June — POV
January collapses in front of me, out cold, and her tattoos immediately flare back into pin-up ladies dancing across her skin. For someone who technically doesn't have emotions, she somehow wields the power of emotion like the world's most dramatic opera singer. Honestly, she probably would've made a better healer than me. I always wanted the quiet powers—the type where I sit in a library and read dusty books—not the kind that steal life-force to give it back.
And don't get me started on my marriage. If Mr. Sandman misses one more dinner date, he's getting served papers in his sleep. But enough filler. I glare at Mom, trying to catch a glimpse of her death date… but nothing. Blank. Missing. Probably Dad meddling again.
Mom shrugs her hips—and no, that isn't a typo. The woman shrugs with hips. Dad and Uncle Y.R. are probably still recovering in whatever layer of hell they got dragged into because she couldn't keep those hips shut long enough to avoid catching the attention of one of the most chaotic gods alive. And that god wasn't even cute about it—he came up to her in human form, looking like something that crawled out of a bargain-bin nightmare.
Ugly as sin. But Mom? She runs one of the top global cults and believes in everything and everyone. Dad once made a bet with a deity to take over her cult, won both the cult and the Lady herself, and voilà—here we are. A family built by loopholes. We like to call ourselves "spiritually adopted," since we're not made of their flesh and blood. Did you know there's a cosmic bucket for unusable soul-trash? That's us. Not even biological. Just atoms gathered up and molded from recycled spiritual leftovers.
You want to know my powers? I can see and do almost anything tied to death and healing. Healing isn't the opposite of death—healing is just redirecting a different kind of life. Even when I kill someone, they still get a life. Just… not the one they were expecting.
All healers are basically locks—patching, sealing, stopping the death-doors from swinging open. And those doors? They open for a few, close for many. Like one of those French bridges covered in love locks. Except mine is covered in expiration dates.
I don't see color the way you do—I see layers, echoes, fates, life-threads. Uncle Y.R. eventually gave me glasses to keep me from seeing too much all at once. Even with them, Mom's death date won't settle. Faith messes with the numbers. Belief bends reality. The world runs on belief—even the non-believers fuel the void with their certainty of nothing. And nothing is where everything started. The universe's most balanced position: sixty-nine.
Don't look at me like that. The world loves a good 69. Chaos thrives in duality.
Anyway—ignore my rambling. I could invite you to my mother's cult and hand you a brochure (18+ only, though we prefer 30+; virgins get bonus points), but we should get back to the story. I snap my fingers and scoop up my sisters.
January is the oldest. July is next. My twin and I are the middle children—named after months because our parents lacked creativity or patience, I'm not sure which. Speaking of patience—how are my cats doing? They're adorable when they meow. See, now I'm off track again.
July suddenly moans out her lover's name. "Skylar… Skylar…" Skylar is a baker who cooks humans into pies—lovely woman, really. Summoned a demon once on accident, and now they're married with a baby on the way. July is the one carrying the child, which is going to be a whole conversation I'm absolutely not prepared to have.
Her superpowered wife couldn't keep her emotions in check for a whole minute, and now our cult is inflating with stolen members who keep showing up perfectly fine. Heaven asked us to investigate because too many of our people were landing on their visitor list. They don't mind visitors, but our cultists cause chaos, and Heaven does not want to be overfilled again.
Mom and Dad did that once. We were grounded to Hell. Time works weird down there, so it felt like forever.
I sigh, adjust January over my shoulder, and start carrying my sisters.
Another day, another divine mess to clean up.