Page 57 of All Saints Day (Lucifer and the Saints #2)
Louise
A lmost an entire week Dennis and I have been away from home, and I have never been more ready to retreat to the pack Penny estate nestled quietly in the shadow of Mount Greylocke; our forested grounds kept blissfully locked away from the public and the chaos therein.
Caz had been there to pick us up from the airport, our oldest, Aurelia, clutching a glittery poster her fathers helped her make, that reads—“Welcome home, Mama and Papa D.”
Dennis takes the handle of my rolling suitcase so that I can properly swing Aurelia up and into my arms—pushing her mop of tight, dark red curls out of her face before I cover her round rosy brown cheeks in kisses.
“ Maman !” she crows happily, her maroon eyes sparkling with delight as she dives right into the house update—ever my little informant.
“Papa ‘Bastien is making homemade pasta for dinner, and I picked all the basil from the garden to make the pesto!” She beams as I set her back down onto the ground.
“Homemade pasta and pesto!?” I exclaim, not having to feign my excitement. “Well, better tell Daddy Cazzy to step on it—I’m hungry!” I grin, taking her little hand in mine as Caz leans in to claim his own welcome-home kiss.
The ride back to the house takes a few hours, but we spend the entire time getting the low-down from Aurelia—on what happened while Dennis and I were away—who is more than happy to tell us that they ordered pizza not once but twice this week, adding in her officious little tone, that Papa Frankie has been incredibly lax about bedtime, especially with little Benedict.
“Daddy Q said it’s because Benny is a tyrant for the bottle—and he’s too cute to let him cry so loud,” Aurelia clarifies, and I can’t help but laugh at how serious—how perceptive she is at only five years old.
“He might just be right.” I peck a kiss down into her hair as the gates to the house swing open and Caz pulls us slowly up the drive.
As soon as we open the front door to the house, I can hear the booming of Sébastien’s voice as it carries from the kitchen, deep inside the house.
“Ay! Henri! Stop tugging at Genevieve’s hair!” Sébastien yells as the twins howl at each other until they hear the front door shut; then all I can hear is their triumphant whooping—followed by the pounding of tiny feet on hardwood.
“Inside voices Henri and Genni—and slow down Mommy will still be there if you walk !” Quentin shouts after them—his own lumbering steps heralding his arrival just behind the four-year-old twins; Henri and Genevie, who explode into the front hall in a shrieking burst of delight.
Ever the mature big sister, Aurelia allows the twins to throw themselves at my legs; their towheaded blond hair almost the same shoulder length, full but frizzy like candyfloss, eyes like chips of brilliant blue diamond—just like their father’s.
I lift both the twins, balancing ?one on each of my hips—darting back and forth while making silly smacking noises with my mouth as I fervently kiss their faces and foreheads, squeezing their little bodies against me in a tight hug.
“Mumma, look!” Genevieve reaches into the pocket of her little pinafore dress covered in grass stains and poufs of flour, and produces a tiny gray tree frog. “Can I keep him?” she wails plaintively.
“Ewww, no! I don’t want a frog!” Henri, with his little blue plastic-framed glasses, tries to squirm out of my arms and away from his twin sister and her adventurous pet.
“I’m afraid not, Genni sweetie,” I set both twins back on the ground. “I am willing to bet that the momma froggie wants her baby to come home for dinner.” I shoot a glance to Caz as he wheels my luggage out of the way.
“Why don’t you and Daddy Cazzy go bring the little guy home to the garden, hm?”
“Okaaaay,” she groans, defeated, as she and Caz make their way deeper into the house.
Quentin steps forward to encircle me in his arms for a brief moment.
“Dinner’s almost on the table. Sébastien has been in there with and without the kids half the day preparing for your return feast,” he murmurs against my lips before pulling me in for a deep kiss.
“Better go make sure it doesn’t go to waste then, because if I keep kissing you like this… Mommy isn’t going to have much of an appetite for dinner,” I purr.
Just as quickly as the mood has heated up–we are doused in cold water as a piercing child’s cry erupts from the other room.
Quentin and I round the corner into the kitchen just in time to see Seb scoop up our second youngest, Joan—her head laid against Seb’s broad chest, one arm wrapped up around his neck with her fingers tangled in his long, dark curls, her other thumb stuck into her mouth.
“Look who just came home, eh?” Sébastien gently bounces her—his arm threaded beneath her like a seat as she leans against him—her little strawberry blond curls unruly from lack of brushing, her peridot eyes brimming with tears as she begins to cry again at the sight of me.
“Mama!” she wails, pulling her thumb from her mouth and reaching for me. At two years old, a week away feels like a lifetime; no wonder she’s so upset.
“I know, baby girl!” I cluck my tongue, taking her into my arms from Seb, who leans forward to kiss me in the handoff. “Mama’s home now—just relax, baby,” I comfort her, gently rocking her against me as I take in the sight of the kitchen—almost ready for another one of Sébastien’s fabulous dinners.
In the years since our pack bonded, I’ve put on a bit of weight; impossible not to with Seb’s incredible cooking. All of my mates tell me it only makes my curves more dangerous—my body more soft and pliable under their touch.
“How long until dinner, my love?” I ask Seb—in motion to the living room; the overtired Joan already asleep against my chest as I carry her with me.
“Ready whenever, the kids have already eaten, so if you like, me and the rest of the dad patrol can get the little ones down to bed,” he purrs, carefully taking the sleeping Joan from my arms. I give him a nod and another peck on the lips as Quentin and Caz join Seb in his quest.
Alone, I make my way into the living room and peer out onto the screened-in patio through the large sliding glass doors.
There, looking out over the gardens, the shimmering in-ground pool, the wood and plastic swing set climbing structure and sandbox, is Frank.
In his arms, Benedict—or Benny, our youngest—with his shock of coal black hair, eyes drooping with sleep as Frank sings softly to our baby in his arms.
“ From Bantry Bay up to Derry Quay, and from Galway to Dublin town, no maid I've seen like the sweet Colleen that I met in the County Down .”
It’s taken years for him to unearth his childhood memories—to be able to interact with them without switching—without completely going to pieces; but now he sings the songs his father sang to him as a baby without a second thought.
I step on soft feet until I’m just behind Frank. I can tell from the bond that he senses me there—that I won’t startle him when I wind my arms around his waist, resting my head against the side of his shoulder as I press against his back, looking at Benny fast asleep in his arms.
“Well, speak of the devil,” he chuckles, turning over his shoulder to give me a kiss.
“Welcome home, Lucifer.”