Page 146 of The Devil's Trials

“I should go in and see them first,” I say when we’re about ten minutes away. According to the itinerary my dad sent to our family group chat, he should already be there. “They won’t be able to listen to what I’m saying with their number one enemy sitting in the same room.”

Xander’s lips twitch. “You think I’d make it past the front door?”

“Good point.” I sigh, frowning at the thought of ruining their Christmas with the news I’m harboring. “Besides, they deserve to have a normal, enjoyable holiday before I flip their worlds upside down.”

This time of year has always been my favorite, but it’s difficult to enjoy the holiday season when I know my sister is suffering. And now I have to figure out how to explain that to my parents, along with how Xander is going to help me save her.

“When was the last time you had Christmas with both your parents?”

I consider it, doing some quick mental math. “Hmm, it’s been over fifteen years. My dad moved to New York after he and my mom separated, and since then, we’d celebrate Christmas twice. Once in Seattle with Mom and once when we visited Dad in New York. They’d alternate years on who had the actual day, but as Dani and I got older, the schedule became more dependent on what she and I had going on.”

We turn onto Mom’s street, where the houses on both sides are decorated with Christmas lights and giant inflatable lawn ornaments. Compared to that, the simple wreath on her front door looks a bit sad, but at least she made the effort to put something up.

Xander pulls up to the curb, shifting the car into park. “I know things are overwhelming and difficult right now, but try to enjoy your time with them before you have the conversation about Danielle. And while I can’t bring her to you now, I did send Blake to be with her for Christmas, so she isn’t alone and she knows we’re going to bring her home.”

Tightness seizes my chest as I stare at him, tears blurring my vision. “You did?”

He nods, reaching over to brush the hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ear and letting his fingers linger against my cheek.

I lean into his touch, pressing my lips against his palm. “Thank you,” I murmur. Unbuckling my belt, I grab my duffel bag from the back seat, setting it in my lap as I take a deep breath, blinking back the remnants of emotion from my eyes.

“If you need anything, you call me. I’ll be here.”

I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Okay.”

We both lean in at the same time, our lips touching in a kiss so tender I have to fight back a fresh batch of tears. And then I get out of the car, lift my bag onto my shoulder, and walk to the house without looking back. By the time I reach the door, I know Xander is gone without turning around. He wouldn’t take the chance of being seen by my parents.

It feels weird knocking on the door of the house I grew up in, but I lost my key years ago and never felt the need to get a new one.

Mom opens the door with an apron tied around her waist and her hair in a messy bun, and I’m hit with the warmth from inside along with…ginger cookies?

“Hey, Mom,” I say with a smile.

“Come in, come in,” she says in greeting. “It’s getting cold out there.”

I step inside and close the door, setting my bag on the foyer bench before Mom pulls me into a hug. When we step apart, she calls out, “Scott, our daughter is here.” She squeezes my shoulders. “He’s getting a fire started in the living room.”

“It smells amazing in here, Mom,” I tell her as we walk down the hall toward the kitchen.

“Why, thank you. I’ve recently taken up baking,” she says with a short laugh. “It’s quite fun.”

My brows lift. “Really?”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised that your mother has a hobby.”

“No, I just…No offense, but I didn’t think you knew the word.”

“I guess you don’t want to taste any then,” she teases, walking to the stove and stirring whatever she has cooking. Hawkeye is curled up on a fuzzy dog bed near his food dish, and I bend down to pet his head.

“I didn’t say that,” I protest with a faint grin as Dad walks into the kitchen in jeans and a knit Christmas sweater he’s had since I was a baby. The fuzzy snowman slippers he’s rocking, however, are definitely new, and I adore them.

“Hey, kiddo.” He comes to where I’m leaning against the island.

“Hi, Dad,” I say, straightening and wrapping my arms around him in a tight hug.

We hang out in the kitchen while Mom pulls a sheet of ginger molasses cookies out of the oven and replaces it with a sheet of shortbread.

“I thought we could order pizza, have some of your dad’s special eggnog, and decorate the tree tonight. I know it’s already Christmas Eve, but I thought it might be fun to decorate together.”

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