Gemini Christmas

Chapter One Zara

Chapter One

Zara

You haven’t lived until you’ve raided the insane last-minute shopper scene of a world-famous outdoor Christmas market in Wonderland, Colorado—two days before the holiday—with a drop-dead gorgeous, six-and-a-half foot tall warlock who strongly resembles David Bowie in Labyrinth, a scowling Russian dragon shifter who deeply distrusts crowds, and a tattooed sex demon wearing a Santa suit.

Like, for real.

You haven’t.

“Ho ho ho,” Mordred bellows from the heart, definitely using his outdoor voice. “Who’s been naughty, babes?”

“Uh, pretty sure that’d be all of us, Santa,” I toss over my shoulder with a saucy grin and a puff of frosty breath.

I’m cosied up at the counter of the gluhwein stall that’s nestled between a noisy kiddie train ride and a life-sized Nativity display (complete with manger, livestock, and angel) in the narrow cobblestone street of this Bavarian village.

I admire the vibe as I juggle a bag of mulling spices and a package of cinnamon sticks I’m in the process of buying for the big Christmas Eve bash Neo’s dad is hosting.

My warlocks and I are the guests of honor. But we don’t plan to arrive empty-handed.

Max is looming protectively at my shoulder, growling at anyone who even thinks about crowding me. He’s determined to protect me and my pregnant belly from the slightest jostle.

Which is not something I asked my alpha dragon shifter to do. But I’ve learned to accept it’s totally impossible to prevent.

More usefully, Max is also schlepping our ever-growing mountain of purchases.

Vasili lounges elegantly against the gluhwein counter at my side.

His function is purely ornamental, since he’d never deign to carry our loot.

In V’s defense, he does readily hand over his black card to pay the vendor for my latest round of purchases, while sipping delicately from a steaming mug of mulled wine so he won’t smudge his lip gloss.

Vasili is definitely giving Mordred’s Father Christmas moment the side eye—sneering slightly as our resident demon throws back his head and bawls out a deep belly laugh. But at least V isn’t actively mocking our sex demon’s Santa suit.

Which means Vasili the Goblin King is in a festive mood.

I mean, you know, for him.

“Bah, humbug,” V murmurs, following my thoughts through our mating bond with lethal precision. Over his mug, his ice-blue eyes flash with that pointed wit everyone back home at the Academy hopes and prays he never stabs you with.

“Aw, c’mon, babydoll. Where’s your Christmas spirit?

” Mordred sidles up between V and me at the counter, swarthy face framed in the white fur trim of his Santa hat, dimples flashing above his midnight-blue goatee.

The demon’s tiny fangs (because he’s also part Fae) gleam in a mischievous grin as he leans in to nuzzle my winter-cold cheek.

“That’s coal in your panties for you, am I right, naughty girl?” Mordred whispers in my ear, with a puff of warm breath that smells like spiced rum.

I blink up at him in confusion.

When his soft lips brush my ear, a wisp of chill races down my arms and makes my fingertips tingle.

Cheese on toast. That demon rizz is potent.

Still lurking behind me, so he overhears the “coal in my panties” comment with his sharp shifty senses, even grumpy Max gives way to an indulgent chuckle. It’s been fun for all of us teaching Christmas lore to Mordred, who’s never been on this plane for the human holidays.

“Coal in my stocking, Aquaman. Something else in my panties if I’m good though, huh?” I wink at our sex demon (who, of course, winks back). Then I transfer my mulling supplies into Mordred’s willing arms and breathe in a lungful of crisp mountain air that’s tangy with allspice and orange peel.

With a contented sigh, I lean into the comfort of Max’s toasty dragon heat lurking behind me.

Max burrows a hand into the pocket of my hot pink ski parka so he can cup the curve of my belly in his possessive grip. I tilt my head back so he can rub his jaw into my ponytail. Our dragon is scenting me with his scorched brimstone mating scent.

That’s something the noisy stream of normals thronging past, with their blunted mortal senses, doesn’t need to know.

The wine-pour girl, a cute brunette who’s rosy-cheeked with cold despite her thick Christmas sweater and knitted headband, gives us all a curious look across the counter. She’s clearly concluded I’m with Max. Just as clearly, she’s tucked Vasili into the gay friend box.

So she doesn’t know how to deal with me getting kissed like that by Santa.

When Santa leans in and kisses Max too, nuzzling Max’s jaw and teasing the corner of his mouth until Max turns his head and kisses him back, that clears things up in the chick’s noggin.

Sorta.

The brunette ducks her head to swipe V’s black card through the square on her smart phone, bites her lip and blushes a little (so cute), then just blurts the shit out. “Don’t mind my asking, I don’t mean to overstep. But… are the three of you, like, together?”

“Mmmmm.” I grin like a cat licking cream from my whiskers.

That’s a trick I’ve picked up from Vasili. When you don’t wanna give a straight answer, just fall back on a hum.

That monosyllable is versatile. It can literally mean anything.

Ever since the Academy jet dropped us off in Denver this morning to spend our end-of-semester holidays with Theo Mercury and the witching world glitterati at the senator’s annual Christmas bash in his luxe chalet in the Rockies, I’ve been reminding myself that we—I mean my warlocks and me—we’re not actually famous in the mortal world.

I’m only queen of the witching world.

No mortal has any clue that’s an actual thing.

So I’ve been trying not to actively flout our polyamorous relationship in front of the entire population of Wonderland, Colorado.

But we haven’t exactly been hiding our relationship either.

“You could say we’re in a situationship.” Mordred winks at the fascinated wine-pour girl, then wraps an arm around Vasili and eases him into our group hug. “Amiright, babydoll?”

By now, the freckled ginger college guy in back who’s been mulling our gluhwein (while covertly eyeing V’s frosty and unapproachable perfection the whole time) scooches closer to listen.

“So you’re in an actual threesome?” The brunette’s intrigued eyes dart to V. “Or, wow, like… a foursome?”

Behind his rose-tinted John Lennon sunglasses, set in his pale face and framed in the upturned collar of the Italian wool overcoat draped fashionably over his slim frame, Vasili’s own eyes narrow dangerously.

“Uh, kinda,” I say hastily, before V can say something awful. “You should try it sometime.”

“Oh, but I—I couldn’t,” the girl stammers in a rush. “I’m a Methodist, not a Mormon.”

Mordred throws back his head and laughs again. He’s tickled blue (like his hair under that Santa hat) at the ridiculous concept of a half-incubus, half-kraken Unseelie with tattoos and two dicks being mistaken for a God-fearing Mormon.

“Well, it’s your loss, darling.” Clearly bored out of his skull by the wine-pour chick and her flustered confusion, Vasili sips his wine and gives the shy college guy in back a flicker of his Goblin King smirk.

The poor wine girl is still staring at us with her mouth open, holding V’s black card like she’s forgotten what it’s for, when Ronin eels through the festive crowd that packs the narrow street to join us.

Inky hair swirling around his shoulders, looking even more fuckable than usual in his fur-lined leather bomber jacket and a striped Christmas scarf, Ronin pauses to drop a warm kiss on my cold cheek.

I breathe in his familiar fragrance of ambergris and bergamot and lean into his caress with a happy sigh.

Ronin grins down at me, then hops up lithely to sit on the counter. That maneuver flashes both the staff and the elderly couple sipping gluhwein next to us an impressive glimpse of his traffic-stopping ass, showcased in jeans that hug his tight glutes and sinewy thighs.

“Hiya, loves.” Ronin gives all of us his lazy grin, then hooks a booted leg around V’s hips to ease our Goblin King indecently close.

“We done having a mooch in the shops, mates? Supposed to be a big snowstorm kicking up. Whole market’s nattering on about it.

Pretty good guess we ought to get off the roads before it hits, yeah? ”

Max rubs a protective hand (still tucked in my parka pocket) over the triplets I’m incubating in my tummy. He rumbles a possessive growl in my ear while I murmur with pleasure and lean into him. Then, reluctantly, Max eases away and passes his shopping bags to Mordred.

“I will find the others and get the SUV,” Max announces firmly. “The rest of you must stay with Zara. She is growing tired.”

“No need to hunt for the others, big guy. I’ll just, uh, call ‘em,” I say vaguely.

Meaning I’ll use our mating bond to link up with our absent mates. Because we can’t use cell phones behind the witching wards, we’re all outta practice with electrons.

Not a problem, though. At all.

Halfway through my sophomore year at the Icarus Academy, thanks to an intense but mostly uneventful few months of magical studies under Lucius’ stern tutelage, plus the strengthening bond that connects all of us, I’ve grown into one of the most powerful telepaths in our polycule.

“Anyway,” I assure all my guys, “I’m not tired, I’m super energized. Second trimester’s way better than the first. But, yeah, Max, thanks for getting our wheels. That’s sweet of you.”

“Do not stray from this place, my sovereign. I will find you. All of you.” Max gives the scene around the gluhwein stall a final suspicious glare behind the polarized shades he’s wearing to hide his golden eyes and slitted dragon pupils from the normals.

Then he pivots and plunges into the crowd.

I catch a final glimpse of the blond braid swinging purposefully between his narrow shoulders before the sea of Christmas shoppers swallows him up.