(December P.O.V)
Merry Christmas… just kidding, because I fucking hate that holiday. Truly. Hate it.
Here is some friendly advice, though. If you ever date a couple, do not pick super swingers. I am very pro free love, but the clauses are always the weird part. That sticky, cult-like devotion wrapped up in smiles and rules. They always try to pull a fast one on you, and when you grow up in a cult-adjacent, motherfucking environment, you learn to spot that nonsense early. It saves time. It saves energy. It saves your sanity.
Anyway, December is a busy month for me, and not in the fun way.
I handle security for the family. Locks, wards, inventions, safeguards, and all the little surprises people forget about until they work. Around this time of year, my sisters draw attention like glitter in sunlight, and September gets the worst of it. She always does.
Who knew that having a power like hers and doing the bookkeeping for the family would paint such a bright target on her back. It is not apocalyptic levels of chaos, but it is just unhinged enough for our enemies to convince themselves that taking out September would somehow destroy all of us. Villain logic is very optimistic.
They tried to kidnap her once. It did not go the way they planned.
They sent her back.
Apparently, after a few hours, she had updated their entire system, fixed their finances, reorganized their chain of command, and talked them into existential exhaustion. She does that thing where she eats knowledge straight out of someone's head, politely and thoroughly, until there is nothing left but better decisions and deep regret. I always forget the official name of her power. It is something academic and terrifying, but in practice it mostly looks like smiling, listening, and letting people talk themselves into ruin.
September can fight, technically. Give her distance and a scope and she is lethal. Put her in a conversation and she will dismantle you faster than most people can throw a punch. Up close, though, her powers get strange in ways that do not favor chaos.
That is where I come in.
I stopped by to check on her. Just a visit. A smile. A quick scan to see if she needed an upgrade this year. Better defenses. Quieter alarms. Maybe louder ones, depending on my mood. I like loud. It feels festive.
I spotted her outside the building before I even made it inside. She was wearing that polite smile she saves for problems while walking beside a unicorn I did not recognize. I waved, ready to say hello, and she immediately shoved the unicorn into a car and slammed the door shut before he could say a word. Then she turned and hugged me like she had not just committed a minor act of vehicular rudeness.
September was leaning against the car like she was trying very hard not to look rushed. Her shoulder rested casually against the door, but her weight kept shifting, heel lifting and tapping back down in a steady, controlled rhythm. It was the kind of movement you only notice when you know someone well. The unicorn inside the car looked confused and mildly offended, blinking too slowly and clearly trying to understand how he had ended up here, which told me everything I needed to know about how serious this already was.
She checked her watch.
Once.
Then again, a fraction faster this time.
When she finally looked up and saw me, her face softened into a smile. It was real, not the polite one she used for clients or enemies, but it was quick, like she had borrowed it from a better moment and planned to give it back.
"I heard about the breakup with Mr. and Mrs. Claus," she said, keeping her voice light even as her eyes flicked toward the building.
I laughed, bright and easy. "Yeah. Turns out they were terrible lovers and worse bosses. Who could have guessed."
"If I remember correctly, that version of them was from Jamaica," she replied. Her gaze lingered on the entrance longer than it should have. "Different cultural expectations."
"That explains a lot," I said cheerfully, because it did, and because neither of us had time to unpack it.
Her fingers came up to the face of her watch again. This time they drummed against it. Tap. Tap. Tap. Not nervous. Measured.
She stepped forward and hugged me. It was tight and fast, the kind of hug you give when you are already halfway gone. When she leaned in close, her voice dropped, careful and controlled.
"We have less friendly guests incoming."
I sighed, still smiling. "Of course we do."
She pulled back just enough to look at my face, checking for something, then nodded once as if reassured.
As she stepped away, the bells in my hair shifted, and my smile widened. I love the sound of bells.
Every one of us receives information differently. September sees patterns and probabilities, like a living ledger that updates itself the moment the world changes. Others feel pressure, heat, instinct, or dread. Me? I get bells. Soft at first, friendly even, like someone tapping me on the shoulder instead of shouting.
The bells did not ring. They tapped. Short. Short. Pause. Short. The meaning settled behind my eyes, warm and precise. Two. Only two. Watching. That was all September's power was giving her right now. The more danger it senses, the more information it releases. Careful. Reactive. A little rude.
Luckily, my powers work differently. People think I am just smart or good at making things, but that is only part of it. My gift lives in sound, in rhythm and vibration. Bells can bend focus, break intent, and turn cheer into a weapon. It is strange using something so joyful to fight, but honestly, I love that part the most.
So, I cleared out the building and waited in my sister's office, sitting on her desk and playing games on my phone. I deleted pictures of my exes while I waited. I always do that part first. I never know why I expect things to turn out differently. I go in hopeful, come out wiser, and promise myself I will laugh about it later.
I have dated gods. Old ones. Famous ones. The kind people write stories about and conveniently leave out the worst parts. Every time, it is the same pattern. Too much ego. Too many rules. Not enough care. Some couples act like being powerful excuses them from being decent. It does not.
I have met plenty of legendary pairs like that. All impressive. All exhausting.
Anyway.
Two humanoid moth-things walked into the building like they belonged there. Nonbinary, both of them, moving in perfect sync, glowing in that soft, unsettling way that always means alien. I could tell right away they were not separate in the way most people are. They were a pair, but also not. One presence split cleanly into two bodies for convenience.
Honestly, that part was kind of impressive.
They were attractive, which was unfortunate. I could not tell exactly what they were, only that they were watching everything at once, sharing thoughts faster than language. A simple hive mind. Just two. Nothing overwhelming.
I sighed, set my phone down on the desk, and slid off it to stand.
Looks like I was going to have to injure my future problems.
I watched them and waited.
They hesitated in place, wings half-spread, posture caught between confidence and instruction. It was subtle, but obvious—the kind of pause that comes from knowing the theory of what happens next without ever having lived it.
You can always tell when they're aliens.
Supernatural beings move like memory. Even the reckless ones carry history in their bodies, an instinct for consequence. Aliens don't. They arrive with protocols, rehearsed certainty, and the sweet little belief that the universe will cooperate if they phrase things correctly.
I stretched my arms over my head, slow and easy, like this was the least stressful part of my day. A few bells slipped free from my hair and chimed brightly as I moved. I caught them and let them swing from my fingers, their sound light, pleasant—almost happy.
It made the tension sharper. That was intentional.
They shifted again, mirroring each other without realizing it. One wing twitched, then folded back in, like it had just remembered fear.
I smiled.
Amateurs. Not unkindly. Just… honestly. If you're going to hurt someone, you don't get to look surprised when they're ready for you.
I let my arms fall to my sides and tilted my head, studying them like a curiosity.
"Before this gets any messier," I said cheerfully, "what the fuck did you actually come here for?"
The silence that followed was thick and awkward, like they'd reached the end of their script and discovered the next page was missing.
Finally, they spoke.
"We are here to speak with the one called September," they said, their shared voice steady even if their bodies weren't. "You will take us to her."
I leaned back against the desk, still smiling. Then I laughed. Bright. Genuinely amused.
"Speak?" I echoed. "Oh, that's adorable. You really think I'm buying that bullshit?"
I shook my head, bells chiming happily. "If you wanted to speak to my sister, you would've sent a fucking letter. Or flowers. Or an envoy with some goddamn manners. Not this—barging into my space with your wings half out like you're about to grab property off a shelf."
I pushed off the desk, grin never fading.
"You don't show up like this when you're here to talk. So don't piss on my leg and tell me it's diplomacy."
Somewhere beyond this room, the whole mess had been dreamed up by an alien king, or a queen, or a council clinging to titles they pretended still mattered. There were always a few who thought they were clever enough to skip the part where consent actually fucking mattered.
Their wings spread wider, confidence scrambling to catch up with intent. I could already see the story they thought they were in—marriage, alliance, binding. Some version where September became a solution instead of a person.
"Union," they corrected calmly. "The details vary. The outcome does not."
"Oh," I said brightly. "I figured."
I straightened and let the bells swing once in my hands, just enough for the sound to ripple through the space. It was bright. Pleasant. The kind of noise meant to calm people down.
It never did.
I wasn't a fan of this sort of shit. I understood it—politics, leverage, grand plans dressed up as destiny. I'd seen enough councils and crowns to know how these stories usually started. Everyone convinced they were being reasonable. Everyone sure they were different. Everyone pretending this was simple.
It never was.
Our family already had enough hands reaching for us. Some meant well. Some absolutely did not. Allies, parasites, worshippers, predators—half of them smiling, half of them honest about wanting blood. We navigated all of it carefully, because we had to.
But this?
This was them mistaking patience for permission.
"If you were hoping for a quiet handoff," I said lightly, still smiling, "you should've practiced the part where I don't hit the fuck back."
They lunged, and we hit the floor together hard enough to knock the air out of both of us.
Wings scraped stone as they tried to roll me, six limbs turning into leverage all at once. I caught a wrist, twisted, and slid into a tight arm drag, dragging them across my body and scrambling for top position. They bucked hard, heat flaring where our bodies collided, and I felt one wing hook around my thigh, trying to trap me. Bells rang sharp as I shifted my weight, knees wide, keeping my balance. Close. Too close. But still a fight.
They tried to pin my shoulders. I bridged hard, twisted my hips, and slipped free, snapping into a rough side control, forearm pressed across their throat while my knee pinned a wing. They hissed, half-laughing, breath hot against my ear.
"You're enjoying this."
"I enjoy winning," I said, tightening the pressure until their laughter cut short.
They surged again, heat spiking as they tried to roll me underneath. I let the motion carry us just enough to hook an arm and slide into a rear choke, forearm tight under the chin, bells chiming with every breath I controlled. Wings thrashed, claws scraping for leverage. One of their hands clawed at my wrist; another tried to peel my grip loose. Six arms. Still not enough. I squeezed, steady and patient, until their movements turned frantic.
That was when the heat flared too high—radiant, sudden, burning through my grip.
I kicked off hard and rolled away, coming up on the far side of the room with my skin humming. If July hadn't burned that tolerance into me years ago, I'd have blistered clean through. They rose too, slower now, merged and breathing hard, voice smooth as they stepped forward.
"So," they said, "are we about to fuck, or fight?"
I laughed, stance already set.
"Oh, I'll take either," I said lightly. Then my smile sharpened. "But not from you."
My body lit up in a wash of birth-light, cutting straight through the heat and freezing them mid-step. I knocked them out clean, called March to clean the room and tell September she was safe—for now—and pulled a pin from my hair to summon the bag. By the time I dragged the unconscious moth-thing toward my car, the charge had burned off, leaving only certainty.