Chapter Seventeen December First
Pine Ridge, New York
“Hey. You. Guess who got his November paycheck deposited?” Artie whispers.
“Ummmm. The sexiest computer coder in the universe?” I groan and slowly sit up. “How many times was Laurel up?”
“None. Not at all.”
My eyes fly open. “Wait, I’m groggy from getting enough sleep?” I demand.
“Yep. We’re going to celebrate. We’re going to celebrate that if we just pay the minimum on the credit card for this month—and just this month if we can help it—we have money to do some Christmas shopping.”
“Ooh!” I feel a spark of excitement, but it fades. The last time I tried to do Christmas shopping, everything went wrong.
“Annnd, it’s officially been over a month since you climbed into my car and drove off with my heart.”
“Aww, babe...”
“Laurel slept through the night.”
“You said that. What time is it?”
“Nine-thirty.”
“Oh! I have class in—”
“Thirty minutes. I know. But the baby is chilling, the laundry is running. And these came in the mail.”
Artie hands me two stiff white cardboard envelopes with a State of New York seal on the back.
Birth certificates. Mine and Laurel’s.
Laurel Imogene Taylor, born July 1st, 2025, to Arthur Phillip Taylor and Imogene Sommer Taylor.
“You named her after me?” I whisper.
“You're her mother. Of course I did. I knew she was a few days old when I found her, so I just went with the first of the month...” Artie trails off.
I wipe my eyes. “She’s mine? Really mine?”
“Yes. Legally, emotionally, and even culturally. You were a godsend, Immy. Are a godsend. And since it’s the first, it means Laurel is six months old today. Well, according to the paperwork. So much to celebrate. Want to go to the mall after class? I don’t have to work until eight tonight.”
“I... Maybe after the 5th?” I whisper, ashamed that I’m still a coward, a coward who will hurt an attacker if she’s pushed, but who desperately wants to keep that part of myself locked away and prays that it withers. I never want to be a bad example for Laurel. My daughter.
“That’s fine. Well, in that case, if you don’t have to get all dressed up to go out, can you do something else after class?”
“What?”
Artie puts my laptop on my knees, opens it, and taps a few keys. “I sent you the link.”
My eyes move slowly across the letters. “Application for marriage license, state of New York.”
“We print it out here and take it to the Pine Ridge justice center. There are some things we don’t have or won’t have, but I called Alban Wymark this morning.
He said he’d meet us there tomorrow and get it all fixed up for us—legally or magically, he said it doesn’t matter.
Then we can get married the next day. If we want. ”
I hesitate.
“Or later. Or n—not at all. I mean, I told Artie we got married in a small private ceremony, and we wanted to make it official.”
“I would stay with you in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, for richer or poorer. Until death do us part,” I whisper, taking his hand.
Artie sits on the bed and grips my hand in both of his. “I, Arthur Phillip Taylor, take you, Imogene Sommer, to be my wedded wife, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, for richer or poorer. Until death do us part. I love you.”
“I love you.” I wipe my eyes on the shoulder of my jammies, my hands wrapped around his so tight that I’m probably cutting off his circulation.
“May I kiss the bride?”
“You may.”
The kiss is long, lingering, and ends up with Artie scooting back into bed. The laptop is shoved to the floor.
“I think I can pronounce us man and wife before you go to class, baby,” he whispers.
“Well, I think you’d better,” I whisper back. “Otherwise, you kind of lied to Alban.”
Artie’s fingers rub against my crotch, turning me rapidly wet. “That would be terrible.”
“So horrible.” My pajama bottoms shimmy down.
“What’s Laurel doing?” I whisper as his cock brushes against my bare thigh.
“Playing with her new jumbo stacking rings in the busy bee bouncer in her room.”
I guide him into my heat, surprised at how easily he slides in.
“You’re always ready for me.”
“I was waiting for you for such a long time.”
“ALL RIGHT. COMPROMISE time.” Artie holds out his laptop. “Tab A is the menu from Tiramisu. Tab B is the menu from the River House. Pick what you want. I’m bringing us home dinner.”
“But I’m defrosting ground beef, and I have noodles and shredded cheese. I’m going to use the ‘Make These Into Dinner’ app and figure out what it is,” I protest.
“That sounds adventurous and delicious, honey, but tonight is special. We have so many things to celebrate. Annnd, do you know what else tonight is?”
“What?”
“It’s our wedding night. At least in spirit. Our sneaky, private wedding anniversary will always be December First. We have to consummate.”
“Uh, did you forget that you consummated me up until five minutes before my class started?” My legs flex at the memory, pussy spasming from the memory of his bare cock pounding into me, my fingers rubbing myself, even dipping inside after he came to catch the dripping cum that always tastes so delicious to me.
I think Artie’s remembering the same thing. He looks a little glassy-eyed as he opens Tab B. “The River House has a grasshopper pie.”
“Ew! Oh, no, honey, even if that’s a traditional snack, I don’t—”
“Grasshopper pie is a mint and chocolate pie.”
“They need to call it something better,” I mutter, shaking my head. But...
Artie coaxes, “You know, if you don’t have to cook, we’ll have more time to do other things. We can order one appetizer, one dessert, and two main dishes, Immy. I promise we’ll keep it on the cheap side—even though I’d spend a fortune on you if I could.”
He doesn’t understand that I feel a sense of accomplishment whenever I help him save money, whenever our household budget has more money for Laurel, more money for our future—but it is a special night.
And those other things are so tempting. “I love the idea, but until Tessa is sure that Blase is really gone—”
“Mr. Minegold said he was going to try to talk to some people who knew more about krampus abilities, about how they move undetected through the cities and homes to take children. In the meantime, you know Tessa, Madge, and Mrs. Fenclan—that’s Mrs. Wickstaff’s mother, by the way—have put up so many wards in the town, and specifically around our house.
I don’t think anything evil could get in.
The River House is like ten minutes away by car.
I’ll call ahead. I won't leave until I think it’s ready. I’ll be there and back, zip, zoom.”
“We could just wait.”
“We could. I will, if you really want that. I just hate to see one more big bully take away special things from you. From us. You deserve a beautiful wedding night dinner, a celebratory night for so many great things coming together. But we can wait.”
Artie’s words strike a nerve, even though he’s smiling sweetly as he rubs my back and reassures me he can be patient.
We’ve been patient for so long. Both of us endured a forced sort of patience, denied good things for so long, love, family, friendship...
“You go ahead. Ten minutes is fine, we can all go together.”
“OKAY, I CALLED, AND they said the food is ready.”
“All right. Let me get Laurel’s winter coat and—ooh! Ohh!” I go to pick Laurel up and am immediately greeted by a smile, a gurgle, and a parade of puke. I jump back, but it cascades down her front and lands all over the floor and my shoes.
“Ba!” Laurel says in a chirpy voice.
“She said Ba! Do you want ba-ba?” I ask. “Because you just barfed up your last one, kiddo.”
“Oh, babe.” Artie pauses in the midst of grabbing the diaper bag and runs for the paper towels.
“Da! Da!” Laurel smiles through the mess on her face.
“Dada! Da! Artie, she said Dada!” I cry.
Artie skids into the room, mouth open. “No way! She’s only six months old. Is she supposed to say her first words already?”
“She can! Some babies do.”
“Oh, my gosh! Baby girl! Yes, say Dada!”
Laurel blows bubbles.
It’s not a great time for her to do that. I wince, and Artie uses a paper towel on my face.
“You go get the food. I need to clean her and the rug,” I sigh.
“I can wait?”
“No, the food will get cold, and the pie will get warm. I’ll be okay for ten minutes.”
LAUREL LOOKS AT ME from her crib, rolling on her back and pulling on her hooves, her tiny tail lashing joyfully as she rocks back and forth, singing “Da ba da ba. Bababa. Dadada.”
“Okay, try Mama,” I whisper, laying out new clothes and peeking out the window of her room.
It’s a beautiful night. I know if we weren’t in a townhouse development, I would be able to see stars, pines, mountains, and the wide night sky.
As it is, I see gentle flurries drifting down on lots of houses, twinkling Christmas lights, and bright blue and silver Stars of David shining in some windows.
A car drives past with Jingle Bell Rock blaring and a pine tree tied to the roof.
“We’re going to have to get a tree. And ornaments. Ooh, we can get those Baby’s First Christmas ornaments. I don’t know if we should get a smaller tree that goes on the coffee table or a bigger one. I bet you’ll be crawling any day now. You’re already rolling over, big g—”
Scrape.
My heart halts in my chest, and I realize that I haven’t seen Artie’s car come back yet.
So the sound from downstairs isn’t him.
I don’t breathe as I pick up Laurel, pushing a pacifier into her mouth to quiet her happy babbling. “It’s okay,” I breathe, and she snuggles in.
My daughter believes in me. That it will be okay. So whatever is downstairs—has to be something that I can make okay. I pat my pocket for my phone and realize it’s not there. It’s still downstairs next to my coat and bag, ready to run out.
I can stay still. Hide with Laurel. Keep her safe until Artie comes back.
I realize that I’m not even wondering what the sound was. I know in my gut.
It’s Blase. He wants to collect.