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“No running with the swords!”

“It’s plastic, Daddy!”

“Don’t care!”

My four-year-old son, Jack, races past me wearing a miniature black cloak, a skull mask, and sneakers that light up every time his feet hit the floor.

He’s carrying a plastic scythe.

Apparently, when your father is nicknamed the Reaper, dressing up as death becomes a family tradition.

I glance down at my black T-shirt.

DEATH BEFORE DECAF.

My wife bought it.

She thinks she’s hilarious.

Speaking of my wife, Autumn stands across the drawing room wearing a short black witch’s dress, fishnet stockings, and a pointed hat.

The same costume she wore to the Halloween auction where I paid seventy-five thousand dollars for a date with her.

Best fucking investment of my life.

She’s handing out cupcakes to a group of miniature vampires, laughing as one of them tries to convince her that eating three counts as dinner.

Five years.

Five years since I stood in the gardens of Blackwood Manor wearing a black suit, watching Autumn walk toward me in a midnight-blue wedding dress.

The mansion had finally been restored. Black roses climbed the stone archway, hundreds of candles flickered beneath the trees, and every inch of the gardens bloomed with spring flowers.

I’d never been so fucking nervous.

Not even when I proposed.

I remember taking her hands and telling her the only thing that mattered.

I spent ten years thinking I was dead. Then you brought me back to life.

She cried.

I kissed her.

And Uncle Hank yelled something inappropriate about the honeymoon.

Perfect wedding, really.

Now, five years later, my beautiful wife is still wearing ridiculous costumes, still making terrible jokes, and still driving me absolutely fucking insane.

I wouldn’t change a goddamn thing.

“Daddy!”

Something slams into my leg.

I look down.