books

Salt Kissed Love (TAT1)

Famous Last Words (TAT2)
Every Minute I Love You (TAT3)
Diary of a Submissive (TAT4)
A Dark Place (TAT5)
Forbidden Sins (TAT6)
Talking With Ghosts Part 1 (TAT7)
Talking With Ghosts Part 2 (TAT8)
Talking With Ghosts Part 3 (TAT9)

Standalones
the other side of unhappy
Beautiful Things Evil People Do
Chasing Storms
22
A&E
Bad Girl
Madness
Poppy
She/He

Sal Raniero’s Little Black Book

 Prequel (The Contract)
Sal Raniero’s Little Black Book 1

The Story of Salvatore

The Initiation
Tea for Two
Grunt
Hopechest

SONS
Son of Saint
Son of Angel
Son of Cirque

RIDE
Fluff
Bounce
Raw

The JULIET Collection

Juliet
Kinky Sex Magic

Sal Raniero Thrillers

Unspoken (Prequel to Hey Pretty)

Nocturne
A Shimmering Dream
The Red Shoes

order signed paperbacks from my store KaileeReeseSamuels.com

printable reading order on my website

Sal’s Reading List
 WAR NINGS
are like cups of tea.

This warning is here for a reason.

This book is a work of fiction containing explicit, graphic, and violent material.
If you’re not 18+, put it the fuck down.

Please practice safe sex.

Safe, Sane, and Consensual (SSC) and
Risk-Awareness Consensual Kink (RACK)
practices.

Communication is key and I do not believe anything—sexuality, gender orientation, race, age, or
religion—should be swept under the rug.
If I help stir the cauldron of conversation and provide an escape for a few hours, I have done my job.

Don’t be afraid to take an emotional breather.

Play hard and have fun.

Be good and love one another.
Enjoy the ride!

Without further ado, here we go…

 TAT Books are NOT standalone.

Talking With Ghosts is a three-part book meant to be read as one. However, due to publishing
constraints, I have had to divide it up into three parts (books). My hands are tied. As much as my
Dear Readers may want a three thousand page tome in one book, it is not feasible to print such.
From a creative standpoint, TWG was intended to be a singular book. However, as the book
evolved, much to my chagrin, I realized it was near impossible to unpack everything that happened to
Sal and Iris from 5 and 6 into one volume.

TWG Part 1 (TAT7) - Part 2 (TAT8) - Part 3 (TAT9)

TWG is one very long, triple-length TAT book.

To my beloved #RanieroFanGirls who have patiently waited over a year—through J’s sickness
and my surgery—I thank you from the bottom of my heart. You mean the world to me.
I have split the book into three at specific spots for my sadistic writer proclivities. Grins. As a
whole series, TAT will be published as originally intended with however many volumes needed to
tell the story. If another double or triple arrives, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there. I’m not
skipping anything.
I understand if Dear Readers are diving into TAT7+8+9, a deep commitment exists. I have always
chosen my art over everything else, and that remains true in this somewhat challenging undertaking. ~
krs xx
Here. We. Fucking. Go.

Nowala.
 T WG P L AY LI S T

Music that inspired Talking With Ghosts

TAT7+8+9 was written with a lot of AC/DC, Mehdi Rajabian, Regina Spektor, and Ethel Cain on
repeat.
I hope you enjoy it!

The list will expand as the books release.

The defining song for TAT 7+8+9:

“Inbred”
by Ethel Cain
 “There is indeed light…
just a bit dim now, but it’s there.”

- KC Fernandez

#34
“There is a time when its necessary to abandon used clothes, which already have the shape of
our body, and forget our paths, which always lead back to the same places. It is a time of great
journey, and if we do not dare do it, we shall have remained forever at the margins of
ourselves.”

– Fernando Pessoa
 C O NT E NT S

Talking With Ghosts Part 1 (TAT7)

Books by KRS
Warning
A Note About This Book
TWG Playlist
Prelude to Death
chords
captive
drift to the other side
Preface
1. Machine Behind the Monster
2. Compost Heap
3. Unsainthood
4. Crudities of the Belly
5. scary 6
6. the man who wears white
7. The Fact of Fiction
8. Expellation of Fumes
9. Death of the Milkmaid
Vassalage Virgin
10. Bitter Invention of Satan
11. Vulgar Needs
12. little buttercup down
13. Heathenish Hellhound
14. Sitting on a Park Bench with a Clown
15. Don’t Be So Truculent, Bitch
16. Question of Seduction
17. Common Raccoon, Domestic Goat, Italian-American Male
18. Dirty Hooker For Your Pedigree
Detained & Derailed
19. Guttersnipe Gang
20. Sea Urchin Ubiquity
21. Nash This, Chump
22. Gordian Knotted Queer
23. wiper blades in the torrent
24. perilous perfunctory state
25. Charlotte Rose Is Saving Me
26. Barking Dog
27. Remember That Time in the Sonoran Desert?
28. Butterfly Rebirth
29. Forty-Nine For Sixty-Nine
30. at what cost
Sentenced to Detention
31. Game Theorems
 32. Delacroix Dick
33. transparent tilt
34. Vandalized
35. avec moi
36. obedient executioner
37. in v i o l e n c e
38. Simply Fabulous, Mr. Raniero
39. And a guy named Mickey
40. nuevo troika
Solitary Confinement
41. limitations in love
42. D1R3 3RRØR
43. nasty-stylized unhappening
44. big boy, bad guy
45. Cheerleading Captain
46. Herrera Hellhound
47. A Question of Love
48. Saperlipopette (Goodness Me)
49. Innocent Follower
50. rules of engagement
51. Too Precious, Motherfucker
52. make me believe

Continue to TWG Part 2 (TAT8)

Need More SAL?
keep in touch with kailee
PRELUDE TO DEATH

BOOK

i
 CHORDS

“I strum the chords of my ambivalence in the ice water, trying to decide who I am. The opera of my
discontent, so malnourished and repugnant that even I cannot stand the sight of my self-hatred
anymore. And deep in the sepulcher of the past, beneath mounds of heartache and the crumbling
tombstones of lies, lay love—sleeping, dormant, and reckless as I.
Our souls will ignite with spite in the ventricular cove, just hoping to find freedom in the plight
that no one believes. We don’t belong anymore. To anyone. Not even ourselves.”
 C APTIVE

“I’m drowning in a precipitous deluge of bullshit laden with built up animosity over the
last decade.”

- L.S.R.
D R I F T TO T H E OT H E R S I D E

Break through the veil.

 P R E FAC E

Laying on the beach in Tulum in my white thong, I smile at Diablo sitting beside me. He’s crunching
numbers on his tablet, preparing to bring Immortal back to full steam.
Better to keep your enemy close.
Or buried in the shelter.
He was definitely good-looking, and every time I saw him, I thought of Deacon. It didn’t help that
I had spent all morning talking to Sal about our lives being intertwined. He suggested that I was in
love—like love, love—with Deacon, and I admitted the truth. I was in love with Deacon Vincent Cruz
and had been since we met. I no longer had an excuse to deny my feelings because Sal was insanely in
love with Dante.
Every move by one of us triggered a reactionary movement by the other two.
We are bound as a trinity, ever spinning.
And that will never change.
I never imagined Sal would be the first to mature, but when he broke his chains, I knew mine
needed to come off too. I couldn’t fight Sal for Deacon, but I damn sure could take on Amber. I
wanted Deacon and all of his issues. And I didn’t want to give him my eggs. I wanted him to fertilize
them himself. The worst part was—we all knew it, but we did what was expected of us. I married Sal
as Keishi and Luca arranged, but it wasn’t right.
Sal wanted to fight for Deacon and me with his resurrection of energy and endless stream of
happiness. Thank God someone did. And I never imagined it would be my former husband and the
father of my children.
I sip on the ginger ale as my phone rings. “Raniero.”
“Cruz is missing,” Sal says in a panic. “I need you, Iris.”
I toss my tablet in the bag and slowly sit up from reclining. “Define missing.”
“They found his motorcycle on the side of Old Market Road.”
“Fuck!” I shrill like a sea witch roaring into battle. I hear the fear in his voice and grab my things.
“I’m going to the airport in less than ten minutes. Who is working the case?”
“Kit is doing it herself because she is concerned there may be foul play within the SGPD,” he
says as I switch to my AirPods and start packing.
“Make sure Kit knows I can bring in a team if need be. Whatever she needs. I am messaging Sato
now to catch a flight.”
“That’s going to leave Hannah alone.”
“I don’t give a fucking rat’s shit about Hannah Cruz!” I yell, gathering up my clothes and tossing
them in a bag. “As far as I am concerned we can do an exchange, Cruz for Cruz.”
 He pauses and asks, “Do you have him?”
“I knew where Nicky’s first house was,” I say, rushing into the bathroom to toss my makeup and
toiletries into a bag. “I have no idea. I am not the machine behind the monster.”
“Then who is?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper, trying not to panic. “Make me up a room though because I am coming to
stay with you. We need to call Vie.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine aside from my stress levels skyrocketing,” I report, shutting the bag. “Fuck. I forgot to
get dressed. I cannot go to the airport in a thong.”
“Well, you could but…”
“I am coming home,” I maintain calmly. “You, Dante, and me are going to break this bitch down
and find him.”
“Should I send the kids back to Cat?”
“Is Dante staying with you?”
He murmurs, “… Is that even a question?”
“As long as Dante is with you, I trust that my kids are okay. They need two people with them at all
times,” I say, grabbing a frumpy dress from my luggage. “I have to tell Diablo I am leaving.”
“Please tell me he won’t hold you there.”
“I am not his captive,” I contend, gazing around the room. “I am just a kinky as fuck pregnant girl.”
“Bring your sweet ass home to me, kinky as fuck pregnant girl. I need your help finding Cruz,” he
challenges with confidence. “Dante and I will take care of you.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Yes, Iris.”
“I kind of like you this way,” I softly admit, feeling the heat rising on my cheeks. “It’s pretty hot.” I
set my bags by the door. “Okay, I packed and am ready to go as soon as I talk to Diablo. Where is
Amber, Sal?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where is Lukas?”
“I don’t know that either.”
“Did you have anything to do with this?”
“Babydoll, the absolute last thing I would do would be what you are thinking. I don’t think you
did it. Please don’t think I did.”
“I don’t,” I whisper. “But whoever did is about to feel a hell like they never dreamed rain on
them.”
“One more thing, Iris.”
“Hmm?”
“No more lies. No more secrets. No more games.” His words hit home because I know we’re
both guilty of unfair gameplay. We’re stronger together than apart. “Or don’t come home.”
“I promise,” I whisper, crying. “I will behave, Sir. Just bring Deacon back to me.”
“I’m going to do everything in my fucking power to make that happen for you.”
“I love you, Sal.”
“I love you too, Darlin’. Go get on that plane. Dante and I will pick you up.”
I choke on my tears. “Thank you so much for telling me.”
“I don’t have a choice,” he replies with an even tone. “This is the new me. Love it or hate it. I
can’t change who I have become or how I feel. I will find Deacon for you, and when I do, the rest is
up to you.”
“Then I may need a hitman,” I unapologetically announce. “Because Amber Cruz needs to die.
And I will destroy anyone who keeps me from Deacon.”
1
 M AC H I N E B E H I N D T H E M O N S T E R

HIS BUTTERFLY

BEAUTY DEFIES PERFECTION .

Beauty blooms in the bleak, captivating the darkness to numb the hideous misfortunes. It is in
those nuances, those insignificant moments of passage—where beauty should never breathe—
transcending into an unforgettable love.
Presenting in many forms regardless of beaming lights or creeping shadows, beauty sneaks into
remote nooks and crannies, serpentining and filling cavernous valleys where little hope exists—
…the terminally ill woman with a gorgeous smile
…the charming hero with two missing limbs
…the mother painstakingly arranging her arsenal for a brilliant revolt despite being so
fraught with grief that she cannot raise her child—her children—out of fear.
…her own daughters…
And such it was with me—the granddaughter of the ruling Japanese mafia known as Lotus—a
sacred flower born from the mud representing longevity, spiritual awakening, and enlightenment. The
Nelumbo nucifera surrenders its existence to the waters of rivers and flood plains. Often incorrectly
referred to as a water lily, Nymphaeaceae.
I am a hurricane.
I am the Lotus.
Men love me.
My life succumbed to the pitch blackness upon my conception. However, I wouldn’t know how
disastrous it would become until I matured and understood the compelling moments of joy would be
lassoed and rendered immobile by others’ endless visions for my future.
I was nothing more than a figurehead—the prima ballerina of their grand recital—acting,
moving, spinning as the director demanded.
The director being—The Chairman—my grandfather, Keishi Nakamura. He was a secretive
bastard, but unfortunately, far from senile.
But the heir to the Lotus throne wasn’t me.
No, there was an up and comer, a new girl on the block, his five-year-old daughter, Mae-Mae
Yuina Oki Hada Nakamura Raniero, adopted, raised, and guarded by my former husband.
 I had a limited amount of time to make an impact before the Little Lotus unfurled her petals and
took her rightful seat. Until then, I was the stand-in. The girl keeping the pillow cushion warm for the
one real Queen—Mae. I was a trial run for the female Japanese mafia leader. I was racing against the
clock—hypothetically ten years plus or minus—before she wanted to swipe the crown they put upon
me.
I had to get to work—and quick.
Long before she came along, I began in 2015 with a phone call to Dom Gennaro.
“I’m ready.”
He argued with me for a good bit. But, seeing how Dom had done everything in his power to steer
my life away from my grandmother’s ‘temporary’ placement, I wasn’t surprised. See, Aki Nakamura
was the one who technically cast me into the role of Lotus Queen.
I was pissed off at my grandmother too.
But I had nothing to do with her death.
And everything to do with my former husband’s passing. Chance Ballister never knew what hit
him—informally called ‘getting owned’ by the Pink Posse.
False power was left for those with bigger dicks than I, and I was subjected to insult after injury. I
had been fighting against the male-dominated corruption machine since I knew of its existence.
Lydia Kettles, my birth mother, secured my seat upon The Suits’ coattails early on. I should’ve
thanked her for the luxurious benefits being a mafia princess brought, but instead, I had Dom issue the
hit that ended her life.
The real power came in the form of knowing whom to ride on because just any old dick wouldn’t
do.
I was special.
Smart girls use every available asset, including but not limited to: hard tops, biker boys,
sociopathic fetish killers, and pretty boys with smiles that should be illegal. And let’s not forget how
sometimes those assets include welcoming the trailer trash bitch slurping up the sauna between my
majestic, sometimes pudgy thighs.
I needed a royal harem of alpha males to do my bidding.
Men like Dom Gennaro, Deacon Cruz, Nico Cristos, and Sal Raniero. Even the emerging
generation of power players were ready to serve my whims—Marquis Baptiste, Everly “Slix” Rosso,
Diablo Herrera of Immortal, Christian Avery Kettles Eaves of Fellwater Canon and his engineer, Sem
Van Dijk, but the lucrative minds of criminal leadership—Sage Kaur of Venal, Xan Agu of Irozi, and
Raze Kola of Servet—really caught my attention.
The new gen were all relatively green, still wet behind the ears and making me feel like an old
pro. Nevertheless, they sought solid advice on how to survive the shark-infested waters, and even
more so, a recommendation from me bestowing their greatness.
I am the Lotus.
But more importantly, I am Iris.
I do not play to lose, forfeit, or walk away.
My Unholy boys raised me better than that.
In the foyer of the beach house in Tulum on the white marble floor, I spot my Louis Vuitton
luggage waiting for my departure from my vacation hideaway.
He called.
And I must go.
I eye the antiques adorning the area—the stamped tin mirror hanging above a glass top table
painted a deep turquoise and sunshine yellow. Undoubtedly, the table had been used for more than
keys and purses as the divot where the glass meets the wood holds the residue of their riches.
Snow white dust builds legacies.
And the source of his addiction.
Unless that’s me—the verdict is still out.
Off to the sides of the rusting tin, I note the presence of two Kola nut rosaries. They’re massive,
two-inch, four-lobed balls that look to have been in existence since Queen Estrel’s days.
Garcinia kola or bitter kola is sometimes used to enhance the libido and make the
male last longer. The artwork on the surface of the shells is fading and cracking apart, but the scrolled
markings are distinct.
Before I get lost in erotic allusions of its name, I should mention that the extract of Kola nuts—too
soon, kinky girls—was the source of flavoring sodas. Or pop, depending on where you are from.
The strand of nuts is displayed in a vacation home stuffed with Latin—more specifically, regional
from the Yucatán Peninsula—Mayan decor.
I close my eyes, scouring my memories of the house to locate any other cultural embellishments.
There are none.
Not even Tejano pieces—and there is a difference. No Venetian glass or jars of quirky-shaped
pasta. No Oriental influence. No Laughing Buddha. No Lucky Golden Cat—maneki-neko. No
distinctly American items. Save for the Zippo in the kitchen drawer. No European indulgences. No
heavy French antiques. No Matryoshka dolls. Or Beluga caviar.
Nothing.
So why is it the Herrera family has two Kola nut rosaries from tropical forests in Africa?
“Look at me, Lotus,” he growls, thrusting into me. “I want to see you come. I crave that look you
get.”
I open my eyes to his reflection in the mirror. I would recognize those dark blue eyes anywhere.
He sees straight through to my soul, and I know—this particular man—understands more about me
than he should.
This is not necessarily a good thing.
There is no sleight of hand moves to make with Diablo Cruz.
I release the bite of my lip and whisper, “What look?”
“That gaze of desire.” His hair is much shorter than his brother’s, but his long, wet bangs cling to
his sweaty cheeks. He tosses them back, running his hand over them, and smoothing them out. “Do you
have to find my brother?” he asks, going in for the kill. He will come; I will not. I have too much on
my mind. “We both know he isn’t missing or lost.”
I say nothing as he shoots his load with a triumphant grunt.
I fake my way through it and smile. He falls out of me. He doesn’t want me to leave because
his receptacle will be unavailable. Sex with Diablo started with a slow burn, but he went up in a
blaze once he ignited. Sex was a non-stop, three times per day event. I attributed this to years behind
bars, and part of me felt sorry for the guy.
I was routinely engaging in sympathy sex.
Slut shame me; I really don’t care.
People can talk when they’ve been through the shit I have…when they’ve walked a thousand
miles in my scuffed up, red-soled broken heels…when horrifically violated in the backseat of an SUV
while pregnant. Then—and only then—can someone cast a judgement upon me.
He tosses me a towel. He’s decent. Not very romantic or even a gentleman, but decent. I am safe
with him, and that means something. Love is not involved in this thing between Diablo and me.
Don’t turn it into something it’s not.
It’s convenient and straightforward.
So uncomplicated.
He cares for me; I care for him.
He orders my food, and I suck his dick and swallow his load.
He does his thing, and I do mine.
Anyone else on the alpha male menu doesn’t offer the ease that Diablo Cruz does. My body yearns
for the touch of some of them while my heart gets involved with others. Sometimes, in one particular
case, both are true.
And that makes one man on my team roster very dangerous.
I wipe myself up and put on my pants as I peer into my bag and spot the two Kola nuts from a man
I am not sure how I feel about.
The Herrera Cartel, also known as Immortal, isn’t the only one with connections to Africa.
Xan Agu of the Irozi militia loves my laugh.
And I love his diamonds.
He offered me his sacred nuts as a show of good will—a prayer for our continued peace. I
placed his blest nuts in my purse with the other trinkets given to garner my attention. I’d fuck them in a
pinch like Ben Wa balls. Just like I’d fuck him over if I needed to spearhead into his lands.
Who is Lotus’ best friend?
I have lots of them.
But only one matters.

HIS RIDE

I’ M BEING HELD CAPTIVE.

A prisoner enslaved.
A hostage forgotten.
In the basement, I stare at Amber. Her ratted auburn hair frames her worn-out face with slight
smudges appearing under her eyes, remnants from her makeup.
Our captor is nowhere to be seen.
I think he is gone, but where he went and when he will be back remains a mystery.
“How are we getting out of this?” she slurs in a painful haze. “I don’t know how many more times
I can watch him rape you, Deacon.”
I snarl, dismissing the thought because I no longer care about what he does to my body. My only
concern is survival. “I could say the same thing about you.”
“Do you remember the first time we met?”
I offer a smirk. “I do.”
“My father had me held captive at the Rampage MC clubhouse in Arkansas.”
“Sal blew it up not too long after,” I remind as we reminisce. “Crazy fucker.”
 “I didn’t trust Nico then,” she says, stretching her feet. “I don’t trust him now.”
“His involvement with Serene was bound to implode eventually,” I remark, trying to move. My
flesh aches. Every muscle hurts. “Dale hated his sister’s involvement with the Cristos clan, but she
was drawn to it—the money and status. He may be the garbage man of the underworld, but he is a rich
and famous dumpster diver.”
“He’s going to lose his shit when he finds out what Nicky did to Jaid.”
I mull over her words. Cristos will be permanently unpleasant if he discovers his last remaining
somewhat sane heir is deceased. He planned on handing everything over to Prissy Pants at thirty-five,
according to Sal. I wasn’t sure if I believed it or not.
Cristos was notorious for talking big yet doing the unthinkable. No man in his right mind
would’ve sold his shipping fleet as cheap as he did. But the uncommon behavior was typical for
Cristos.
I have tried not to think about his killing Jaid. I had come to a place of understanding, and her
death hurts. “My son will never know his mother because of what Nick did.”
“Neither of the kids belong to Delarte Cristos,” she confides. “Not Kade or Zach.”
“I already figured that out.”
“Did you?” she questions, licking her lips. “Or did you steal Sal’s homework again?”
I lower my gaze, feeling less than and wondering if I could’ve stopped Jaid’s murder. “… Does it
matter?”
“It does,” she says, frantic. “You are the Saint of Sanctum, yet you refuse to throw around any sort
of power. Don’t you think you should? Don’t you think it’s time to do your father proud?”
First, he rapes my sister, Hannah, and then Nicky kills the only female Nero. How dare he? I will
kill him when I figure out how to get out of these chains.
Feeling insulted, I sigh. “What do you want from me?”
“No one can rearrange the board like you,” she persists, sitting up away from the wall. “You hold
the power, but it’s pointlessly collecting dust because you fear possible outcomes.”
“I have no shield,” I counter, unwilling to exchange crossfire in our current state of affairs. “No
barrier. No barricade. No blockade. I cannot risk Sal or Iris.”
She snickers, “Because they’ve been so good to you, right?”
“Our unfair gameplay is a three-way street,” I point out, not allowing her to belittle them. “I am as
responsible as they are. We were three kids with people’s expectations and too much power. No one
can place any blame. We all did stuff wrong. Every one of us. Even me. I am not the Saint you think I
am.”
“Saint, you have all of The Commission and Nero’s support,” she argues, determined to make her
case. “If that isn’t enough of an army, I don’t know what is. Take out some priests in key critical spots
and put new ones in. We need new blood if we’re forging ahead. Immortal is restructuring and all you
can think about is being your twins’ right-hand man. It isn’t the way in though, Deacon. If anything,
you’re going to get yourself killed.”
“The debate is moot because we are stuck in a cellar.”
“Immortal will destroy you,” she declares with conviction. “You don’t have to be on Sal
Raniero’s team, but Immortal?”
“They’re a power player,” I contend, not wanting to show her all of my cards. I may not have a
choice. She is a ruthless, vindictive fiend. “And Cruz needs to up his game. Fuck the Saint part of that
equation.”
“… And then what?” Her brows furrow in the center. “Do you go after Allegiance? Servet?
Lotus? Who becomes Immortal’s number one enemy?”
“I don’t have to tell you shit.”
“There is a reason Dante Herrera left their ranks!” she furiously yells. “Tell me why!”
“I don’t have to tell you shit, bitch.”
Dante left Immortal because he is a brilliantly smart strategist. Immortal is Lotus’ biggest
competition. Dante’s defection to the other side paved the way for Diablo to weasel his way in and
show his true colors, which was great for me.
My loyalty is eternally purple and gold.
Anyone who thinks differently—doesn’t know me.
If I can get into Immortal in Diablo’s shadow and dismantle her fiercest rival, I am going to do it.
I will do it because I think—I don’t know—they had a say in her rape. Serene instigated the heinous
act through Dale. I got all of that, but I also believe her association with the Torrente clan and their
involvement with Immortal played into the crime against Lotus. We must not forget Iris had a hand in
Carlo Torrente’s untimely demise.
Paybacks are hell.
And they aren’t straight shot arrows but winding missiles to cause misdirection.
Intentionally misguided.
Because what did Iris ever do to Dale? Nothing.
Serene? Nada.
I understand Iris continued Aki’s funding of communite gangs in opposition of Allegiance…but an
underhanded assault isn’t a normal reaction for her betrayal.
Her rape was personal; Iris offended someone on a deep level.
We say nothing for the next few minutes. Maybe I pissed off my wife—the woman who never
should’ve earned such a title. I was saving it for one, but I was pushed—left out of the triumvirate and
convinced that the Lotus was about to become Iris Gennaro.
I put nothing past anyone. I knew the time would come when we would collapse. I didn’t expect it
to be quite so soon. We were three nuclear reactors determined to change the game, but that didn’t
mean we would align forever. We could easily explode. And we did.
Sal wanted out.
Iris wanted to ship—everything from stolen toys to mass quantities of opium.
Post Mistress of the Underworld.
And I wanted to hold the reins on something more significant than Sanctum’s purse strings. Their
proverbial ball sack contaminated my moves when people like Serene pulled rank. I didn’t know how
to deal with disobedient mobsters, and I sure as fuck didn’t want to discipline them.
I wasn’t that much of a monster.
I had a heart, and I couldn’t send a Nero out to eliminate Serene. I didn’t have it in me. I wasn’t as
cutthroat as either of my conspirators, and that snapped my balls like a motherfucker.
I shouldn’t get too caught up in Cristos’ reaction to Jaid’s death; Serene’s will be much worse.
They were close.
Nicky is no one in the grand scheme of things. He is as he always was—the sociopathic son of a
well-to-do sanitation engineer.
Nothing more or less.
Daddy wanted to cover him up, conceal him from the masses. I am sure if he could’ve retracted
the Cristos name from Nicky, he would’ve two decades ago. He was the mark on the underworld, but
I wasn’t cleaning up those shit stains.
 I don’t want a relationship of any kind with Nick Cristos.
He had been haranguing me for years, wanting my attention, craving something I didn’t want to
provide.
I love Sal—in my heart and soul.
I will never love Nicky. Hell, I didn’t even like Nicky when he showed up at The Dollhouse. And
if I would’ve known how it was all going to go down, I don’t know that Sal’s love and the toxicity
that our relationship became was worth the three-ring circus.
I don’t know if Nick will kill me.
It’s a hard call.
He loves me.
And that changes things.
I harbor the secrets of Sal Raniero that no one knows, and I fully understand why we are no longer
together. He found sobriety, and I lost my control. It’s just that simple.
Who rolled his joints? Who gave him the pills? Who cut his lines? Me.
And I fucking did it to keep him with me.
Maybe I am a monster of a different kind.
That guilt is on my shoulders and locked in my heart. I will never get him back. We will never be
what we were. We are over. We are through. But that doesn’t mean I can’t steal his favorite flower
and make her mine.
“What do you need?” Amber considerately asks. “What can I do for you?”
“Stand by my side and be the cunt you’ve always been,” I reply, knowing I can feed her just like I
did him. She’ll be my puppet on a string. Addicts are all the same. I know, I am one. “Stay loyal to
me. And don’t retreat to your home base.”
“Sal is so pissed at me,” she mumbles, waving the notion off. “There is no safety under his wings
anymore.”
“When did you lose him?”
She glances away with tears in her eyes, and I see she still cares for her former Master. “I helped
Iris getaway. I was her partner in crime.”
“And you lost her too?”
She frowns as the tears roll down her cheeks. “I lost her. I’ve done too much bouncing, even
though I was the one that helped deliver Dale Archer to her feet. It won’t matter. She won’t let me
back in.”
“We’re the outsiders.”
“We’ve been eliminated from the team,” she concedes, staring at me. “Let’s pull it around, figure
out how to get out of here, and make something of ourselves.”
“I belong by my brother’s side.”
“You don’t need your brother,” she says again, urging his dismissal. “You didn’t need your Ma.
You don’t need Hannah. And you don’t need Diablo. The only thing you need is looking you square in
the eye. I may not have the bank to run a show, but I can get you in position to fly.”
“… How?”
“I’ll figure it the fuck out like I always do.”
I snicker, “You’re a piece of work, Stardust.”
”So are you, Mr. Cruz.”
“You know I love you,” I confess. It is the truth. I love Amber—whether I want to or not. Part of
me will always care deeply about her—she is the broken girl, which hits my heartstrings with the
force of a ball-peen hammer. The depth is nowhere near the intimate levels I share with another, but it
is love nonetheless. “And I don’t regret anything.”
Except for one thing I daren’t tell her—I was swinging like a pendulum from one side to the other
during Sal’s drug addiction.
One minute, I was chastising him, and the next, I was letting him snort coke off of my belly. He
loved the ridges. He loved giving me rim jobs with a ring of powdered…donuts. He was bad, and I
enabled him because I didn’t want to lose him.
He was never supposed to get sober.
Not on his own. Not like this.
He did, and I slipped, finding serenity in the comfort of milk. Old habits never die.
“I’ll have your baby.”
She was going to have Cesario’s baby—the price of access to Stella Raniero, who in turn knew
Dale Archer’s whereabouts. Amber has given up so much for the Nakamura and Raniero team.
As much as me.
And now we’re discarded like used fast food wrappers left to decompose in a landfill.
Use and toss—rinsed and repeated—that is how people like Sal Raniero and Iris Nakamura
climb the ladder—by abusing others.
“I’ll think about your offer of uniting to build something substantial and a child.”
“Please do,” she whispers. “Because I love you too.”
“I’m pretty messed up.”
She smiles. “You don’t have to be messed up alone anymore, Deacon.”
I glance at the staircase, wishing the chains on our wrists and ankles didn’t exist. I’d grab my girl
and run. I focus on her because a hope exists that she can still elevate me.
I see it. I am aware of it. I know how Amber Cruz works. She wants the high-life, plays the power
cards, and has nothing to show for it.
The fallen MC princess to match my forsaken.
Even though they see us as nothing more than discarded afterbirth and foreskin tossed into a
bucket.
We’re better than that.
“How much did Delarte Cristos pay you to help Nick capture me?”
She shakes her head. “You shouldn’t ask such questions.”
“Answer me.”
“Three hundred.”
I squint through the act of her betrayal. She sold me—her legitimate husband—down the river
for three hundred grand. And I know at that exact moment, my future is solid south of the border.
But who wanted me in captivity?
Who didn’t want me sitting next to Diablo?
There is only one correct answer.
Her associations with Cristos, Nicky, and Amber are well documented, but how much did Iris
know?
And how much will I punish her for her sins?
 THE MASTER

“P RAY FOR US ,” I RASP , ENDING THE CALL WITH P AULIE DOWNIN ON A SHALLOW BREATH AS THE SUN
begins to set. Dante drapes his arms on the car roof and over the top of the door frame. “She’s on her
way to the crime scene.”
My system is crashing, frying the hard drive, as sirens blare. Collapse is imminent. Evacuate now.
My lungs are punctured.
I am deflating, unable to survive in the billowing toxic fumes, as my body depletes every
molecule of air from my being. All of the air from my lungs is gone.
I suffocate in loss.
God, I’m going to puke.
I bend over, hands on my knees, and cough as he rushes to my aid and rubs my back. “Calm down,
Chou.”
My body threatens to perish while my lover stands sentinel like some sort of warrior-sex-God
prepared to take it to the next level of misery for lil ol’ me.
Dante Alonzo Herrera has extreme patience, but once he fires up—there will be no stopping him.
He will not hesitate to elevate the body count and he’ll have zero remorse in his retaliatory strikes.
People thought I’d gone mad by—welcoming his dick in my ass...nightly…sometimes multiple
times—our alignment.
They didn’t know Dante the way I knew Dante. He wasn’t a monster. Just an executioner trained
to provide a fence where none could ever possibly exist. The border between the rest of the world
and me is now guarded by a friendly Latino. And he is quite friendly until he’s the feared enemy, but
they never see him coming. He is remarkably adept, quick, and clean.
He racks up bodies; I mourn the departed.
I didn’t need rails; I needed a barrier.
A 6’4”, 225 lb. sexy son of a bitch unafraid to ask the difficult questions in his calm, wisened
tone. He was willing to pull the trigger and capable of tackling my reckless self to the ground in a
show of force and love.
Did his on-site magical militia cause Trudy to pull the trigger? Naw.
She was destined for her demise the second she hurt Cruz. I have to believe that…anything
else…is too much. I overclock. I overheat.
I burn in the flames.
We pick the carnage apart like crows feasting in a famine. And we pray not to choke on a bone.
But the fact is those bones exist, baked in the sun, splintering off for the carrion to gag like a dog on a
too-tight collar.
But the marrow is quite tasty.
Yum-yum.
“He’s gone,” Dante mutters, uploading the data I cannot process. He hastily moves, gently closing
his door and walking to my side. His pointer finger tucks under my chin, and he lifts, demanding my
attention like I have become a disobedient child. “He’s gone, but I will find him, Salvatore.”
God, I adore this man.
He is the guy who always says the right thing at the exact right time. When I grow up, I want to
be just like Dante Herrera.
In a hazy puddle of tears, I blink at Dante, and all I see is his love, radiating with pure happiness
in these worst seconds of my life. I collapse into his arms, sobbing, wailing…as I comprehend that
the gates to the castle have been breached. Cruz is missing.
… And Cruz is missing.
… And Cruz is missing.
… And Cruz is missing.
Oh. My. Fucking. God. Help. Me.
“Daddy!” Mae panics, swiftly unfastening her seatbelt. Remind me that she needs a better
booster. But this is Mae, I am pretty sure she could get out of any webbing I put her in. She is
standing in the car and hanging her upper body out the window. Her fingers grasp the hem of my shirt
and she tugs hard. “What’s wrong, Daddy?”
“Deacon is missing,” I answer, facing her without fear. I will not lie to my daughter. She needs to
know this. She needs to see my reaction to the man I loved for the first five years of her life vanishing.
I am decimated. “They found his bike.”
She pauses with great reflection and questions like a master interrogator, “… Is he gone because
he was making out with Jaid?”
With Dante’s hands braced on my arms, I fully—very slowly—turn to face the deafening music of
my finest critic and whisper, “Uh, what do you mean?”
What did you say little girl?
“Deacon and Jaid were making out,” she informs, crawling out of the back seat, stepping—with
her shoes in the Demon’s leather buckets. I really don’t give a shit—the things I used to care about
no longer fucking matter. My point is this child could get away with murder because her father
would dig the grave with his broken hands. Or bribe the Brazilian to do it for me. She walks over,
and I squat down low as his hands stay on my shoulders, providing a much-needed grounding. “The
night of the party.”
“… Black Tie Affair?”
“Yes!” she answers, walking toward the creek. “That night!”
I pivot back to Dante and mumble, “We’re in so much trouble.”
“I will warn the team,” he solemnly says. “You go take care of your daughter.” I don’t like the
way he says your. It disturbs me. Jars me. Hurts me. And reinforces the fact that I am alone and
raising two children—two little girls at that. With a serious expression, he questions, “… What’s
wrong?”
“Are you prepared for our…”
He pauses, understanding the true meaning of my words, and gives a subtle grin. “Yes, lover. I am
ready whenever you are. We will be okay. I promise you that I will do everything in my power to
make it so.”
I place my hand on my forehead and run it over my hair before laying it on his chest. “Dante…”
“Daughter,” he gently reminds, pointing to Mae. “You may not want to do this, but you have to.
Mae is too bright to not know something is shaking the very ground her father stands on. Don’t
wobble. Don’t quake. Just go comfort her. Let me worry about finding Cruz. I will call and talk to Kit.
If I can’t get in with her, I will call Paulie Downin again. Do you want me to call Dominic?”
“Please.”
“Daughter,” he repeats, spinning me around to the creek. He lightly pops me on the ass. God, don’t
do that. “Go, Raniero.”
 “You’re a fucker sometimes, Herrera.”
“And this is why you fell in love with me.” He kisses my cheek. “Hup two, soldier. You’re on
Daddy duty, even now.”
This responsibility never ends.
I am a soldier in this mafia war and a warrior for my two daughters. That is why I fight—I remind
myself.
Tears flutter on my lashes because I know he is right. He is right, and I don’t want him to be right.
I want him to be wrong so that I have an excuse to put a bullet in his heart. That is what I want. But I
can’t. He’s fucking right for me. And he gets it—every goddamned bit of me. He knows what makes
me tick, and he knows what I care about most—the little girl with her rump parked on the dirt…the
one staring at the peacocks.
Wait. What? Whoa!
“Dante,” I whisper, nodding toward the pair. “Look!”
“I told you they would stick around.” He winks. Flirtatious fucker. The peacocks are approaching
my little doll. Better not hurt her, or we’ll be having cock for dinner. Hmm. I may have that anyway.
Bad joke. Bad timing. But my brain is on fire. I tug my phone out of my back pocket. He quietly
suggests, “Duck walk over…creep.”
Crouching low, I waddle over, shooting pictures the whole time as the birds get closer to her.
They seem to know she is kindred—gifted—and speaks with a tranquil tongue. My little hypnotist.
She cautiously peers over her shoulder at me coming up behind her. “You’re far more frightening than
they are,” she announces. “Don’t disturb my peacocks.”
“I won’t, Ma’am,” I reply, inching up next to her. We sit hip to hip, studying their moves. “Any
ideas where he is?”
“It’s reasonable to think he is with Nick,” she soothingly whispers. “But don’t be blind in the
forest, father.”
I hate it when she does that.
That shit freaks me out.
The bits of otherworldly wisdom she pulls out like fortunes…not from cookies. No. This is Mae.
She owns the damn printing machine. Add in her calling me ‘father,’ and I need to seek the comfort of
a shaman with holy water and a fat pipe of hallucinogens.
“Did Jaid seem to like him?”
She gives a side-eyed glance like the question is outlandishly insulting. “When you put your
tongue down Tete’s throat is it because you like him?”
Fuck.
“I like Tete a lot.”
“I know you do,” she reports as the birds investigate under the tilt-a-house. Not sure it’s safe, but
I am not crawling under there to get them out. “If something happens to him, I will be very, very angry,
Dad.”
Read: If I break up or hurt Dante, the little monster of Mae will come after my ass with a
vengeance.
“Are you angry about Deeeee?”
She harshly scowls with pursed lips. “Yes, I am. But Tete makes you happy and that earns him
bonus points.” She picks up a tiny twig and stabs it into the gravel driveway which has been mostly
washed away from the flooding rains. “Deacon being gone is just a distraction. Don’t let it distract
you like the pretty peacocks do.”
 Jesus Christ.
She may need a reform school in a decade for growing up mafia.
Pray for me.
“Salvatore,” Dante interrupts, still on the phone, as I twist back to him. “Kit would like to see you
at the scene first thing tomorrow morning. She thinks they’ve found something more than the bike, but
it’s getting too dark to continue a thorough examination.”
After years away from investigative work, this all feels strange and surreal—a flashback to my
past that I don’t necessarily want to have. Immediately, I ask, “Are they marking it off?”
“They’re shutting down that section of Old Market Road,” he informs, staring at me. “She will be
on-site with her team all night.”
“I’ll be there,” I reply, glancing at a despondent Mae. “First light.”
“That’s my call to go to Cat’s again,” Mae admonishes with a sigh. “One night home. And a
fortnight away.”
Who the hell taught her fortnight?
I hesitate for about ten-seconds, but I need the truth with all the shit coming to light. “… Do you
not like Cat?”
“I like Cat just fine, but I love my Daddy more.”
Oh. My. Fucking. Heart.
“So I’ll take you with me.”
“… To a crime scene?” she asks, not flinching.
“Yes.”
She raises a brow and seriously whispers, “Will there be blood?”
I squint the tears back. “I don’t know.”
“I hope not,” she replies, thoughtfully. “But if there is, it could provide much needed clues.” I nod,
accepting she will either be a vicious queen or a forensic investigator. Some things are out of my
hands—out of my control. She is five going on forty—or a decade older and wiser than me. “Will
anyone say anything about my presence?”
“My name is Salvatore Raniero. I dare them to say anything to me,” I cockily remark, standing up
and grabbing my girl. “And I am your father, Mae-Mae.”
“Ain’t that the truth, Capo.”
“Follow me, Pretty Boy.”
His eyes flash open, and he sits straight up in bed—breathing heavily and frantic—
like he just saw a ghost. The sheen of sweat glistens on his skin in the fading
moonlight.
“Kace…” he mumbles, feeling me. He lowers his gaze, gripping the sheet. He
shakes his head and mutters, “Fuck. She is here.”
I drift around the room and smile with a wide tooth grin.

“You, Dear Ones, follow me too.”

2
 COMPOST HEAP

HIS LOTUS

‘T HE ITSY BITSY SPIDER CLIMBED UP THE WATER SPOUT ,’ I REPEAT THE WORDS IN MY HEAD AS I TIPTOE
out of bed and climb down the stairs.
Everyone is asleep.
I must be quiet.
I can’t sleep.
There is too much noise from the spirits. They’re having a parade in my room. The pink-haired
girl keeps screaming at me to wake Daddy.
I am not doing that.
He’s tired from the trip to Chicago.
In the kitchen, I flip open the upper cabinet doors of the pantry. I know what I want. I need a tall
person.
Or…I do what Daddy does.
I swing the bottom doors wide and scale up the shelves. All the while praying the water doesn’t
come to wash the spider out. I tighten my grip to the center post and grab the bag before letting go and
landing on my feet. I smirk.
I’m so awesome.
And I’ll be in so much trouble.
I snip the bag open with the scissors and fill a small bowl with the sauce before creeping to the
office. I flip through the channels and crawl up in the chair.
My throne.
The rest of the bitches need to take a number because he is mine.
My Daddy.
Mine.

THE MASTER
I STUMBLE OUT OF BED AT SOME PREDAWN INSANE HOUR. I FEEL THE NEED TO RUN , BUT MY WIFE
—former, not dead—is on her way. She said her flight was delayed due to the weather.
My issues with Iris aren’t a matter of trust. She won’t take the girls. She won’t snoop in my things.
She won’t murder my sexy lover in his sleep.
I must be here to protect her.
It harkens back to why we were paired up, to begin with. I’m trained to be an assassin, and she is
the most valuable woman on the chessboard.
Not my Queen.
But still, my Queen.
I’m sure, by now, you get it. I will forever love, worship, adore, defend, protect, and kill for that
girl.
I seek solace in the sunroom turned office instead of leaving, only to find the flatscreen spastically
flashing like a seventies disco gone awry. “What are you watching?”
“Come into my study, Father.”
Maybe a creepy little girl coming out of a static television set is a better description. Mae is
rocking in my chair, sitting high up on two pillows, and eating sweet potato chips that she’s dipping in
Whataburger spicy ketchup.
At 5:04 AM.
The screen goes pitch black. “What are you watching?”
“Snowstorms,” she replies. I stride over, park my butt on the desk, and steal a chip. “Dip it.”
She’s not asking me. She’s demanding I commit what I view as a cardinal sin against sweet
potatoes. She knows this. Sweet potatoes do not belong in ketchup. She’s challenging me.
“No,” I mumble, remembering how Emlee loved sweet potatoes and ketchup. It was disgusting
then—which seems like eons ago—and it is disgusting now. “I can’t.”
“Then go,” she whispers politely with a wave of her hand like I am not worthy of being in her
cool kid club. “The chips are only a vehicle for the tomatoes. You can do anything you want to do.
You are choosing not to do it.”
Oh, hell.
“You could just dip your finger,” I propose as the white snow on the flatscreen brightens the room
revealing her pissed-off glare. I’m so going to hell if I do not dip said chip into said ketchup.
“… How long?”
I don’t have to ask where this is going. She wants to know how long Iris will be here. “I don’t
know.”
“If I lose Dante…I’m going to be angry.”
Her warning comes off as a severe threat. I hear it in her tone. Mae isn’t messing. “Do you not
like Auntie?”
“I love Auntie,” she chirps before crunching into a ketchup-laden chip. “But she isn’t good for
you.”
I scan over the desk. “Why do you not have anything to drink?”
“Because I knew if I got water from the fridge that the ice machine would wake everyone up.”
She only drinks water super cold.
I know. I know.
 Pick your battles.
I slide off the desk and grab a water bottle from the mini-fridge. I crack it open for her and
carefully place it in her hand. There are moments when there is still a distance between us—where
we are strangers. And as bossy as she seems, she means well and doesn’t want to do anything that
could potentially piss me off. “You can get in my fridge anytime, baby.”
I let her finish drinking before I pick her up in my arms and toss the pillows on the ground. I sit in
the chair and hold her in my lap, where she proceeds to torture my tastebuds with her emotional
crutch.
Mae loves sauce.
Any sauce. On everything. One day she dunked banana pieces in teriyaki. It’s not as bad as it
sounds, or maybe it is, and I’m just labeled sucker for my daughters.
“Snow comes in many colors.”
I prefer white.
“Why is this show so busy?” I ask as she crams another chip in my face.
“Great blizzards of the world.”
Pretty nerd girl equals Daddy with loaded shotguns.
“Why are you up at this hour?”
She peers over her shoulder like that was the stupidest question I’ve ever asked. She’s up for the
same reason I’m up—something is off. Something isn’t right. Sleep is fleeting.
We’re chasing slumber and wrangling wights.
“These are pretty nasty,” she randomly declares. “Maybe I should try them with caramel.” Her
head tilts as she looks at my bare chest, and her eyes open wide. “When did you pierce yourself?”
I stop breathing because my miniature minion notices everything.

Dante stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. The steam billowed with clouds like a
smoky pool hall. He stared in the mirror and noted the needle in my hand. “If you need the hit, do it.”
“I need the pain because everything is fucking spinning wildly out of control.”

“THREE HOURS AGO ,” I ANSWER, TAKING A CHIP AND LETTING IT MELT ON MY TONGUE, A COMMUNION
wafer for my self-inflicted sins. My nipples are on fire. And I am high as a fucking kite on the rush.
“Why do you ask?”
“You should pierce my ears.”
“Your ears have been pierced since you were a baby.”
“Do them again,” she suggests. “Doubles.”
“Can we discuss this again when you hit double digits?”
She nods like everything is normal, and she understands—it makes perfect sense. “You need to
hang on tight.”
I say nothing but give a singular approving blink. She sets the chips and ketchup on my desk and
curls into my arms, laying her head on my chest. I’ll have baby drool by morning. Such a fucking
blessing. I grab the blanket from the back of the chair and cover us up.
“You know, Mae, you can turn up the volume too.”
 “So can you, Daddy.”
And at that moment, I fear how much she understands who I am and what I can do. But I won’t
dismiss her notions. Instead, I acknowledge them, “Ya, I can.”
“But not yet.”
My eyes focus on the television where a segment about Chicago’s Blizzard of ‘79 is playing. I
pull her closer, and her tiny fingers wrap around my crucifix. Just like Ariella.
“No, not yet. A huge part of the game is knowing when to make your moves.”
“Don’t wait too long,” she sleepily mutters tracing my crow tattoo on my upper right pec. “Or
you’ll never catch up.”
“I’ll run faster.”
“You’re Salvatore Raniero, you shouldn’t be running at all.”

WE RIDE IN SILENCE OUT TO OLD MARKET ROAD AT SEVEN IN THE MORNING . ARIELLA IS SLEEPING
dreamily with a full belly of Kymera’s milk. Mae is gazing out the window. My clammy palm is
tightly clutching Dante’s hand, resting on my thigh.
“Can I get you a coffee?”
I shake my head. “I need to feed Mae something.”
“I will wait until after the viewing for a couple of strawberry conchas.”
… The viewing? … A couple of conchas?
Again, I beg—Help me.
In his aviators, Dante smirks. “Tough negotiator.”
“She wants it from The Pastry Place in Godland. It’s a little hole in the wall, but they make
amazing breads, salads, and soups.”
Dante questions, “Has she always been so...gastronomically diverse?”
“Her palate is the planet,” I reply, giggling. “She appreciates good cuisine.” I eye Mae, sitting
behind Dante. “Cup of soup?”
“Spicy chicken tortilla with no yuckycado.”
“How about I eat your yuckycado?”
“Deal!”
Dante laughs. “I’m not fond of it either, Mae.”
I raise an inquisitive brow, and he lowers his shades to give me those green eyes. “Just because
I’m Latino doesn’t mean I’m committed to loving avocado. I’m sure there are plenty of Italians who
don’t eat pasta.” I bunch my brows like the idea is absurd, and he presses his finger over the crease
on my forehead to impede the future wrinkle. I need to make an appointment with Dr. Sam Stiles for
filler. “Okay, better example, maybe they don’t like tomatoes.” I lift my brows to a remarkable new
height of shock. “Garlic? Fish? You name it! I am certain there is a standard Italian food group which
some do not consume. Mine is avocado.”
“I’ll eat yours too,” I remark.
His lips flirtatiously twist, holding in the comeback with the girls in the car. We pull up and notice
the barricades and tape. The area is swarming with over a dozen SGPD.
“Hold on,” Dante whispers, wrapping his thumb onto my hand and giving me a gentle squeeze.
“This may be rough.”
 An officer moves one of the barricades, and we pull into the marked-off area. Dante stops the car.
“I will wait here with Ariella.”
“Thank you,” I say, glancing back at Mae. “Are you ready?”
“I am.”
She sounds so positive. I wish I had half of her strength. She quickly undoes her belt and crawls
between the front seats to my lap. Dante leans closer and kisses my cheek. “I love you, Chou.”
“I know,” I say as Mae sits quietly observing our interaction. “I love you too.”
“I love you both,” she readily declares, smooching Dante’s lips and mine. “We’ve got this, Dads.”
Dads? What? Since when?
“Yep,” I reply with wavering confidence.
Dante squeezes my thigh once more. “Take care of Daddy.”
“Always, Tete.”
We get out, and I keep Mae in my right arm. She pulls off my ball cap and sunglasses, putting them
both on. She’s too much. Paulie Downin walks up and gives a slight smirk and a nod before issuing a
polite warning, “There is some carnage.”
I quizzically look at her and reply, “Say it.”
“There is a dead rabbit.”
I sigh, “Mae…”
“Father,” she challenges, glaring at me over the top rim of the frame. “I’m fine.”
Oh. Shit. Motherfucker.
We follow Paulie to Cruz’s Indian parked on the side of the road. About ten feet away, the remains
of the rabbit are splattered on the pavement.
“Put me down,” Mae declares as everyone seems to clear her a path. All eyes are on her as I set
her down. It’s as quiet as a library when she walks over to circle the bike. I glance back at Dante,
who is carrying my other partner in crime to the scene of this one. She is gurgling and giggling,
entertaining the crowd, but I stay focused on Mae.
I step closer and squat. “What do you see?”
“He wouldn’t have parked here,” she announces as everyone whiplashes away from Ariella to
Mae. She points. “There is a hill. He would not have parked his bike here. It is unsafe. And Deacon is
safe.”
“Run prints on the bike,” I rapidly demand as Kit stares in shock and awe. “Fucking humor me.”
“Consider it done,” she acknowledges. “The team is on the way. Can we take the bike into the
lab?”
“Ya.”
A Honey Cove patrol car pulls up. Oh. No. Just go the fuck away. He stops in the damn middle of
the two-lane road, gets out, and says, “You fine people of Sugargrove okay?”
“Doing great, Sheriff,” Kit replies with a scowl as I scan over the short, thin man, who is
balding.
That is Daniel Merrill?
His daughter must be adopted, or his wife is smoking—not necessarily hot. She could just be
smoking a crackpipe.
He has a giant beak nose. I hate to judge, but there is no missing that thing. It’s like the size of a
toucan beak sticking out grotesquely far from the rest of his face like a blind man’s walking stick. I
was expecting some uber tall, buff Godzilla of a man. I’m somewhat unsettled by his physiological
ability to sniff out criminal delinquents. “We have a missing person.”
 “Send me the info, I’ll send out an APB to our units and surrounding areas.”
“Thank you, Merrill.”
His beady eyes peep over at me. God, he is fugly. His wife must be ultra-smoking, and he is well
hung. Eww. Not just inside voice…but no voice. I politely nod, hindering my thoughts of what he must
have below the belt that would make the purported banging wife do the deed.
“… Sal Raniero?” he questions, not entirely sure. Naw, I’m some other guy. Name is Lucas
Fuego. “I met your Old Poppa back in 2001.”
O—kay. He’s got my number, and I extend my hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Sheriff Merrill.”
“Call me Danny, Sal,” he insists, giving my hand a firm grip. “Who is missing?”
“Deacon Cruz.”
He scouts over the area. “Whose little girl?”
“Mine.”
Leave her alone, or this won’t end pretty for either of us.
“Kid on the site of an investigation, Sheriff Jolly,” he reprimands with his permanently etched
frown lines. I need that plastic surgeon soon. Someone to keep this sexy mug intact. “No wonder SG
is having such issues.”
“You got a problem with me, Danny?” I ask, sucking on the back of my teeth. May need a dentist
for a new mouthguard too. Mine is wearing thin. “Cause if you do, just say it.”
“As long as your mischief doesn’t bleed into HC, we don’t have a problem.”
“I’ll stay out of your town,” I reply, popping my jaw. “You just make sure you stay out of mine.”
He feigns a smirk and nods. “Have a good day!”
“You too,” I say as he returns to his patrol car and does a one-eighty. “He is about as friendly as a
pissed off rattler.”
“That’s Merrill for you,” Kit contends. “Dry, repeated envenomation.”
Mae stands up and wanders over to the bloody animal. I warn, “Don’t touch it.”
She spins back, pulling off her sunglasses. “I am not a dumb ass.”
I hear the low cackle of multiple men, and one of them says, “She’s a spitfire.”
“I’m aware.”
Mae squats low to examine the dead rabbit as I walk over and do the same on the opposite side.
She gazes over the ground and points to the shoulder, “Those tire tracks in the mud. Are they new?”
“We can try and find out.”
Her brows furrow as she meanders over to the shoulder, careful not to step in the mud, and points
to a silver glimmer. “He left a ring. He did not go on his own. Someone took him.”
I glance up at Dante, who is standing less than two feet from me. “How the hell did she see that?”
“Perception,” he cautions as I rise, and Ariella kicks and smiles. “I changed her diaper.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” I mention, distracted. I see the faint figure of a man I haven’t seen in
years—Rothy Alavaz. I blink, dissuading the phantoms from the invasion. Rothy was a member of
Cinco when Kaci’s adoptive family, the Neves, were running it. He left to form his successful gang in
El Paso. Successful? Gang? You know what I mean. His local outfit was trouble, hooking up with
one of the smaller Mexican cartels. Kit retrieves the silver skull ring from the grass, and Mae speaks
quietly with her. “I trust you with my girls, Herrera.”
“Do you trust me with you, Raniero?”
“Infinitely.”
Handing Ariella over, he whispers, “Then believe me when I tell you that Mae has a blue aura.”
I pause, pacing my breaths. “… I know.”
 “Because you have one too,” he comments with a wink as Ariella refuses to give up his finger.
She cannot decide who she wants more, which is rather amusing. In his arms, she wants me. In my
arms, she wants him. He finally convinces her to let go, and she cries. Back to Dante, she goes.
I am not as alone as I think I am.
Things are getting a little strange and peculiar, and a lot like the Pixie always dreamed.

S ITTING IN THE CAR OUTSIDE THE P ASTRY P LACE, I RESEARCH INDIGO CHILDREN . MANY BELIEVE THAT
most children have access to other worlds, dimensions, and planes, but as we age, walls come up.
Yes, we’re back here again.
Furry felines and gold-dusted fairies.
But this time, I am digging deeper because I have to figure out how to raise my gifted child. I
maintain my stance and let her guide the path—she is the navigator; I am the captain—while
providing safety measures when need be.
Don’t judge me for letting her view a dead rabbit. I know my kid. That won’t give her nightmares,
but a hint of yuckycado in her soup will send her spiraling for days. I recognize her OCD all too well.
Strange because we are not blood, but make no mistake—we are blood kin—she and I.
Because of Mae’s perceptive abilities, she not only pointed out the obvious fact that Cruz would
never have parked on a hill but spotted the ring and tire tracks. My five-year-old is going to find her
Deeeee because she loves him. I close my eyes and feel the Pixie’s presence with me.
“I need to go to Lakeside.”
Ariella coos, and I undo my seatbelt and kneel on the seat. She is playing with her colorful plastic
keys, which triggers my thinking about Cruz’s stash of keys in the kitchen junk drawer.
“Are you a janitor?” I asked as I was making pastina one morning not too long ago.
Cruz laughed. “In what sense?”
His evasive answer didn’t matter much then, but everything has a heightened sense of urgency
now—a need to examine every conversation down to the finest details.
I offer Ariella my hand, and she quickly grabs it, biting my finger. I rewind the mental tapes of the
solemn morning. It was right after Iris had left, and we had a thousand plates spinning as we tried to
turn a house into a home with two kids.
“If something happens to me, you’ll need this key.”
I paid little attention because my eggs, pasta, and cheese was about to burn. We didn’t have the
new appliances yet, but I remember seeing the reddish plum plastic covering the key’s upper part.
I didn’t listen because—What would happen to Cruz? When would he and I ever be apart? We
were inseparable. We were solid. I believed it all. Turns out, not so much. We had cracks—big ones
—that I couldn’t see or comprehend the unreachable depths of. And those cracks would ultimately
lead to the dissolution of us. But it didn’t eradicate the love. If anything, I loved him more now in my
healthier mental state.
“Da!”
My eyes expand wide as I lift higher in the seat and peer over at her upside down. “You just said
Da!” She giggles with her toothy grin at me. Like stupid Da, of course, I can talk! “Oh, my fucking
God! She talked!”
“Listen, Lucas,” a young female says to me. I feel her energy sitting in the backseat with my
daughter, but I don’t know her. I recognize her from somewhere. “The only thing at Lakeside are
unhappy ghosts. Find my father. Listen.”
Listen to what?
You? Some rap? The voices chanting in my head?
I blink and shake it off. I need food. Sugar. Ya, maybe that kind of sugar to silence the demons. I
take a deep breath, and Ariella stares with her big blue-violets at me. She smiles. Her legs bounce as
I glance up and notice something moving behind the car. There is nothing there, and I know there is
nothing there. I peer down and say to Ariella, “Your father sees shit, Mav.”
I catch sight of the movement again—the young girl waving in the back window. I can see her
long brown hair blowing in the wind, but she isn’t there. Not really.
I must find that key.
Ariella needs a chilled teething ring.
She’s got teeth.
Mae needs water to cool her fires.
She’s got skills.
And I need mass quantities of drugs.

HIS DEMON

“WHAT ARE WE ORDERING ?” I ASK MAE IN MY ARMS .

“Four bowls of spicy tortilla soup, avocados on the side. Two strawberry conchas. A dozen
sausage rolls. And one glazed donut.”
“Only one glazed donut?”
“Yes for Auntie.”
“Best make that a dozen glazed donuts.”
I approach the counter and place the order. I notice Mae eyeing the refrigerated cold case with
sodas and add one to the order before handing over my credit card. She is inspecting my driver’s
license as I hold my wallet open.
“Ahhhlonso.”
“Dante Alonzo,” I reply as the cute young woman behind the counter giggles.
Chick magnet Mae.
“Is she yours?”
“No,” I reply, taking my card back. “She is my husband’s.”
Her eyes widen, and Mae covers her mouth fast. “She is adorable.”
“My name is Mae.”
“I am Luna and it is lovely to meet you Mae,” she says, smiling. “Did you want that caramel mach
sweetened?”
More than the caramel? Do people do that?
“No,” Mae scoffs. “Daddy will not drink sweet shit.”
I snicker, and Luna laughs.
 “Mae, use nice words, baby.”
“It is accurate,” she dismisses, rolling her eyes. I hate to say how right she is.
I shake my head and smile. I never imagined kids could be this much fun. “Thank you.”
“Give me about five minutes.”
“Sure thing,” I reply, walking over to the sodas. “Which one you want?”
“Strawberry.”
I pop it open and hand it to her. “Don’t drop it. It’s glass.”
“Sip,” she insists, putting the bottle to my mouth. She carefully tips it. “It’s cold.”
“Yes!” I smile. “And very good.”
“Daddy doesn’t let me drink soda.”
I snicker, “Daddy will forgive you this time.”
“Here is your coffee, Dante,” Luna says. I grab it, and she hands me a straw. “You want cheese on
the soup?”
“No, thank you,” Mae answers. “Cheese stinks.”
“Alright.”
“Let’s go take this to Daddy,” I suggest, feeling the need for some fresh air. “I’ll be outside.”
Luna flirts, “I can bring it out.”
I bet you can, but you’re the wrong team, sweetheart.
I step outside to find Sal walking around with Ariella in the sunshine. I wasn’t the only one who
needed to breathe.
“Dante Alonzo called you his husband,” Mae reports with her strawberry soda in hand. “And
Luna likes him.”
“Luna Ocasio,” Sal snickers, smirking. “She owns the shop and has a nice older couple—
Germans—working for her. Jutta and Gottfried Schmidt. They have a daughter at college in Austin.
Her name is Ilsa. She is studying law.”
I laugh. “You know too much.” I curiously tilt my head. “You know Luna well?”
“I know everyone who I frequently encounter,” he replies, sipping on the coffee. “It’s a thing. I
meet someone twice and they get to know me. I hope I never meet Danny again.”
Mae giggles and spills her strawberry soda on her shirt and me. “Ophs!”
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” I appease. “I wash and so do you.”
She hands me the soda. “Please put me down.”
I do as she requests, and she sneaks over to see the birds near the dry cleaners next door.
“… You called me your husband?”
“I did,” I proudly reply. “I wasn’t sure what you preferred and it seemed the easiest way to define
who Mae belonged to.”
“Luna has never met Mae.”
“Does she know Deacon?”
He licks his lips and bites the bottom one as his eyes look up, thinking. “I don’t think so. Pastries
is a Mae and me thing. Luna makes better coffee than Sloane.”
“I won’t tell her you said that.”
He takes another gulp. “Please don’t. Merrill will ride up my ass for insulting his daughter’s
barista abilities. You gave my daughter soda.”
“I did because it’s a day of surviving and one strawberry soda isn’t going to kill her,” I reply,
nudging him. “You want another coffee, goat lip?”
He absentmindedly bats his lashes and nods. I snort. He’s so damn gorgeous. “I’ll be right back.”
I walk back into the restaurant to find Luna gathering up our order. “I need two more caramel machs
and another soda, please Ma’am.” I hand her my card. “It’s quiet today.”
“First time all day,” she replies as I spot the cake boxes stacked in the back. “We’ve taken over
the whole area since Kate’s went under.”
“It’s a really small space you’ve got here.”
“Yeah, but the rent in Sugargrove and Honey Cove is exorbitant,” she informs, pulling the shots.
“I’d love to have the space because we’re really out of the way in Godland. Let me help you out. I put
an extra dressing in for the salad.”
“Thank you,” I praise. “I will enjoy it.”
I open the door for her, and we walk out. Her expression shifts recognizing him. “Sal is your…”
“We’re engaged.”
He’s just finished putting the girls in the car when he sprints over to greet us. I hand the two
coffees to him and take the bags from her. “Thank you, Luna.”
“You’re welcome, hon,” she says, smiling and waving. “Enjoy!”
“I’ve got a proposal for you, sugar king,” I remark, sitting in the driver’s seat. “If you’re open to
suggestions.”
On the way home, I mention helping Luna out since Kate’s closed. “You really want me to do
this?”
“It’s good for the community,” I remind. “Local rep.”
He polishes off the second coffee. “You really believe Mae needs conchas that close?”
“Yes!” she excitedly adds. “I do!”
“Iris just texted. She is expecting to land at four, but her car is at the airport.”
“I guess the afternoon is ours,” I reply, turning up the drive. I set my hand on his leg. “We all need
to unwind.”
“Ariella said Da,” he says, smirking.
“I am not surprised.” I grin. “She is brilliant just like her older sister. You’re doing a wonderful
job with them, Daddy. Thank you for letting me witness it all.”

THE MASTER

“WHY DID YOU BUY A DOZEN SAUSAGE ROLLS WHEN I DON ’ T EVEN LIKE SAUSAGE?”
“Because you’re eating the hell out of them,” Dante says later that afternoon. Our porch deck now
includes two lounge chairs that I ordered. I’m in shorts and no shirt with Ariella drooling all over my
chest while Mae chases bugs and occasionally bounces into her little plastic pool. Dante’s looking
incredibly hot in one of my tank tops and a backward ball cap. “Although I have to admit, I did not
think that child could eat two conchas.”
I laugh. “Mae is me. She is either feasting or fasting. She’ll eat today,” I cackle, looking at the
sausage roll and taking another bite. “Stress eating.”
“Is HCPD allowing Kit to go through Deacon and Amber’s house?”
“I don’t have the answer yet,” I answer, swallowing. “HCPD supposedly has cars outside of the
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
"Just now we met Mr. Manners, little Miss Una's father, and he tells us that he
has news of David!"

"Of David?"

"Yes, he says that David is well and prosperous!"

"Thank God for that!" the old man exclaimed fervently.

"And that he is coming to see us!" Mrs. Maple continued. "He may be here
any moment!"

"Let me go to meet him!" Granfer cried excitedly.

"No, father, not yet! There is more to tell! David has been living near us some
time, but he never came to see us because he was afraid you were angry and
bitter against him still; and father, he has a child of his own whom you already
dearly love! Oh, cannot you guess who our David is?"

The old man shook his head, and looked around him in painful bewilderment.
Suddenly Nellie gave a little cry of glad surprise.

"Oh, I know, I know!" she cried excitedly. "Uncle David is Mr. Manners, and
Una is our cousin!"

"Yes," Mrs. Maple replied, "you have guessed rightly, Nellie." And turning
again to Mr. Norris she said: "Una is your own grandchild, father; do you
understand now?"

Granfer made no response in words, but his full heart arose in a prayer of
thanksgiving to God. There was a brief silence, then the farmer beckoned to
the children to follow him, and together the three left the kitchen, while Mrs.
Maple hurried to the door and spoke to some one who was waiting without.

"I have told him, David," she said softly. "You can come in and see him now!"

Granfer turned his head quickly, and peered at the tall form that came to his
side with outstretched hands that sought his own.

"Father, forgive me!"

It was his son David's voice, and the old man trembled exceedingly, whilst his
quivering lips murmured the two words: "My son!"
Mrs. Maple stole gently away to join her husband and children, and to have a
good cry, because, as she said, she was so very, very glad.

Then, after an hour had passed, they all returned to the kitchen to find father
and son seated side by side talking quietly and happily.

"This is the one like you, David," Granfer said, calling Bessie to him. "I wonder
you never noticed the likeness yourself! Your little Una does not favour you in
the least!"

"No, she is like her mother, and I am glad she is!"

"Her mother must have been a very sweet woman, I am sure," Mrs. Maple
said.

"She was indeed. Her death was a great trouble to me; we had only been
married eighteen months when she died. My little daughter is very fond of you,
father."

"Yes, she is," the old man admitted, smiling with pleasure. "The first time we
met she asked if she might call me Granfer."

"Did she really? How strange!"

"And it was she who led me to pray for you, David: I never did till your child
suggested it! God bless her!"

"She is a dear little soul—my Una! Ah, she has looked forward joyfully to the
return of your son, never dreaming him to be her own father!"

"Have you not told her yet?" Mrs. Maple asked.

"No, but I shall do so to-morrow."

"Cannot you manage to bring her here to tea? It is father's eightieth birthday,
you know, and he will want you and Una to taste his birthday cake. Oh, you
must come, David!" Mrs. Maple said appealingly.

"I will certainly see if it can be managed in some way," he responded smiling.

"We will send the gig up to Coombe Villa to fetch you," the farmer offered
hospitably.

"Thank you; if you do, we will certainly come. Una will be delighted, I know."
"Shall we call you Uncle David now?" Bessie asked, looking up into her new-
found uncle's face, with shy, dark eyes.

"Yes, indeed you must, and Una is your cousin, remember. But my name is
really Manners," he added, turning to Granfer. "It was my wife's maiden name,
and on our marriage her father stipulated I should take his name on account
of some property which had to come to his daughter at his death. He died
seven years ago."

Mr. Manners remained some time longer, but at last he rose to leave, saying
that Una would wonder what had become of him; and after he had gone a
silence fell upon the little party in the farm-kitchen, which was broken only by
Mrs. Maple remarking:

"I feel as though I must be dreaming! I cannot realise that he is really David—
can you, father?"

"Yes, I recognised his voice in a moment. I had never seen him since he came
to live at Coombe Villa except in church, but if I had met him face to face, I
should have known him immediately," the old man declared, with conviction in
his tones. "God has been very merciful to me, and heard my prayers, and I am
happier to-night than I have been for years—indeed ever since David went
away."

"Will Uncle David show you the beautiful picture he is painting, Granfer?"
Bessie asked. "Oh, you will want to see it, won't you?"

"Yes, I shall," he acknowledged. "Do you remember, Bessie, when you said if
painting was his talent, it would have been wrong for him not to use it?"

"Of course I do, Granfer!"

"You were quite right, my dear, quite right!"

"Has God given you your heart's desire, Granfer?" Nellie questioned softly.

"Ay, that He has!"

"And now you will be so happy, won't you?" the little girl continued: "and you
shall have such a beautiful birthday, and Uncle David and Una will come to
tea, and we shall all have such a lovely time together! Oh, I wonder what Una
will say when she knows that you are really and truly her grandfather?"
"She will be very pleased, I feel sure," Mrs. Maple said, her face beaming with
happiness. "You children shall have a holiday from school to-morrow, and then
you will be able to help me get everything straight by the time our visitors
arrive!"

CHAPTER VIII
GRANFER'S EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY

FAIR dawned the morning of Granfer's eightieth birthday. The sun rose behind
a gray mist which it quickly dispelled, and shone on a world decked with fresh
green fields, tender budding leaves, and myriads of flowers. Never during all
the eighty years of his long life had Granfer seen a more beautiful May
morning; never had his heart beat happier, or his soul been filled with a
greater joy, than to-day as he came downstairs to be greeted with good
wishes, loving kisses, and kindly looks from each member of the family in turn.

At Coombe Villa Mr. Manners was awake and up early. He went into the
garden and gathered a bunch of flowers for his little girl; then returned to the
house to wait till she should come downstairs. At last she entered the room,
looking a trifle pale still as a result of the shock of her fall, and limping in her
walk, but smiling and bright as ever.

"Oh, you dear old father!" she cried when she caught sight of the flowers. "I
know those are for me!"

She went up to him and put her arms around his neck, giving him a tender,
loving kiss.

"Has my darling slept well?" he enquired.

"I fell asleep the minute I was in bed, and never woke up till Nanny called me
just now," she answered.

"Is it not a lovely morning?"

"Beautiful. There has been a heavy dew during the night, and everything in
the garden is the fresher for it."

"It is Granfer's birthday," she reminded him. "I wonder if his son has come
home?"

"Yes, Una; he returned last night!"

"Oh!"

For a moment she said no more; her lips trembled with emotion, and her eyes
shone through a mist of tears. Presently she said simply:

"God has answered Granfer's prayers at last."

Her father kissed her again and again.

"Was Granfer very delighted to see him?" she asked. "How did you know,
father?"

Then he told her the whole story, how he himself was Granfer's son, and how
he had gone to Lowercoombe Farm the night before and become reconciled
to his father. She listened in silence, too amazed to utter a word, but there
was a glad light upon her face and joy in her tremulous smile.

"So you see, Una darling, Granfer is your grandfather as well as Nellie's and
Bessie's; and Mrs. Maple is my sister Mary, and your aunt," Mr. Manners said
in conclusion. "They are so pleased to think that you are related to them, and I
have promised that we will have tea at the farm this afternoon because it is
Granfer's birthday, and he wishes it."

"Oh!" cried Una again, with a little gasp of astonishment. "Oh, how wonderful!
Father, you only told me half the secret, after all! You never said you were
Granter's son! I am so glad you are! Oh, dear Granfer, how pleased and
happy he must be!"

"And I am happy too, Una, happier than I have been for many a long year. It
was you who told me my father had forgiven me and wished to see me again."

"Granfer loves you so much, father darling, and I am sure you love him, don't
you? Fancy Nellie and Bessie being my cousins! But I don't think I can care
for them any more than I do now, because I am really very fond of both of
them, and I'm sure I don't know which I like best!"
Una was full of excitement. After breakfast there was Nanny to be told the
wonderful news, and to the little girl's great astonishment she discovered that
her nurse was not so surprised as she had anticipated she would be.

"I have guessed your father was old Mr. Norris's son for some while now,"
Nanny confessed, "on account of different things I have heard Mrs. Maple say
about her brother, and by putting two and two together. I am glad it has come
out at last. Ah, Miss Una, this life is too short for folks who love each other to
be angry long; we ought to learn to forgive and forget!"

"Granfer is not angry now!" Una said quickly, fearful lest Nanny should not
have grasped that fact.

"I should think not! There, dear, I won't say a word against your grandfather,
for I believe the good Lord has really softened his heart; even to my eyes, he
doesn't look quite so grim as he used," and Nanny gave Una a kiss, adding
gently, "God does everything for the best, my dear, and He makes all right in
the end!"

At four o'clock the gig arrived from Lowercoombe Farm, driven by the farmer
himself, and with the faithful Rags in attendance.

"I hope you are going to take kindly to your new uncle?" Mr. Maple said with a
merry twinkle in his eye as he lifted Una in his arms to put her into the
conveyance.

For answer the little girl clasped him tightly round the neck, and, after pressing
a kiss on his bronzed cheek, answered promptly:

"Indeed, I love you very dearly already! You are so very kind!"

They drove off, Una seated between her father and the farmer, the latter
amusing her with an account of how the tame lamb was daily growing bolder,
so that they had great difficulty in keeping it out of the house.

"It's so tame that it follows my wife everywhere," he declared, "and she has to
shut it up on Sundays when we go to church, or we should never keep it at
home!"

In ten minutes they arrived at Lowercoombe Farm, where Una was carried
into the kitchen, and surrounded by her aunt, and grandfather, and the
children. They had so many questions to ask and to be answered, and made
so much of her, that she felt quite bewildered at first; but by-and-by she
noticed that Granfer was wearing the suit of clothes he usually wore on
Sundays, and that Mrs. Maple and Nellie and Bessie were attired in their best
gowns in honour of the day.

Presently, they had tea in the best parlour, which room was only used on great
occasions, or when there were visitors at the farm. Una sat between her father
and grandfather in a sort of dream-like happiness. In the centre of the table
was Granfer's birthday cake, which he cut himself, and every one declared to
be most delicious.

The old man and each member of the little party seemed merry and pleased.
Now and again Una met her father's eyes and smiled in answer to his
affectionate glance that mutely asked if she was happy and content. She was
both, though it seemed very strange to find herself and her father so much at
home at Lowercoombe Farm.

During the evening the little girl had a few words alone with her grandfather,
and took the opportunity to tell him how glad she was to know of the
relationship between them.

"God has been very good to me, my dear," he said gratefully. "He has given
me back my son."

"Yes," she answered, smiling brightly, "God is good." She took his hand in her
little, soft fingers, and looked tenderly into his aged face, as she added
lovingly:

"He has given me my Granfer too!"

 ONE CHRISTMAS TIME

CHAPTER I

CONCERNING A DOLL

IN AN AMBER-COLOURED GOWN

IT was a wretched evening, only a few days before the joyful Christmas
season. The weather was damp and chill, and the London streets were
slippery and comfortless. Pale, shivering forms sheltered themselves in every
conceivable nook which was safe, for a time at any rate, from the keen
scrutiny of the police; business men and women were wending their different
ways homewards from the City, and the theatres and other places of
amusement were not yet open. The shops were with enticing articles
displayed to the best advantage, and many a poor child stood wistfully gazing
at the fruit in the grocers' windows, so temptingly set out, as though to
purposely tantalize hungry eyes.

And then the toys! Wonderful inventions made for the children of the wealthy!
Engines worked by machinery! Dolls that opened and shut their eyes, and
even walked and talked! Noah's arks of marvellous workmanship, containing
every known animal on the face of the globe!

A young man, hurrying along, turned his head and glanced smilingly at a shop
window full of dolls of all sizes and conditions and prices, from the gorgeously
apparelled waxen bride-dollie in satin and orange blossom to her penny Dutch
sister with flat figure and nondescript features.

"That would be the place to buy a doll for Nellie!" exclaimed the young man,
as he came to a full stop and stood with his hands in his pockets, gazing at
the motley faces that seemed to stare at him unblinkingly with their glassy
eyes. "I suppose she would rather have a doll than anything else, although
she has so many already!"
He was a good-looking lad, a medical student, Jim Blewett by name, and
Nellie was the only child of his brother in Cornwall, and a great favourite with
her uncle.

"I think I could afford half-a-sovereign," he ruminated; "for that price it would
appear one can get a most desirable dollie!"

He was turning into the doorway of the shop when he espied a child at his
side, watching him with great interest, and he paused. She was a little girl of
about seven years old, with a pale, thin face, and large dark eyes. She drew
back when she saw he had observed her, and coloured. His shrewd glance
noted she was poorly though neatly clad, and that her toes had worn through
her boots, whilst her head was covered by an old sailor hat much too large for
her, and with a dilapidated brim.

"I suppose I must have been talking aloud," Jim Blewett thought; then nodded
encouragingly at the child, who responded with a smile.

The young man was not a Londoner; he was only studying at one of the
London hospitals, and looking forward to the day when, fully qualified, he
would be at liberty to practise his profession in the country. Brought up in a
small provincial town, where he had known all the inhabitants, at any rate by
sight, he could never understand the unconcern with which Londoners regard
those who cross their path. He was always picking up acquaintances in an
eccentric manner, as his fellow students declared, or mixing himself up in
other people's business.

"It would be a much more unhappy world than it is, if no one interfered with
what did not immediately affect himself!" Jim would retort good-naturedly. He
was certainly in disposition very unlike the priest and the Levite in the parable,
for he was always ready to go out of his way to assist any one; his desire was
to be neighbourly to all the world. The young man was a general favourite,
and though many of his acquaintances laughed at him, they could not help
admiring him for his open, manly Christianity.

"Well, little one," he said cheerily, "are you having a peep at the dolls?"

"Yes, sir," the little girl responded, in a slightly abashed tone.

"I suppose you have a doll of your own at home?" he proceeded to enquire.

The child shook her head, whilst a smile crossed her face, as though she was
amused at the thought. Then she turned to the window again and sighed.
After watching her a few moments in silence, Jim drew nearer and asked:

"If you had the money, which would you buy?" She glanced at him doubtfully,
being mistrustful of a stranger, but, reassured by his kind face, pointed to a
large rosy-cheeked doll, in a gaudy amber-coloured frock. Jim saw it was
ticketed half-a-crown.

"If I gave you that doll, would you be pleased?"

She looked at him hesitatingly, then drew back, the tears springing to her
eyes, her cheeks crimsoning.

"You're making game of me!" she cried.

"On my honour I am not! See here!" Jim seized the child's chill hand in his
warm clasp, and drew her into the brilliantly-lighted shop. "Will you please let
us see one of the dolls in the window?" he asked of the young woman who
came forward to serve him. "It is the one in the yellow dress we want. The one
marked half-a-crown."

In a minute the much-coveted doll was laid on the counter, and Jim turned to
his companion.

"Is that the one you would like?"

The little girl lifted her eyes to his smiling countenance, her face alternately
paling and flushing with excitement.

"Oh, sir!" she gasped. "Oh, sir! Do you really mean it?"

"Mean it? Of course I do! I'm going to give you a Christmas present because I
have a little niece about your age, and you remind me of her, and I know if she
was here she would want you to have this doll!"

"Oh!"

"I will put the doll in paper," said the young woman behind the counter.

"Perhaps you would rather take her as she is?" asked Jim. "Or shall the lady
wrap her up for you?"

"She might feel the cold!" the child answered, looking at the doll with longing
eyes.
"She might," he agreed laughingly. "We will have her put in paper, please."

The assistant turned aside, and in a minute brought forward a cardboard box,
into which she carefully laid the doll, then, after wrapping the box in paper and
securely fastening the parcel with a string, she handed it across the counter.

"There, my dear," she said, as the little girl took possession of her present,
"your doll will be perfectly safe now."

"Oh, thank you, ma'am!"

"Thank you," Jim said, as he paid his half-a-crown. "You are very good to take
so much trouble!"

"Not at all, sir! I am only too pleased!"

The young woman, who was weary with standing all day, and had been
feeling decidedly cross and disheartened, seemed considerably cheered by
the sale of the doll. She watched Jim and his companion leave the shop with
interested eyes.

"What an odd couple!" she thought. "Fancy him spending his money on that
street child! Well, he must have a kind heart!"

Meanwhile Jim Blewett was saying good-bye, and refusing to listen to the
thanks which the delighted little girl was trying to put into words.

"Run away home," he said, "and take care of your dollie. I hope she'll be a
good child, and give you no trouble!"

"Oh, sir! I can never, never thank you!"

"Never mind. I don't want thanks. Good-bye."

"Good-bye, sir!"

The child gave him a long look full of gratitude; then, clasping her treasure
closely in her arms, she darted down the street, and was soon lost in the
hurrying crowd of pedestrians.

"Poor little soul!" Jim thought. "I'm glad I was able to gratify her desire. Well,
Miss Nellie will not have such an expensive present as I intended, but she
won't mind, and I think I'll write and tell her of this little adventure; she will be
interested."
The young man hastened home, swinging along with easy strides, his
thoughts busy with his little niece in Cornwall and the child whom he had
rendered happy in his impulsive way. Arrived at his lodgings, he found his tea
awaiting him, and his landlady forgot her household cares as she answered
his cheery greeting.

"A dull evening, Mrs. Metherell," he remarked, as she brought in the tea-pot,
and he sat down to his frugal meal; "but I never mind the weather! We shall
soon have Christmas now, and I begin to feel quite Christmassy already!"

CHAPTER II
HOW THE DOLL WAS RECEIVED

IN THE BLUNDELL FAMILY

"OH, how my eyes ache!"

The speaker, a weary-looking woman, was seated stitching away by the light
of a single candle. She was a button-hole maker, so what wonder if her poor
eyes did ache! To make button-holes from early morning till late at night is no
easy task; but Mrs. Blundell was not usually a grumbler, and she rarely
complained. To-night she was very tired, and a fear that had haunted her for
months took strong hold upon her, and filled her soul with dismay. Supposing
there should be something really amiss with her eyes—more than weariness?
Supposing her precious sight should be really leaving her? She shuddered at
the thought, for she had two children to support, and, as things were,
existence was hard enough.

But Mrs. Blundell was one who always put a stout heart to a stiff hill. She had
been country bred, and had come to London as a wife ten years ago. Her
husband, a house painter by trade, had been led astray by evil companions,
and had taken to drink and gambling. The downward path is always a swift
one, and so it had been in John Blundell's case. When he had died, nearly two
years since, he had left his widow and two little girls totally unprovided for; and
Mrs. Blundell continued to work as a button-hole maker, as she had done
during her husband's lifetime, in order to supply those necessaries which were
so hard to provide.

"'As thy days, so shall thy strength be,' the poor woman had murmured to
herself over and over again when the weight of care thrown upon her would
have seemed unbearable except for that great promise. She had learnt to turn
to her Heavenly Father for assistance in time of trouble, and trusted in Him
with all her heart. But to-night she was wearied out, mentally and bodily; and
as she glanced round the garret that was home to her and her children she
shuddered at the thought that even this humble abode might not be theirs
much longer.

"Mother!"

The voice, weak and plaintive in tone, proceeded from a bed in a corner of the
room, where a little girl of about eight years of age was lying.

"Yes, my darling!"

The mother spoke in tender, caressing accents, which she strove to make
cheerful for her sick child's sake. Little Annie was always ill. She suffered from
a spinal complaint, and only Mrs. Blundell knew that it was the result of a fall
she had had from her father's arms when an infant. John Blundell had been
intoxicated when the accident had happened, and, though it had been a shock
to him at the time, he had soon recovered from his fright, although Annie had
never had a day's health since.

"Oh, mother, do put down your work, and rest your poor eyes!"

"Presently, my dear; I am not going to do much more to-night. Have you been
asleep, Annie?"

"Yes, mother. Where is Maggie?"

"I sent her out to get some thread an hour ago. She ought to be back by this
time."

"I expect she is looking at the shops. She was telling me this morning how
they were. Oh, how I wish I could see them!"

"I wish so too, Annie."

"It does seem hard not to be able to get about like Maggie. Oh, mother, why
are we so poor? Has God forgotten us, do you think?"

"Oh, hush, my dear! No! God has not forgotten us; that is impossible! All the
world may forget us, but not God!"

"But, mother, it's so hard to be poor at Christmas time!"

"Oh, Annie, don't say that! The joy of the Christmas season has nothing to do
with riches, although it must be pleasant to be able to give happiness to
others for Christ's sake. If we have no money to buy presents for those we
love, the love is in our hearts the same; and the angels' message was to the
whole world, rich and poor alike. Never mind our poverty, Annie, so long as
Jesus is with us. Have you forgotten how He was born in a stable, and cradled
in a manger, because His mother was of so little account that they could not
make room for her in the inn?"

"Oh, mother, I do remember, but—"

"He was poor all His life," Mrs. Blundell continued softly, "and His friends were
the working people. That thought has helped me to bear a great deal, for He
understands all our trials and sorrows."

"Still, I should like to have some money to buy presents for you and Maggie,
mother?"

"What would you give me, my dear?"

"A new gown, mother; it should be so warm and soft! I am not sure what I
would give Maggie! A pretty new hat, I think, for that old sailor hat of hers is
dreadfully shabby."

There was silence for a few minutes, then the sick child spoke again:

"Mother, I can't see the stars to-night; I expect it is raining."

Mrs. Blundell put down her work, and rising, went to the tiny window, and
looked out.

"It is very misty," she said. "I do wish Maggie would come! Where can she
be?"

"She is coming, mother!"

Annie's quick ears had told her truly, for in another minute the rickety door was
flung open, and a breathless little figure ran into the room, and stood panting
before her astonished mother and sister.

"Maggie!" exclaimed Mrs. Blundell, with mingled anxiety and reproof in her
voice. "Where have you been?"

For answer the child laughed—a clear, ringing laugh, full of pure enjoyment,
that echoed strangely through the miserable garret. Annie raised herself on
her elbow, her eyes open wide with amazement, whilst Mrs. Blundell pointed
to the parcel in Maggie's arms for an explanation.

"Oh!" the excited little girl cried at length. "You'll never guess what has
happened."

She laid the parcel on the bed, and bade Annie open it, then stood by,
somewhat impatiently watching the weak, tremulous fingers as they fumbled
with the string. The cover was removed from the box at last, and the doll in the
bright amber gown lay revealed.

For a moment there was an awed silence; then:

"Where did she come from, Maggie? Who is she for?"

"She is for you, Annie," Maggie answered brightly, "for your very own! A
Christmas present! A gentleman gave her to me, and I ran as fast as ever I
could to bring her home to you! You remember my telling you yesterday about
that shop where there was a big window full of dolls? Well, I was looking in,
and the gentleman asked me which doll I would like if I had the money to buy
her; and then, when I told him, he took me into the shop and gave her to me!"

"Oh, Maggie!"

"And the lady in the shop put her in this box because she should not get
damp," the excited child continued, "and then I ran home as fast as I could!"

"What a kind gentleman he must be!" cried Annie. "I wonder what made him
do it! I think God must have told him!"

"I shouldn't wonder," Maggie agreed. "How do you like her, Annie? You
haven't touched her yet!"

"She is so pretty, and her dress is so grand," the sick child answered in awe-
struck tones. "I never saw such a lovely doll before."
"She is your very own, Annie."

"Oh, I don't like to take her from you, Maggie; the gentleman meant you to
have her!"

"I would rather give her to you!"

Taking the doll carefully from the box, Annie placed her in her sister's arms,
whilst Mrs. Blundell stood by, watching the children with tears in her eyes. She
was pleased to see Maggie acting so unselfishly, for she well knew that in
giving up her doll the child was making no slight sacrifice.

"See what lovely pink cheeks she has!" cried Annie. "And, oh, how blue her
eyes are! Oh, you beautiful creature!"

"I knew you would like her," Maggie remarked complacently. "I was longing to
be to able buy her for you when the gentleman spoke to me."

"Was he an old gentleman, Maggie?"

"Oh, no—quite young."

"He must have a kind heart," Mrs. Blundell said gratefully. "The doll will be
quite a companion for Annie when you are at school, Maggie, and I am busy."

It was a strange scene in that humble garret home—a scene full of pathos and
tender human nature. The sick child with the gaudily dressed doll clasped in
her frail arms; her sister, her face radiant with happiness; and the careworn
mother looking on with eyes that smiled through a mist of tears.

It was Mrs. Blundell who broke the silence in words that came straight from a
heart full of thankfulness and gratitude:

"There, children! You have had a beautiful Christmas present! You have no
idea who the kind gentleman was, my dear? No. Well, God bless him,
whoever he may be!"
 CHAPTER III

CONCERNING JIM BLEWETT AND HIS LANDLADY

THE following morning the children awoke early, and the chill winter's dawn
found them busily discussing the marvellous attractions of the wonderful doll.
Annie was so excited that she could scarcely eat a mouthful of breakfast, and
Maggie was nearly as bad. It was certainly not an inviting meal, being
composed of a little weak tea and slices of bread and dripping; but the
children ate so sparingly. Annie, posted up in bed, looked better than usual.
She was a pretty child really, but sickness had made her wan, and had
sharpened her features till she seemed all nose and eyes.

"What shall we call her?" she asked, pointing to the doll lying on the
counterpane by her side. "She must have a name."

"Call her 'Rose,'" suggested Mrs. Blundell; "or do you want something that
sounds grander?"

"I don't know," doubtfully. "What do you think, Maggie?"

"I think 'Rose' would do splendidly. She has such rosy cheeks, hasn't she?"

"Yes. And such lovely hair and eyes! She is beautiful! We will call her 'Rose,'"
and the little invalid looked at the doll with admiring eyes, and gently
smoothed the amber gown.

When breakfast was over Maggie started for school, and Mrs. Blundell was
obliged to go out to take her work to the business-house that employed her;
and for the first time in her life the time Annie spent alone did not seem very
long. She lay back in bed, feeling perfectly happy and contented, talking to her
doll, which she held in her weak arms, and every now and again pressing
tender kisses on the blooming cheeks.

"Let us 'make believe,'" she whispered. "We are in a palace, a beautiful palace
made of white marble, and the walls are shining with diamonds, and there is a
grand feast for every one, and there are flowers everywhere! The King is
having a party, and nobody is cold or hungry, because the King is so good and
wise, he won't allow people to be unhappy or want for anything. It is warm,
and oh, so comfortable! The King has asked us to sit by the fire with a lot of
other little children, and we can feel the heat!"

The child paused, and shivered involuntarily, awakening suddenly to the

reality; but in a minute she smiled, and continued to "make believe."

Meanwhile, the wintry sunshine was peeping through the tiny window; the mist
was clearing, and in the streets people were remarking that there was a
promise of a real old-fashioned Christmas.

Jim Blewett as he sat at his breakfast table looked at the sunshine, and
smiled.

"The weather is going to change," he remarked to his landlady as she placed

his fried bacon in front of him; indeed, "it has changed already. There's a more
cheerful outlook this morning."

"Yes," she assented, "I expect we shall have a spell of real cold now. God help
the poor folk if we do!"

"It will be healthier than all the damp we've been having, Mrs. Metherell."

"Maybe, but it'll be a deal more trying for the poor. You don't know London like
I do, sir, or you'd know that!"

"I was bred in the country, thank God; and in the small town where I was
brought up the poorest never lacked for fuel, I am sure. My father was the
Vicar—he died several years ago—but in his young days, he had had some
experience of London life, as he had held a curacy in the East End. He
accepted a living in Cornwall when I was a baby, so my knowledge of London
is built on what I heard from him, and my own two years' sojourn here."

"I was born and bred in London," Mrs. Metherell declared, "and I've an
affection for the place, though they do call it modern Babylon. I don't suppose
people are worse here than in the country. There's a deal of wickedness done
in London, I must confess, but there's a deal of goodness too! For my part, I
love the bustle, the continual movement, the life! It seems to me country folk
are never properly alive!"

"I suppose all Londoners think that!" Jim replied laughing, as he looked at his
landlady's good-humoured face. "I must acknowledge that you always strike
me as being very much alive, and you say you're a real Londoner. You do not
let the grass grow under your feet, Mrs. Metherell."
Jim knew no woman could possibly work harder than his landlady. She was at
it early in the morning, and late at night; yet she was always bright and
cheerful.

Mrs. Metherell was a little woman with a tip-tilted nose, a pair of honest gray
eyes, and a wide mouth which was redeemed from ugliness by a beautiful
smile. Her figure was spare, and she stooped slightly, as though she had been
accustomed to carrying heavy weights, but she was quick in her movements,
and her tongue was quite as nimble. Left a widow at thirty, she had, by means
of this lodging-house in a quiet side street, contrived to bring up three
children, and put them out in the world. They all had homes of their own now;
but their mother kept on the lodging-house, and her cheerful countenance
grew brighter still as the years passed on, and she found herself in easier
circumstances.

Jim Blewett had lodged with Mrs. Metherell for the last two years. They had
taken to each other at the beginning of their acquaintanceship, for, strange
though it may appear, they were congenial spirits. The toil-worn Londoner and
the country lad had much in common; they met on the ground of their wide-
hearted Christianity. Mrs. Metherell often lingered thus for a few minutes'
conversation, and Jim, being of a decidedly sociable disposition, always
encouraged her to talk.

"You are not thinking of going home for Christmas, then, sir?" she asked.

Jim shook his head, whilst a shadow crossed his face.

"No," he said, "although my brother's wife has written and asked me to come,
and my little niece Nellie sent a message to say it wouldn't be like Christmas if
I was not there! But I have made up my mind not to go down till Easter. I want
to work, and a break now would unsettle me, I know. If my mother and father
were alive it would be different!"

"Ah! This season brings its sad memories to many a heart," Mrs. Metherell
remarked, "but they cannot take away from the joy. The house will be well-
nigh empty this week, as most of my lodgers will be away. I am going to give a
party on my own account, sir!"

There was a twinkle in Mrs. Metherell's eyes as she spoke, which Jim was
quick to notice.

"I hope you are going to invite me," he said, smiling; then, seeing Mrs.
Metherell looked a little doubtful, "You surely won't leave me out in the cold!"
"It's a children's party, sir."

"So much the better! They are ever so much jollier than grown-up people's
parties! I will help you amuse the children!"

"They are a few I know who will not be very likely to have anything done for
their pleasure at home. I am going to ask them to come on Christmas Eve
from four to eight. I shall give them a good tea—poor little souls! And I mean
to dress up a Christmas tree for the occasion!"

"I shall insist on being present, Mrs. Metherell; and I'll help you dress the tree!"

A smile of gratification spread over the landlady's face as she answered:

"I am sure I shall be very glad of your assistance, sir. It's not much I'm able to
do for my fellow creatures; but now, at Christmas, I think one ought to make a
little extra effort to try to make others happy. It always seems to me Christmas
is the children's festival especially, and I should like to think I was able to
make some of His little ones glad, for His sake."

"Yes," Jim agreed. "I remember—oh! As long ago as I can remember anything
—the excitement there used to be at home when this season drew near, and
how my father used to remind us children that we must never forget in the
midst of all the festivity the cause of our rejoicing."

"He was quite right, sir."

"Indeed, he was. Well, I hope you and I shall have a happy Christmas."

His thoughts flew to the child to whom he had given the doll the night before,
but he made no mention of the matter to his landlady. And after a few more
words she retired downstairs, and Jim turned to his breakfast.

CHAPTER IV
MAGGIE IS INVITED TO A PARTY