As the last echoes of laughter from Lucifer's ridiculous ghost story faded into the night, a comfortable silence settled over the group. The fire had burned low, its embers glowing like tiny orange stars fallen to earth. The sky was beginning to lighten, the inky blackness giving way to a soft, pre-dawn gray.
Reagan stretched, his joints popping audibly. "Well, folks, I think that's my cue to raid the kitchen. Who's up for some obscenely early breakfast?"
A chorus of enthusiastic agreements rose from the group. As they began to stir, shaking sand from their clothes and gathering up empty bottles, Margot's voice cut through the murmur.
"Not so fast, my little night owls," she said, a mischievous glint in her kohl-rimmed eyes. "The night isn't over until we've played one last game."
Lucifer groaned internally. Margot's ideas of 'games' tended to be either mortifyingly embarrassing or mildly illegal. Often both.
