It was Wednesday again, marking over three weeks since we began our new way of life. Mariella and Number One remained blissfully unaware of anything that was happening. I had the support of most of the Salvatores, who were backing me up.
They spent their time downstairs, acting as spies, sharing their lives with us, but without revealing who or what was truly in charge. Charles, too, was in the dark, as he was busy sharing his life with Mariella, confiding in her about his past relationships and romantic history, seemingly trying to outdo Damon's scandalous encounters.
Meanwhile, my own life was busy yet stable. Many of our ideas were proving quite feasible, such as organizing activity camps for children. They had already completed one, and for the upcoming weekend, a horse and farm camp was scheduled. This would be a 48-hour event, complete with transportation. The children were very eager and didn't mind our absence, as they cherished their independence and enjoyed the company of the girls who were picking them up.
This arrangement would, in turn, give us adults some much-needed time to ourselves. I, for one, was planning some karaoke in a hot room, with the intention of shedding the rest of my clothes. The men were eager to try on new outfits, and they had developed a good eye for styling themselves, mixing and matching with confidence. I had offered them pointers and hints on what to look for, and in turn, they expressed a desire to style us women as well.
Today, I wore wide-legged silk pants and a satin shirt, my hair braided as usual into an ornamental crown. My color palette was light brown and off-white. While perhaps not the most practical choice for feeding toddlers and babies or doing chores, it contrasted with the typical approach. Men, it seems, enjoyed washing clothes and saw stains as a fun challenge to solve. Furthermore, they utilized the washing machine's various programs more extensively than I did, carefully selecting materials to match each cycle.
As I was packing lunch bags, Number four walked in, having just fed the babies. He had some puke stains on his shirt, which he wiped away as he entered.
"Morning, my love," I said, smiling at his slight irritation.
Silk is not easy to wash when an infant has vomited on it, and he was wearing a pink silk shirt.
"Damn stain, this is not easy, babe. Whatcha doin'?" he inquired, observing my work.
"Packing the bags. I was thinking maybe we should include some cheese today, as they have outdoor play and might need extra snacks."
He grunted and replied, "Nope, lemme give ya something I made the other day. We'll need baggies for these."
He walked to a cabinet containing our smoked meats and retrieved a box. Inside were tiny sausage stubs. He then took a roll of small baggies from a drawer and began placing five sausages in each, working efficiently and quickly. He tossed the filled baggies to me so I could add them to the lunch bags.
Each bag contained multiple items and a significant amount of food, specifically calorie-dense food. Our children are supernaturals with exceptionally fast metabolisms, requiring a constant supply of nourishment. This was also a reason why it was beneficial for them to attend a supernatural daycare rather than mingle too much with human children. There was a potential for bullying if those human brats witnessed the contents of our children's bags, as such brats tended to be jealous.
"You know," Number Four began, "we went on riding trips without you, but they were nothing—dull, boring. I can see it now."
"Don't," I interrupted, my voice calming. "Don't try to tarnish memories that involve Mariella. She's your wife, too, albeit not a very good one, but neither was I. Instead, try to find something good in those times, anything."
I was trying to help him see the positives, believing it was better for his mind. I'd always done this, always sought out one good thing to keep me going.
"Now," I continued, "I know those trips were rather short and involved a lot of fucking, with Mariella and Number One. So let's use that. Try to find something funny. Tell me, which horse of hers was ridden the most? Not Number One's horse, but one she actually rode."
Number Four smirked and looked at me. "Ooh, the sex beast is awake and seducing her husband. Fine, let me think... You're right, most of that activity always happened on Number One's horse, and those saddles were thrown away by the staff because they reeked, but..."
He smiled slightly, a faint furrow in his brow as he recalled. "It was probably one Appaloosa, an older, calm mare, dull and slow. As it was, it was a supernatural one. But since Mariella chose our horses, she didn't check if they were supernaturals, meaning they could carry several people and be more durable. So she chose Number One's Arabian, not a supernatural one, so it couldn't hold both of them. But her Appaloosa could, so she was used to being fucked, and it was nothing to that horse. It was plump, lazy, and slow, and having two eager fuckers bouncing on its back didn't faze it. My horse, on that trip, was awful. It had some kind of stepping flaw, meaning it jolted me nastily with every step. My ass was sore for a week afterwards, and I wasn't in the mood for sex as I was sore from those bits as well." His voice held a touch of bitterness.
"Wanna hear one of my stories?" I offered. "Well, as you know, I've been digging bullets out of myself for a long time, but let's just say the first time I got caught in the act, it was quite a circus."
"No more self-surgery when you return to work," Number Four declared. "I'll make sure of it. But please, continue."
My voice grew wistful. "It was early days, fleas hadn't really expanded that much, and I'd secured us some bases. We'd been on a gig with Brutus, Jacques, Frankie, and a few other guys, and I'd taken a few bullets. We had medics, but since others had been shot too, I decided to take care of my bullets myself, as I had done a few times before."
Number four was eagerly awaiting the continuation of my story, and I heard footsteps as numbers five and eight entered, also eager to hear about my less glorious times as leader.
I began, "Well, there I was, in my office, digging an exploded bullet – a big caliber one – out of my flank, near my hip. I wasn't sure if my intestines had taken a hit, and without any scans, I had no idea how many fragments remained. I was trying to dig out the bigger pieces when Brutus walked in. His expression… he was normally a pretty cool guy, but now he'd lost it. He said to me, 'What the fuck are you doing? Trying to kill yourself? We have medics, and good ones too.' I just replied, 'They're surely busy, and I'm fine.' He didn't bother to say anything more, but he grabbed me after throwing my scalpel against the wall and simply put gauze over my wound, as it wasn't healing properly because the bullets contained cobalt."
Number four interjected, "I mean, your belief that nothing can hurt you is sometimes astonishing. Haven't you even considered infection, complications, or additional bleeding?"
I just shrugged and asked, "Do you want to hear the rest of the story or nag me about it?"
Number five demanded, "Well, out with it! What happened?"
I replied, a little sheepishly, "Well, Brutus carried me to the med bay, where one of his cousins' sons, Leroy, was our medic. Leroy, who was as big and burly as Brutus, with a tight, imposing physique – I mean, if you saw him, you might think he was a gang leader or something – said to me, 'This idiot was digging a cobalt-laden bullet from her flank with her bare fingers, an old scalpel, and nothing more. And as you know, those were exploding bullets.' He then told me, 'I will deal with this; it's kind of my job.' After that, he knocked me out. The operation took five hours and was very complicated, as the bullet had truly hit my small intestine. One fragment was kissing my abdominal aorta, and a few were teasing my kidneys. Given my condition, it was a truly difficult operation, but he pulled it off. Then he called Samuel, explained the whole situation, and I woke up in Chicago, being fed for three weeks and taking antibiotics for 15 days. Samuel was not happy."
"I've never heard of this. Why?" Number Eight asked. I took a breath and explained, "Bran was in the house. Samuel had called you to come over, but he hadn't told you why. When you arrived, Bran asked you to come to his study and gave you some sort of vampire potion. So, then Damien was there, but he wasn't interested in me at the time because he was working for Sark. So, he erased your memory of being asked to come, as he went to Sark. Bran did what he did because I was too skinny to have any kind of heat, even though he almost blackmailed Samuel into giving me one."
Number Eight remained silent, but Number Five cussed under his breath. He hated learning about the times Damien had wiped their memories.
I added, "You might wonder how I knew all this, especially when Damien had wiped your memories. Well, he confessed everything. He reveled in droning on about how he had erased this and that, preventing you from coming, or even from going to females or starting parties."
Number Four was silent, but his fury was palpable.
Seeing this, I said to them, "You three, to the gym, unload, right now. The kids will be waking up soon, and they don't need to see three bombs ready to go off."
The men obeyed, as I had made my point clear. We had agreed that if any of us saw someone having a meltdown, it was time to hit the gym, let it out, and cool off. I had done this myself on occasion, and it was usually Adam, Wulfe, or even the girls who sent me there.
There were no outbursts of rage here. We had to be examples for the kids, meaning we had to show that we controlled our rage and that there were ways to manage it. And yes, adults struggled with rage as well. It was rewarding, even though it took a lot out of us; still, it helped us grow.
I was packing the kids' outdoor clothes into their bags while they were eating when Amber walked in and asked, "Mommy, what did you put for me?"
It was normal for the kids to call me Mommy, so I replied, "Your red raincoat and green rubber pants, with your flower boots."
She said, "No, I want the blue ones."
I told her, "The color of your coat isn't so important when you're having fun outside; red is just fine."
But she exclaimed, "No, the blue one! I'm going to tell Mommy; she will give me the blue one," and then she ran away.
It wasn't unusual for them to go downstairs to complain to Mariella or Damon, but those two didn't really care; they usually just told the girls to deal with the kids. I wasn't worried at all and continued filling the bags, making sure they had everything they needed—and even some extras. When a bag was ready, I gave it to Wulfe, who activated magic to let whoever was fetching the kids know if something was missing.
Number Three came to help me. He was wearing a denim shirt, black vinyl pants, and boots, clearly in a seductive mood.
He asked, "What was that with Amber?"
I said, "Nothing, she just threw a tantrum about the color of her raincoat and stomped away to tell Mommy."
He grunted softly and said, "Can't wait for that camp... you, me, some compromising positions..." His seduction mood was clear as he pressed a little closer.
He took one set of clothes—Dash's—and placed them into his bag. He checked it to make sure it was ready, zipped it up, and moved it into the pile. Wulfe then activated magic again and placed the ready bag near their outside clothing, as the girls would soon start bundling them up to get ready for daycare.
Amber came back upstairs, her face sulky. Number Five said to her, "Well, what about my bumblebee? Aren't you happy today?"
Amber replied, "Mommy put the wrong color raincoat, and the other Mommy doesn't care; she was in the room with Daddy again."
Number Five kissed the top of her head and said, "Who needs those when you have me, worshiping you?"
Amber finally giggled as Number Five tickled her and lifted her out of her funk. I knew it wouldn't take much for her to spark up again.
The three were always bickering, yet they also loved doing crafts together. Unlike many other children who preferred solitude, my five had no problem accepting others and could easily adapt to their pace. Dash was still running, Darien was climbing, and Sadie was offering vocal, judgmental opinions.
My twins were ladies, always together, while my younger ones, Jesse and Luca, were good with other children, though a bit rough as they often threw things. Lizzy was calm and analytical, taking her time to get moving, and Evie, my mini-me, was a very good student for Sadie, as was Suzie.
Sadie, a born teacher, had taught them from an early age how to be alpha. While their behavior might not have been ideal for daycare, my girls were more or less leaders, often bossing others around. The daycare center recognized this not as misbehavior, but as a sign of leadership, and many teachers guided them to hone their alpha qualities.
Meanwhile, number three, still close by, asked, "What happened to Leroy? I mean, if he was such a good medic, why haven't I heard from him, not even from Magnum?"
I smiled and replied, "Leroy is now Professor Frank Hurlington. I secured him a grant to finish medical school, and he was so gifted that he changed his name and built a career for himself without ever revealing his past. He's still practicing in France, working as a trauma lead at one of the biggest hospitals there, specializing in pediatric surgery and genetics. Brutus arranged his new identity and ensured his past remained unknown."
Number three swallowed and said, "You mean the guy who wrote that article on a new way to identify genes for Alzheimer's, who's been awarded three times by the European Medical Council, and who has the highest recorded number of cancer-free survivors, was the same person who dug bullets out of your flank? And you made all this happen?"
I simply nodded. "He had talent; I just gave him a boost. I haven't kept in contact since, not wanting to endanger his career. Even though I am a highly accomplished surgeon with many awards and merits, I let him have his success. He deserves it."
As we got all the bags ready, Emmylee, May, Lily, Britney, Ashley, and Daisy were already dressing the children in their outerwear. Meanwhile, others were carrying the bags to the car. Lepard would be our driver and would then drop the girls off at my flower shop, as well as Mariella's magic shop, for them to work there for four hours before it was time to bring the children back home.
I was still on maternity leave, so I wasn't going into the shop, though I did prepare flower arrangements in my flower room at home. I was just clearing the kitchen when Number Eight approached me and handed me a pile of papers.
"Oh, these need your signature," he said. "They're for today's outing; permission slips, so you're aware."
The children were still chattering, and it wasn't fast or easy to dress nineteen toddlers.
"Fine, give me a pen," I replied.
I didn't notice Number One walking into the kitchen, taking it all in and hearing this exchange too. Number Two gave me a pen and walked to the nearest table, beginning to sign the permission slips. Sighing under my breath, I thought, while asking permission was sometimes necessary, I felt like I spent every morning when it was daycare time signing this and that.
"My dear wife," Number One's tight voice asked, "I am obviously not up to speed. Care to elaborate on what the fuck is going on, why you are the one signing the papers, and what the fuck has happened?"