 
# 25 Christmas Eves

Erin L. Snyder
25 CHRISTMAS EVES

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and ideas are the product of the author's imagination and any similarity to real events or people is completely coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by Erin L. Snyder

Smashwords Edition

A version of all stories originally appeared on <http://www.mainliningchristmas.com/>

Cover Art by Erin Snyder, Internal Formatting by Lindsay Stares

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission of the author, excluding brief passages embedded in reviews or other scholarly works.
Author's Note

A big thank-you to my wife and editor, Lindsay Stares. She did all the proof-reading, editing, and coding required to make this book happen.

The stories in this collection were originally published at MainliningChristmas.com. Visit the site for holiday reviews, articles, and even more fiction.

Contents

Introduction

The Christmas Thief  
In a Field Beneath the Stars  
One Night's Work  
A Ring  
He Came Down the Chimney  
Scrap  
Sleigh  
Department of Letters  
Last Minute  
25 Christmas Eves  
Heirlooms  
Mistletoe  
Milk, Cookies, Whiskey  
Slouching  
The Drive Home  
Ice on the Feathers  
Christmas Conquers the Universe  
The Sixth Stave  
The Carnival of Father Christmas  
Walter  
Wings in the Night  
Lights on the Roof  
The Perfect Gift  
One Night in Bethlehem  
Tribes of Gypsies
Introduction

Forget Halloween.

Christmas has deeper roots in genre than October 31st ever did. The solstice has been a time of myth and mystery for at least as long as the written word has been around (probably a lot longer). In the ancient world, this was a time of rebirth, when gods were born. As soon as Jesus was important enough, his birthday was shoehorned in as well. Centuries later, stories of a saint who'd taken on mythic proportions were intermingled with Nordic legend to create a figure of magic who's become a symbol for the season.

More than a hundred and fifty years ago, Charles Dickens created the second best-known holiday figure, who was subjected to a series of visitations in what's undoubtedly the most popular ghost story ever written (anyone claiming Halloween holds a monopoly on horror would do well to remember there's literally no darker time of the year than Christmas).

The last century hasn't changed anything. Following the lead of L. Frank Baum and Clement Clarke Moore, Santa Claus has become the primary focus of television specials around the holidays. He's grown into the best known fantasy character in the world, and occupies a unique position in fiction and folklore. Classics like "It's a Wonderful Life" have come to define the season. Christmas slasher flicks have become common.

I love Christmas, because I love stories. I love fairy tales and ghost stories, and there's no better time to tell them. Science Fiction lends itself to the holidays, too, even if it doesn't have the thousands of years of background like fantasy and horror (yet).

What you're holding can be best described as a genre-infused advent calendar: twenty-five stories for the twenty-five days in December leading up to the holiday. Each story is about Christmas Eve in one sense or another. Other than that, I've tried to tell a variety of different stories in a variety of traditions and genres. You'll find magical realism, horror, comedic fantasy, near-future science fiction, space opera, and plenty more.

Hope you enjoy.

I KNOW YOU'RE not going to believe any of this. And I know I should keep my mouth shut, ask for an attorney or something. I'll probably wish I had, come tomorrow. But right now... it's all I can do not to bash my head into this table. I got to tell someone what happened tonight, and, well, you're the one asking.

So, Merry Christmas. Here goes.

I got the idea for the suit off some old TV show. I couldn't tell which if I cared: it was something I saw when I was a kid, and it stuck with me. Guy dresses up like Santa, busts into a house, and cleans the place out. If a kid wakes up and sees the guy, "No worries, son. It's me, Kris Kringle. There's a light on the DVD player that doesn't work on one side." Send the brat to bed, and I'm gone before anyone's the wiser.

Yeah, it's a lousy thing to do to a family at Christmas. But I guess I'm just a lousy guy at heart. But... look. I've got a code, right? The thing I like about this is it means you're never in a position where you got to threaten a kid. Cause that's not okay. Yeah, I've swiped some stuff. But I figure, the houses I'm hitting, they can swallow the loss. And I've never hurt anyone doing this, not really.

I've... look. I know you don't care about why I do this stuff. All you want to know is what happened tonight. I know what you think I am, but... you're wrong. I didn't hurt that kid. I didn't even... look. I don't know if he's ever going to be able to talk about this. But if you just show him my picture or something, I don't think he'll freak out. I know how this sounds. Seriously, I do. But it's the truth: I saved that kid's life tonight.

All right. I know you don't buy a word of it. But this next part's easier to swallow. I broke into that house on Rocky Brook to swipe some electronics. You could tell at a glance those people have money. Hell, look at the cars in the driveway. You could see they celebrated. I mean, that whole street's decked out with lights, but they had that sleigh on the roof and the candy canes along the walkway. No sign of a dog, either, so I'm thinking, perfect place to hit up, right? I come by about one in the morning and get to work.

The alarm's a joke, but then most are. And get this - they didn't even lock the back door. I spent a solid minute trying to pick it before I just turned the handle. No one thinks anything bad can happen on Christmas Eve. Jesus. It almost seems funny now. Nothing bad.

Anyway, once I'm in, I have a look around. Last thing you want is to get blindsided by someone tripping over you while you're working. Good way to get yourself killed.

At first I don't see anyone. I certainly don't hear a soul.

Hell, I'm already in the living room when I see her. Scares me half to death! This woman, lying on the couch, completely still. I've seen a lot of people passed out, but this... this is something else. First thing crosses my mind, I've stumbled across a stiff. Then I realize she's breathing. But real soft. So, I'm thinking she's stoned or something. I mean, rich folks are into that stuff, too. Right about now, I'm thinking I got it made. I mean, even if she does wake up, she's not going to call you guys if she's a coke head or something.

I head right over to the blue-ray player and get to work. A few seconds later, that's in my sack. Next, I grab an iPad and a laptop out of the study. There's a purse in the dining room, so I grab that, along with some candlesticks that look like they might be worth something. I'm just about ready to bounce, when I hear a noise by the back door.

I go for the one hiding place I think I can reach: the closet. I slip in between some coats as fast as I can. I don't have time to close the door. By the time I'm in, I can hear that whatever's here is in the room.

It's a hard one to call. If the light goes on, I know I'm busted. I mean, maybe I can fight my way out, but that's my only option. If they leave the light off, I should be fine, long as they don't look too close or try to hang up their coat.

I hear the footsteps before I hear the voice. I'll tell you about the footsteps first. At first I thought they were dancing shoes or something. They hit the floor like a hammer. And they hit the floor... wrong, I guess you could say. They remind me of something, but I can't place it, not just yet.

Then the voice. The accent is, I don't know, English or something. It's loud, though, and clear. "Yes, the wine seems to have done the job again. Do thank the herbalist for me. The woman's downstairs; she should be out for hours. I haven't seen the father yet. Yes, of course." He keeps talking as he passes in front of the closet.

What I see... I don't even know how to explain it. It isn't... He's not....

No. I'm sorry. I said I'd tell the story, so I'll tell it. I'm not going to BS you or say I didn't get a good enough look or anything. I'm not going to say I don't know what I saw, because I damn well know exactly what I saw walking by the door of the closet.

It was a demon.

I knew from the first second it passed by that door. It wasn't a guy in a suit, either. It's a demon, all covered in fur with these two horns sticking up out of its head. Like goat horns, you know? And it walks on hooves. Its legs didn't bend like a person's: it's all wrong. All different.

It's an actual demon. And it's talking on a cell phone.

"I imagine the boy's in his room. Yes, I'll go to the cabin to conduct my work, as planned." He's past the closet in an instant, but I can hear him as he starts up the stairs. "Then off to Indiana, I believe. Yes, a long night indeed. But it's only once a year. Of course I'll call if I run into any trouble, but how often does that happen? Thank you again." He doesn't say anything after that, but I can hear him continue up. The stairs run right over the closet, so I can hear those hooves strike each step.

I consider running when he reaches the top, but I can't find the courage. I'm thinking he'd hear me for sure. And I can't escape the idea he'd catch me somehow. Or that I'd reach my car, get inside, look in the rear view mirror, and... yeah. I know. A lifetime of horror movies, right?

So, I'm hiding in the closet, panicking, biting down on my arm so I won't scream, and then, upstairs, I hear this scream. It's a child, and it's only for a second. Then there are more noises, like a short struggle. I'm sitting there in the closet, dressed as Saint Nick, trying to stay still, while the damned Devil's probably murdering some kid upstairs.

Then I hear those hooves again, but this time they sound heavier, pounding against those steps. When the thing passes in front of the closet again, I can see it's carrying a sack. And the sack is moving, struggling. But it don't seem to bother him none. He just carries on, taking his time.

I don't move an inch for five minutes. But then I remember where I am and what's going to happen if I stay put. So I lean out, make sure the coast is clear, and head out the way I came. When I reach the back door, I open it with my sleeve, because I can't stand the thought of touching it after... after... he touched it.

Then I step outside.

I had every intention of going home. But then... I don't know. I honestly can't say what makes me stop. Maybe it's knowing I'm that kid's only hope. Maybe I'm just more scared if I do nothing and that kid did show up dead, you guys would find me. I mean, I know you guys have ways of doing that. Finding arm hairs or something. I don't know. Fibers from my suit. I mean, no one really cares about some electronics, but a rich white kid goes missing, you're not just going to let that go. You're going call up the CSI guys. Yeah, too much TV. I know.

I don't know what it is. Honestly, I thought a lot of thoughts standing there in the snow staring at that thing's footprints heading off into the woods. I'm not trying to sound like I got all heroic. Maybe it was just too much to walk away from, like it would be worse living my entire life wondering than it would be to just follow those footprints.

I don't know why I go after him, but I do. The trail's pretty easy to follow, even in the dark. I mean, those prints don't look like anything else. They're like horse prints, I guess. What I imagine horse prints look like, anyway. But laid out like a person's. Just one foot behind the other in a straight line.

Somewhere along the way I drop my own sack containing the take, and I lose the stupid fake beard. I'm guessing you guys have found those by now and have them in evidence or something. Anyway, I had no idea how far I'd have to go. Hell, I half expected to follow those tracks forever or freeze out there. But then, all of a sudden, I find I'm standing in front of a cabin. The tracks lead right up to the front door. But then there's another line going back and forth to a car parked in front. The windows of the car are tinted, so you can't see inside at all.

I sneak over to the cabin and peak in a window. I don't know what I'm expecting to see: maybe something out of a horror movie or Dante or something. But there's nothing like that. It's just a cabin, like a hunting lodge or something. The light's on, and there are trophies of bucks, deer, that kind of thing, all around. It's got a fireplace, TV, radio, everything you'd expect. It's just normal.

The sack's on the table. It's tied shut and moving. Nearby, there are whips, knives, and a dozen other things I don't want to think about. The demon, he's just pacing around, talking into his cell phone again. He starts towards the door, so I dart around the corner, praying he doesn't notice my footprints.

As soon as he clears the door, I can hear him again.

"--Most disappointed in this oversight. You promised me the gas would be functional. I understand perfectly well what you believed, but I hope you can appreciate that has little bearing on our arrangement. Yes, I know precisely what night this is. Yes. Yes, I see. Yes, I think thirty-percent would constitute a reasonable accommodation for this inconvenience."

By now, he's too far for me to hear. I figure this is my only chance, so I run around to the back and try the handle. Much to my relief, it's unlocked. I move in as quickly as I dare and run to the table.

I grab a knife from the other side of the table. It's old and rusty, with a dark layer of dried blood staining the blade and handle. I try not to think too hard on what that means, and I cut the ropes. Then I pull the sack open. The kid inside... I've never seen anyone as scared as this kid is. As soon as the sack's open, I can smell that he's soiled himself. Hell, I don't blame him for a minute: if it had been me in there, I'd have shit my pants, too. His eyes are closed, and he's flailing. His arms and legs are bound, and he's gagged. All the knots are professional, too.

"Shh!" I say. "It's not... look, kid. I'm here to rescue you."

His eyes open, and he sees me. He stops fighting me, but this kid isn't any less afraid. If anything, I think he's more terrified.

"I'm going to cut your legs free," I say, already starting on the ropes. It only takes me a second. I help the kid stand. "This way," I say, grabbing his arms, which are still tied.

We hurry to the back door and run out. Behind us, through the open door, I hear a howl of rage and fury that's right out of some old monster movie. We keep running.

I'm not thinking now: neither of us are. We're tearing through the woods, just trying to get farther and farther away, all the while wondering if that thing is just getting closer.

Eventually, the kid trips, and I stop to help him up. I also cut his arms free, and he pulls off his gag. He looks like he's half frozen to death, so I hand him my Santa coat. We look around, and can't see or hear anything. I don't think we relax much, but we take our bearings and change direction. The kid takes over and leads us back towards his house. We don't say a word to each other. Eventually, we meet up with my footprints, which makes it easier.

We're so close we can see the lights in the house up ahead. We're almost there. But then we realize we're not alone.

"Good evening," the voice says. The kid gasps and freezes up. He grabs me, clutching as if I can offer some sort of safety. I hold up the knife, unsure if I should try to fight or just try to kill myself.

The creature steps closer. We can see each other in the moonlight now. He's far worse like this: his eyes practically light up like a wolf's, and up close I can see his teeth. There are so many, all of them small and needle-sharp. His tongue's long and flickers over them like a snake's. He looks me over and then he laughs. Jesus Christ, that laugh. You ever heard a hyena laugh? That's as good a description as I can give. It doesn't do it justice, but... it's like that. It makes me feel cold in a way the night and snow couldn't. I don't know how to explain it, but it's like I'm dead and buried in the ground. All that, just from hearing him laugh.

"Santa Claus! How wonderfully appropriate!" He sighs when he's finished laughing. "I know you're not a sibling, because Earl has no brothers or sisters. And there were no relatives in town, nor were any friends expected. Just a quiet night alone for the parents to share a bottle of wine while their darling boy dreamt of Christmas morning. Our research was impeccable." He scratched his scalp at the base of one of his horns. "There was no DVD player in the living room, was there? I noticed, but dismissed it. You were, where? The attic? One of the closets?"

I don't say anything. I just hold that knife up and try not to shake.

"Oh well. I really have been growing careless. But there's little point dwelling on past mistakes. I am running late. So then, moving forward. We've established what you are, Mr. Thief. Do you know who I am?"

"I... I know who you are. You're the devil."

"The devil? The devil has more important things to do on Christmas Eve than trade words with a burglar. There was a time when the name Krampus had some resonance, you know. Now, I'm barely a footnote in academic discourse. Regardless, I assure you I am not someone you can fend off with that utensil." He points at the knife with a sharpened fingernail.

"I'll try if I have to," I say, trying to sound intimidating. But I don't question his words for an instant.

"So then, how to proceed? We shall either need to come to some equitable arrangement or finish this barbarously. I suspect the former would be preferable to you. So, I propose this offer. Relinquish your rights to the child and leave. In exchange, I shall not cause you injury or harm in this life. Is that acceptable?"

I know if I give him the kid, anything he does will be pinned on me, but I'd be lying if I say I didn't consider it.

He sees me hesitate, so he goes on. "If it helps, the child you're protecting is far from the angel you've imagined. He has found his way onto a most exclusive of lists, from which my itinerary is crafted."

There's something familiar about how he's talking. I don't know if it makes him less scary, but it makes me think I have a chance. So I say something to him I didn't say to you: I blurt out, "I want a lawyer."

He laughs again. It's no less disorienting the second time, and it doesn't help that it goes on longer than before. "Mr. Thief. We don't use lawyers from where I'm from. I know, seems a pity, given how plentiful they are. No lawyers, I'm afraid, but we do have laws. Often we follow them; sometimes we don't. How much pleasure does it give you then, for me to inform you that our law is on your side in this situation?" He grins at me, and I can't speak. His laugh is nothing to that grin. "But, then, it is Christmas. And I do respect a thief more than most. Besides, you've given me a laugh and that alone may be worth the lives of a couple sinners. Especially since I've lost too much time to really enjoy myself, anyway. I'm needed elsewhere before the sun rises."

He comes towards me, and I just stand there. Soon, he's just a few feet away.

"There is one thing, though. That knife has some special significance to me. It has been in my collection for a very, very long time. I need to ask it be returned."

Part of me thinks if I hand it over, he'll turn around and gut me. But looking in his eyes... I know he wouldn't need the knife. So I turn it around and hand it over, handle first, like he asked.

He grabs it with one hand, then catches my wrist with the other. He's so fast and so strong, more so than I'd expected, and I expected a lot. I try to pull free, but it's like I'm pulling against a truck.

He's smiling again, and I brace myself for the end. But instead he lowers the knife and shakes my hand. "I meant what I said before, Mr. Thief. You've done our craft proud this evening, and that has merit in my eyes. So do take care. I wish you the best. And do have yourself a Merry Christmas."

By then, the kid is long gone. I just wander back the rest of the way in a daze. When I get there, when I see you guys and your flashing lights, and you shout for me to give myself up... you know, I'm grateful. No matter what else it means, at least I'm not alone. I don't think I could have taken much more of that.

I know you think I'm crazy. But if you can get that kid to talk, if you can ask him if I took him from his bed, I think he'll do right by me. And if you look behind the house, you'll find some tracks. Mine and others that'll look like an animal's. Follow those, and you'll find a cabin. Look into it. Who rented it. See where the trail stops. Because I promise you, it will stop cold.

And it's not just here. All over the country - probably all over the world - if you look hard enough, you'll find other cases. The way he spoke, it was just a routine.

I get how this sounds. And I don't really care if you believe me. I don't care if you let me go tomorrow or if I spend my life in jail for something I didn't do.

Right now, I'm just grateful I get to see Christmas morning. Even if it is from behind bars.

THE HIGHWAY WAS almost empty and dark clouds stretched out in every direction. There were small patches of grayish snow along the road. Every now and then, Tina's car would make a clunking sound, but she'd been assured by the mechanic it wouldn't give them any trouble.

Susan was sitting in the passenger seat, just staring through the windshield. She was wearing headphones, but her CD player was almost out of batteries. She could hear the sound wavering, dying. Dead. She pulled them off her head and eyed the radio.

"How you holding up?" Tina asked from behind the wheel. She'd interpreted her sister's action as a sign she wanted to talk.

"Huh? Oh, fine." She lied with all the subtlety a fourteen year-old girl was capable of.

"I'm not in love with this situation, either. But this is the way it is, so we might as well make the best of it."

Susan sighed audibly and turned to look out her side window. Trees and marshes drifted by. She wished her parents could have been there, even though she'd just be fighting with them, too. She wouldn't have been any less angry, but she'd have felt better.

"Did you bring anything to eat?" Susan asked.

"Besides the cooler that's right beside you?"

"Yeah, besides the stupid apples."

Now it was Tina's turn to sigh. "I think there's some candy in the glove compartment."

"Mom usually brings sandwiches," Susan said. The family was supposed to be doing this together, but her parents had gone on a trip to visit her grandmother. Their flight back had been cancelled due to a storm. The airline could have rescheduled them for yesterday, but they couldn't risk traveling this close, so they decided to wait until the twenty eighth. That meant she got to spend Christmas alone with her sister and a cooler full of apples.

"Look. I need gas, anyway. I'll pull off at the next stop, and we can see if they have a McDonalds or something."

"I hate fast food," Susan said.

"Well then eat a damn apple!" her sister snapped back. Neither spoke for a few minutes after that. Finally, Tina said, "Look. I'm sorry about that. It's just... I'm under a lot of stress, too. This isn't exactly the way I want to spend Christmas Eve, either. Most of the time, I'm used to it, but this just sucks."

"It always sucks," Susan said. "I hate having to wake up like that. God, imagine if anyone ever saw us."

"That's why we have to go into the woods," Tina said. "To make sure no one ever does see us."

"Yeah," Susan rolled her eyes. "I'm not a little kid anymore. I get it. It just totally sucks. And it sucks even more that we have to spend Christmas Eve in a field or something."

"It's not so bad," Tina said. "I mean, it's kind of nice, you know? Under the stars, like the first Christmas."

"What stars?" Susan asked. "All I see are clouds. And you know that stuff about the first Christmas is a crock, right?"

"Well then. If it snows, at least you'll get a white Christmas."

"Not quite as comforting when I'm out in it." Tina started to laugh. So did Susan. "I'm sorry," Susan said. "I'm just pissed about all this."

"I get it," Tina said. "It doesn't get easier. But this is the last time it falls on Christmas Eve for something like twenty years."

"Yeah, well, I just wish we could spend it at home."

"Hell with that. I'd rather spend tonight at a party. But... I can't imagine that would go well."

Susan laughed. "Hey. There's a gas station!"

Tina put on her signal even though there was no one else on the road and pulled in. She filled up the car while Susan ran in to look around. Beside the clerk, there was one other person in the store, a man in his forties who kept staring at Susan.

She stayed as far away from him as she could, grabbed a soda and a handful of sandwiches wrapped in plastic, paid for the gas and food with a twenty her sister had given her, and ran back to the car. She climbed back into the passenger seat and handed her sister the change.

"This it?" her sister asked. "How much food did you get?"

"I bought five sandwiches."

Tina laughed. "How hungry are you?"

Susan hit her sister in the arm. "Shut up. I... look there was this creepy guy in there. I was uncomfortable. Besides, this way we won't have to stop anywhere tomorrow morning. We can just go home."

"Take it easy. I was just teasing," Tina said, starting the car. She pulled back on the highway. Behind her, another car pulled out of the gas station.

Susan took one of the sandwiches out of the bag and offered it to her sister. "Tuna?"

"Did you grab any roast beef?" Tina asked.

"No. I don't think they had any."

"Tuna's fine then. Could you unwrap it for me?" She took the sandwich from Susan once the plastic was off and tried to eat it as cleanly as she could.

Susan took out a turkey sandwich and took a bite. "Ugh," she said, grimacing. "This is awful."

"What'd you expect from a gas station?" Tina asked.

Susan alternated between bites and sips of soda to help the food down. "Not much of a Christmas Eve dinner, is it?"

"I guess not," Tina admitted. "Hey, you want to turn on the radio?"

Susan turned the dial, but all she found was Christmas music. "Wish you had a CD player in here," she said.

"What's wrong with yours?" Tina asked.

"Battery's dead. I meant to get more at the gas station, but I totally forgot."

"Sorry. I don't know when there's another one."

"Whatever," Susan said.

A few more minutes of relative silence followed, save the music. Droplets of water were appearing against the windshield, but they were far too small to make a sound. Eventually Tina turned on the wipers, which dragged against the glass.

"How's school going?" Tina asked.

"Huh? Oh. Fine, I guess. I've got Kirkmire for Algebra."

"Really? I took a class with him when I was in high school."

"Yeah. I know. He asks about you every other day."

Tina laughed. "I'm sorry. That can't be fun. What do you tell him?"

"I just say you're doing fine. I tried telling him I don't know once, but he just asked again the next day."

"Well, I am doing fine," Tina said. "College is so much better than high school. I just wish I could live on campus. But... you know how it is."

"How are things with... uh... what's-his-name?"

"His name is Trevor," Tina said. "And I think things are going really well. He invited me out tonight, but... yeah."

"Yeah," Susan agreed.

"You know how it is," Tina echoed herself. "It's so hard sometimes. I hate keeping this from him. And I really don't know how he'd react."

"You could just... you know... bring him sometime. I mean, eventually you'll want to--"

"Whoa there. I said things were going well, but I'm not sure of anything. You know what mom always says, right? You bite 'em, you buy 'em. I like Trevor, and I think he really likes me. But you've got to be sure about these things."

"I was mostly kidding," Susan replied. "But, for what it's worth, I think he's cool. He's the one with the blond hair, right?"

"No! He's got--" Tina briefly looked over at her sister, realized she was joking, and both girls started laughing together.

By the time they pulled off the highway, it was late afternoon. They took a series of small roads for another hour.

"Crap," Tina said, checking in her rearview mirror. "There's a car behind us."

"So? There's nothing out here. They must be driving through, right?"

"I guess," Tina said. "I just... I don't really want anyone for a hundred miles. I know that's not realistic, but it freaks me out having someone this close. World's getting way too crowded for us."

She continued down back roads and side streets. Every now and then they'd catch a glimpse of the car when they came to a long stretch of road. "Christ," Susan said, "Is he following us or something?"

Tina looked at the clock then up at the sky. "Hope not. We're almost there."

"We've still got at least an hour, don't we?"

"Sure. But I don't want to risk it."

The car wasn't in view when they turned off onto the dirt road, and it didn't materialize as they drove down. Tina finally relaxed. "We should be good out here. Old logging roads; no one comes here in the winter. Hell of a lot easier than in June, right?"

They stopped beside an open field, climbed out, and stretched. Tina opened the trunk and pulled out the blankets. She handed one to her sister. Then she began removing her clothes. Eventually, she was naked save for her socks, which she left on. She pulled her blanket close around her, folded her clothes, and set them on the back seat of the car, along with the keys and her shoes.

Susan removed her clothing, as well. Soon, both girls were shivering, clutching their blankets close.

"You remember an extra pair of socks this time?" Tina asked.

Susan looked up, suddenly concerned. She looked at her feet and began weighing her options.

"Relax, kid," Tina said. "I brought enough for us both tomorrow."

"Thanks," Susan said. "I almost wish it would happen sooner. I'm freezing."

"I know," Tina said. "I'm cold, too."

Susan heard it first, and she immediately stopped breathing. Tina saw her sister freeze and listened. Now she heard it, too: the distant sound of an engine. "We've got to get to the woods," Tina said.

"We'll never get far enough," Susan pointed out. "Shouldn't we try to scare him off or something?"

"Who's going to be afraid of a couple naked girls in the woods? Besides, he could be a hunter."

That shut Susan up, and both girls ran to the tree line. It was almost dark now, so there was no way whoever it was would be able to see them.

The car pulled up beside theirs, and the occupant climbed out and peered into their windows. He turned and looked out at the field. Then he took a few steps and began studying the ground.

"Wait," Susan whispered. "I recognize him. He's the guy at the gas station. The creepy one who wouldn't stop looking at me. What's he doing here? Did he... did he follow us?"

Tina studied him. "Quiet," she whispered.

The man walked back to his car, opened his trunk, and removed something long, metal, and sharp. He tested the blade with his finger and started back toward the field.

"He's one of them, isn't he?" Susan whispered.

"Quiet!" Tina snapped. She began sniffing the air. Overhead the clouds began to clear up.

"I don't... I don't smell it," Susan said.

"Me either," Tina replied. She could smell the man across the field. She could of course smell the lingering odor of gas from his car, as she could smell the rubber from his tires, his cologne, the dried blood on his machete, and even the change in his pockets. But not so much as an ounce of silver in the mix.

"You mean..."

"I think he's just a serial killer or something." Tina started laughing. Loudly and without control. Both girls did.

The man in the field heard them and started walking towards the sound. He was halfway through the field, and the girls were still laughing at him.

But by then the sun had set. And by then the full moon had started to rise. By then the sound he heard was no longer laughter, and the girls were no longer girls.

By then he'd stopped moving forward, because he could see their silhouettes rising against the treeline. He turned and started to run. But he was nowhere near fast enough.

YOU COULD SEE it in the men's faces even if you couldn't feel it: they were getting older. There were few of us, fewer every time you'd look around. The English colonies pinched us from the south and the Americans' navy pressed us in the north. Their ships were getting faster and their captains smarter. The days of the pirate were waning, and we were dying. The era of legends was a hundred years gone, and we felt dwarfed by their shadows. Against the tales of Black Bart or Morgan, how could we see ourselves but as common thieves?

I was the youngest man on the Red Gull, and I'd been at sea more than a decade. I'd sailed with Laffite before I landed on the Gull, and I knew as well as any of the others that our days had all but passed. I think we all knew it, and all but one accepted it.

Say what you will about Captain Tom, but he was a man with pride. The old sailors used to say he'd killed a hundred men to earn his hat, and maybe it was so. I don't think he liked it, though, not the way some of the men did. The killing was part of piracy, so he did it, but it was always the dream that drove him. The dream of reaching the heights of his idols, of being a legend himself.

It was early in the morning on the 24th of December I entered his quarters to bring him his breakfast. He was seated, reading a few pages we'd taken off a schooner the month before. It was a poem, by the look of it, and was titled, "A Visit from St. Nicholas."

"Captain," I said, setting his food on a side table. "Ship's off the coast of San Domingo."

"Good," he said, not once looking up. "Tell Kips to take us close and keep an eye out for an isolated farm. I'll be taking some men ashore."

"Aye, sir. We could use some tobacco."

"Not today," the captain said thoughtfully. "Today, we take prisoners. Everything else comes tonight."

I didn't understand then, but I related his message as told. It didn't take long to find such a farm, and the captain came out to take a look through his glass. He examined it carefully then chose nine men to accompany him in the cutter.

"While we're gone, there's something I'd like built." He took out a piece of paper and showed it to us. "We've wood in the storeroom. Use what you need, but make it look nice."

I was glad to be staying: we'd generally maintained good relations with the farmers along San Domingo, and I had little interest in being present when that course changed. I had no illusions about the nobility of my profession, and I'd done all manner of things unsavory in my years, but even a bad man likes to live by a code when he can afford such luxury.

We finished at about the time the captain returned. He'd lost a man in the fight, but he got what he'd gone for. I was surprised at what that was, though. I'd expected him to come back with women in tow: he'd brought two children with him instead.

They were crying, of course, while the captain had them hauled up. Once they were aboard, though, he ordered they not be harmed. But it did little to improve their spirits: they'd lost their father when the captain took them.

We set sail at once, but didn't go so far as I'd expected. We found an empty inlet and weighed anchor. It was early evening now, and the captain turned to the kids. For his part, he did his best to soothe them. He gave them the best of our food, along with candy and rum. He set the children up in his own quarters, and set up the contraption he'd ordered us to build on the deck above it.

Then he joined us on deck. "I know you've questions," he said. "And I'm going to answer them. But first, there's something you need to hear, something I've been reading as of late." He took out the papers from his coat and began reading that same poem I'd seen him with earlier. When he finished, he said, "I know times have been hard. I know money's been low. But that all changes tonight. Because tonight we're going to take something greater than any pirate's taken before us - we're going to take Saint Nicholas's sleigh, deer, and sack of toys!"

None of us knew what to say. We just stood there, staring at him in disbelief. Finally, the captain began speaking again.

"We've taken the kids, so he'll be drawn here. And we'll trap him in this chimney you've built. The way I figure, if he's enough toys on his sleigh for all the world, it'll set each of us for life. The sleigh, too: it's got to be worth a fortune."

"If it's real," someone said.

The captain considered this. "Do this for me. Wait tonight and fight if he comes. If I'm wrong, I'll resign my post. Can you do this for me, men? One night's work's all I'm asking."

We looked at each other and shrugged. "We're with you, Captain," I said reluctantly.

We took to hiding after that, and we bided our time. I don't know how many of the men believed in this Saint Nicholas or thought he'd show. When the captain wasn't around, one of the men took bets, but I waved him off. I wasn't sure myself, but I've seen stranger things at sea than flying sleighs. I've seen serpents as long as ships and turtles the size of islands. I think I saw a mermaid once, but I'd been drunk at the time so there's no telling.

I heard a few mutter he wouldn't know there were children aboard, but somehow I thought he would, assuming he was real in the first place. By the time midnight rolled around, I was less optimistic. The captain, for his part, seemed upbeat. He kept making the rounds when he wasn't staring off into the night. "He'll be here," he said, softly. "He'll come." The night drifted on, though, and by two I think even the captain was starting to doubt. He kept up the front, but there was a desperation about him now as he paced through the ship.

But he needn't have worried. It was almost dawn when we spotted the dot in the sky. It was moving fast at us, and we were about to leap when the captain signaled for us to wait. So wait we did, while the object grew larger. It was as the stories: a sleigh drawn by eight deer. And the rider was a round man dressed in brown fur holding a whip. Behind him, sat a sack, larger than any I'd ever seen. Much to our distress, he didn't head for the fake chimney, but rather the port side of the ship.

The captain drew his pistol, and we all held our cutlasses ready. No one moved until the sleigh stopped alongside the ship, almost touching the rail. The round man started to board, pulling his sack behind, until it teetered between the two vessels. Then the captain stepped out, pistol aimed at the round man's back.

"I'll have that bag, Sir," he said.

The round man turned his head and smiled. "Tom, is it? I'd be happy to share the contents of this sack with you and your crew." Then he pulled on the sack, so it turned over and opened.

It wasn't toys or treasure that spilt out, but small men, each no higher than my waist and armed with a dagger and tiny pistol. They fired a volley before we could react, and a fourth of our men fell to the deck then and there.

The captain took his shot, but the round man, Saint Nicholas, was faster, dodging to the side before the gun fired. The rest of us did our duty. We charged, cutlasses raised, to avenge our comrades and claim our prize. We thought these little people - these elves - would be easy prey on account of their size, but we were sorely mistaken.

I've never seen anything so quick. They fought like demons, dodging our thrusts with ease and closing in. They went for the knees and ankles first, then for the throats when our men fell. And they always seemed to find their mark. We realized we were fighting for our lives, and an instant later we were fighting for nothing at all. It was futile; the elves were swarming over the ship, spilling red as they darted around. Those of us left lost all hope and gathered together around the chimney, hoping to hold off the inevitable.

But there was one who didn't give up, not just yet. The captain fought on, and he charged at their leader, at Nicholas, who met him. The captain swung his cutlass and met only air. Nicholas jumped back, and his whip lashed out, flaying the captain's cheek. The captain slashed, once again hitting nothing, and Nicholas's whip cut a gash in his coat and his arm in response.

I ran toward them, hoping to help, but didn't reach in time. The captain charged Nicholas, who dodged once more, then with a flick of his wrist, tangled his whip around the captain's legs. The captain fell forward, grabbing the side of Nicholas's sleigh, that prize he'd sought. The sleigh began to rise then, with the captain dangling from the side, feet still tangled.

I froze, staring at the scene. The captain was trying to pull himself up, but Nicholas's whip was pulled taut, pulling him at an angle. He was no longer over the ship as the reindeer pulled away.

"Tom," Nicholas called out, "You finally got my sleigh, and you don't seem able to keep hold of it!"

"Please!" I said. "Call it back! Let him on the deck!"

Nicholas turned to me. "Children were taken. Their father's blood shed. On Christmas Eve. That needs to be answered for." He tugged the whip, and the captain lost his grip. He dropped, still held by the whip, which let him fall like a stone on the end of a rope to the edge of the ship, before swinging him into the outer hull with a heavy thud. Nicholas shook the whip, and I heard the captain hit the water.

Nicholas just retrieved his whip while I ran to the edge to look over. I could see the captain floating below. For a moment, I considered jumping in after him, but I knew it would do no good.

The elves finished their bloody work, and I slumped to the deck, waiting my turn. But mine never came. They threw the bodies of my shipmates over then retrieved the children, showering them with gifts. Then they all boarded the sleigh, children too, and drifted away, leaving me alone.

They didn't say why they let me live.

I couldn't sail the Red Gull alone, so I abandoned it, taking a longboat to the shore before the navy found it. I took what I could carry of the ship's treasure, which was enough to get by a few years. I lost most of it gambling, of course, but that's always been my weakness. These days I get on as best I can, taking odd jobs and trading stories of the old days for those who'll listen. Everyone wants to hear stories about pirating, now that the era is truly gone, and most folks will buy you a drink for the privilege.

That story - the last story - I always hold for Christmas Eve, and I don't care whether you believe a word of it. Captain Tom came close to something grand, something bigger and better than Morgan ever got his hands on. And he should be remembered for it. And truth be told, some days I think Saint Nicholas thought so, too, and maybe that's the reason he left me alive. One final Christmas gift to Captain Tom.

EVEN BEFORE HE lays a finger on the small, wrapped box, Charles Windmire knows precisely how it will feel. He is surprised by this, at least in part. He'd expected a sense of nostalgia, being here, being _now_ , but this transcends that. He knows the texture of the gold paper and the way the soft fabric beneath it will give the tiniest bit when he squeezes it. He knows the how firm the gift tag is, just as he knows what's printed on it.

"To my dearest Lin, in celebration of our first Christmas together... and to all the others that follow."

The irony is not lost on Charles as he lifts the box from its spot beneath the tree. And looks at it. All, just as he remembers. It isn't happening once, but many times. He feels dizzy and sits down.

It is an effect of the journey, he suspects. He needs to regain his bearings. Catch himself. He doesn't dare speak aloud, because there's nothing that scares him as much as the idea he might wake the people sleeping upstairs. Not even getting caught at the lab terrifies him so much.

The lab. They would fire him at the very least. Would Dr. Veirdin do something more? The doctor had once alluded to the possibility. "If I ever found someone using my machine.... I... I sometimes wonder. I wonder if I ever did. Because, if anyone ever used it without permission, I could make sure they never had."

In the early days of the experiment, Veirdin had once came in while Charles and Trevor were joking about the possibility of going back in time and killing Hitler. To their surprise, Veirdin hadn't scolded them on the dangers of changing past; rather he simply asked, "Why kill? Find their birthday. Find their mother's name. Go back nine months before and give her a flu or a cold. It would be enough. The man wouldn't be born. A different man might be, but not the same."

He'd seemed so clinical about the way he'd said it. Charles had always wondered if Veirdin had ever done such a thing. But then, perhaps Veirden wondered the same. When the past is altered, the future is replaced, as well: for all intents and purposes, as soon as the action was done, the act itself would be replaced, as would the actor.

Charles was counting on this. When he was finished here, everything from this night onward would change. Veirden would never catch him, because he'd never sneak in to use the time machine without permission. He'd lose the last three years; nothing would please him more.

It is December 24, 2009, the night before the biggest mistake in Charles's life. A mistake he's holding in his hand right now.

Linda: the greatest thing that had ever happened to him. The greatest woman he'd ever known. They'd fallen in love madly over a summer in grad school. They'd moved in together soon after. And then, in a childish attempt to keep her forever, he'd chased her away.

An engagement ring. After less than a year, he'd asked her to marry him on Christmas. What had he been thinking? She was a free spirit; she loved him, but she wasn't ready for that kind of commitment.

She said "yes" when he asked, of course. Briefly, it had all seemed so perfect. But almost immediately, the second thoughts had started, followed by bickering and endless fighting. She'd returned the ring when she moved out that spring, and by then Charles was almost relieved.

But as time moved forward, it became more and more clear what he'd lost. He met other women, had flings and short relationships, but they all seemed so pointless. With Lin, he'd felt so much more alive, so much happier.

Until it all fell apart because he'd been young, because he hadn't understood her. He never dreamed he might be able to correct that mistake. Even when he'd started working for Veirdin, he never actually thought the research would lead anywhere.

But it had. A real, working portal through time. A chance to fix a mistake that had destroyed his life.

Charles had been sentimental but also skittish. If things had gone wrong, he'd have tried to cover it up and move on. If, say, the ring had disappeared, he wouldn't have asked Lin. He'd have given her the rest of her gifts and pretended everything was as it should be.

And that was precisely how he was going to ensure it had been. Charles stood up slowly, still dizzy and confused. He'd given this next part a lot of thought. He couldn't take the ring with him, because he wouldn't be going anywhere: when his job was done, he should just disappear, replaced in a future in which he'd never travel back to this instant.

He had to hide the ring someplace he wouldn't look for months, but preferably somewhere he'd find it eventually, when he was thinking a little more clearly. Then, when the time was right - when Lin was ready - he'd know to ask.

He'd spent days considering his options before he settled on the fireplace. He'd never once used it, so the ring wouldn't be in any danger. In addition, he'd never think to look there. But he cleaned it every spring, like clockwork.

There is a brick missing from the inside. He reaches up and locates the spot, which is completely hidden by the wall, and he sets the box on the ledge.

A sense of nausea overtakes him. It's strange, like he is remembering something as it happens. His head is numb, but there is no pain. "This is it," he thinks, "the moment where my mistake and all that comes after it ceases to be." It should be a frightening thought, but Charles finds it comforting. It is a chance no one has ever had before; the chance to start over.

He'll disappear, leaving the younger version of himself free to follow his life the way it should have gone, the way it was meant to go.

Just as soon as he corrects the bizarre event that destroyed his life.

Years before, he'd intended to ask Lin to marry him. Linda, the only woman who'd ever mattered to him. He'd bought an engagement ring for her - a perfect ring for the perfect woman - and he'd wrapped it and hid it beneath the tree.

But on Christmas Day, it was gone. Vanished. He pretended nothing was wrong, but as soon as he was alone he tore the house upside down looking for it. He checked everywhere it could possibly be, but with no success.

It was months before he found it tucked inside his fireplace. How it had gotten there remained a mystery, albeit a trivial one: by then, it was too late. Their relationship had already fallen apart.

In his heart, Charles knows that if he'd only proposed to Lin, they'd have gotten married. Sure, their relationship would still have faced difficulties, but they'd have gotten through.

When he found himself working for a scientist who'd developed a machine capable of sending someone to the past, he saw an opportunity. He traveled back to this night, Christmas Eve 2009, to correct whatever strange twist of fate had hidden the ring.

He reaches into the fireplace and locates the box, just where he'd come across it cleaning. Stranger still, even after so long, he knows how the box will feel to the touch. It's as if... as if.... It doesn't matter. Some after-effect of time travel, perhaps. In a few moments, he knows he'll cease to be. No thought could please him more.

He's dizzy as he takes the small package over to the Christmas tree and returns it to its rightful place. In the morning, he'll give it to Lin as ask her to be his wife. His life will....

Dizzy. So dizzy. Charles shakes his head. He knows he's about to vanish. He'll be gone, along with the cursed events of the past few years. It will happen in a moment.

Just as soon as he corrects the biggest mistake of his life. He looks down beneath the tree. Even before he lays a finger on the small, wrapped box, Charles Windmire knows precisely how it will feel.

LAST CHRISTMAS a doll came for my daughter beneath the tree. It was wrapped in gold foil and tied with a bow; it wasn't much to look at, but it was special to her. While playing the following spring, she dropped the toy down the stairs, and the impact split open the doll's head. Wedged inside the neck was a handful of rolled up papers. The handwriting was almost illegible, but after a few hours, I was able to transcribe them, embellishing nothing beyond a word I couldn't identify here or there, or finishing the occasional sentence where the writer's thoughts had wandered or he'd used the wrong term. The text appears below, otherwise unaltered and without commentary.

* * *

Even before he came, I knew there were things like him in the world. My mother was not born in this land, and she told me such stories. My father called it silly, but even as a boy I was smart enough to know what was true and to know that science and its ilk, while having uses, painted pictures of a fairytale world of machines and mechanizations, and that the real world was something different.

So it was that I knew him when I set eyes upon him. Shall I bore you with details? How I sneaked from my bed in the dead of night to pee or for a glass of water? How in truth I was looking for him to test my belief, the belief of a boy in magic? How I was six or seven or eight years old?

What matter such details? What matter whether the tree was draped in ornaments of red and blue or a Victorian thing of silver? Was there snow on the ground outside that Christmas Eve, or was our yard coated in brown mud and dead grass?

Bah! Even if I wanted to relate such details, I could not. So much time has passed, I don't remember my age or the decorations or the year. I don't remember whether we had a dog still or if it had run off. When you are old, such things... they mix and blend. And I am so very old.

But I remember being awake, and I remember hearing a noise upon the roof. I remember thinking of bells and deer, though I heard no such things. I hid behind a door and waited, my eyes on the chimney.

And, like the stories, he came down. It seemed funny before then, how does so large a man come down small chimneys? Not so funny after. Not so funny once I'd seen.

Because I understood it all then, and I wasn't so excited. No. I was frightened.

I watched him remove the boxes from his sack and place them beneath the tree. Then he slid baubles and candy canes into the stockings, before gathering the cookies and milk and taking them to the kitchen. I followed, still hidden – always hidden – and watched him crush the cookies to crumbs and wash them down the sink with the milk. Then, I watched him return the plate and glass to our table with a smile.

His face was so thin.

And he was up the chimney, as he'd arrived. I returned at once to my bed. I did not sleep but covered myself. I was a boy, and what is a boy to do when he's seen such things? What can he do?

I threw out my toys, of course, no matter my parents' protests. And the next year, I begged them to hang no tree or stocking.

It didn't matter: he left gifts all the same. For years, I read books, read about his kind. I heard my mother's stories whenever she would tell them, and asked such questions. Because, even as a boy, I knew what must be done, just as I knew it would need to wait until I was a man.

This was no task for a boy.

As I grew, I studied and reasoned. And I prepared. I would tarry at school until they let the larger boys out. Then I would pick fights, so I would be strong and used to pain.

When I was a man, I was ready, but I did not act at first. I waited until my parents had died, in case I failed. I never married and sought no friends, lest they suffer in my place.

And I prepared my home for him.

I bought things from thrift stores. Children's things – clothes, toys, anything that might hold their scent – and I scattered these about before Christmas. I put up decorations, so everything would seem in order. And I prepared the traps and weapons, of course.

On Christmas Eve, I sat in wait. Like so many years before, I sat in hiding, watching. Until I heard something on my roof. And this time I knew there would be no hooves or sleigh bells. Then I watched the fireplace.

Again, he came down the chimney, and again it made no difference how small the passage or whether there was a fire or grate to meet him, because he came down as smoke and ash. Only when he'd reached the bottom did he take a form like that of a man.

He was as tall as I'd remembered, and hunched beneath the weight of his sack. His face was thin and pale, his eyes dark, like glass marbles. While there was no weight to his cheeks, his body was large and bloated. It made no difference, though: he was quick and moved silently.

I waited, not daring to breathe as he did not breathe, until he'd placed the toys and gathered the cookies and milk. Then, softly, I followed him into the kitchen. I moved as quietly as I could, but he must have heard my footfall, because he spoke as he emptied the milk. His voice was like that of my mother's friends from the old world.

"Go. You should not wake the children."

"There are no children here," I answered, and he turned to look on me.

I held up my cross, and he turned away. "Bastard!" he shrieked. "Do you know who I am?" He covered his eyes to keep them from falling on my cross, a symbol not part of the holidays.

"I know," I said.

"Don't delay me!" he said. "I have so few hours!"

I paid him no heed, and came closer, raising my stake. I brought it down at him, but in my haste, had drawn back my other hand and the cross. He was so fast. He caught my wrist and squeezed: the stake fell.

But I wasn't through. I thrust the cross into his face, and he screeched, releasing me and falling back into a corner. I recovered the stake and put it into my pocket, removing a zip lock bag full of water I'd taken from the church fountain.

I threw it at the wall behind him, and it burst, showering around him. Wisps of smoke emerged from his skin where the droplets struck, and he grew angry. "I'll kill you," he hissed.

I held the cross higher and approached. He could not meet my gaze, and seemed held in place by the symbol. "You won't take another child," I swore.

"Never... a child," he said, sounding pained. "Not on Christmas or any night." He seemed to be trying to explain, but I would not let him.

"You've grown fat enough," I said. "Die, leech!"

This time, I did not waver or drop my guard. Instead, I brought my hands down together, stake first with the cross behind it, like a hammer driving in a hail, straight into his bloated chest, and the stake stuck.

Everything was so still for a moment, unmoving, and I was so tired. Panting, I released the stake and my arms fell to my sides.

The cross fell with them. Because it was over. It had to be over, because I'd finished it.

His hand lashed like a whip. There was a sudden surge of pain in my hand. Behind me, on the kitchen tile, I heard something metal hit the floor. It was my cross.

My throat was in his hand, and I gasped for breath while he swatted away the stake from his chest. There was no blood. Not a drop.

"Not fat," he said, sounding tired himself. Tired, but so very angry. "Padding. The children, they like the padding. Just like the stories." I tried to fight him, tried to struggle, but he tightened his grip, and I could do nothing. "What you tried to take from them...." He shook his head. "Christmas. You would have taken Christmas from all of them. I am Santa. Don't you see?"

His grip tightened more, and blackness began to creep over me. I heard something strain, and waited for my neck to break. But, at the last minute he relented. But he did not let go. "I swore. Never on Christmas. Never to kill. Even one like you." He smiled. "But only on Christmas."

He shook me, and everything went dark. After that, I had a sensation of flying. I remember gazing down and seeing trees and roads and houses far below. But perhaps it was all dreams. I cannot say.

When I woke, I was lying on a stone floor, all but frozen. There were no windows and there was no light. I'd say I didn't know how long I lay there, but I know. He told me his oath was only for Christmas, so I was there a day.

When he opened the door, he brought a candle for light. His eyes flickered in it like some night-animal's. And he shut the door behind him. I waited for the end, but he was not so merciful.

There was death, as he'd promised, but there was no end.

Now I exist here, in his castle. I work here, in the dark, beside the others who'd thought to rid the world of this creature. Together, we make toys, according to his instruction, and we will do so forever. He brings us things to eat, rats mostly, and the occasional dog or pig. Sometimes we hear him with visitors: he drinks far more succulent meals, though as he swore, I've never seen him take a child.

If on some Christmas or another he should not return, we will waste away. And yet, I welcome this thought. Cherish it. But I do not dare hope.

If you should find this story, though, you know what you must do. You know what he is, and why he must die. But remember he is fast and wily. And, above all else, remember that there is padding beneath his red coat.

THE BOX WAS four inches across, and the wires sticking out of the bottom were frayed. Its battery was long gone, so Ail pulled the cord connected to her hip pack. She sighed - if she connected it directly, it might short and fry the board. She could always hold off until she came across a breaker. She flipped the device over in her hands and decided it wasn't worth the trouble. If the damn thing fried, it fried. What would she be out? A forty-dollar piece of junk she'd just picked up. What's forty dollars buy you, anyway: burger and a Coke?

"Mother. I located several phones." The voice came from beneath a pile of rusting electrical equipment.

"Fine. Pull them into the clearing. And I'm not your mother," Ail said.

"That makes me sad," the voice said. Its head, which was not the origin of the sound, protruded from the rubble. It was almost twice as tall as Ail and made of metal. It pulled itself free, holding a half-dozen ancient cell phones in mechanical pinchers protruding from its back. Its basic shape resembled a wolf with a beaked head like an eagle's. On its back, faded letters spelled out, "Gri-Finn Model X-9900. Property of US Army." There was an outline where there'd most likely been a sticker reading "Decommissioned", though the sticker itself had decomposed years before Ail had found the robot in a junkyard like this one.

"It shouldn't," Ail said.

"I love you, Mother," the robot said. Ail wondered how many people it had killed before it was deactivated, its weapons were removed, and it had been tossed. If she'd cared enough, she could always plug its old memory core into a computer and try to activate it. But she wasn't sure she really wanted to know.

"Just be careful with those things, Pick."

"I'll be careful, Mother," Pick said. Ail was probably the only one alive who could tell, but he sounded the slightest bit sad.

Ail sighed and forced the power cord into the jack. The backlight flickered, but the display didn't come up. She slapped the side. Twice. Again. And the logo finally appeared: "TeraCon Secure." She didn't recognize the brand, but it couldn't be older than ten, fifteen years, judging from the font and design. A series of options appeared on the screen, and she began flipping through. After a few seconds a word appeared on the screen: "Connect."

"Go ahead and try," she whispered, pressing the word, which lit up. A ring of lights began cycling. A few seconds later, it reported, "Connection Established."

"Wireless's working," she said. "That's something."

There weren't many options, so she chose the top one: ID. A spot appeared for a thumbprint, so she pushed hers down. The ring of lights reappeared, and a few seconds later a brief rundown appeared, along with a picture of her as an infant.

Name: Ailleen Vishin

Age: 14

Mother: Kimberly Vishin (deceased)

Father: Alexander Treyson (incarcerated)

"Huh," Ail said. It must be connecting to a police database or some government agency. Things like this were supposed to be destroyed, but most agencies contracted out disposal services instead of handling it themselves. It wasn't that surprising to find something with access to "sensitive" data up and working. Ail shrugged. It might be worth more than she'd thought. She pulled the power cord and slid the device into her pack. Then she removed a bottle of water and took a swig. "Hey, Pick. Come here. I want to check your coolant."

The drone approached but tilted its head. Still no idea what Ail was asking.

"Damn doll AI," Ail muttered. When she'd dug out the robot, she'd replaced his behavioral processor with one she'd pulled from a junked toy. It took some work finagling the programs: she'd needed to keep the motor control from the original, but she sure as hell didn't want the rest. Ripher, one of the scavengers who she'd learned from, had a drone just like this, but he'd tried building off the program that was already there instead of replacing it. Worked pretty well for a year, then something shook loose. Ripher lost a leg, better part of an arm, and one of his eyes before spitting out the deactivation code.

But he was better off than Gret, a girl Ail had been friends with. Gret had scavenged alone; no group, no robot, nothing. Then one day a gang caught up with her and decided she was cutting into their business. No one ever saw her again. Rumor was she was buried in one of these heaps.

The gangs would do the same to Ail if they knew the military issue attack drone following her around was running a program off a chip yanked from a kid's plaything. But Ail had written some simple protocols into Pick: when other people were around, Pick went silent. As long as Ail didn't act scared, everyone assumed they should give her - and her drone with enough power to rip a jeep in half - some space. Not even the cops hit her up for money these days, though she still made a point of slipping some cash to Cleves, the senior officer who patrolled her neighborhood. Only an idiot never paid off the cops. You want to make sure someone with authority has a financial interest in your freedom.

Ail removed a plastic plate on Pick's side, unscrewed a cap, and squinted at a semi-transparent canister embedded in his chest reading, "High performance coolant only. Consult operations manual." The line was a little low, so she poured some of her water in.

"That should do it. Let me know if your coolant gets low, okay?"

"I don't understand, Mother."

He should. Even doll AI's were supposed to learn and adapt faster than this. "Don't worry about it," Ail said. "Look, you did good with the phones. Good job. Now I want you to find some servos."

"Yes, Mother," Pick said, before scurrying into the junk. Once there, he slid through bits of scrap and pieces of outdated technology like a shark in the sea.

Ail turned back to the hill she was working on. There was no way she'd get further than a few feet down in any of it, but the best stuff was usually on the surface, anyway. She started pulling off broken monitors, old tablet computers, and the like. She tossed these to one side and kept going. The front plate for an old washing machine was wedged beneath the axle of a truck. Annoying: automotive parts were supposed to be dumped in their own section instead of clogging up electronics. She tried pulling the piece loose to see what was under it, but gave up after a few minutes. There were easier sections to root through.

There seemed to be a lot of business computers, which was also annoying. The best finds - beside government equipment - usually came from consumer merchandise. Businesses tend to check the value of their old computers before tossing: rich people will junk damn near anything.

It wasn't surprising the pickings were slim. This was the day before Christmas, after all: ebb of the tide. The real catch would come next week, when everyone threw out last year's tech and replaced it with their new gifts. That's when everything would change and this life would start to net some real money again. And damned if Ail didn't need it: the family she was staying with was pushing for rent.

Ail dug around the pile, but didn't see anything else of much value. She was about to call it quits when her attention turned back to the washing machine pinned down by the axle. If there was anything under there, no one else would have gotten to it, either.

"Pick! Pick, come over here!" Ail shouted. The robot charged up the pile.

"Yes, Mother."

"You see that axle? Get it out of there."

"Where should I put it?"

"I don't know. Toss it over there." She motioned to the side of the scrapheap.

Pick jumped over to the axle, took it in his beak, and pulled it loose. Then he dragged it over to the area Ail had pointed out.

Ail lifted the washer plate and tipped it over. There were a handful of objects beneath it: a number of broken monitors, a few microwaves, some old routers, several feet of coiled cable, and some computers too old to be useful. She shifted these around, then came across something else.

"Pick! Get back up here! I need you to dig... dig that out!" Ail tapped on a steel plate.

It took her drone several minutes to finish. When he was done, there was a block of wires and parts. It was the control box for an old mechanical butler. These things were rare: the parts were almost always recycled. They were worth some money, but more than that, they were useful. If the behavioral unit functioned, it might prove to be very useful.

Ail pulled out a ratchet and went to work. She removed the outer case and reached the guts: the processor, memory drives, and motherboard. She pulled these out and shoved them into her pack.

The walk out of the junkyard was long, and the fact Ail needed to haul a pack filled with mechanical parts didn't make it go by any faster. There were hills, mountains of old scrap, rusting vehicles, and appliances from long before Ail had been born. Robotic hands picked through piles, scanning the pieces for metal content, and sorting them into gigantic trucks. The better pieces could be melted down and reused; the rest would linger here.

"Hey. Look at that." It came from one of the piles the robots hadn't reached yet. It was a gang; one Ail hadn't run across before. There were four of them, and they looked young. One had a robotic assistant with him. It was less than half the size of Pick, and appeared to have been acquired the same way.

"Hey! Hey, Girl! What's in the bag?"

Ail ignored them but addressed Pick. "Public mode," she said. Pick closed in near her. He was already silent, as per his programming.

"Why don't you let us have a look?" one of the boys said. They were approaching cautiously.

"Pick. Defensive mode," Ail said, loud enough they'd be able to hear. Red lights in Pick's eyes turned on.

One the boys - the one who owned the robot - froze. "Guys. Not worth it," he said, likely recognizing the model. The others started backing away, as well.

"Jo's right. Look at her. She ain't got nothing," one said.

"Yeah. We'll see you later, Girl." They headed back over the pile they'd emerged from.

When they were out of hearing distance, the red lights in Pick's eyes clicked off. Turning those on was the only thing the words "defensive mode" did, but it was enough.

Pick walked alongside Ail and said, "They scare me, Mother."

"It's okay," Ail replied. "Remember what I said: they're more scared of you."

They reached the exit around mid-afternoon, and Ail went directly to the gatehouse. There was an old man inside sitting and eating something from a can.

"Kimp," she said.

"Looks like you had yourself a good day," the keeper said. "Let's have a look." Ail emptied her pack onto the table and Kimp started going through the circuit boards and parts. "Hmmm. What's this?" He picked up the small security device Ail had found. "Looks alright. Bet you get two-hundred for it in the shop. I'll let you take it for half that."

"For that? I just grabbed it to use as a Christmas decoration. I was thinking thirty or forty. What is it, anyway?"

Kimp smiled out of the side of his mouth. "Who you think you're fooling, Ail? The naive little girl routine stopped working after you rebuilt that security drone."

"Seventy-five," Ail said.

Kimp laughed out loud. "And only because it's Christmas. Now let's see what else you've got here."

It wound up costing her five hundred to walk out with her finds. With luck, she'd be able to get close to fifteen hundred selling to dealers in town. And that wasn't including the pieces she'd skim for herself. The chips from the butler were promising. Assuming they were compatible, that is.

It took Ail almost three hours to walk home. She couldn't bring Pick on one of the buses; the automated drivers wouldn't permit robots. If Pick functioned better, Ail could just command him to run home and meet her there, but she didn't trust him on his own. He wouldn't get lost, but she was worried he'd do something that would tip someone off to the nature of his programming. Not that the buses were fun - the transients who lived in the back gave them a vile odor - but they were faster and easier than walking.

Ail was staying with a family in a large apartment. Her room wasn't large, but it was big enough for her, Pick, and a number of computers she'd cobbled together. When she entered, Faith was standing in the kitchen, the only room that didn't have anyone living in it, other than the bathroom.

"You're behind," Faith said. "A week now." Faith was large, giving her the ability to block an entrance seemingly by accident.

"I know," Ail said. "I'll have it early next week. I just scored some good parts. Had to front the money, but I should be able to liquidate on the 26th."

Faith stared at her, trying to tell whether or not she was lying. "Alright. But I want it on the 26th, on the dot. Also, rent's going up in January. Another five hundred a month."

Ail bit her tongue and nodded. Living here was getting expensive: she needed a new place. But it's hard finding people who will let you bring a military attack drone into their home. She expected Faith didn't really understand what Pick had been in his previous life, and that she'd throw her out if she ever found out.

"Oh," Faith added, "And Merry Christmas. She grabbed a package from the counter and pushed it at Ail. Then she moved out of the way.

Ail went into her room with Pick following behind. She shut the door and opened the package from Faith. It was full of cookies. Not as good as canned soup, but food was food. She turned on one of her computers and brought up Pick's schematics. She found what she was looking for and smiled.

"Mother. Would you like to clean the room together?"

"No," Ail said. "Just... sit in the corner. I'll plug you in in a minute." She started digging through the pack until she located what she was looking for. The behavioral processor for the butler. Simple, elegant, and easily customized. She plugged it into her computer, bypassed the password protection, and accessed the files.

She spent most of the evening working on it. Finally, she was satisfied. "Pick. Come here, Pick."

"Yes, Mother."

"I need you to power down for a few minutes. Can you do that for me?"

"Of course. I love you, Mother."

The robot's head slunk down and the whirl of fans faded away. Ail pressed on Pick's side and removed the faceplate. Behind it was a metal box, containing the processors, chips, and wires that allowed Pick to function. She reminded herself where everything was and began disconnecting the chip she'd pulled out of a broken doll the year before. She was almost done when she stopped. Something was bothering her.

She returned to her computer and double-checked that the butler processor was compatible. It was. Then she researched the butler unit itself to check for any known issues. She couldn't find anything out of the ordinary.

She returned to Pick and looked at the wires spilling out of his chest. She looked at the processor in her hand, then at the one in Pick. Then, finally, she looked at Pick's face.

"Oh, you got to be kidding me," she whispered.

She walked to her pack and put the piece from the butler away. It would be worth a lot in town, anyway. Then she walked back over to Pick. She reattached all the wires and reactivated the drone.

"Good morning, Mother," Pick said.

"It's not morning," Ail said. "It's... it's still night. It's Christmas Eve."

"Merry Christmas, Mother," Pick said.

"Merry Christmas, Pick," Ail said, patting his metal head.

IT'S NOT LIKE we were looking for it. But I'm not going to lie, try to make it sound like we were out on a roof at 1:00 AM on December 24th and weren't up to no good. Look, we were kids, punks. That's just how it is. We weren't thinking of our futures, our families, our girlfriends: none of that, none of what was on the line if we got caught, or worse. We were out to make some mischief, grab some cash, and score some revenge.

See, Mr. Colmoore, he's our bio teacher, was going away for Christmas break, down to the Bahamas. How's a high school science teacher afford a trip to the tropics? His wife's a scientist, too, but while he spends his days making our lives hell, she spends hers raking in the dough at some research firm or something.

Colmoore's got it in for us. I don't know, he's a scientist, so he's a nerd, so he probably got his share of swirlies back in the day. So now he's got to take it out on all jocks. I'm just guessing, but there's not a guy on the team getting better than a C in his class, not even Paul, and he's actually smart.

So four of us got together and got to thinking. Colmoore was going out of town, and he had some cash, thanks to that wife of his. It's not that hard to find out where a teacher lives, not if you're serious. And it turns out Colmoore was living in an apartment building in Brooklyn. We figured it wouldn't be that hard to break into an apartment, as long as we could reach the fire escape.

The hardest part was getting out on Christmas Eve. Jason somehow convinced his folks he was going caroling. At midnight. Jason's folks aren't too bright.

Paul had it easy: he's Jewish, and his parents could care less what he was doing Christmas Eve. Kevin and I, we just snuck out when our folks were asleep. So long as everything went as planned, we should have been back long before they were up.

We met up in the alley behind the apartment complex, boosted ourselves up to the fire escape, then started up towards the fifth floor, making as little noise as possible. Paul, Kev, and Jason were on the fifth story, all crammed in together, while I waited on the ladder.

Kevin had brought a crow bar, and was trying to figure a way to open the window without smashing it and waking everyone in the neighborhood. Jason was trying to direct, but it was pretty obvious he didn't know the first thing about breaking and entering, no matter how much bragging he'd done the past week. Paul was just trying his damnedest not to fall over the rail, since he was behind the other two.

Me, I was started to get scared, starting to feel the weight of it all. So I was looking around to make sure no one had noticed us. I got that feeling, like I was being watched, so I checked the alleyway below. There's no one there, not even a bum. The windows on the facing building, a duplex, were dark. I was about even with the roof across the way, so it was hard to get a look into the windows beneath us. I peered down as well as I could. No one was looking back; no one I could see, anyway.

Absently, I glanced across at the roof and almost jumped. There were two sets of eyes looking back. I relaxed after a moment, as I realized they weren't human: just some reindeer decorations.

Then the decorations moved.

"Jesus!" I shouted, slipping backward and grabbing onto the rail. Three voices shushed me in unison.

"Fuck sake, Mark. You'll wake someone," Jason hissed.

I just pointed up at the deer, and the others turned around and tilted their heads. "What?" Kevin mouthed. He looked to the others and to me, as if trying to get an explanation.

Paul stared, straight into one of the animal's eyes. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out besides his breath and a barely audible gasp.

"Are they fake? Got to be fake," Jason whispered. One of the deer snorted, sneezed, then looked away. Its breath was as white in the winter air as ours.

Kevin regained his senses. Either that, or he lost them entirely, and said, "Hey. I think... I think if we go up another level, we'll have a better view."

I wanted to say we shouldn't, wanted to say it was all too weird, and that we should just go home. That's probably what we all wanted to say, and it's certainly what each of us should have said. But the one of us who said that; he'd have been a pussy. So we all kept quiet and started up to the fifth level.

"There are... onetwothree—" Paul started.

"Eight," Kevin interrupted, not needing to count. We knew, deep down, all knew there'd be eight. Even Paul knew, never mind that he'd never celebrated Christmas, that this shouldn't even have been fantasy to him, shouldn't even have been on his radar.

"Eight reindeer," Jason said, "One sleigh. So. Where's the jolly fat guy?"

Paul chuckled quickly. "Inside, right?"

"That's right," Jason said. "Look at those sacks."

"But... this can't be real," I said. "I mean, it can't be what it looks like."

"You believe your eyes or not?" Jason asked. "Look. Those sacks, they got to be worth a fortune, right. Games, electronics, and all that. It's not far. We can make it, grab a few bags, then be gone. But we have to do it before San... before he comes back. We got to move."

"What about Colmoore," Paul asked.

"Forget Colmoore," Jason replied. "Colmoore's small time. This is once in a lifetime. Never going to get another shot like this."

"All right," Kevin said. "But we got to be quick. And... just the sack, right?" That question lingered for a minute, and I didn't understand what he meant at the time.

"Yeah," Jason replied, smiling. "Of course. What else is there to take?" He didn't give Kevin a chance to answer. "Come on. Let's go."

He went first, in part to show it was safe and in part to show off. He grabbed hold of the rail, stepped over, then leapt. He seemed to hang in the air for a moment, arms circling to his sides, before he landed on the roof. Paul was next, and he went with a look of determination, maybe even anger. Now that we were the last two on the fire escape, Kevin cupped a hand over my shoulder and whispered, "I don't like this. Last summer...."

"Hey," Jason hissed, waving frantically for us to follow. "Let's go, ladies."

"It'll be okay," I said, and Kevin just rolled his eyes. We went at the same time. I hit hard, and almost went off the edge before catching myself. No one seemed to notice, and I was more relieved at not losing face than my life. Hell, when you're seventeen, right?

There we were, on a roof in Brooklyn at one on Christmas morning, staring at something that couldn't be real. The deer had stepped back a bit as we jumped, but other than that they didn't seem concerned. One leaned over to chew some snow; another relieved himself.

Paul laughed, unable to believe any of it. He wasn't being quiet, either. Jason hit him in the arm. "Come on. Keep it down for Christ's sake." But Paul just laughed again.

Kevin kept an eye on Jason. "Let's get what we're here for and go, all right?"

"You scared, Kev?" Jason asked, smirking.

"No. But I don't want to get caught up here."

"Then let's do this," Jason said, clapping his hands together.

Paul was already heading towards the sleigh. He was moving slowly, savoring every step over the snow-covered roof. He was like... I don't know... one of those kids in Christmas specials. He had one of those grins on his face, one of those impossibly wide smiles you think can only exist in cartoons. Yeah, well, he was actually smiling like that as he climbed into the back and started rummaging through one of the bags.

The sleigh was red, not bright red but more a deep burgundy. The runners were silver, as was most of the trim. The reins and harness were leather – we could smell it before we ever got near. The whole thing looked like an antique, but you could tell it'd been kept up. I remember thinking how sturdy it looked, even at a glance.

Jason hurried to join Paul in the sleigh, while Kevin and I hung back a bit. "Hey," Kevin said, seeing that Paul was hesitating. "Hey, we can go through it later, right? Just grab one and let's go!"

But Paul and Jason weren't paying much attention. Paul had his head almost immersed in one of the bags, and Jason asked, "What's in there?"

Paul looked up. His eyes were wide open in almost a reverent stare. "Everything," he said.

Jason looked back over his shoulder at us and motioned for us to follow. Then he jumped into the front seat.

"No," Kevin said, starting over towards the sleigh. "Get out, Jay," he said.

"What is it?" I asked Kevin.

"He lied to us," Kevin said. "Last October, we jacked a car. He does it sometimes. Joyrides around the Bronx."

"What, you're my mother?" Jason asked. "So I like to drive, what's the big deal?"

"The big deal is you crashed, could have gotten us killed."

"We didn't get caught. No one got hurt."

"In a car, no."

"This isn't the time for this," I said. "We got to get the bag and get down."

"How do you think Jay's planning on getting us down?" Kevin asked. It came together for me then: the stolen car, the smirk on Jason's face, and the sudden realization this house didn't have a fire escape. Jumping over was one thing: getting back wouldn't be so easy.

I stared at Jason, who just shrugged. "Guess we'll have to borrow the sleigh," he said, matter-of-factly, as if that was the plan all along. Paul just laughed from inside the bag.

"Like hell I'm riding in that thing," Kevin replied.

"Way I see it, you guys don't got much choice," Jason said. "In a few seconds, something's coming up from that chimney. I'm thinking you don't want to be here when he does, especially with the sleigh missing."

Kevin grinded his teeth, but he realized Jason had us. As soon as we leapt, our fates were sealed.

"Right," I said, grabbing a hold of the side and pulling myself up into the back of the sleigh beside Paul. I offered a hand to Kevin, who took it after shooting me a look. It was as if I made him do this, as if I'd put him in this situation. I helped pull him onto the side, then he vaulted over, so he was in front with Jason.

"Don't look so down," Jason said. "We're getting a hell of a lot more than we bargained for. Just hold on and enjoy the ride." He grabbed the reins, whipped them as hard as he could, and screamed, "Mush!" like they were sled dogs.

The deer looked up in unison, eyes pointed straight forward. "Getyup!" Jason added, swinging the reins again. This time, they bolted to the right, pulling the sleigh towards the edge. They leapt off the roof, and over they went, two-by-two, with us right behind.

We were screaming now, even Jason, who was pulling at the reins. Only Paul was still laughing.

It was like we were falling and running at once. The deer were flying, I think, or maybe they were charging through the air, but they were heading downwards at an angle, skimming the building we'd ascended just minutes before. The deer in front skidded against the corner as we swung by, and the wall took a chunk out of the sleigh, as well. Jason seemed to figure out some of what he was doing, because he got them to turn up. We began gaining altitude.

But that one deer was limping now, and even over the wind we could hear his forced breathing. Jason whipped the reins again and called, "Mush!" again. A hundred bells along their harnesses rung out as we went. We were moving quickly, but not steadily. The sleigh shook as the deer bound on, as if we were riding over stones. As we lurched up and down, we'd rise a few inches into the air then crash back down back onto the seat. I gripped the side to try and keep my balance.

"We gotta land!" I screamed over the whipping wind. I looked down at the streetlights and uncommonly quiet streets below.

"Screw that!" Paul yelled. "Let's see what this thing can do!"

Jason cheered the reindeer on, driving them harder. I looked down and realized we were leaving Brooklyn, heading over the river towards Manhattan. The lights were replaced by a black expanse.

It had been an unseasonably warm night, but I'd never been that cold in my life. I don't know how high we were, but between the wind and elevation it was freezing. I didn't even dare pull my coat closed for fear of falling out.

"Where the hell are you taking us?" Kevin yelled at Jason.

"I got no idea!" Jason yelled back. "Hell, I don't even know how to steer this thing!"

From beside me in back, Kevin grabbed Jason's arm to make sure he had his full attention. Kevin was glaring at him and looked like he might hit him. "This isn't funny!" he yelled, despite the laughter emanating from Paul.

"You want to drive?" he asked, thrusting the reins into Kevin's hands. "Be my guest!"

"Jesus!" Kevin screamed, as the sleigh entered into a spiral. "Take them back!"

"I want to drive!" Paul yelled, trying to climb into the front before the sleigh's momentum pushed him back. I grabbed a hold of him to keep him from falling out. He just looked annoyed.

"Fine," Jason said. "Then quit your whining." He managed to get the sleigh straightened out again, and we were on our way into Manhattan. We sailed by City Hall before gliding over some of the smaller buildings and finally winding up over Broadway. After that, Jason just followed it north until he veered onto Fifth. He picked up altitude, then started circling in, closer and closer to the Empire State Building. He had the sleigh in control by that time, and the ride was no longer so shaky. The tower was lit up red and green, and we swung around it, again and again. It was incredible. I forgot about the cold, and even Kevin gasped and seemed content.

Just as we flew over the tip of the radio tower, it all went wrong. The deer at the front-left of the team – the one who grazed the building earlier - stumbled, and tripped. I don't know how a flying reindeer trips, but then again I don't know how a flying deer flies. It was like he just stumbled and dropped. But he was in the lead, so half the deer tried to follow him, while the other half just kept going. The sleigh entered a corkscrew, spiraling through the air.

I don't know what kept the sacks in place – magic, maybe – but whatever it was didn't seem to have a hold of us. I clung to the side; Kevin and Jason managed to keep a hold of a bar in front.

But Paul... I remember looking over at him, no longer laughing, but not screaming like the rest of us, either. He was just still, silent like he was in a daze. He didn't move to catch himself or react at all. He just... went limp. And, like a fleck in a snow globe, he drifted away, out of his seat and into the air. And he was gone, skimming down towards the streets below.

We weren't that far behind. Even when the deer got upright, we weren't in control. They were running like a herd, while the one who'd collapsed was dragged below, pulled along by the harnesses linking them. It was like a fish on a line being pulled by a motor boat, drifting and bobbing. It looked sort of funny, but none of us were laughing.

"Do something!" Kevin shouted.

"I'm trying," Jason screamed back.

"Paul!"

"I'm... I'm sorry!" Jason said. "I didn't... Why didn't he hang on?" Then, at me, "Why didn't you grab him?"

I didn't say anything; I just braced myself as the sleigh lurched back and forth. There was nothing we could do: the reins had dropped off the side and were dangling below the collapsed deer.

We saw them veering towards the building, and Jason actually yelled at the deer: "Look out!" as if they were listening.

The one being dragged touched down first, and the others tripped over it. The sleigh rolled, and we held on as best we could.

It was over so quickly. I couldn't believe at the time they'd landed without going over the edge, but on hindsight they must have had a lot of practice. I remember trying to pull myself out from under the sleigh, only to discover my arm hurt too much to move. I'd seen enough injuries on the field to know what it meant.

My face was half pressed into the snow, but I could still see out. I saw what happened next.

There was a flash of dim light, then he was there, dressed in red. Just like the stories, right? All fat and red coat and white trim. But he didn't seem happy.

I think I blacked out, because the next thing I remember the sleigh was upright. I was sitting, propped up against the ledge. Jason was limping, holding Kevin, who was completely still. He was moving towards the man in red.

Jason was rambling. "Come on, man. You got to help him. Listen to me. He's hurt bad, but he's breathing. He's still alive, but we got to get him to a hospital, right? You got to take him."

The figure in red cleared his throat. He stepped forward and started to raise a hand, as if to help. But then he stopped and stepped back. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them he seemed so sad. I've never seen anyone look that sad, not in my life. And he said, "I'm sorry. I want to help your friend, but I can't. I've lost too much time already, and I have too much left to do. I really am sorry."

With that, he turned away and climbed into his sleigh. Two of the deer were lying in back with the sacks. I'd like to think they were just asleep, but I don't really believe that. He cracked the reins and said, "On Prancer," and he was off in a flash.

They found us on the roof a few hours later. By then, it was just me and Jason: I don't know if anyone could have saved Kevin if we'd gotten him to a hospital, but I wish he'd have had a chance.

Jason had it worse than I did. I got out with a fractured arm: he'd broken... Christ, two bones in his left leg, three fingers, two ribs, his nose... I think there were a few more, but I don't remember what they were.

I guess we should have spent those hours on the roof agreeing on a story or something, some kind of explanation we could offer the authorities. But I don't remember saying a single word to Jason the entire time we were up there. Not one word.

And you can damn bet they had questions for us after they'd patched us up. Who can blame them? Two injured teenagers where they shouldn't be, a third dead beside them. And then Paul: Paul's body wound up half a mile away, skidded over half a block of city street before embedding itself in the grill of a parked delivery truck.

I spoke to cops, lawyers, the FBI, and even Homeland Security. They said they'd charge us with treason, that terrorists must be involved, and so on. But none of that materialized. I didn't tell them the truth, didn't tell them anything, honestly. I just shrugged and kept saying I didn't remember how I got up there, and I didn't know how my arm got broken.

Lying to the cops was easy. Lying to Kevin and Paul's parents... that was tough. They knew I wasn't telling them everything, just like everyone knew. If there was something I could have said, truth or lie, that they'd have bought, I'd have said it. Hell, if I could have explained it by saying we were international jewel thieves, I'd have done it and gone to prison. Whatever.

But in the end, what could they charge us with? No one could come up with a plausible theory for what happened, so they had to let us go.

A few years later, Jason enlisted with the army, and they sent him to Afghanistan. I think I was the only one not surprised when they shipped him back with a medal. Awarded posthumously, of course. I guess it's easy to get honored for courage when you're looking to die.

Not me, though. Yeah, I know some of what happened was my fault, and yeah, every December I start thinking how I don't deserve to be here. But I guess it's just me now, and someone's got to remember what happened.

IYLA'S JOINTS CRACKED like ginger snaps when she stretched her fingers, but the sound was lost in the noise of grinding machines and rippling paper. She was tired - they all were \- but the season was almost done. The shipment had come in a few hours earlier: it was a big one - always was on Christmas Eve - but it was also the last.

She was a Letter Specialist, 3rd class, in the mail subsection of DLWL (Department of Letters and Wish List). She knew six languages, which was why she was still third class: the leads knew at least two dozen each, and it was rumored the director could read every language used on the planet.

The Geola Building housed her entire department. She lived nearby in the Prudentius District. This was about as far from the action as you could get without leaving the North Pole, but it meant an easy commute without having to deal with the central passages, which were almost unbearably crowded this time of year.

Above her, a procession of letters four thick whirled by, clipped onto metal chains that rattled more than they jingled. Iyla plucked a letter from the third row in - the only row in this section in a language she knew - and ran it through the cutter, a simple contraption consisting of a gap and a razor. Five years earlier, they'd tried installing electric letter openers, but those hadn't lasted the season before breaking apart.

She had the letter out in a quarter-second, unfolded in a flash. The envelope was face up on her workspace. She drew a form from her tray and slid it into her typewriter. She slid the letter against a stand and looked at it.

Iyla did not read the letter: no elf in the department did, at least not after their first season. Rather, she captured it. Her eyes glossed over insignificant details and focused on data points. Tone, reason for writing, and detailed information about the sender's state of mind were evident at a glance from the quality of penmanship and the formatting. Key phrases practically leapt off the page: there were only so many points on the page a request could be hidden.

It was a girl from Providence, RI writing a follow-up letter to Santa to "remind" him that there was nothing she wanted as much as a "red bike with handlebar streamers and a brown basket." There was something about wanting it to bring food to her grandmother, but it was rare not to see something along those lines in a letter.

Iyla's fingertips slammed against the keys, and the form progressed through the machine:

LOCATION: NA/US/RI/Prov/EE

ADDRESS: 1765 Priest Street, Apt. 133

SENDER: Lisa K. Anderson

CHILD: aa

CAUSE: fu

REQUEST: Bike - 099147, red

NOTES: Nrml

RECOMMENDATION: None

A staple pinned the form, letter, and envelope together, and Iyla set it in her outbox on top of the others. Then she pulled down the next letter. This was from a boy in Manchester who wanted nothing more than for his younger sister, mother, and father to have the "best Christmas ever," and that anything Santa could do to make that happen - even if meant him not getting the football uniform he'd asked for - would make him happier than he'd ever been in his life.

CAUSE: Manipulation

REQUEST: Sports Outfit FB771

NOTES: Further investigation recmnd

RECOMMENDATION: Consider add. action if warranted

She tore through the letters one by one, though her pace began to waver. It was exhausting work: most elves who'd started the job with her had transferred to wrapping or even toy production. The endless tedium of the letters tried even the most focused minds. They all blurred together until they were seemed no different than the background noise of the machines: metal grinding together, with only the vaguest of forms coming through.

A letter from an American girl living in Pakistan (Iyla wondered how many different sections that had been transferred through before reaching the 'English' row) expressed sincere concern for a sick relative. Actual stress in the letter formation, a lack of an offered exchange, and stains Iyla suspected were caused by tears (the chemists in Research would verify) were dead giveaways.

A fathers' lack of sincerity in transcribing his son's letter was almost enough to trouble Iyla, while his ludicrous misspellings and childish use of syntax caused her to laugh out loud (fortunately, no one noticed).

A letter from a town in Alaska written in crayon seemed off, not least because it contained a single letter in Santa's name written in red, while the rest was blue. This actually gave Iyla pause, though she couldn't tell why: she'd seen far stranger in her time here. Why, earlier in the season, she was pretty sure--

"Iyla!"

She jumped at hearing her name called and turned. "Yes, Cello." It was her manager.

"You're good with Italian, aren't you? We've got more than enough elves on English, but they're dying over there."

"Sure thing," Iyla said, trying to maintain her smile. She could manage Italian well enough, but she was far better in English.

"Station sixty-three is open. First row."

"Got it. I'll head right over," she said. She hurried through her last letter. The penmanship was strange, but the content looked relatively innocuous. She punched it up, dropped it in her outbox, filled out a brief form, and closed down her station. Then she headed over to the Italian section to help wrap up the season.

It was late afternoon before the department shut down for the year. Technically, it was earlier than she usually got out, but it didn't feel like it: like everyone else in her department, she'd put in a double shift to finish in time. She hurried home, in spite of a half dozen invitations to holiday parties. As soon as she reached her apartment, she kicked off her boots and fell on her bed. She squeezed her eyes shut and waited for sleep.

But it wasn't coming. Something wasn't right: something was off.

She stood up, stretched, and started a kettle of water. When it whistled, she made herself a cup of tea and sat on her couch. It was almost pitch black outside of her window, but such was winter at the North Pole.

The work stayed with her. Something about it bothered her more than usual. The letters were now a blur. She pinched the bridge of her nose to distract herself from the developing headache. She shut her eyes, but she could still see the patterns of paragraphs, key words, and codes she had entered thousands of times a day for the past few months.

But through it all she saw a name, "Santa", written in blue crayon with the n in red. No, it wasn't the "n": it was one of the a's.

That's what was bothering Iyla: it was shifting back and forth in her mind. She shook her head. It was stupid. It didn't mean anything - just that she'd seen something like it before. That was it: she had another letter that was all but identical. Same bizarre use of color.

Probably nothing. Probably kids copying each other.

But that was just it. The penmanship was messy, but it was wrong. It wasn't a child's hand: it was an adult trying to disguise itself as a child's.

It still didn't mean anything. Did it?

Iyla was almost out of breath when she reached the office building. The guard at the bottom recognized her.

"I need... research," she explained. "I think... it's important. I mean, it might be important." The guard made her wait while she tried to explain. It took three times before he understood.

"So?" he asked, shrugging.

"I think it's a code," Iyla said.

The guard shook his head and lifted the phone. He called up and eventually an exasperated bookkeeper working in research agreed to see her. Iyla thanked the guard and headed to the elevator.

"Let me get this straight," the bookkeeper said, after Iyla finished going over her story again. "You want to see a letter you turned in hours ago. But you don't know what the name was. That right?" He was a rotund elf, and like everyone else this late in the season, looked like he was about to collapse.

"I was working in station sixty-three. No. No, wait. This was before. I was at... I was at one-eleven."

"You sure?" the bookkeeper asked. "Because it's getting late."

"I'm sure," Iyla replied, despite second guessing herself.

"Look. I can check, but there's a good chance the paperwork's been processed. If so, I don't know what to tell you."

"That's fine. Just... please. Can you look? I know it's probably nothing, but... I just can't stop thinking about this."

The bookkeeper rolled his eyes and went off to check. He was gone more than fifteen minutes, and Iyla began to wonder if he'd just forgotten about her. Part of her wanted to run off: she felt ridiculous. It was probably nothing: just a fluke or her mind playing tricks on her. Even if she was right - if it really did mean something - was it really worth ruining everyone's holiday trying to figure it out?

But the handwriting kept gnawing at her. Everything about the letter felt wrong: she had to see it again.

The bookkeeper returned soon after with a stack of letters and forms. Iyla tore through the pile until she came across the one she was looking for. It was exactly as she'd remembered it. She studied it now, closer than she almost ever did while on the job. The character spacing removed any doubt it was written by an adult, though they'd clearly attempted to disguise that fact. The text was ludicrously simplistic: on the surface it was simply a standard request for a doll. But the discolored 'a' stood out like a beacon.

Iyla flipped to the envelope. "Oripine, Alaska," she said to the bookkeeper. "I need to see the others now. You still file by city, right?"

The bookkeeper sighed, started to object, then abruptly changed his mind. Apparently, he decided he'd wrap this up faster by complying than debating. He hurried off while Iyla continued studying the letter.

He returned with a cart containing four massive folders. On by one, he set these on the counter in front of Iyla.

"Thank you," she whispered, flipping through the first folder. Five minutes later, she'd amassed a stack of letters nearly identical to the first. They were all written in crayon, and were all identical, save for the date, return address, the name of the child, and the fact a single letter was discolored in Santa's name.

The bookkeeper was starting to take an interest now. "What's it mean?" he asked.

Iyla ignored his question. "I need to use your phone," she said dryly.

When she reached the analytics team, she found them as irritable and unhelpful as everyone else she'd encountered. But now she had something concrete, even if it she still didn't know what it signified. She argued and pushed until they promised to send someone down to take a look.

However, the elves who showed up weren't from analytics. She knew the moment they appeared: she'd known enough number crunchers to recognize them on sight, and these two were something else. When one extended a hand and introduced himself as part of security, Iyla began to sweat.

The bookkeeper quickly distanced himself from the situation, protesting that he had no interest in disrupting the operation of the North Pole on this night, above any other. The security elves mainly ignored him and asked Iyla to come with them. They took the letters she'd found with them, as well as the others from Oripine.

They brought her to a private tunnel - one she'd never known existed - where they'd parked a vehicle. One of the agents drove while the other sat in back with Iyla. Even before the vehicle had started, he was asking her to explain the situation.

Remarkably, she finished by the time they reached their destination. By that time, Iyla was wondering whether the agent had even listened to her or if he'd just been patronizing her to keep her calm. Were they here to get to the bottom of this or to lock her up?

And where was 'here?' Iyla had never been to this complex. There were guards posted at the underground entrance and no signs. She was taken in, along with the documents, which were swiftly turned over to an elf who did look like a number cruncher. The agent she'd been talking to then quickly summarized her story over a phone. When he'd finished, he led Iyla to an enclosed room containing a table and a handful of chairs.

"Wait here, please," he said, shutting the door behind him. Iyla wondered whether it was locked.

A half hour passed before anyone entered. The person who finally came for her was the last thing she'd have expected.

Mrs. Claus towered over Iyla. Of course, she'd have towered over any elf: the largest were barely half her height.

"Iyla, isn't it?" Mrs. Claus asked. Her voice was sturdy, almost intimidating.

"Yes." She'd never been this close to either of the Clauses.

The old woman nodded slowly. "You work in Letters, is that right?"

"Yes. Letters and Wish... Yes, Letters."

"Is that where you noticed the anomalies?"

"I saw one earlier this year. I'm not sure when. Last month, I think. I came across another today, and... it bothered me. I was worried it might be important. Was it?"

"I'm not sure yet," the old woman replied. "We're still trying to determine that. It could be a prank, I suppose."

"I hadn't thought of that," Iyla admitted.

"What do you think?"

"I don't know," Iyla said. "I guess I never had time to really think it through. It just seemed too strange to be meaningless."

"A lot things seem like they mean something. Most don't. Usually when we encounter things like this, they're just noise."

"Where are we?" Iyla finally asked.

"I suppose we're in a division of Operations."

"What about me?" Iyla asked. "Am I in trouble?"

"Of course not," Mrs. Claus replied. "You can leave at any time. Or you can stay to see how it turns out."

"I'd like to stay," Iyla said. "At least for a while."

Mrs. Claus brought her to a room full of maps, charts, radios, and a dozen elves working intently. The old woman began to pace, looking down at whatever the others were working on. They seemed somewhat uncomfortable in her presence, but she said nothing. Iyla found an empty corner and tried to stay out of everyone's way.

After a few minutes passed, a phone rang. One of the elves lifted the receiver and said, "Control room. Go." A few seconds later, he covered the mouthpiece and turned around. "It's cryptography," he said to Mrs. Claus. "They want to speak with you."

She walked over to him and pulled the phone from his hands. "This is she. I see. Yes, come down at once." She handed the phone back to the elf, who returned it to its cradle.

Iyla expected her to say something, but Mrs. Claus simply strolled over and examined a map. Before long, an elf hurried in. "Hello. Ma'am. I'm Geril."

"Go on," she said.

"We... we arranged the letters in chronological order and found a repeating pattern to the discoloration. We assumed a numerical value and tried to--"

"Don't worry about the math," Mrs. Claus said. "What did you find?"

"We think they're coordinates. I mean, that's the most likely explanation. Of course, with more time--"

"Where?"

The coder swallowed. "Right here. Or nearby, anyway. They'd be at the North Pole." He took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket.

"Sinli," Mrs. Claus said, prompting one of the elves in the room to hurry over, snatch the paper from the coder, then go to a map of the North Pole encased in glass. He unfolded the paper then drew a black 'x' on the glass.

"Ma'am," Sinli said, "Should we remove the civilians?"

"Thank you," Mrs. Claus said to the coder, who hurried out. Iyla was inching towards the door herself when the old woman turned to her. "You are welcome to stay," she said simply. Then, to Sinli: "Add the overlay."

He opened a compartment and withdrew a transparent piece of plastic containing a red line. The upper corner was labeled, "Flight path." It crossed directly over the "x".

Mrs. Claus squinted. "How long before takeoff?" she asked.

"Twenty-seven minutes," someone replied.

"Reroute my husband. Say it's due to weather. Send him around the peak."

"Yes, Ma'am." Several elves lifted receivers or turned on radios, while Mrs. Claus approached another elf sitting beside a screen. "Is anything showing up on radar?"

"I'm getting something, but I don't know what it is," he said.

She turned to yet another elf who was sitting attentively. "I want feet in the snow in five," she said. "Send a stealth team... here," she pointed to a spot on the map nearby the 'x'. More calls were made and more time ticked by. Before long, they had their team in position. Iyla had no idea how they got there so fast, but she had no intention of saying a word.

The elves' voices were garbled over the radio, but the idea came through: "We've got... here... least six, maybe... men. Heavy equip...."

"Pull them back five hundred yards," Mrs. Claus told one of the elves. Then she stood still, thinking for a moment. "Clemins. We still have a few of those remote decoys left, don't we?"

"I think so," an elf replied.

"I want one ready to fly as soon as possible, set to the original trajectory. And I want the fuel at full."

"Full?" the elf replied. "That would carry it to the Antarctic."

"I don't think it will," Mrs. Claus replied, thoughtfully.

The elf's eyes widened. "But... if it's shot down...."

"You have your orders," Mrs. Claus said.

He seemed to deflate as he turned to lift his phone and convey the instructions. Several elves in the room seemed likewise horrified, but most simply continued as usual. Mrs. Claus waited until she'd received word that Santa had left before she ordered the decoy launched.

"It's Christmas," someone reminded her when she gave the order.

"And I'll be damned if an attempt to change that goes unanswered," she replied. "If we're wrong, the decoy will pass overhead without incident."

"He wouldn't like this," one of the elves said.

"My husband isn't in charge of security," Mrs. Claus said. The button was pressed, and the radar now displayed an additional blip. When it was directly above the spot, the team on the ground checked in frantically.

"They've fired something at..... hard to see... surface to air....." they lost communication for several seconds after that. "Explosion took out... hill.... nothing coming out of... valley."

"Thank you," Mrs. Claus said softly into the microphone. "Return to base for debriefing." At last, she addressed Iyla. "A word, please." She brought her back to the room she'd been in earlier.

"Are you alright?" Mrs. Claus asked.

"I... I don't know. We killed them, didn't we? My God..."

"They were killed when their own missile detonated the fuel reserve. When they tried to kill my husband."

"Could they have done it?"

"With a missile? I sincerely doubt it. But at the very least, they would have destroyed his sleigh, the gifts, and probably killed the reindeer."

"Why would anyone want to do that?" Iyla asked.

"Oh, we run into problems with governments from time to time. You have to understand, the holidays have become increasingly significant to the economy of the western world. If we weren't in business, every toy would need to be purchased by parents. It would be a massive boon to industry. In a real sense, we are competitors to a significant portion of the global economy."

"They'd kill for that?"

"People are killed for far less money than we're worth," Mrs. Claus said. "Kris likes to think otherwise, and I like to let him. He'll never know what happened here. It'd ruin his Christmas."

Iyla stood very silent. After a minute had passed, she asked, "Why'd you let me see this then? Aren't you worried I'll tell someone?"

"I'll need to ask that you don't," Mrs. Claus responded. "If you do, no one would back you up. As for your first question, I had a few reasons. First, I thought you deserved an answer. Second, you showed real promise today. Not a lot of elves would have noticed what you found, and even fewer would have followed up on it. I could use someone with your attention to detail in Special Operations."

"No," Iyla said, almost immediately. "No, thank you. This morning, I wasn't sure how I could spend another day reading letters, but... when you were launching the decoy, when I figured out what was really going on... all I could think about was that the men on the ground must have families. Their relatives won't ever have a Christmas that feels right again, and it's because of me. I'm not saying it wasn't right \- just that I never want to be in that kind of position again."

"I understand," Mrs. Claus said. "That you for your assistance, Iyla. You'll find that a bonus has been added to your most recent pay. It'll look like an accident, but it's not."

"Thank you," Iyla said, quietly, as she began to head out. She wasn't sure how she'd get home, but she suspected someone in the front would be able to direct her.

"One more thing," Mrs. Claus called out. "You saved Christmas today. Hang onto that."

Iyla forced herself to smile when she looked back.

ADAM'S CAR BROKE down on the way home, courtesy of a faulty valve. It took the internal diagnostic system almost twenty minutes to identify the issue and, thanks to the strain the holiday season was putting on the network, another five to download the schematics. And of course the emergency 3D-printer in the hatch required another fifteen to replicate a replacement. Then the site streaming the walkthrough crashed twice while he was installing the damn thing. All of this in the middle of a snowstorm, too: it was like something out of an old holiday movie.

It was after seven before he made it home, which meant arming his eleven year-old son with a world-class extortion scam: "You left me alone... on Christmas Eve! I had to order my own dinner! I had to watch a movie... by myself!" And so on and so forth. Fortunately, Adam was used to these guilt trips. He didn't blame the kid: if anything, Derrick was showing real initiative and exhibiting advanced reasoning skills. The fact he bothered was proof he'd figured out his parents hadn't done his Christmas shopping yet, which meant there was still time to manipulate them into spending a little more.

June didn't make it back until close to nine, which was actually a little earlier than she was expecting. But her boss took pity on her (actually, on precisely one third of the staff, whose names were selected by lottery then informed they could take off early), and despite the deteriorating road conditions, there was virtually no traffic.

By the time she was home, she was exhausted. She gave her son a handful of candy, let him watch one more half-hour Christmas special about magic candy canes trying to regain their stripes from a villainous trainset (in the end, everyone learned the true meaning of friendship, acceptance, and racial sensitivity), and collapsed on the couch.

Adam had meanwhile purchased the rights to a new ornament depicting Santa's sleigh being pulled by a team of fire-breathing dragons, which he then printed and hung proudly on the tree. He finished about the time Derrick's special wrapped up. The family gathered around the artificial tree, which Adam plugged in. Miniature lights embedded in the branches bathed the fake needles and ornaments in pale pastel lights until June adjusted the dial to more "traditional" holiday colors.

By then, it was nearly ten; time to send Derrick to bed so "Santa" could make an appearance. Derrick, continuing to display a highly nuanced understanding of holiday tradition, neither argued nor hesitated: it was well known among his friends that behaving well and getting to bed on time were essential strategies for anyone wanting to maximize their yuletide haul.

Once he was tucked in with the lights out, his parents retreated to the living room. Adam pulled two beers out of the fridge and offered one to June, who declined it with a shake of her head. He returned the spare to the fridge and popped the lid off his. "Should I ask?"

"Not too bad," June said, lounging on the living room couch. "Hardly anyone came in all day. The place was completely dead after six."

"Sounds great," Adam said. "The office was hell. Utter hell. Tokyo wanted reports on the bears that were supposed to be transferred from Anaheim last week. No one over there realized this wasn't the night we wanted to stay late. If we could have explained, I think Kiro would have understood, but of course her whole team was already off for the night. Just left us to get it done in this time zone. Then, that business with the damn car...."

"Oh," June said, brushing the remaining hair back from Adam's forehead and kissing him on the temple. "I'm sorry."

"Hey. It's life. But, I'll tell you, I'm just about ready to hit the sack."

"Tell me about it," June agreed. "As soon as we take care of Derrick, I'm going to collapse."

Adam pulled a ten-pound pack of plastic shavings out of the closet and set it down beside the 3D printer. June eyed the pack and shot her husband a look.

"It's only once a year," Adam said, with a grin. "You got the list?"

"I've got it right here," June said, logging onto a 'Letters to the Pole' site, where kids sent their lists directly to 'Santa,' all the while ostensibly unaware that their parents are able to access them. Derrick hadn't bought into any of that for five years, but the site was free and - by this point - family tradition. "I don't think there's this much on the list, though," she added, tapping the pack of raw material that they'd soon churn through the printer and transform into Christmas.

"Well... I might just have a few surprises of my own."

"Okay. I guess we should buy the schematics for the action figures, then talk about digital access to movies and games while those are printing." She signed into the toy site, where she'd be able to purchase rights to digitally reproduce toys of Derrick's favorite cartoon and movie characters, as well as accessories, playsets, vehicles, and role-play items like toy guns, badges, and masks. She entered her password, and clicked "Yes" when the site asked to import her son's list.

Then the power went off.

Silence. Utter silence. And black.

"I'm sure it'll come back on in a second," Adam said. He finished off his beer. "I mean, it has to come back on."

The fingers on June's right hand began nervously tapping against the computer desk.

"It's Christmas Eve. They have to get this fixed. I'm sure. Any second now," Adam said. His voice was different now. It was strained and no longer clear whether it was a statement or a question.

June was now tapping with her left hand, as well. The pace increased like racing horses gaining momentum.

"I'm sure, if we just give it a few more minutes, this will all be resolved. We'll be laughing about this later. Really."

Three and a half minutes later, June and Adam were shoving their printer into the back seat of June's car. It took both of them to get it down the stairs in the dark, and it barely fit. Making matters worse, the parking garage was pitch black.

"Shouldn't we wake him?" June asked.

"Tina only lives, what? Three miles? We'll head over, hook up on her wireless, print some toys and games, then we'll be back in, what? A half hour tops. We'll look back on this and laugh," Adam said, now clearly sarcastically. "Can you get a signal yet?"

"Nothing," June replied, checking her phone. "The towers must be out, too."

"When we clear this block, it'll work again. Call her as soon as you get a signal and let her know we're coming."

"What if she's not up?" June asked.

"Keep calling until she is," Adam said. Sure, it was harsh, but this was Christmas Eve, and - unlike June's sister - they had a kid.

They pulled out of the garage beneath their condo and were immediately met head-on with a barrage of snow and sleet pounding down against their windshield. Making matters more precarious, they found themselves embroiled in some of the worst traffic Adam had ever seen.

"Alert!" the electronic voice of the car announced. "Hazardous conditions."

"Acknowledged," Adam said.

"Alert!" the voice continued, "Abnormal traffic pattern ahead."

"Acknowledged," Adam said, through his teeth.

It was stop and go as they coasted \- sometimes literally, thanks to the icy streets - though block after block of dark houses and apartment complexes. There wasn't a single blinking light or fiberoptic glowing Santa, not one blinking reindeer or set of inflatable elfin carolers singing public-domain Christmas songs. Even the red and green of the traffic lights - that one ubiquitous reminder of Christmas that really does last 'all year round' - was absent. It was a true silent night: the farthest thing from Adam's idea of Christmas imaginable.

"Still no signal," June said, as they neared the halfway point to Tina's. "I'll try the radio."

She cycled through a handful of classic rap stations, country tunes, and singer-songwriters doing classic renditions of old holiday tunes, until she found someone talking who didn't sound like they were a commercial.

"--not a good night for folks out there. But we've got the latest from the national weather service. The storm should be wrapping up after midnight, but the power... that'll probably be off a bit longer. If you can stay home, officials are asking you to do so, but most of the folks who have called in haven't been too keen on that suggestion. So, here's what we know. Power's out in the greater metro area and in most of the valley, so if you're trying to find a place to log in... best of luck. Your best bet might be to head over to the Riverside Mall, where they're selling off their floor models."

Adam pulled a U-turn, almost getting hit by a truck going the other direction, which laid on its horn. He was about to flip the driver off, when a car pulled a U-turn just like he had a second earlier and came right into his path. He slammed on his brake and horn simultaneously, narrowly avoiding a collision. Then he slammed on the brakes yet again as another car pulled a U-turn directly in front of the car in front of him.

"How... how many people do you suppose heard that broadcast?" he asked softly. His wife just gazed on in stunned silence as vehicle after vehicle pulled into the street ahead or behind them.

Half of the shops in the Riverside Mall had closed down years ago. The majority of the remaining units had converted to showrooms, where customers could come in to flip through sample coffee-table books before having them printed, try on clothes before ordering them, and - of course - view objects in person before buying the rights to print a copy in the comfort of their own homes.

Limited supplies were kept on location, since nothing was actually supposed to be on sale. But desperate times were clearly calling for desperate measures; unfortunately, that desperation described the entire city. The parking lot, which was usually almost empty, was packed. Adam found himself driving up and down the aisles, looking for a space.

Finally, he darted into a spot after another couple climbed into their minivan and pulled away. "That's lucky," Adam said. June looked unsure: the couple who'd left did so empty-handed. Still, the inside of the mall pulsated with light; it was the first they'd seen since the outage, and it filled them with a sense of hope.

The mall was full of parents running back and forth to the shops with toys and games while young men lined up in front of any place displaying jewelry. The storefronts where both were present were almost impossible to approach. In the background, the whirr of generators all but drowned out the Christmas music, leaving only a faint echo.

The tide of the crowd caught June and Adam, who focused on staying together - with cell phones unavailable, getting separated would mean more lost time. They found themselves swept up to the front of one of the mall's toy stores. A short, balding man was blocking the mob as best he could.

"Listen folks. We are out of everything. I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can--"

An older woman wearing a sweatshirt reading 'World's Best Grandmother' demanded, "What the hell are we supposed to do then?"

She got an ovation, which gave a man in an expensive suit a chance to ask, "What about the back? The storeroom? Look, all I need is--"

"I'm sorry. I mean we are literally out of everything."

"Well... can't you print more? You've got power!"

"Power doesn't do us much good with the network down. I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do."

"Well... what are we supposed to do?" someone asked.

"Have you tried Frank's, at the other end of the mall?"

"They told me to come here!" Someone shouted.

"I don't know," the store manager said. "You could try downtown." It was clearly a desperate suggestion: the chances there'd be anything left at another mall were scarce, but the crowd began to disperse.

"I don't know," June said. "This looks hopeless. Maybe we could... I don't know... explain it to Derrick. He'd understand."

"That he's not getting presents until after Christmas? Have you met our son?"

"Well... what do you suggest?"

Adam leaned against a wall. "I don't know," he admitted.

"Wait," June suggested. "This outage can't go on forever."

"So?"

"So, what if we drove north on 2. Just kept going until we find someplace where the power's on. There's got to be a hotel. We rent a room, hop online, print up his gifts, then get home before he wakes up."

Adam's mouth opened. "That... that might work."

They practically ran to the car. It was almost midnight, but they had a second wind now. As they pulled out, another car, almost identical to theirs, took the spot, and another couple charged towards the mall.

Until they reached the highway, every intersection was a sea of cars trying to squeeze through. Police had taken over at the larger streets and were directing traffic, but the smaller roads met in a jumbled cacophony of horns, screeching brakes, and crunching snow.

When they finally reached the highway, it was somewhat better. There were quite a few people on the road, but the traffic was moving along as fast as would be expected. The storm had mostly passed, leaving a light, lingering dusting of snow. They crested a small hill and looked out at the river of red lights on the backs of the cars ahead.

"It never even occurred to me," June started. "I think this will be Derrick's first white Christmas."

Adam started chuckling into a robust laugh. June started in, too, until they were practically howling with laughter. Neither had any idea why.

When they started seeing lights, they began pulling off onto exits. Every hotel had identical "No Vacancy" signs lit. Eventually, Adam pulled into one, and the couple went into the lobby. There were three people before them, already arguing with the clerk.

"Look," one of the customers began. "We don't actually need a room. All we need--"

"I'm really sorry," the clerk said. "We can't let anyone on to the network who isn't a guest. It would take up too much bandwidth. We're having enough trouble as it is: this is the busiest shopping day of the year."

Adam and June quietly slipped away while the others kept arguing. "We'll go further," Adam said. "We'll find something eventually."

Three more exits brought almost identical scenes. After that, he passed by the next four exits, before pulling off on the fifth. By this time, the two of them were too tired to keep talking. They pulled into a convenience store for some coffee.

They picked up a handful of snacks while they were there, along with some candy bars for Derrick - even if things went well, they decided it wouldn't hurt having some extra sugar to slip into his stocking.

There was no one else in the store besides the clerk, a thin, sinewy college kid who started ringing them up.

"Hey, do you know if there are any hotels around here?" Adam asked.

"There's one on 55, but I think they're full up," the clerk said.

"Jesus," Adam said to June. "Okay. We'll try anyway. Maybe we're far enough out they won't be so strict about letting us use their network."

"Huh?" the clerk said.

"We lost power," June said. "We're trying to find a place where we can go online and buy some toys for our kid."

"Oh. I guess that's why it's been so busy tonight. I was wondering."

Adam tried his best to smile while he gathered his purchases. "Thanks for the info," he said.

They were almost out the door when the clerk called after them. "Hey. Do you guys have a printer with you?"

They turned back, a bit confused. "Yeah," June said.

"Oh. You could always plug in here. I could give you the password to the store's wifi. If you wanted," he shrugged.

"You could do that?"

"Well... I'm not supposed to. But, it's Christmas, right?"

It took fifteen minutes to get the wireless to work on June's tablet, then another forty-five to melt the plastic chips down and convert them into toys, including the time it took the device to spray on the quick-dry paint and sealant with a swiveling mechanical arm. While it worked, they sat on the counter and finished the rest of their shopping, buying Adam digital rights to a number of new shows and movies, including a few they'd probably have held off on due to content if it weren't so late. They bought a lot of coffee and packaged pastries, and treated the clerk to the same after he refused to accept any money from Adam.

Adam and June walked out of the convenience store an hour after entering with their Christmas shopping done. The snow had stopped, and they began the slow drive home through the snow and ice.

It was almost five when they pulled into the garage beneath their apartment complex. The radio had spent the last few hours taking calls from frantic parents who'd been in the same situation as Adam and June. Some ended with the callers telling how they found a hotel with vacancy or someone in the sticks who'd let them into their house at two AM to get online and print up presents for their kids. Others ended with the stoic caller explaining how they'd realized it wasn't meant to be, and that maybe they should see this as an opportunity to teach their son or daughter that there's more to life than material possessions.

They piled the gifts up in their arms and hauled them upstairs, then wrapped everything as quickly as possible and shoved them under the tree. It was cold in their apartment, so Adam and June held each other and stood looking at the silent, dark tree.

"Maybe it's the lack of the sleep, but I kind of like it this way," June said.

"Definitely the lack of sleep," Adam said jokingly, but he liked it this way, too.

IT WOULD HAVE been somewhat inaccurate to say that Hector Stewart did not want a red bicycle with silver handlebars for Christmas, but no less accurate to say he did. Hector did want a bike eventually, but there was little rush, particularly since he wouldn't have a chance to use it until spring. That he'd have no other opportunity to get a bicycle before then was little consolation, nor was the knowledge there'd be nothing he'd rather have when May finally came around. Because Hector was eight, and at eight May is as distant from December as college or retirement. It is a future beyond sight, beyond imagining.

What Hector wanted was a pair of skis. Sleek, incredible, nearly magic. Skis. He'd first come across the idea reading one of his brother's comic books. A special agent had out-skied three Russian agents who were after him. The way he'd rounded corners, dodging between trees and slipping through panels had enchanted Hector. He'd become obsessed, taking books out of the library and asking his parents questions about the sport constantly.

But his parents mostly just seemed annoyed. And they'd begun slipping hints into conversation about bikes. Yes, four months earlier he'd complained constantly about the lack of a bike. How Josh, Nathan, Piper, Carl, Michael, Dave, Larry, the other Dave, Martin, Steven, and Alexander all had bikes (he wasn't actually sure about Martin, but he found it extremely unlikely his parents would research the matter, so he'd included the name for added emphasis). But September had been a long time ago.

Unfortunately, he didn't have a list of ski-owning friends to add weight to his argument. He'd asked around, and it turned out that none of his friends - not a one - owned a pair. His argument lacked gravity, and he was fairly certain it had fallen on deaf ears.

So, with what promised to be the most disappointing Christmas of his life looming, he knelt down to pray. "God," he said. "I know you've got, like, hunger and disease, and I'm blessed to have a home and food and all. But there's nothing I want as much as a pair of fibreglass skis. If there's any way you could make this happen, I'll never ask for anything for myself ever again. If you could give me a sign, I'll be grateful forever." Hector opened one eye and looked around.

Zilch.

He sighed and closed his eyes again. Then he clenched his hands together tighter. "Jesus. I know this is your birthday, but I really, really want those skis. If there's any way you could make that happen, I swear I'll do my best to follow the commandments." Again, nothing.

Hector went down his mental list of archangels and saints, still with no results. He was ready to give up, when he had one more idea. There had to be other saints and angels whose names he didn't know. So he focused once more and whispered, "Look. If anyone's out there, the thing I want more than anything is a pair of skis. If there's any way - any way at all - please, just send me a sign."

There was a muffled thumping sound inside Hector's closet, and he jumped up, startled. He tiptoed over to the door and opened it carefully, half expecting a new pair of skis to fall on him.

Instead, he found the devil.

You may be wondering how Hector knew it was really the devil standing before him, as opposed to someone else with red skin, goat legs, and small horns atop his head. But if you'd ever stood in front of the Prince of Darkness yourself, you'd understand: you just know.

Hector's mouth was dry. He'd never seen a demon before, let alone Lucifer himself. He was surprised to discover that he wasn't really scared. It helped that the devil wasn't all that threatening. Sure, he was larger than Hector, he leaned on a pitchfork, and his tail - which swished back and forth \- had a barbed end that looked more than capable of skewering someone much larger than Hector, but he didn't look upset or violent. In fact, he seemed to be taking such extraordinary care not to disrupt the inside of Hector's closet, that Hector couldn't imagine the devil hurting him. Also, he was dressed in a fanciful tuxedo, which made him seem even less imposing.

Nevertheless, Hector swallowed uneasily. "Hi," he said, as nonchalantly as he could manage.

"Hello," the devil said back, before clearing his throat. "It's Hector, isn't it?"

"That's right," Hector said.

"Ah. In that case, Hector, would it be alright if I came in? Or out, as the case may be. It's stuffy in here."

Hector stepped back, making room for the devil to step through. The two looked at each other silently. Hector finally asked, "Do you want to sit down?" He motioned to the chair that tucked under his desk.

"Yes, please," the devil said at last. He hurried over, pulled it out and sat down. "Now then. This is usually awkward, so I'll simply come out and ask. Do you know who I am?"

Hector nodded.

"Ah. Very good. Yes. Even so, I need to make this official. Rules and all. Hector Stewart, I am the devil. It's my understanding that a few years of Sunday School have given you some understanding as to what that means, but please, if there's anything you'd like clarified, do not hesitate to ask." He paused, but Hector just stared back. "Alright then. Let's move on. Next matter of business. I'm required to inform you that you are in no physical danger, nor are you compelled to enter any kind of arrangement against your will. Any agreement is contingent on your free will, however once you've made such an agreement under said willpower, you must abide by it, providing the other party - in this case, me - delivers on their end of the bargain. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I think so," Hector said.

"Good. In that case, we can proceed. I understand you're interested in obtaining an object - a pair of skis - and have not been satisfied with other avenues of obtaining them. Is that true?"

"Yes," Hector said.

"Would you like me to get them for you?"

At this point, Hector had to stop himself from nodding. It was true he wanted the skis, but he'd paid enough attention in Sunday School to know he was treading dangerous terrain. "For what?" he asked.

The devil bit his lip. "It would be for your soul, Hector."

"Oh," Hector replied, thinking. He really wanted the skis, and he was relatively sure that whatever consequences arose from selling his soul to the devil wouldn't come to pass for a long, long time. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he imagined lakes of fire and blood; monsters and torment unending. "No. No, I don't think so."

The devil scratched his goatee. "I can see your point. Market value and all. You're right, a soul's value does exceed that of most any pair of skis. I'll throw in something extra: I can increase muscle mass in your legs and arms, as well as lung capacity by fifteen percent. It won't make you Olympic class, but it would give you a strong edge getting started."

"I'm sorry," Hector said. "I just... I don't think my mom would want me to."

The devil chuckled. "I can certainly understand that." He stood up and stretched his legs. "I should be going then. Quite a few other people to see. Unless... is there something else you might want? Either instead of or in addition to the skis. Some toys, perhaps?"

The situation was unlike anything Hector had ever confronted. "I... I don't know," he said. He felt there ought to be, but his mind was an utter blank.

"Unfortunately, I do have to be going," the devil said. Suddenly, his face lit up, and he snapped his fingers. "I've got it, Hector. Why don't I come back next year. By then you'll have had a chance to think the matter over, and we can renegotiate. What do you say?"

"Okay," Hector said.

"Next year, then," the devil said, vanishing in smoke and mist.

Over the next year, Hector prepared two Christmas lists. One was a list given to his parents, containing a number of books, desired toys, and even some records he had little chance of receiving ("There's something about these new... musicians," his mother would say, concerned). He'd thrown that together mostly for show, however, and had little investment in its contents.

He'd also prepared a second list, one that no one had seen. He'd come up with several ideas, most of which he'd wound up crossing out. Among the items that had been on the list but were now partially obstructed by scribbles were:

A rocket ship.

A live dinosaur.

My own movie theater.

The city of Chicago.

Then, at the bottom, underlined and circled two times, he'd written, "a time machine."

Hector sat quietly on his bed. Occasionally, he'd glance over at the clock, but it barely moved. Finally, the devil arrived in a coalescing pool of dark fog and darker energy. Hector was a little surprised he didn't opt for the closet again, but it was their second encounter.

The devil looked around to regain his bearings. Then he said, "Hi, Hector."

"Oh. Hi," Hector said.

"So," the devil began. "Have you given any thought to what you might like?"

Hector nodded.

The devil smiled in a manner that was surprisingly non-threatening. "And what did you come up with?"

Hector held out the list, pointing to the only item left. The devil took it from him and looked at it for several seconds in quiet contemplation. "I see," he said at last. "Hector... I'm sorry, but time machines don't exist. Not really. That's not something I can get for you."

"Oh," Hector said.

The devil perused the list, squinting to read the other items despite their obfuscation. "I actually might be able to get a dinosaur," he offered.

"A brontosaurus?" Hector asked, someone energized.

"No. No, I don't think there are any of those left. Besides, that would be... too obvious. It would have to be a small dinosaur. I don't think they've discovered and named it yet. I've always just called them rat-chickens. They're about yay tall, with tooth-filled beaks and.... I don't suppose that's something you'd be all that interested in negotiating for."

Hector shook his head.

"I can't help but feel somewhat responsible for this predicament," the devil said. "I should really have been more specific. I can do a lot, but there are limitations. I can't make something that doesn't exist suddenly start. Also, it needs to be something that... I don't know how else to put this... something that I can get to you. I mean, I can't just have a rocket ship land on your front lawn. People would ask too many questions, and someone would take it away from you. You see what I'm saying?"

"I understand," Hector said.

"Can you think of anything else you might like."

Hector considered his options, but his mind was blank. The truth was, he'd really had his heart set on getting his own time machine.

"I see," the devil said. "Maybe we can pick this up again next Christmas Eve. Would that be all right?"

"Okay," Hector said, and the devil vanished just as he had the year before.

"I'm not sure if you can do this," Hector - now ten - said to the devil on the third Christmas Eve they met. "I mean, I know you can't do things that don't exist, but... a lot of people say you don't exist." He took a breath, somewhat afraid the devil would laugh at him. "Are genies real?" he blurted out.

The devil did not laugh. Instead, he answered frankly, "No, I'm afraid they aren't."

"Hmmm. What about, you know, wishes? Could you give me three wishes for my soul?" Hector asked.

"I suppose that gets complicated. In a sense, whatever we agree upon will be a wish. Or even multiple wishes. But we need to agree on what those wishes are beforehand, because there are limitations on what wishes I can fulfill. And also because otherwise you could always just ask for your soul back as the third wish, and I'd be left high and dry."

Hector nodded, biting his tongue. As a matter of fact, getting his soul back would have been his third wish. His plans had been somewhat railroaded now. Once again, they failed to reach a consensus and postponed negotiations.

The next year, when he was eleven, Hector had his heart set on owning his own pet dragon. He actually debated the issue when the devil informed him they didn't exist: they are, after all, mentioned in the Bible. This lead to a philosophical discussion about the nature of truth that went a bit over Hector's head. But the upshot was no dragon for Hector and no soul for the devil.

By year five, Hector had grown up somewhat. The importance of "now" had faded, and the question of what he'd one day become had taken on new importance. And what twelve-year-old Hector wanted to be was an astronaut. The devil was excited, of course - that was certainly something he could work with. But then came the fine print.

"I want to be the first man on Mars."

The devil didn't veto that out of hand. In fact, he said something he hadn't done before: "I'm going to have to check on some things first. Could you give me an hour?"

Hector agreed, and the devil vanished. The expression on his face when he reappeared made it abundantly clear that the news wasn't good.

"Sorry. I had my analysts run the numbers, and there's no way I can promise that. It's extremely unlikely anyone will travel to Mars in less than fifty years. We can make you an astronaut, but... I'm not sure we can even guarantee you a trip to the moon the way things are going. You'd be able to spacewalk, but...." He trailed off when he saw the look on the child's face.

Hector was devastated. While this was hardly the first Christmas Eve he'd met with disappointment, it was the first time he'd gotten his hopes up this high. Even so, he remembered to politely thank the devil and agree to meet the next year.

The sixth Christmas Eve they crossed paths, Hector was starting to think more seriously about his future and the rare opportunity these meetings were presenting him with. He had finally learned something about himself: he was fickle. It baffled him that he'd failed to figure this out sooner, but at least he got it now. If he'd received a dinosaur on year two, would he really still want it? He no longer wanted to be an skier or an astronaut, either. Whatever he wanted now - whatever his true heart's desire was - why should he think it would still matter to him by next Christmas Eve, let along for the rest of his life?

This didn't cause him to dismiss the meeting as futile. On the contrary, he now saw the opportunity for what it really was: the chance to ensure whatever whims life brought to him, he'd be ready.

"Twenty million dollars," Hector said, even before the devil had a chance to ask the question he was answering.

The devil burst out laughing. "Oh, Hector. I'm so sorry. I don't mean to laugh at you. It's just..." he held up his palm while he regained control. "Please, I'm actually impressed by your initiative and your enthusiasm. But I'm afraid that's quite a bit more money than any soul's actually worth."

For his part, Hector was a little taken aback by the devil's reaction. He'd been led to believe souls were priceless from what he'd heard in church. "Then how much is it worth?" he asked.

"Your soul, right now? About a hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

"Is that all?" Hector asked.

"I suppose you are old enough we can start discussing the economics at play. You see, a soul's value increases or decreases in value as time goes on. Most depreciate, in fact, as it becomes more and more likely a person, well... is going to wind up with me regardless. People who live exemplary lives can wind up with souls worth three or four hundred thousand by the time they mature, but that's rare."

Hector considered the amounts in question. A hundred and fifty thousand dollars was a lot of money. Probably enough he'd be able to survive on it for years, maybe even for the rest of his life. But he knew he couldn't travel the world, buying whatever he wanted, without a lot more.

"I'll be honest with you," the devil said. "Most people who take the money don't end up happy. Money's something you might get on your own. Getting a talent or changing how people see you... that's something only I can provide. It's a more fruitful line of thought."

"Next year?" Hector asked.

The devil smiled. "Next year," he agreed, before vanishing.

Turning fourteen brought a host of disappointments to Hector's life, not the least of which being his failure to make the cut for his school's baseball team. His more athletic classmates seemed to experience life far fuller than he, and he began to consider - quite seriously - whether this might be a direction worth pursuing. But trading one's immortal soul, he reasoned, was not something to be undertaken lightly.

When the devil appeared, Hector was ready with elaborate checklists, notes, and charts. He began grilling his visitor right off the bat.

"What can I expect to be bench-pressing?"

"That depends how hard you work at it. I can guarantee more than triple your current maximum."

Hector made a note. "What about throwing?"

"I can improve eye-hand coordination at least fifty-five percent."

Another note. "And running?"

"Top in your school, off the bat."

"Will I be able to go pro?"

"That depends," the devil began to explain, but was cut off by the door to Hector's room opening.

"--thought I heard talking and wanted to make sure you weren't listening to," were the words Hector heard his mother say between her opening his bedroom door and actually looking in. As soon as her eyes fell upon the scene before her, she went silent. Quite pale, too.

Mrs. Steward had always had a powerful imagination, so if she'd ever pondered the various compromising activities she might one day catch her fourteen year-old son in the middle of, she no doubt could have assembled a robust list of possibilities. However, nowhere on that list would "negotiating a deal with the Prince of Darkness" have appeared.

Everyone was remarkably still for a moment. Hector and the devil looked at Mrs. Stewart. Mrs. Stewart stared back at the devil.

No one spoke. No one breathed.

Then, in barely a whisper, out of the corner of his mouth, the devil said to Hector, "Gotta go. We'll pick this up next year," and poof! A cloud of smoke and swirling mist.

Mrs. Stewart screamed louder than she ever had in the thirty-seven years she'd been alive.

"So," the devil said almost exactly a year later. "How'd that go?"

Hector nodded. "Not great. I thought... I don't really know what I thought. That she'd kill me or something. No. More like she'd get Dad to kill me. She really freaked out. But, when Dad got here, I just... I didn't say anything, like I was in shock. He didn't know what to do. I mean, you weren't here, right? So... it's just her yelling about finding the devil in her house. She dragged me to church and even got a priest to sit down with us and talk about it. But... I just kind of tried to act confused. The priest said she wasn't making sense, that the devil is a spiritual construct, not a physical person. And if he was physical, he wouldn't look like you look. Pretty soon, she even started to think she was crazy. She began going to talk to a psychologist. Then, last month, she told my dad she was leaving. She said it wasn't because of me, but... it all started last year."

The devil gently placed a clawed hand on the boy's shoulder. "It's really not your fault," he said. "These things just happen sometimes."

"I guess. I just... if I wanted to... could you make her come back?"

"Is that what you really want for your soul?" the devil asked.

"No. No, I guess not."

"Good. To be honest, I'm not sure I could do it anyway. I can't really make people do things. I have ways of encouraging them. But I don't think it's a good idea."

"Probably not," Hector said.

"I don't suppose you still want athletic ability?" the devil asked.

"I don't think so. I don't know what I want." They talked for a few more minutes, and then the devil left, leaving Hector alone on that very cold Christmas Eve.

Hector may have been in the dark that year, but by the next the sixteen-year old was pretty certain he'd made up his mind. Even before the devil got there, there was a tension in the air. Satan felt it as soon as he arrived.

"Hi, Hector."

"Oh. Hi. There's something I want to ask you about. But it's... it's kind of difficult."

"It's okay," the devil said. "I might have faults, but the one thing I can't be accused of is being judgmental. Worst case, you ask for something I can't deliver and we're back to square one. I won't hold anything against you."

Hector nodded. Then he walked over to his bed and pulled a magazine out from between the mattresses. He brought it over to the devil.

"Wondered when we'd get to this," the devil mused.

"I feel so stupid," Hector said.

"This is normal," the devil said. "I've dealt with a lot of people. Boy gets about your age... well, there are things you start thinking about. Let's talk."

Hector flipped through the pages. "Here she is. September. Her. I want her."

"In what capacity?" the devil asked, already a little worried. He had dealt with a lot of people, and he knew all too well where the pitfalls in these bargains were placed.

"I think I love her," Hector said. "I know how stupid that is, but I think it's true. I've never even met her, but I love her. I just want her. You know what I mean."

"I'm not so sure you know," the devil replied, "and that's the real problem. Our deal has to correspond with your understanding of your request, otherwise it's impossible for me to fulfill my end of the bargain. And, I'm sorry for being so blunt, but you're a virgin, Hector. You don't know what you're asking for."

"But... isn't that true with everything? I mean, you've offered me money, objects, and abilities before. I was too young to really understand what those meant, wasn't I? How is this different?"

"Those were things I could give you. I can't give you this woman..." the devil paused to check the name in the margin then continued, "I can't literally give you Marsha - I actually don't think that's her real name - the way I could give you a car or a house. She couldn't be yours to own for a number of reasons, not the least of which being contemporary mortal legal systems. Besides, even if I could, she'd be too valuable: a person's life is worth more than a soul. I know that seems counterintuitive, but it's simple economics."

"I don't... I don't want to own her. Not like that," Hector said, somewhat shocked by the turn the conversation had taken. "I just...."

"Are you asking for her? For how long? One night? For the rest of your lives? I can't promise either. I could get someone who looked like her to be with you for a night. I could get you someone even better looking. But I don't think I could get her, even for that time. And, even if I could, I'm not sure she'd do... what you want her to do. I could try to persuade her, but I can't make her."

"I... wouldn't want that, anyway," Hector admitted. "I guess... I didn't think this through. Not really. I don't want someone who doesn't want to be with me. But... I also don't want just anyone."

The devil smiled warmly. "You're young. Maybe this wasn't the year for us to close our deal. Would you like another year to think things over?"

"Yeah. Thank you," Hector said.

The tenth year Hector met the Devil on Christmas Eve was something of a milestone. Along with a myriad changes in Hector's life, there was quite a change in scenery. For the first time since the Devil had appeared to bargain for the boy's soul, they didn't meet in Hector's room. In fact, when the devil appeared to Hector, he found himself standing on a dirt road about five miles away from the nearest house. There was a thin coat of snow on the ground left over from a snowstorm three days earlier. The sky was clear, and the air was brisk.

Hector was lying on the hood of his car, an aging blue Ford Falcon. He was staring up at the stars when the devil appeared, pitchfork in hand.

"Hey," Hector said, sitting up. "I was worried you wouldn't be able to find me. I wasn't sure how it works, you know? I left you note in my room. Did you get it?"

"No. I can find people when I want to."

"Yeah. I kind of figured it was something like that, but we'd never really talked about it. Oh, there's an extra coat in the car, in case you're cold."

"Thank you, but no. I'm perfectly content as it is," the devil chuckled. "Regardless of what you've heard, there are places in hell a lot colder than this."

Hector shuffled over, and the devil sat beside him on the hood. "This is new," he mused.

"Yeah. Dad got it for me for my birthday. Said a man should have a car. Guess that means I'm a man now. Dad's gotten... I don't know... kind of weird. Since mom left. But he's seeing someone now. She's a waitress, got two kids of her own. They're cool and all, but I guess I felt like a third wheel. Besides, those kids are always sticking their noses around, barging in without knocking. I thought it might be better if we met somewhere else."

"I don't mind," the devil said. "It's a lovely night. I don't get to see the stars much these days."

"I guess I should say this right off the bat. There's really nothing I'm looking for right now. I'm pretty happy with how things are. It doesn't seem fair to keep that from you. I know you probably have a lot to do."

"My schedule's pretty busy," the devil confessed, "but I've got some time free. There are worse ways to spend a few minutes on a pleasant evening than kicking back on the hood of a Ford, so unless you're eager to get rid of me, I'd just as soon stick around."

"No hurry. I was going to try and get together with Vanessa later, but her dad found out and put an end to those plans pretty fast."

"Vanessa?" the devil asked, intrigued.

"She's... she's this girl I'm seeing. Real sweetheart. It's getting pretty serious, too."

"Glad to hear it," the devil said. "Are you at least going to meet up tomorrow?"

"Yeah, but during the day, when her folks are around. Not really the same thing."

"No, I'd wager not," the devil said laughing. "Still, you don't want to spend Christmas apart."

"I guess not," Hector said. "I'm surprised you think so."

"Why's that?" the devil asked.

"Well... I mean, Christmas. Isn't it kind of as far from your thing as possible?"

"Christmas actually means a lot to me."

"Really? But isn't it, you know, for the birth of your enemy?"

The devil laughed again. "I've never thought of him as my enemy. Actually, that's not true. I did once, but that was long, long ago. Before I realized what he'd done for me and my kind. Before Jesus, everyone - saint and sinner alike \- came to us. I thought that was the way I liked it. I thought it was my victory over heaven. But how can there be victory without struggle? The souls of mankind were given to me by God; it was all part of His will manifest. And it was so boring. I never realized it at the time, but it really was. There was nothing to do, nothing to strive for. Not until the Son showed up. Like I said, I didn't think about it that way then. At the time, I just thought he was God's spoiled kid, busting into hell to steal half my souls. I fought him something fierce, but he prevailed, took the benevolent souls with him, and left me the rest. After that, it was never the same: there was a way into heaven. We had to work to get spirits. But... it gave us something to work for. He gave us something we'd never really had: an opportunity to thwart his Father's will, even if the victories were small. I honestly don't know if Jesus intended any of that or even if he'd thought it through. I don't know what he thinks of us. But, whether he meant to or not, he saved us before we even realized we needed saving."

Hector just sat silently while the devil spoke. Once he'd finished, Hector said, "Wow. All Christmas ever meant to me was presents."

The devil almost fell off the car laughing. "Nothing wrong with that, either," he said once he'd stopped. "Nothing wrong with that at all."

When they met a year later, Hector was renting an apartment with two friends, both of whom were fortuitously attending a Christmas Party Hector had feigned a stomach ache to avoid. Things were going well with Vanessa, and they'd started talking about moving in together. They hadn't figured out next year yet - she was applying to colleges in the area, and he'd already dropped out of high school to work at a department store - but they were optimistic they'd figure it out.

The devil gave him a brief rundown of political developments in hell, of how various demons were vying for power and of how the economy there was tightening. "None of it really adds up to much. It gets repetitive after a while. Not so bad as in heaven, but close some days." He sat down on Hector's couch, taking care not to damage the upholstery with his tail. He'd leaned his pitchfork up against the coat rack.

"Hey, my mom sent some Christmas cookies," Hector said, fetching a tin. "My roommates snatched most of them, but I hid these." He offered the tin to the devil, who took one.

"Thank you," he said, biting it in half. "So, is there anything on your Christmas list this year?"

"I was thinking," Hector began, "Musing might be more accurate. I took up the guitar last spring. I'm getting pretty good, too."

"And you want to know whether I can make you a rockstar?" the devil asked.

"Yeah. I thought it might be an avenue worth exploring," Hector replied. "I know these things get complicated. But I know it's... well... a lot of people say things about some of the guys they play on the radio, and your name comes up."

"For good reason," the devil admitted. "I've got more sway there than in any other industry, exempting politics. But you're right - it does get complicated. If I could snap my fingers and make anyone a rockstar, the world would be overrun with them. I can improve ability, make connections, and push fate, but that's all."

"I figured," Hector said. "Seemed worth a try, though."

"Well, don't give up too fast," the devil said. "Let me hear you play, see what we have to work with."

Hector ran to his bedroom and emerged with an acoustic guitar. He played a few Stones covers, along with some Zeppelin tunes. "So," he said.

"Not bad," the devil answered, thoughtfully. "But not great. I could make you better, so much so that you'd have a real chance of making it some day, provided you were willing to dedicate your life to music and work through a few hard years."

"That doesn't really sound like me, does it?" Hector laughed.

"I guess not." The devil laughed as well, and Hector started playing a version of We Three Kings. It wasn't a particularly good version of the song, and Hector didn't really do it justice, but the devil sat back, helped himself to another Christmas cookie, and smiled.

The next year, the devil found Hector in a new apartment. It was much smaller, but it was a studio, so there were no roommates to worry about. At a glance, the devil could tell there was no one else to be concerned with, which explained the state Hector was in.

It was dark in the apartment. There was a table lamp in one corner but the light barely reached the other side of the room, where Hector was sitting on his bed.

"Hi," the devil said.

"Hey," Hector said softly. He looked up, his eyes bloodshot. "Vanessa broke up with me. She said there wasn't anyone else, but... I don't know. College, right? I guess that's what happens."

"I'm sorry," the devil said.

"So," Hector continued, "I've been thinking. Maybe I should sell my soul to get her back." He laughed in an ambiguous way. Not even he could have said for sure whether he was being serious or not, but the devil seemed to take it that way.

"We run into some familiar paradoxes. We'd be negotiating for something I don't own. Depending on the situations of her life, I'm not entirely certain I could manipulate her through direct means. And, if I did, there's no telling she'd stay. For this reason, I'd have to insist my obligation only went so far as getting her to return to you."

"And I'd just be back here next year, with no soul left to bargain away, is what you're saying."

"I don't know," the devil replied. "It's possible it would work next time. There are addendums we could try to add, say making alterations to your personality, fixing elements of your situation, and that sort of thing. If you really think her enrollment in college was a factor, I'm sure I could find a way to terminate that arrangement."

"You mean getting her thrown out," Hector said, looking at his floor. "She probably deserves that. But... God, maybe I'm the one who deserves having their life screwed up. I shouldn't even be considering this. I'm sorry. I thought this was the year, that maybe this was what I was waiting for. But this is petty."

The devil sat down beside Hector. "It's your soul," he said. "In the end, you've got to determine what it is you want most. I'm in no hurry - let's pick this up next year."

A year later, the devil found himself back in the same small apartment, face-to-face with Hector, now twenty years old. He'd grown a beard since they'd last met, though the devil had no difficulty recognizing him.

"How's it going?" Hector asked.

"You know how it is," the devil replied. "Rather dull, all things considered. The market for souls is good, I suppose, but that really just makes things more tedious, to tell the truth. How has life been treating you, Hector?"

He shrugged and motioned to the apartment, which had been less cluttered the previous year. At least now there was more light. "I'm working in a warehouse now," Hector said. "I guess things are tedious for us both."

"I'm sorry to hear that," the devil responded. "Anything I can do?"

Hector grinned. "That's the big question, isn't it? Let's see. Finances? New job? Better place?" He brushed a pile of clothes off a chair at his table and offered it to the devil, who thanked him and had a seat. Then he moved some magazines, revealing a notepad. They negotiated for the better part of an hour, but when the devil presented his final offer - guaranteed acceptance into a state college, a part-time job at a decent (but not overwhelming) hourly rate for the duration of his education, a full-size one-bedroom apartment at less than he was paying now, and (provided Hector managed to graduate on time) a managerial position with a growing company - he balked.

"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head. "It's not that I don't appreciate the offer. It's just...."

"Don't say another word," the devil said. "I understand completely. Your soul's worth a great deal and you're not comfortable parting with it."

"I guess," Hector said. "I don't know, it's just... I feel like whatever I get should really move me. And, while this all this sounds good, it just isn't making me excited."

The devil nodded. "Next time, then?"

"Next time," Hector replied.

The next year was a mixed one for Hector. His landlord increased his rent, so he had to give up the apartment and move in with an old friend of his from high school. He met Jennifer, but they spent most of their time together arguing; when she finally broke it off, all Hector felt was relief. Meanwhile, a friend of his father's told him he might be able to offer him a job in his video store after the holidays. It took all of Hector's willpower not to quit his job in the warehouse on the spot.

There were certainly things Hector wanted, but nothing so much to consider surrendering his immortal soul. The devil was about to head along when they heard a sound from the other side of Hector's bedroom door.

"Oh, don't mind that. It's just Gerard."

"Your roommate? Aren't you worried he'll hear us talking?"

"Nah. Gerry wouldn't barge in without knocking, no matter how high he is. Besides, he's experimenting with acid, so I'm not sure it would.... why are you looking at me like that?"

Indeed, the devil's face had lit up. He smiled mischievously and whispered, "Hector, would you be kind enough to introduce us?"

Hector started to laugh. "No," he said, but by that time he was almost doubled over. "No!" he repeated.

A minute later, the devil opened the door and stepped through. Hector followed behind at a distance, biting his tongue to keep a straight face. Gerard was sitting in a recliner, facing away. He was studying his hand with a disappointed look on his face when the devil stepped in front of him. Gerard's mouth opened in shock.

"Oh, hello," the devil said. "You must be Gerry. My name is Rick. Hector told me all about you. I work down at the warehouse, and I just stopped by to drop of his Christmas bonus. He said I should introduce myself before taking off."

The devil extended a hand, which Gerard didn't touch. To his credit, he did manage to blurt out, "It's good to meet you. I have to get going. Last minute shopping." He half jumped, half rolled out of the recliner, going over the handrest to avoid contacting the devil.

"Oh. Are you heading to the mall? I can give you a ride, if you'd like," the devil offered.

"No. No, that's... I wanted to walk. Bye." He never took his eyes off of the devil, which worked out for Hector, who was having a hard time maintaining a straight face.

Gerard was out the door in a few seconds. It took five solid minutes before Hector and the devil stopped laughing and regained the ability to talk.

"I can't believe I let you mess with him."

The devil nodded. "I know, it's horrible, right? But you can't tell me you didn't love his expression."

"Have you ever done that before?" Hector asked.

"Mess with someone while they're tripping? Are you kidding? I'm the devil. Every damn chance I get!" They both started laughing again.

The following year was even better than the one before. Hector took a job in the video store just as business took off. He was promoted to manager soon after. And, even better, he met Laurie.

Laurie was one of their best customers. She came in almost daily to rent some old monster movie or science-fiction flick. She'd ask him questions about films he'd never heard of, and he found himself pretending he'd seen them, just so he'd have something to talk to her about. Then he found himself taking home movies as soon as she returned them. And then it was movies he thought she'd be interested in before she got to them.

Pretty soon, they were going to the movies once a week to catch old flicks at midnight showings in theaters Hector hadn't known existed. Were they even dates? It was so informal, he wasn't sure. After a few months had passed, he thought he was ready to make a move, but he never got his chance: she beat him to it, and then they were a couple.

"I really like her," Hector explained to the devil. "A lot."

The devil smiled. "It's always discouraging to see you looking so upbeat," he said pleasantly. "Discouraging, but... good," he added with a wry smile. "I take it we won't reach an agreement this year."

"I don't think so," Hector said. "Guess I'll see you next year."

When the next Christmas Eve rolled along - the sixteenth they'd met up - the devil found Hector pacing around an empty parking lot blowing into his cupped hands to keep warm.

"Hector! Is everything alright?"

"Oh, hey! Yeah," he laughed. "Actually, everything's fantastic!"

The devil looked around. "Where are we? Gas station?"

"Place closed a few years ago. I wanted someplace no one would show up, you know. Remember Laurie? I told you about her last year? We moved in together six months ago. The apartment's pretty small, and the walls are paper-thin."

The devil nodded. "It sounds like everything's going well."

"It is," Hector replied. "It really, really is. I... can I show you something?" He ran over to his parked car, opened the passenger-side door, and reached in. He flipped open the glove compartment and pulled out a small box. He removed the lid and showed the devil what was inside.

"Hector... she'll love it."

"I wish I could afford more, but I don't think she'll mind. You think she'll say yes?"

"They almost always say yes," the devil said.

"I'm going to give it to her tonight," Hector said, closing the lid and returning it to the glove compartment. I thought about waiting until tomorrow, but I think this is better.

"Congratulations," the devil said, with a grin.

"Thanks," Hector said.

They talked about various things for a while: the growing video industry, ongoing diplomatic tensions between heaven and hell, politics, books they'd read, and complaints about traffic patterns, both Hector's about the freeway and the devil's from interdimensional shifting. Finally, the conversation petered off, and the devil said, "I should get going, but good luck tonight."

"Thanks," Hector said. "Sorry we never got around to discussing my soul."

"Oh, think nothing of it! You've got bigger things on your mind this year. We'll take it up again next time."

"Yeah. I want to give it more thought. But I've been thinking I might want to do something for people. My life's been so good, I kind of want to use it to give something back. I mean, if that's even allowed."

"Of course it's allowed. It's your soul: you can exchange it for whatever makes you happy. For a lot of people, that's charity. I'd say, roughly ten percent of the spirits I buy are sold to benefit the less fortunate or the environment or a loved one. Just last week, I helped a lovely old lady trade her soul to ensure the survival of her church. Things like that aren't unusual at all."

"Oh," Hector said, a little disappointed. "Well, I'll give it some thought for next year."

By the next year, Hector's interest in philanthropy had evaporated. When the devil appeared, Hector was sitting in a small office, reading a magazine. "Hi!" Hector said, setting it down.

The devil looked around at the room. There were pictures on the wall - nothing expensive, but all framed - and there wasn't an empty can of beer or soda in sight. He smiled and said, "I told you she'd say yes."

Hector laughed and offered him a chair with an open back where his tail could hang unimpeded.

"Thank you," the devil said, sitting down. "So, where is Laurie?"

"Party at her sister's," Hector said. "I told her I'd meet her later. I'll get in trouble for being late, but at least it gives me an excuse to make our appointment."

"I'm glad things are working out so well. Are you still at the video store?"

"Yeah. It's going pretty well. I'm starting to think I could probably use a change, though. I could use more money with the baby on the way--"

"Baby?" the devil asked, surprised.

Hector grinned. "Laurie's three months pregnant. It's scary, but it just...." He stopped, looking for a word.

"It changes everything," the devil said.

"Yeah. Everything. Do you have any kids?"

"Oh, no. Nothing like that. I'd have liked some, I think, but it's... it's different for us."

"Sorry. I hadn't meant to pry," Hector said.

"Don't give it a second's thought," the devil said. "I don't mind talking about it. Everyone \- human, demon, angel - has to make do with what we're given and what we can get. I'm very happy, I think, all things considered. But, if I have a regret, it's that I can't have children."

"It's exciting," Hector said. "I have no idea what to do. It's so strange. I don't know what kinds of diapers to get or where you even go to find out about diapers. Then there's the name. Laurie wants to name him Marvin if he's a boy, after this comic writer she likes. But I don't want to do that to the kid. 'Hector' was bad enough - believe me. I'm thinking something simple. Steve, Mike: something like that."

"I'm sure it will work out," the devil said. "These things generally do."

"Maybe you can help," Hector said. "Like I said, I could use a better job."

They negotiated for a while, but it was a path they'd been down before. Any job the devil could have traded him had some caveat: the hours would have kept him from his family, it was too tedious, or the pay just wasn't quite good enough. So they parted as they had sixteen times before.

The scene in Hector's office was mostly unchanged from the year before, save that it was a little messier. Hector, however, was very changed. His beard was trimmed back, and his hair was short. And there was one other difference - he wasn't alone. Cradled in Hector's arms was a sleeping baby.

"He's beautiful," the devil whispered, standing over Hector's shoulder. "I assume Laurie's resting, too."

"She was exhausted. I told her I'd watch Stan tonight as an early Christmas present." Hector's voice was muted, too, and he rocked the baby as he spoke.

"Clever," the devil said.

"I thought so," Hector replied. "I look good, I can make our appointment, and it even gives me a chance to show him off."

"You must be so proud," the devil said.

"I really am. Between me and Laurie, I think everyone at the video store is sick to death of the pictures and stories. But I could care less: I've got about a dozen rolls of film, and I'm using up every one of them in the morning."

The baby started to stir. Slowly he opened his eyes and looked at the devil. For a moment he lay still. Then he tilted his head, opened his mouth, and began crying.

"Oh. I'm sorry," Hector said. "Really." He lifted Stan up onto his shoulder, stood up, then started to move around, trying to lull him back to sleep.

"No. That's all right," the devil said. "I should get going. I don't want to scare the boy."

"I really am sorry," Hector said.

"Nonsense. We'll talk next year," the devil said, before vanishing in his usual way. Stan stopped crying, instantly enchanted by the swirls of smoke and mist left in the devil's stead. He giggled until the colors faded, then he began crying again.

The next few Christmas Eves were likewise uneventful. There was always something Hector wanted - the first year it was to own a house; the one after that, his own business - but he never seemed interested in closing the deal, even when the devil made a very generous offer to set him up with his own video store with the potential to spin out into a chain. Hector's heart simply wasn't in the negotiation, perhaps because he suspected he'd wind up with these things anyway - and with good reason: a promotion for him and a new job for Laurie put them in a house before Stan turned four- or perhaps because he was getting older and starting to think more about the future after the future.

But mostly it just seemed like life had given him new priorities. Most of the visits weren't spent on tempting offers or bargains: they were monopolized by Hector's stories. He never brought Stan with him again, of course, but Hector always brought out the photos. These weren't "the year Hector wanted a new home" or "the year he wanted to be his own boss," but rather the year Stan took his first step or spoke his first word.

The devil, to his credit, never pushed or rushed Hector. He seemed content to hear the stories and see the pictures. He still made offers (he'd have been remiss in his duties not to); in fact, he came as close as he ever had when he casually suggested Hector consider a college fund one year. That got the bargaining going, with Hector pulling out his calculator to check interest rates. Pretty soon, the pot was sweetened with promises of guaranteed admittance to certain schools. In fact, had the devil been able to promise Stanford, he'd have left with a signed parchment. But Stanford is a hard school to get in, and the devil's counter-offers just weren't good enough. It seemed a trivial detail, but it was enough to derail the discussion, at least for the time being. Nevertheless, it was real progress, and the devil left encouraged that this line might lead to a resolution. He'd return the next year, after brainstorming options to perhaps sweeten the pot a bit more.

That was the twenty-third Christmas Eve the devil met with Hector. He left him in his study, an expansive, clean room containing a typewriter, an oak desk, and a bulletin board where Hector had pinned a number of drawings Stan had given him over the years.

When he returned on the twenty-fourth year, he found a very different scene. Hector's office was disheveled; papers everywhere, half-eaten plates of food were sitting on his desk, and the scent of alcohol was prevalent. Hector's beard was a mess, and there were rings under his eyes. He was sitting almost completely still facing a second chair.

The devil sat in front of him. Hector barely recognized him. The devil paused. "What happened?" he asked softly.

Hector didn't blink. "He's... it...." his eyes began tearing up, then he bit his lower lip and locked his jaw. "If I offered you my soul," he said, "could you bring my son back?"

The devil opened his mouth but didn't say anything. Instead, he shut it a moment later, then grew stern. He closed his eyes and concentrated. A moment later, he opened his eyes, then placed a hand on Hector's shoulder.

"I had to be sure," he explained. "Listen to me, Hector. You're in shock now, but you'll understand later. I can't bring your son to you, not in any capacity, because his soul is not in my power."

Hector's resolve faltered, and his head slumped to the table. He wasn't exactly crying, but he was utterly drained, utterly empty.

The devil rose to his feet. Then he patted Hector on the back gently. "I am so sorry for your loss," he said.

Hector didn't notice him leave.

It was raining on the last Christmas Eve the devil came to visit Hector. It was a slow, heavy rain, the type that reverberates when droplets drum against the air conditioner, the type that permeates the air so nothing truly feels dry, even inside.

The devil appeared as he always did in Hector's office. Hector had cleaned himself up: his beard was neater than it had ever been, and he was wearing a nice, button-up shirt with a vest. But he still seemed sad.

"Hi," Hector said. "Glad you could make it." He had a pair of glasses in front of him and a bottle of whiskey in his hand. He removed the cap and poured. He took one for himself and offered the other to the devil. "Sorry it's not something more festive," he said.

The devil looked him in the eye. "Ah. I think I see." He accepted the glass and took a sip. Then he cleared his throat. "I've dealt with tens of thousands of men over the years. Maybe hundreds of thousands. You get a feel for things in that time. You can feel it after a time, when a deal's about to close or when it's going to fall through once and for all."

I'm sorry," Hector said. "It's just... I've never really cared for my soul. I never really believed in heaven. I mean, is an eternity in clouds really better than in fire? I thought about that a lot after I met you."

"You're smarter than most who devote their lives to the subject," the devil replied.

"But I do know... I know I want to see my son again."

The devil smiled. "I know you do, Hector. I'm sorry we never reached an agreement, but I want you to know that I've enjoyed these meetings. Time well spent is never time lost, damn the business end of things."

The devil extended a hand, which Hector shook. Both looked as though they might say something, but neither did for the longest time. Hector didn't mention his marriage and whether he thought it would survive. The devil didn't mention any other appointments. Neither said a thing about the weather or politics or movies or theology. They simply sat together and finished their drinks. Hector poured himself another and offered the devil a second, as well, but Satan declined.

"Thank you, but I really should be going."

"You won't be back next year, will you? I mean, we could keep meeting, just to talk."

"I'm sorry, but I can't. There are--" he cut himself off with a sigh and a smile. "I'm afraid I simply can't," he said instead. He stepped to the center of the room, then turned back. "Oh. Hector. Before I go, there is one thing. Beneath your tree, when you have a chance. No need to wait for morning." He smiled one last time, and then he was gone.

Hector sipped his drink before leaving his study. In the living room, beneath the plastic Christmas tree Laurie had bought the year Stan was born, there was a long, thin box which hadn't been there before. On the lid, he found a simple note. The penmanship was meticulous: "Think nothing of it - just a parting gift from an old friend."

Inside was a pair of silver fibreglass skis.

THE BOX WAS GOLD, decorated with pearl-white ribbons and silver beads, many of which had fallen off over the years. Teresa took a handkerchief and wiped off some of the accumulated dust from the outside.

"Alice. Alice, dear," she said. "Please come sit with me." Her daughter came over and sat cross-legged on the floor. "No, Dear. Up on the couch." Teresa never raised her voice around her daughter. Alice was special. She was smart, but there'd always been something different about the girl. She didn't see the world quite the same way as other children. A few years earlier, Teresa had taken Alice to see an old college friend of hers who taught psychology at the University. _She's not autistic,_ her friend had said, somewhat apologetically. _At least, I don't think she is. You should really have her checked out by a therapist specializing in developmental psych._ Teresa had thanked her friend, for what it was worth. Of course, if she could have afforded a real psychologist, she wouldn't have bothered with an associate professor in the first place. But unlike her friend, she hadn't gone to grad school and landed a nice job. No, Teresa had gone the other route and got married right after graduation. Nevermind how that worked out.

Teresa smiled at the girl, who seemed on the verge of losing interest. "There's something I want to show you. Something very, very special. This box has been in our family for a long, long time. My mother gave it to me years ago. Do you remember your grandmother?"

Alice shook her head.

"Well. Tell you the truth, there are days I can't remember her so well either. But that's what's special about this box. When I open it every year, it's like she's right here with me." Teresa slowly lifted the lid, revealing an interior lined in faded blue velvet. Inside, there were a dozen colored glass bulbs, each containing a name painted on in golden letters. "Everyone in our family gets one eventually." With exceptional care, Teresa pulled out the first layer, revealing another beneath it. "See? This blank one is going to be mine. And this one? Guess whose name will be on that someday." She looked to her daughter, who was staring blankly at the bulbs.

Teresa set them aside, and finally her daughter looked up. Her lower lip was quivering just the slightest bit. "Mom. Don't put us there."

Teresa had no choice but to laugh. "Honey, everyone in our family gets a bulb. It's nothing bad. It's a tradition. It's something we have connecting us to them."

Alice stared at her mother. It looked like she wanted to argue, but she didn't say anything.

"Now then. Would you like to help me hang them on the tree?" Teresa asked. Her daughter still sat silently, so she brought the first few bulbs over to the tree and started to hang them. "This one says 'Albert.' Albert was one of my mother's uncles. This one's Lawrence. To be honest, Alice, I don't even know who that is, but we can look him up in the albums later. And this one, the one that says Pauline, that was my mother's mother. You know what that makes her, Alice? Your--"

The sound of shattering glass exploded behind her, and Teresa spun in shock to see her daughter standing over the shards of a bulb. A cloud of blueish dust was settling among the broken pieces, and Teresa gasped. "Alice," she said, rushing over. "Why did you do that?"

But Alice wouldn't answer.

Later that night Teresa tucked her daughter into bed. The punishment for the incident had been severe: a week with no television, including tonight. Alice had missed out on her Christmas Eve movie.

"Hi, Hon," Teresa said. She'd cried earlier after sending Alice to her room, and she hated herself for it. The bulbs, for all their sentimental attachment, were just things. Objects, not people. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."

Alice nodded, but she was lying. Teresa could always tell when her daughter wasn't honest with her. "Sweetie. If you're up for talking about it, I'd like to know why you broke the ornament. Was it an accident?"

Alice shook her head.

"I didn't think so. Now, you know the ornaments are important to me, don't you?"

Alice nodded.

"So then. What happened?"

Alice bit her lower lip. Then she looked her mother in the eye. "I heard them," she whispered. "Couldn't you hear them?"

"Hear who, Dear?"

At first Alice didn't say anything. Her eyes darted around the room, as if she expected something else to appear. Then, after enough time had passed, she said, "It's not just the names."

"What names? The names on the bulbs? Honey, those are people who are related to you. They're... they're family."

"I know," Alice said. "They need help."

"No one needs your help. You're imagining things."

Alice shook her head again. "They're trapped," she said, before burying her head beneath the sheets.

After tucking Alice in, her mother retreated back downstairs. She poured herself a scotch, and collapsed on the couch, where she could look at the tree. The ornaments were all on it now, hanging beautifully, reflecting the multi-colored lights and tinsel. She caught sight of the one with her mother's name on it, and for the briefest of instants thought she saw her face. She smiled, marveling at the magic of Christmas and memory, and she thought back on the woman who'd raised her. She wondered if she'd given her anywhere near as much trouble as Alice gave her.

"Not likely," she laughed, finishing off her scotch. Then she retrieved her daughter's presents from the closet, dumped half a pound of candy into the stockings, and headed up to bed.

She woke abruptly, unsure what had startled her, but sure something was wrong. A moment later, she heard a crash, and then another. She leapt out of bed, ran out of her bedroom and started down the stairs. The room was partially illuminated by the Christmas lights, but was otherwise dark. "Alice!" she screamed. "Stop!"

Her daughter was standing at the foot of the tree, surrounded by shards of glass from a half-dozen shattered bulbs. She was barefoot and cut - there were streaks of blood along the floor.

Alice saw her mother and frantically pulled the next bulb down then dashed it against the floor. It exploded outward, leaving a blue puff of dust behind. Teresa charged the stairs while her daughter pulled down two more and hurled them beside the last. One broke; the other didn't. Alice didn't hesitate: she stomped down hard on the one that remained. She cringed as she stepped away, blood dripping from her foot, but she kept going, grabbing another and dashing it against the hardwood.

Teresa spun around the post at the end of the banister. But then she stopped. And the blood rushed from her face as the cloud of dust from the bulb her daughter just smashed rose up and passed in front of her face. Teresa fell back, clutching a hand to her mouth as the cloud disappeared in front of her.

She fell against the coatrack and watched as her daughter pulled down the remaining bulbs, one by one, and destroyed them. She watched the blue clouds spill out of the broken shells and drift through the room. Some faded through walls or ceilings; others just vanished into the air itself.

She wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or scream.

If she'd looked closer earlier, would she have seen? She'd thought it dust. Some remnant left over from their construction decades before. She'd barely given it a moment's consideration.

But it wasn't dust. Dust didn't move like that. And dust certainly didn't have a face.

When it was done, she crawled towards her daughter, who limped towards her. When they met, Teresa lifted Alice up, so she wouldn't keep walking on her cut feet. Teresa was crying now, and she brushed Alice's hair away from her face. The girl was clearly in pain, but mainly she just looked relieved. Teresa stuttered, but Alice interrupted her.

"They're free now. They've been trapped for a long, long time, but they're now they're free."

Teresa looked at the shards in stunned silence. When she'd hung them, she'd always felt a connection to her family. Like her mother had been there. Like Christmas was magic and could make anything happen.

Maybe Christmas was magic. But not all magic is good.

IT'S BITTER COLD, but that doesn't stop Patty from staking out the door, mug of eggnog in hand, to greet each new arrival as they enter. Wendel's the next to show up, gift clutched tightly (yet another bottle of wine, wrapped in metallic green foil), and he practically runs into Patty, who stops him with a wry smile. "Wendel," she says pointing upward. "Mistletoe." She grabs his tie and pulls him into a kiss tasting of sweetened alcohol, sugar cookies, swedish meatballs (courtesy of Beth, who's been eying Patty's greetings, and may have just mouthed something uncomplimentary beneath her breath about her former roommate), candy canes, and a single bite of Jacob's fruit cake that Patty had indulged in "just to see if it's really as bad as they say" (much to her disappointment, it hadn't been).

Wendel's taken by surprise. A heavyset, balding man in his mid-thirties, he's not used to this kind of attention, especially from someone like Patty, and he finds himself stuttering to follow-up with some clever response he never fully forms. A siren sounds out in the distance behind him, and Francine cracks a joke about it being some kiss. Patty almost falls back into Wendel's arms cackling with laughter and manages to catch herself, though a generous portion of her eggnog makes it out of her mug, flying through the air to land square in the middle of Wendel's green and red sweater.

"Oh. That's fine. Don't give a second thought," Wendel says needlessly; the event never even merited an initial thought in Patty's head - she hadn't noticed.

Wendel takes a deep breath to give it a third go, but the fates aren't on his side. Jake pulls him away to introduce him to Karen, who's maybe more his type, anyway. Meanwhile, Jon's ladling eggnog into another mug. He fills it to the brim and runs it over to Patty. He holds it out to her but pulls it back when she reaches.

"Mistletoe," he reminds her, arching his eyebrows.

She wrinkles her nose and presses her finger into the center of his chest. "You got your kiss," she reminds him.

"I know," Jon replies. "But I don't make the rules." He steals a kiss while he hands over the drink, swapping it for Patty's empty cup. When he draws back, Patty coughs. "Is my breath that bad?" he asks humorously.

"It's not you," Patty says. "It's this air, you know? I've been feeling it all afternoon." She takes a swig from the fresh mug.

"That should fix it," Jon says, trying hard to not to sound too eager.

"How many of those has she had?" Beth asks Karen, who's been regretting hosting the party ever since her husband, Barry, excused himself since he wasn't feeling well. Karen shrugs, feeling less than protective of Patty since she unilaterally decided Barry wasn't exempt from the law of the mistletoe.

Another car pulls up, and the doorbell rings. Patty pulls it open and is disappointed to see Julia standing in front of her. "Jon," she says, grabbing his arm. "You're up."

Jon glances at Julia. "I don't think Julia wants to--" he starts, expressing a reluctance he hadn't shown for Francine or Melissa.

"It's a rule," Patty says, hitting him on the arm. "It's... I was reading about it. It's a pagan ritual. If you don't do it, Christmas doesn't come. You don't want to ruin Christmas, do you?"

"Can I come in?" Julia asks, still in the doorway, right before Patty grabs her and practically bashes her head into Jon's. Behind them, a passing ambulance's flashing lights paint the snow in holiday colors.

Jon does his diligence, while Patty claps and Beth stares on in disbelief, already regretting locking lips with Jon when she arrived.

Julia pushes Jon away and rolls her eyes. Kyle shrugs innocently.

"It's a rule," Patty says again, when Julia glares at her.

"Mistletoe is poisonous," Julia says, before pushing by to get herself something to drink. Karen meets her halfway.

"Jules! I'm glad you made it!" She throws her arms around her old friend. "I thought Irene was coming with you."

"She wanted to, but they needed her at the hospital. With everything happening, they said--"

"What's happening?" Wendel asks, interrupting the conversation. He's not so much interested as bored.

"Oh, you know. Didn't you read the paper? About the birds?"

"Hey!" Kyle yells from the other side of the room. "We should get out the games!"

"No," Karen says, excusing herself from Wendel and Julia. "Kyle, we're not... those are for later." In Karen's mind, "later" means "never," since she's hoping the party will die down within the hour. If someone pulls out Twister, she knows she'll be lucky to get them out before two in the morning. "Oh, Beth. Beth, honey. Please turn off the TV."

Beth mutes the sound but leaves it on. There's some kind of news special cutting back and forth between pictures of dead crows and a hospital.

Patty coughs again, this time louder.

"Huh," Wendel says, rubbing his throat. His gaze is locked on Patty, who's still coughing. He's about to come to her rescue, but Jon beats him to her, offering a green handkerchief from his pocket. People like Jon will always beat him, Wendel thinks.

"You okay, Babe?" he asks.

"I'm fine," Patty says, embarrassed. "It's just the air, you know?" She starts laughing, but it disintegrates into another coughing fit.

Come to think of it, Wendel's feeling a little something, as well. Briefly, he wonders if he might be catching a cold. He looks around the room and decides it must be the weather: everyone looks a little uncomfortable, just like Patty said. He jumps when he hears something thump against the roof.

"What was that?" Kyle asks.

"Sleigh bells!" Melissa says, coughing once herself.

"Just rain," Karen replies, sipping her drink and wondering how many of her guests are planning on crashing on her couch and whether she can find a polite way of preventing that from happening. The last thing she wants to wake up to on Christmas morning is a handful of hungover guests who've outstayed their welcome.

Patty's still coughing away. She gets a hold of herself after a minute. "Eww," she says, drawing Jon's handkerchief away from her face. It's perfect for the holiday now, with a streak of red cutting through the green.

Everyone except Kyle stares silently. But Kyle makes his way to the window. "It's not rain," he says. "It's... it's birds. There are birds falling out of the sky." He's speaking softly, too surprised to feel alarmed. "Is it because of the cold?"

Jon recoils from Patty when he sees the handkerchief, and something brushes through his hair as he steps back. He swipes at it, as if it was a bug, but it's just the mistletoe, now swaying overhead. He opens his mouth to say something, but his throat feels dry, brittle, and cracked. He tries to clear it, but it just comes out as a cough. In the very back of his mouth, he can taste droplets of blood.

In the distance the sirens howl. The television, still on mute, shows men in masks rushing around a hospital already full. The word "Pandemic" appears in bold black letters.

And the mistletoe keeps swaying back and forth, like the pendulum of a clock counting down the seconds to Christmas.

HOW DO YOU know the real one's the real one? I mean, twenty-seven years of shopping malls, Christmas movies, candy commercials and the like: how do you know all those Santas are fake? The truth is, you just do. You see them there in their garish red suits and stupid hats, and at a glance you know they're fake. Even kids know. They might lie about it, even to themselves, but no one's ever really been taken in by the old farts they bring into department stores every winter. Because deep down, we all just know. We can tell the difference between a fake Santa and the real thing. I guess I never gave that much thought when all I'd ever seen were scores of knock-offs.

But... Jesus. You walk into your living room middle of the night Christmas Eve and find a jolly fat-ass in a red suit and mittens washing down a plate of oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies with an open bottle of whiskey left over from your Christmas party, well... you've got to stop and reflect on that.

From the second I saw him, I knew this wasn't some burglar or nutbar or anything like it. This was Santa-fucking-Claus in person. The legend, the myth. The real one.

A few points. You know those crappy, garish outfits I mentioned before? The ones the phonies wear? Yeah. Spot on. The hat, the coat; you name it. Same hideously bright red you see on TV, except turned up to eleven. There he was, the spirit of the season, and he looks like he just fell off a soda billboard.

But he smelled - he smelled like he crawled out of a sewer. I'm telling you, I've hit up some pretty awful bars in my time. I've come across some foul smelling sons-of-bitches, but this guy was something else. Let me put it this way: you ever stop and consider that Santa flies all over the world, speed of light or something, and the whole time he does it, it's behind eight reindeer?

Me either. Until, like I said, I was standing there in front of him.

"Well. If it isn't little Martin. All grown up. Quick gawking and sit down." His voice was deep and a little slurred. I sat down, about as far from him as I could manage without being too obvious. "Where's the wife, Marty?"

"Lauren, she's... uh... she's asleep. It was...."

"Rough party?" He asked, sneering. He shook the bottle. "Not a lot left when I got to it. Little less now. Hope you don't mind, but it was on the table." He tapped the wooden coffee table which held the remnants of the cookies, as well as a full cup of milk. "If it's on the table, I figure it's fair game, eh?"

"Uh. Yeah. I... I guess."

"I'll tell you something, Martin. You look like you got something on your mind. Why don't you share whatever's bothering you with dear old Saint Nick?" He took another gulp of the whiskey. The bottle was almost empty now.

"It's nothing," I said.

"Come on now. Out with it."

"Fine. I mean, what the hell is this?"

The fat man laughed again. "Just taking a break, Martin. Hope that isn't too much to ask."

"No. Of course not. It's just... you're drunk."

"So's your wife, Marty. And, unless these very experienced senses deceive me, you've had a few drinks tonight, too, haven't you? And why the fuck not? It's Christmas!"

"All right, but... you're Santa Claus. What would you do if some kid saw you like this?"

Santa leaned towards me with a sarcastic smirk from cheek to rosy cheek. "This might surprise you. Might shock you even. But it turns out in the one-thousand plus years I've been delivering gifts to the world's children, I have, in fact, had a drink or two in the past. And I have, in fact, been seen by some kid afterward. And the world has, in fact, continued to turn on its goddamn axis. Kid sees me, I flash them a grin, slip them an extra toy and a candy cane, and send their ass to bed. No big deal."

"But shouldn't you, you know? Be better than that?"

"Oh. Ha. I get it. This is great. You're pissed because I'm not what you hoped for. Don't measure up to your expectations. That it, Marty?"

"Well...."

"No, no. You're right. I mean, I'm sorry I'm such a disappointment to you," Santa said, awkwardly pointing through thick, black mittens. "Look, Marty. I'm sorry to keep shocking you like this, but you're not exactly living up to expectations, either. Remember... remember when you were seven? Little airplane? Red? You remember that?"

"Ah... yeah. I guess."

"Good. Now, you remember why I got that for you? Do you?"

"I don't know. Because I liked planes?"

Santa started laughing harder, deep belly-laughs. Not that ho-ho-ho shit from TV: this was the laugh you get in bars from angry truck drivers. "Liked airplanes? LIKED AIRPLANES?" The old man sure as hell wasn't laughing anymore. "You were gonna be a pilot when you grew up! What the hell happened, Marty? You find your true calling repairing office equipment? You decide, hell with the sky; I'd rather wade up to my ass in toner? You think those toy planes make themselves? That thing took one of my elves three days to finish. Guess I should have just given you a ream of computer paper and saved him the headache."

"Are you kidding me? I was a kid: I had no idea what being a pilot meant. I didn't know what life meant or what I really wanted out of it."

"Yeah. Tell me something. Now that you're older and you got that all figured out, how's it going for you? Really. On a scale of one to ten. How are you doing?"

"I don't know. I've got a job. That's something in this economy. And a family. Good kid. So you can go to hell, old man. I'm not doing so bad."

"That so, Marty? That so? Way I see it, you barely see your kid, do you?"

"So? I work long hours."

"Bullshit. You're out by five and at the bar by five-fifteen. How long you really expect to have that family you're so proud of, things stay like this?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked.

"You know what it means."

The son of a bitch was out of line. "Fuck you. I've never cheated on Lauren. Never."

Santa smiled. It was a big smile. Mean. "Guess that makes you a real saint, right? You've been true to your wife. Never even thought about it, did you?" Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a notepad. He flipped it open. "Certainly not the kind of guy who'd approach a blond grad student at Morrin's Pub on November 16 at eight forty-seven, after telling his wife--" he flipped back a page-- "He'd be out looking for a spaceship for his kid."

"How do you--"

He gestured to himself and rolled his eyes. "Who the hell do you think you're talking to? I know shit."

"Right," I said, apologetically. "Right. For what it's worth, nothing happened."

He closed his notepad. "Yeah. Like I said, I know." He finished the whiskey and set the empty bottle down. Then stood up and stretched. Then he lifted his sack up from behind the couch and opened it. He fished around and pulled out a box wrapped in red and green paper.

"What's this?" I asked.

"It's a toy rocket-ship, Marty. For your kid. I must have forgotten the card. Why don't you fill one out for me?"

"I... look... thanks."

"Whatever. Mind if I hit up your bathroom before I head out? Oh, and don't worry about me driving in my condition. Deer do all the work, anyway."

"Oh. Okay. Yeah. Hey. I'm sorry I lost it. I'm sorry--"

"You were a good kid, Marty. Now, you got one. Don't blow this."

He was gone after that. I had a hell of a time trying to explain the bathroom to Lauren the next morning - it smelled for months in there. But... I think I'm a better person now. I'm not perfect. I still go out after work sometimes, but not all the time. And I sure as hell never approached anyone again. Even if I wanted to, I get it now. I get the real meaning of Christmas. It's a reminder: that he's always watching.

That was five years ago to the day. And every Christmas Eve since, I've done what I'm doing tonight: getting the presents down early and getting to bed before ten. Because I never want to see that old bastard again, long as I live, no matter how much I owe him.

But, right before heading up, I always do one extra thing. I leave out a bottle of Scotch beside the milk and cookies, because I really do owe him a lot. And I wonder sometimes whether he's doing what he really wanted to do in life. I wonder if maybe he wouldn't have been happier with a family of his own, or - hell - maybe a job fixing printers.

Shit, I don't know. But I know he likes a drink from time to time. And it is Christmas, after all.

"I'VE BEEN saying it, Bob. Been saying it for six years now. Ever since I moved into Elbington."

The ground shakes the tiniest bit, like a trailer's driving by. But you look down one side of Route 81 and up the other, and there's not a blessed thing. Not a headlight to your left or a tail light to your right. And you know perfectly well there's not another road east of Milford can hold a truck with more than two axles.

"Told Trev just last week up at Jones' General Store, when he was all, 'Merry CHRIST-mas.' I told Trev he was wasting his breath. That there wouldn't be a merry anything this go-round."

It's silent for a second, then you hear the rustling. You step off of Stanley's porch to have a look around. There's nothing for a second, but the rustling gets louder. Then you look up. Almost mistake it for a cloud at first, but that's no cloud. It's a flock of birds, but not like any flock you've ever seen. There's crows up there, pigeons, gulls... all flying together. All the same direction.

"Don't know how many times. I said Elbington celebrates too loud. Too many Christmas's, I said. Been called Scrooge more times than I can count. Been called Grinch. Worse things, too. But I just said, go ahead and wait. You heard me say that, Bob. You heard me warn 'em. Not a one of 'em listened. Not even you, but you were civil. And that counts for something."

There's a sound like trees buckling in the wind. But there's no wind tonight. Air's still as the water in a frozen lake. Dead as the leaves in December.

"You know what I been saying, Bob. I been saying the dump's too crowded. Folks said I was crazy. Said there's still plenty of room. But I never did say it was full. Not once did I say that. Said it was crowded."

The birds are gone now. Just silence for a minute. Then the buckling sound again. It's coming from down by the dump.

"It was crowded long before the trash came. Crowded before Elbington was Elbington. Someone with a sick sense of humor put that dump there, Bob. Someone who didn't respect the past. Someone who thought the dead would stay dead."

Something creaks, snaps. Splintering, shattering. Crashing, pounding, exploding.

"Sounds like the bridge, eh, Bob? That's the thing with the dead. You get down to it, the dead really are trash. One and the same. Just buried waste decomposing under the ground. How much thought have you ever given that? You ever really stop and consider that? You leave trash down there long enough, it turns to something else. It grows together."

There's something in the air. Something awful. You can smell it pouring down. Like rotting eggs and dead fish, festering garbage on a summer day.

"Think about it. A thousand plastic trees. A million broken bulbs and cracked ornaments. Think about all that tinsel and garland. Inflated lawn ornaments that popped. Nut crackers that snapped and stockings that tore. Then wreaths, firs, dead poinsettias. Miles of wrapping paper. Miles and miles of it. All dumped on top, along with God knows how many gingerbread houses and fruitcakes. And what's beneath? A thousand souls, long dead. So I ask you, Bob, what's it all have in common? What's it all mean?"

There's not much moonlight tonight. Not more than a sliver. But it's enough. The shape is beyond description, beyond sense or meaning. It's a mound. A heap. A slouching, lumbering giant three hundred feet tall.

"It wants to be remembered. It wants to come back. See, I told them. I told them all, Bob. Said you couldn't keep piling it up like that. You heard me warn them, Bob. All these years I said, it'll come back to us."

The mound moved forward. Does it have feet? Legs? You can't tell. The ground shakes, more than before. It's closer now.

"Take a gander, Bob. It's Christmas past, come home to Elbington. Just in time to celebrate with us all."

At the top of its impossibly large mass, on the tip of what could be a head, you make out a familiar shape: a Christmas tree, most likely artificial, quivering.

"YOU'RE KIDDING, RIGHT? You know what time it is?" Mark was frantic, which wasn't making his drive through the storm any easier. His cellphone was pinned between his ear and shoulder, while he clutched the steering wheel with both hands. On the other end of the line, his ex-wife was just as stressed.

"Yes, Mark. I know what time it is. And I'm sure I'm ruining your plans to spend Christmas Eve in a bar. But right now, I really need you to step up and be a father for Tom."

"So now I'm Tom's father again," Mark said. He regretted it as soon as he said it, but it was too late. He cringed for the worst, but Patricia only sighed.

"Look. Jerry's brother is back in the hospital, and... I just think it would be better if Tom wasn't here in case things get worse. I know it's a lot to ask on short notice, but this caught us all by surprise."

"I'm... look. I... I mean, of course, I'll take him. It's just, I wasn't expecting this. I don't exactly have Christmas dinner ready or anything. Hell, I don't even have a tree set up."

"I'll make sure Tom eats before I bring him over. Is an hour enough time?"

Mark glanced at the dashboard clock in his pickup. Six forty-five. "An hour's good. I'll pick up some cookies or something at the drugstore. I mean, you got to have cookies, right?"

"Don't worry about it. We've can send some stuff with Tom. Sweets, his stocking, and all that. It's not like we're going to need it here. If you have a chance, maybe get a tree, though. He loves decorating."

"Alright," Mark replied. "Tell Jerry I hope his brother gets better and all that."

"Okay. I'll be by in about an hour." She hung up abruptly, and Mark threw his cell phone into the empty passenger's seat.

"Damn!" he yelled. His truck barrelled along. "The hell am I going to find a Christmas tree on Christmas Eve?" he asked himself. By way of answer, he turned down Route 242 and sped up towards the General Store. They'd had a handful for sale in front of the store all month.

Even while speeding, it took five minutes to reach the store. The lot was entirely empty. He pulled a U-turn in the middle of the road and started towards the next place he could think of. A farmer on 77 always ran a lot for the holidays. Mark didn't know where he shipped them in from, but he figured the guy probably made more on the trees in one month than the various other crops he sold the rest of the year.

He pulled up and found the lot locked up. He could see a handful of trees in there, just out of reach. He looked over at the farmer's house. All the lights were out.

Mark seriously considered scaling the fence before realizing he'd never be able to get a tree back over it. If he'd had a pair of bolt cutters, he'd have cut the chain and left a note. But he didn't.

He did, however, have an ax.

The idea of cutting your own tree always seems better before you try finding one that could pass for one of the genetically modified, precision-groomed varieties manufactured for the holidays. Mark drove down one backroad after another, slowly rolling along and looking at trees alongside the road. None of the pines he saw looked remotely like anything his son would recognize as a Christmas tree, except a handful growing in people's front lawns.

Mark was about ready to give up when he saw it. A solitary tree, standing in the midst of a small cemetery located at the side of an empty road. It was one of those old, small cemeteries predating the pavement leading up to it. Just a few dozen plots. The kind of graveyard where no one new's been buried in decades - maybe even a hundred years - and the markers have almost worn down to smooth tablets.

There was no one around; no houses, either. Mark climbed out of his truck, taking his ax with him. He approached the tree to give it a look. It wasn't as perfect as the kind you'd get from a lot, but damn if it wouldn't do in a pinch. It was the right height, the branches were full all the way around, and it looked healthy enough.

Mark took another look to make sure there were no headlights up the street, but he couldn't see any. Couldn't hear any motors or snow grinding under tires, either. He looked back at the tree, and at the gravestones. "I'm going to hell for this," he said with a shrug. He raised his ax.

But before he could strike, a gust of wind came at him. It was an icy wind, bitter and riddled with sleet, and it caught him in his face. He lowered the ax, coughed, and wiped the ice from the corners of his eyes. He lifted the ax again, and the same thing happened.

"Ahhh!" he grunted. Then he shook his arms to keep the blood flowing. "Jesus. Damn storm." It didn't feel right, but then what part of stealing a tree from a graveyard does? He considered giving this up and trying to find another lot, but a glance at his watch shut down that avenue of thought. It was seven twenty, and he was ten minutes from home. His window was almost gone: if he wanted his son to have a Christmas, this was the only way.

He faced the wind and swung. The ax struck with a reverberating "thud." It was loud enough to make Mark jump a bit. He glanced around to make sure there still wasn't anyone else around to have heard it, but he was safe. So he took another swing. And a third.

Before long, the tree toppled over. Mark grabbed the bottom and dragged it to his truck as fast as he could. Then he hoisted it up into the bed. He tossed the ax in beside it, climbed into the front, and started the truck up. He didn't even wait for the windshield to finish defrosting before he put it into drive and gave it some gas.

He was shaking from the cold and from the fear he might get caught. He wasn't sure what the punishment would be for something like this, but it seemed like the kind of thing that might carry some ridiculously excessive penalty. A thousand bucks? Three months behind bars? In his limited experience, that was how the courts seemed to work.

Then he caught something out of the corner of his eye. The defroster had pushed away the fog, but where it had been, a word remained: "Thief."

He slammed on the brakes, and the truck screeched to a stop. The word was unmistakable. The letters were white and frosted over. Mark stared at the word. Could someone have been there with him at the graveyard? Could they have done this while he was cutting the tree? He'd been so sure he was alone, but what if he was wrong? They could be calling the police right now, giving them Mark's licence plate number.

No. That was stupid. No one had been there. No one. Maybe it was some sort of joke or something. Maybe someone had written on his windshield hours ago using their finger, and it hadn't shown up until now. Part of him realized this was wrong, too: that neither explanation explained the word being frozen like that. But a bigger part just accepted it, because there was nothing else to be done.

He removed his foot from the brake and reapplied it to the gas. It was getting late, and he'd have to hurry if he wanted to get there before his ex-wife arrived. A lecture about being late and making them wait in the cold was the last thing he needed.

He glanced at his rearview mirror, suddenly feeling like there was someone behind him, but there was nothing there but the black of night. He kept going, then looked again. A pair of eyes, bright orange, stared back at him.

Mark screamed and hit the brake. He spun around and looked. Nothing there. Nothing at all. Nothing but the tree lying in the back of his pickup.

"Jesus. My eyes. Gotta be my eyes playing tricks," Mark said aloud. He believed himself, because he had to. What else could he have done?

He started the truck but took it slowly. He glanced up in the rearview mirror regularly now, but nothing appeared. "Thief" had melted away from his windshield, too, so there was nothing left. No sign, no indication. He drove on, into the storm.

"Defiler," the wind whistled as it blew past his window.

"No," he said aloud. To hell with this. To hell with errant sounds and unexplained words and tricks of the eyes. To hell with it all.

Then, in his headlights, a form appeared in his headlights. It was a man cloaked in a long robe. It was directly in front him; only a few feet. Mark slammed on the brakes and jerked the wheel to the right. But it wasn't fast enough.

The form dissolved into snow as Mark's truck passed through it. But as it did, it screeched like a bird of prey. The sound wasn't a trick of the wind, and the form wasn't merely in Mark's mind.

Mark screamed as his truck swerved off the road onto a muddy patch of a field. It dragged to a stop, and sat there, headlights pointing ahead. Mark stared into the white light, the falling snow. A form danced just beyond the headlights. A voice called out in the distance. "Trespasser. Thief. Defiler." Then closer: "Trespasser! Thief! Defiler!"

Mark's heart pounded. He was sweating, and he wiped a hand across his face. Then he reached over and opened the door.

"I get it!" he cried out, stepping into the field. "Alright. Okay? I screwed up!"

The voice boomed like thunder on the wind. "Thief!" But it wasn't coming from the wind or the sky: it was coming from the tree. So Mark turned to address the tree.

"Yeah. I get it. I shouldn't have cut you down. You're... you're possessed. Because you were--"

"I was the guardian of the tomb. And you will pay an awful price."

"Okay. I'm sorry. Just tell me what you want. Do you want me to drive you back to that graveyard? Will that fix this?"

"What's done cannot be undone. You shall know my wrath this night," the voice called out.

Mark stared at the tree for a moment. "You know something? No."

"I shall enact a terrible vengeance," the tree said.

"Fine, but not tonight. Look. My kid's coming over tonight. And it's Christmas Eve."

"His fate shall be yours."

"That's... that's it! You mess with my kid, you so much as give him a bad dream, and I swear to GOD, tomorrow, I will go back to that goddamn cemetery and I will smash the hell out of every last tombstone. You hear me?" He was standing just a foot from the tree now, yelling and sticking his finger into its branches. "I'll... I'll smash those stones, and I will piss on the graves. Is that what you want?"

The wind picked up. Sleet fell, heavy and fast. It scraped against Mark's face.

"That it? Is that your great and terrible vengeance?"

"You have not yet--"

"I don't care! Alright? I don't care about a little sleet or wind or whatever. I just want to give my kid a halfway decent Christmas!"

"You have desecrated a holy place," the voice said, though it was softer now. Quieter. Almost scared. "You must be punished."

"Fine. Then... then we'll work something out, okay? But, tonight, just tonight, could you reign it in? I'll put you wherever you want. Side of the road, some forest, back at the cemetery... wherever. But I need you to leave my kid alone."

There was silence for a moment, save cracking ice and the sounds of wind in the branches of far-off trees.

"Well? We got a deal or not?" Mark asked.

"You may place me in your quarters," the voice.

"You mean, like a Christmas tree?"

"As you intended."

"And you won't mess with my son?"

"I will keep our pact. But you must swear to never harm the graves that were in my care."

"Yeah. Yeah, of course. I promise. We good now?"

There was nothing but the sounds of the storm and wood. Mark nodded and climbed back into his truck. He put it in reverse, pulled back onto the road, and began towards home.

The tree spirit kept its promise. After Christmas, when Mark's son went home, the threats and curses started again. "Thief," "Defiler," "Trespasser," "Desecrator," and a host of other insults appeared on the windows of Mark's home. Finally, about a week after Christmas, the voice called out: "Take me to the wood and bury me."

Mark did as told, though it wasn't easy breaking the frozen ground. He managed, and the disturbances stopped for a while. Then, with spring, they began again, softer than before. Mark went out to where he'd buried the tree and discovered a sapling poking through. It had been dry, so he came back and watered it.

"You will be punished," the tree whispered, though it seemed somewhat uncertain.

"I know," Mark replied. "Just... let me know if you need anything."

He took some books on tending trees out from the library and followed the instructions as well he could. Eventually, the tree no longer needed his help, but he continued to visit to check on it. Sometimes the tree would threaten him; other times, it wouldn't.

The next Christmas Eve, he returned and sat beside the tiny tree. "I was thinking," Mark said. "I was wondering if you wanted me to move you to the cemetery."

"My charge endures in my absence." The tree sounded a little sad.

"Yeah. I don't think there are that many people out there who'd mess with a cemetery. I mean, I think it's safe now. But, if you ever want to go back, just tell me, and I'll move you.

The tree didn't reply, so Mark just sat there for a while, in case it wanted the company.

TOBY'S BRIDGE ISN'T called Toby's Bridge, at least not officially. It's called something else. No one gives a damn what that is, 'cause it's on Toby's land. Sure, it's not really his bridge. It's the town's bridge. Town's bridge, town's road, and all that. Town's river. But everything all around it - the forest the road cuts through, the old mill (that hasn't been up and running in twenty years), the marsh... all that really is Toby's. People in Renville are fond of calling Toby the poorest rich man in America. Might be something to that. Just might.

Toby's is one of them old covered bridges. Sturdy, good build and all that. Don't really make them that way much anymore. Not in Renville, anyway. Everyone wants bridges you can go over two cars at a time. In such a damn hurry, I guess.

Like I'm one to talk. The snow's coming down faster than the damn wipers can wipe it off. Not smart, I know. Speeding in a storm, late at night. Good way to add another obituary on Monday.

But I know these roads well as anyone. When you're sheriff in a town like Renville, you know every road, don't matter the weather. I've done this job for fifteen years now. Before that, I worked homicide in New York. I was good, too. But after awhile, you get tired of the bodies. Then, it's either the desk or something else. Never much cared for desks.

Decided to settle down. Nice, quiet place where the people are good. Course, there's no such place. Not really. The people of Renville cheat, steal, and fight. One man in three drinks too much, and I'd wager half of them hit their wives. Way I see it, there's one difference between most of this town and the murderers I used to hunt down: people of Renville don't generally kill each other. Just doesn't get that far. It's not so comforting as you'd think: just means the worst of them stay out of both the jail and the cemetery. Just linger.

Of course, when someone does die, it's a circus. The whole town knows in a few hours. People barge into the station demanding answers. And God help you if it is a murder. When Joe Caringer shot Buck Smith six years ago, we had people standing up in church proclaiming the end of days was upon us.

Course, Joe had the common decency to kill Buck in the middle of October. This - whatever it is - had to happen on Christmas Eve. In the middle of a snowstorm. The one silver lining I can find is that news of this shouldn't spread for a few days. Country store's closed till the 26th, and Maggie shut down her restaurant until two days before New Year's.

Can't imagine that's much consolation to my deputy, who should already be at the farm. Course, having James on the scene isn't much consolation to me: guy's just about the dumbest man I've ever worked with. Which is a good part of why I'm not taking my time. Give James twenty minutes and he'll touch every damn thing in the area, move the evidence into a pile, and stand there smiling like he's a goddamn genius.

I slow down when I reach County Road #4. Like hell. Toby's Road. It's dirt from here on out, anyway. There's a good six inches of snow on the ground with more piling on every minute. It takes some time - bridge is a good half mile down the road - but I make it without any real trouble. I park behind James's truck, and he's there to greet me before my door's even open.

"Kip," he says. "You ain't going to believe this." He's pale, save for a nose turning pink. He looks scared and excited at the same time.

"Easy," I say. "Do you know him?"

"Know who?" James asks.

"The body. Stacy called, said there was a body."

"Oh. No, it's... it's not like that. It's not even...." he trails off.

"Not like what, James?" I'm snapping at him now, but you got to be that way with him sometimes.

"You just have to look," James says. Then he motions for me to follow and hurries up ahead to the bridge. I pass his truck and see Toby inside with the motor running. He's wrapped in a blanket and shivering. I nod to him, but he just stares back.

I hurry up ahead to see what all the damn fuss is about. What I see has me as pale as James.

"Human," I whisper. Not sure why I say it aloud. It's what James was about to say a minute ago, and I guess I just need to hear it finished. It's not even _human_.

"It's an angel, ain't it?" James asks, quietly. "I mean. I never thought...."

Hearing James stuttering like a toddler might be the only thing keeping me from the doing the same. But it snaps me back to reality, or at least whatever's left of it. Far as I can see, though, that's exactly what this is. A dead angel lying on the ground, his head mostly smashed in. Two white wings lying underneath his folded form. The wings have ice on the feathers. Like a giant version of some damn ornament hanging from a tree.

"What happened? Was he lying here?"

"Yeah. No. I mean, he was here when I got here, but Toby found him in the river and called us out."

I send James to find a decent size stick, while I go see Toby. I open the door and find him wet and shivering. The heat's escaping, so I climb in and shut the door behind me. "What happened?" I ask.

"I was out here, for a walk. I looked down in the water and... and I saw someone down there. Just a body, floating. I ran down, waded in, and started pulling him out. Thought... thought maybe he was unconscious until I grabbed him. There were these things on his back. Thought I was going crazy from the cold. God, Kip. It hurt so much, like my legs were burning off. How strange is that? Burning off from the cold. I don't know, but it seemed that way."

"It's okay. You've been through a lot."

"There were... there were wings. I kept rubbing my eyes, just waiting for them to vanish. But they just stayed there. I dragged him up onto the bridge. Was afraid he'd fall back into the water if I left him on the bank and just wash away. Then I ran home, called the station."

"What were you doing out here without your truck?"

"Just going for a walk," Toby say. But he didn't seem keen looking me in the eye, so I asked again. "It's nothing. I just... the holidays and all. I was feeling cramped in that place alone. Thought some fresh air might do me good."

"Middle of a storm?" I ask.

"I... look. It's the truth. I mean. It's most of it. I don't want to...."

"I need it all," I say. "Look, Toby, I've known you for a long time, and I know you're a good man. If this were anything else - hell, if that were the body of a human being, I'd nod and let this go. But, things being what they are, I need it all."

Toby wipes a tear out of his eye. "Since Gretchen left, I've been low. You know that, don't you, Kip?"

"It'd be hard on any man," I say.

"Well, I didn't think I could take Christmas alone. So. I don't know. I was going out to think some things over."

"You were going to jump."

"I don't know, Kip. I've been to that bridge a lot of times. Thought about it more than once."

"It's okay. I mean, I'll need to put you in touch with some people, but we can be discreet. I'm sorry for pushing, but I had to understand. This one... it's going to be too big." I pat him on the shoulder and step out of the truck to greet James.

"This one good enough?" He hands me a branch.

It's birch, and it's long enough. I test it to make sure it's sturdy then nod. "Good job, James." Then I head back to the body.

"What are you doing?" James asks, while I wedge the branch under the angel's back.

I push up slowly. "I have to know," I say. "Got to make sure these aren't glued on. Have to make sure they're not fake before I call anyone."

Unfortunately, the wings are real. Also, I learn something else: they're cut up pretty bad. There are twin gashes about four feet apart. Pretty deep, too. I run back to the Jame's truck, pop open the door and stick my head in. "Did anything happen to the angel while you were getting it up?" Toby shakes his head. I thank him and shut the door.

"This was murder, wasn't it?" James asks. "Someone killed that angel."

"I don't know," I say back. "But I'd rather have something to tell the bureau when they get here. Hand me your flashlight." James does as told, and I walk off the bridge, moving alongside the bank. I shine the light up until I find what I'm looking for: a smashed in section of the bridge's cover.

"What happened there?" James asks.

"The angel happened," I say. "While it fell. It was hit from behind. Maybe it was an accident, maybe not. We'll never know. No way we'll ever know. Broke its wings - God knows how high up it was when it happened. It came down hard on the bridge. Maybe it was already dead. If not, that sealed the deal. Then it slid off, dropped into the river, and got stuck near the bank where Toby found it."

"But... what hit it? I mean, you think it was a plane?"

"A plane? If it had hit a plane, it'd be a bug on a damn windshield. No, this wasn't no plane."

"Then what?"

"What else? The gashes on its back were about four feet apart. Almost certainly metal. Only one damn thing it could have been," I say. "He got hit by a sleigh."

ADMIRAL BELLE SAMSON stepped onto the lift, coffee in hand. A small, green holographic image of the Blitzen-6 appeared before her. The lift shaft was highlighted in red, and she motioned towards the bridge and braced her coffee as she began accelerating upward.

"Would the admiral like to view Captain Yuleson's report on the status of the Spruce Queen?" The computer's voice was clear and brisk, as always.

"No. No thank you," Samson said, blowing on her coffee. She then removed a flask from her coat pocket and added a modest amount of Irish Cream.

A light blinked while she put the flask away. "Notice. It is against regulations for a commanding officer to consume--"

With a wave of her hand, she silenced the computer. Then, balancing the cup on a handrail, she removed a nutmeg and microplane from another coat pocket. Once she'd grated a small amount into her coffee, she replaced these, as well. She brought the cup to her nose and inhaled the aroma. She said three short prayers before drinking: one to Jesus Christ, bringer of Christmas, one to Santa Claus, first saint of the holiday, and a third to Saint Y'rldrip Clp'ort, the Urfrim raised by humans who returned to his home world as an adult to spread the gospel of Christmas to his people.

When the doors to the lift slid open, Samson stood completely still. She cleared her throat to get the attention of one of the corporals standing nearby. The man stood at attention and called out, "Admiral on deck!"

The bridge, which was bustling with personnel checking instruments and plotting vectors was suddenly silent.

"At ease," she said, satisfied. "Commander. What's our status? Will we reach Thurkli on time?"

"Aye, Sir," Commander Scott Thimbletin replied. "We'll be there within three hours."

"Good," Admiral Samson replied. "Do we know who the Thurkli will send?"

"Intelligence indicates they'll tap Lopin to lead the fleet," the Commander said. "They may believe you'll be unwilling to fire on his ship."

"If so, they're gravely mistaken. Lopin was a good student, but I recognize my duty."

"Of course, Sir. The Cratchit and Spruce Queen are reporting that they're exceeding efficiency estimates."

"Not at all surprising," Belle Samson said. "Yuleson's running the Queen, and I'm sure he'd like her to stand out. I'd be wondering what was wrong if his ship was running at the levels he'd presented us with. How's the Catcher doing?"

"Falling behind," Thimbletin said. "They're unsure whether they'll make it in time for the opening volley. Assuming things go that way, of course."

Belle Samson took her seat and cleared her throat. "Commander, the Thurkli have refused to acknowledge the Jintilli Doctrine since its inception. I sincerely doubt they'll come to their senses now. No one should be under any misconceptions about how this will play out. We're likely to lose lives, possibly ships, today. Maybe this ship. But unless the Thurkli have something unexpected up their sleeves, the doctrines of True Christmas will be spread to this sector today."

There was a round of applause, at least from the species that had hands, but Samson wondered if their hearts were really in it. The bridge was full of the best and the brightest graduates from the best universities on a dozen worlds, but less than half had been in a real fight. She wondered if they were scared or excited. She hoped it was the former: at least they'd be preparing themselves for what was coming.

One of the lieutenants spoke up. "Admiral. Long range sensors are detecting only a single ship."

Samson smiled. "No. It's the Hilgazzi Maneuver. Lopin's keeping his ships close together to mask their size."

"But Sir... that makes no sense. He'll need to spread out his fleet if he hopes for the blockade to work. Besides, our instruments will be able to detect the difference once we're closer. Sensors have improved alot since Hilgazzi's time."

"Lopin isn't trying to fool us. He wrote a paper on the Battle of Pormire. I gave it a B, as I recall."

"Sir. The patterns just changed. They're... you're right. There are at least a dozen ships flying close together."

"I know, lieutenant. Maintain course, but tell the Cratchit to pull seven degrees portside."

"Aye, Sir."

Commander Thimbletin stepped beside her chair. "What does it mean?"

"Nothing," Samson replied. "The shift in formation has no relevance to Pormire. It'll give Lopin something to puzzle over, though." She sat up and spoke louder, "How are munition preparations? We'll want missiles ready the moment we hit regular space."

"Aye, Sir."

Satisfied, Admiral Samson sat back in her chair and looked over the bridge crew. They came from all over the galaxy, and all had volunteered to be here on Christmas Eve, to ensure the holiday cheer spread to Thurklin. She looked at the pair of Igjilti manning their console with their antennae. They'd originated on Virgo-9, a planet which had celebrated Christmas for eight hundred years, ever since the fourth coming of Jesus corresponded with the third resurrection of Saint Santa Claus in their sector. Beside them sat an Uip, a race with heads almost resembling Earth reindeer (the resemblance had sped along their conversion to Christmastianity a century ago). The custom of the sacrificial kilp, a relic of a winter festival from pagan times, had even been incorporated on Earth, where various kinds of fish were substituted for the flying amphibious creature.

Some of these races had been at war just a few generations ago: indeed, more than a few had been at war with the Allied Earth Union. But, in the end, goodwill had won out. Rebellion after futile rebellion had fallen, and the galaxy came together. Because that's what Christmas does: it brings people together, no matter their differences.

All throughout the Milky Way, Christmas would be celebrated in one day, with one exception: Thurklin, the one advanced civilized world left which still clung to the Steinian Heresy. No one knew how many devout Christmasians resided on Thurklin and were prevented from recognizing the Universe's holy day by backwards laws and misinterpretations of ancient texts.

But that would change today. Tomorrow, the people of Thurklin would be allowed to celebrate in peace. And, if history was any indicator, a few aspects of their culture would one day be absorbed into the celebrations occurring throughout the stars.

Lieutenants called out various updates from their fleet, along with up-to-the-minute reports on scans of enemy movements as they approached. Finally, they dropped out of warp and entered normal space. By this time, the Thurklin fleet had formed a blockade. Their shields - just like those on the Blitzen-6 - were raised.

A light flashed blue. Before one of the officers could report the transmission, Samson said, "Hologram," and an image of Carlos Lopin appeared in the center of her bridge. "Season's greetings," Sampson said.

"You have no jurisdiction here," Lopin said. "On behalf of the Thurklin Republic, you are ordered to leave this sector of space immediately."

"That will not be possible," Admiral Samson replied. "On behalf of the Allied Earth Union, you are ordered to lower shields and return to the surface for disarmament."

Lopin cleared his throat. "We do not answer to the Union nor to its fanatical leaders."

"I'm going to give you some advice," Samson said. "You do not want this fight. "Tomorrow is Christmas. Surrender and spend it with your family."

Lopin laughed. "Tomorrow is the middle of spring on the only inhabited section of Thurklin. We celebrated Christmas three months ago."

"Christmas only comes once a year," Samson said, calmly. "And it begins at midnight on December 25th, Earth time. Eastern Standard."

"The galaxy is a big place," Lopin answered dryly. "Each world should recognize it at the relative time. And our world would rather not celebrate it once every two and a quarter years."

"The Steinian Heresy was disproved a century ago," Samson replied. "And Thurklin will no longer be permitted to prevent Christmastians from celebrating it at the ordained time."

"You'd be hard pressed to find a non-relativist Christmastian alive on Thurklin," Lopin said coldly.

"More crimes your government will need to answer for."

WIth a gesture, Lopin ordered the communication ended. Admiral Samson, still calm, looked at the bridge crew. "Prepare for incoming, and tell the fleet to move in. Concentrate fire on their flagship, and begin approach."

The two fleets moved together like lovers beneath mistletoe. With a barrage of missiles, they reached for each other.

London, 1894

THERE WAS A BREEZE through the door as Timothy slammed it shut and made his way through the foyer. He walked slowly, with intent, never letting his weak leg drag behind, but forcing it in a natural arc. He was old but was no cripple, nor had he a stomach for pity. A man once called Timothy lame, thinking him out of earshot, and received a kick to his shin so hard he limped for a week. Timothy fared worse: the kick left him off his feet three days, and it had been a month before he could move naturally once more, but the message had been sent.

Timothy sneered at his wife's portrait, hung over the fireplace. She'd commissioned the painting herself, a gift from some long-ago Christmas. That she'd commissioned it with his money would have meant nothing to her. Never had a woman more accustomed to comfort and wealth walked the Earth. She'd never known a cold winter's night, a barren stove, an empty plate. She'd never known disease that went untreated, never a Christmas morning without gifts.

And yet she appealed for his money on behalf of the poor. The poor! Ha! What did she know of poverty? What did any of them know? The men in suits who'd come begging on Christmas Eve, the ones on street corners, even those who called Timothy "friends." Those born to comfort always pled on the poor's behalf. He'd little interest in any of them, this day or any other.

They were from a different world, these men and women of privilege. Who were they to lecture him on poverty? Timothy, who'd spent the first years of his life in its grip before finding a benefactor, who'd worked and fought and made his way through life, until he had the means to pull himself up. Who lived through illness and pain and a leg that seemed intent to drag him to an early grave.

He could not stomach it, any of it. So he threw out the charity workers and, as for his wife, he'd sent her to her father's house in the country to save himself the trouble of her company this Christmas. Let her pester the old man for gifts. Let her demand a goose from his wallet, cooked by his servants.

If it'd been up to Timothy, he'd be working through the next day, anyway. And why wasn't it up to him? What right had his employees – those whose feasts he was benefactor of – to demand this day off? What made Christmas different than other days?

He made his way to a cabinet against the wall, where he kept a bottle of fine whiskey, the best he dealt in, and poured himself a glass. "To Christmas," he toasted.

No sooner had he returned the bottle to its shelf than a chill fell over the room. He sipped his whiskey, dismissing the cold as a change in the weather. What did he care for a little cold? When he'd been a boy, he'd known real cold, real want. This was nothing.

At first, he questioned his own hearing. Then he began to think that there were carolers outside, perhaps shaking bells. But no, the noise was real and it was close. It was the sound of metal grating against metal, and it was coming from inside his own house.

As fast as he could, Timothy began moving towards the door, towards the sound. Someone had broken in for his money or silver. They'd not get it without a fight. He reached for the door handle, but stopped when he saw it reaching back. Or rather, there was a hand like moonlit mist reaching through the wood toward him. He moved away, frightened now, as the hand became an arm, weighed down with chains. Still it came, lurching forward, pulling a great weight behind it.

By the time the apparition was through, Timothy had fallen into his chair. He pushed himself back, but couldn't find the strength to stand.

The apparition spoke. "Tim. Tim Cratchit."

There was no animosity in the specter's voice. If anything, Timothy felt a swell of pity in his stomach. It had been years since he'd felt such compassion, and he was overtaken with a sense of nostalgia. Now, as the specter came into focus, Timothy squinted and recognized the form before him.

"Ebenezer? Is that you, old fellow?"

The specter nodded. "Aye. It is I. Or part of me, perhaps. The worms took the better half, I'd wager, but the rest... yes, I am Ebenezer Scrooge." He stood there, tired, fighting against the weight of his chains as they pinched and tore at his spectral body.

Timothy looked at his glass and squinted, and this amused the spirit. "No, Tim. I'm not some drop of wine or piece of undigested meat. I am real, and I've come to warn you. Do you remember when you were a boy, Tim, do you remember the Christmas I changed?"

"Yes," Timothy answered. "They still tell stories of it. Of the Christmas morning you...."

"The day old Scrooge lost his sense, you mean. Do not parse words, Tim. The dead hear the living prattle. I know what they say of me. I know... what you've said, Tim Cratchit." He seemed sad for an instant, but raised his hand as Timothy tried to speak. "No, it is all right. I haven't crossed the boundary between the lands of life and death for an apology. As I said, I'm here to warn you, so that you may avoid my fate. Remember what happened."

"You gave my father a raise and gave to charity. You paid my medical bills and my way through school. There were... questions... about your sanity."

The spirit snickered. "I was not mad, I think, but close. What you don't know – but I fear soon will – is what occurred that Christmas Eve. I was visited, Tim, as I visit you now, by a man I'd known. Old Jacob Marley. Do you remember the name?" Timothy shook his head, and Scrooge continued. "No, I suppose you wouldn't. In life, he'd been a partner to me. He came before me draped in chains. Chains like these." He rattled the links. "He told me they were coming, the three spirits, of Christmas past, present, and future. He told me they were coming to help me change my ways, before it was too late. That if I continued down the path I was on, I'd be shackled in chains forever. But he said there was still time. Time to change, to save myself, if only I'd learn to love my fellow man and keep Christmas with me."

The spirit of Ebenezer sneered. "He lied to me. Aye, they all did. These chains are forged over a lifetime of ill deeds. They wanted me to think a few years of good would balance the scales, that my soul could be reclaimed. But it was too late for that; far too late, and they weren't there for me. They came to trick me into helping others. The poor. The sick. Yes, you, as well. But I don't regret that. I've always liked you, Tim. I regret the rest of it, but not what I did for you."

Timothy stood at last and finished off the rest of his drink. "I deal in whiskey these days," he said. "If you like, if you're able, I mean...."

"No. I wish I could, but that part of me, the part that could eat and drink, is the part that isn't before you. Don't abstain on my account, though."

Timothy returned to his desk and poured another glass. "Am I to understand these spirits, these Christmas ghosts, will come for me, then?"

"Always shrewd, Tim, even as a boy. Yes, I fear it is so. They want your money, as they wanted mine. They'd have you die in poverty, as I did, removed from the comforts you've earned."

"And your part in all this?"

Scrooge grinned. "I was to play their Marley, to convince you that you need only hear them out and avoid my fate. But I fooled them, Tim. Aye, I fooled them good. Whatever they show you, whatever you see this night, it's all a lie. They may show you those you've loved, those you care for. They may show you gravestones and shadows. Do not heed them: it is a trick. They come on behalf of the dregs of mankind, for those in gutters and those who belong in prisons, not for your own good."

Timothy nodded. "Thank you. But I have to ask. Is there a way to avoid your fate?"

"No, Tim. Twenty years past, perhaps there was time. But they don't come for us when there's time, when we've nothing they can use. They wait until we've sold our souls for money and property. Then they come to swindle us of those earnings. I'm sorry, but I learned the hard way a soul can't be reclaimed. You can pawn it for gold, but it can't be bought back. The only comfort I can offer is this: cling tightly to that gold while you can and take what pleasure you can in its use. Don't be fooled as I was."

His business concluded, the ghost left as he'd arrived, passing effortlessly through the closed door. Timothy shuddered at the sight. In life, Scrooge had been as a second father to him, and it pained him to see the man's spirit brought so low. He grew angry. Let these spirits come, he sneered, recovering his old walking stick from the corner. He rapped it against his palm and delighted in the force of its bite. Let them come and try to take what was rightly his.

"ATTENTION! Tonight's Father Christmas March has been called off due to weather! Christmas Eve is cancelled! Once again, the March and carnival have been cancelled!" The man yelled his news through a bullhorn from the back of a steel carriage, which puttered slowly past what remained of the Tildrick Thread Factory, condemned after a fire six years prior. From the roof, a young girl ran along a path of board and boxes which marked areas unlikely to collapse. A patchwork of holes on either side demonstrated the importance of this precaution. The path ended at the largest hole, where a ladder had been propped up against the edge. She grabbed hold and started down.

There were a half dozen kids near the bottom, most about her age. She ignored them and darted towards the far wall, where she found her older sister.

"Casset," she said, out of breath from sprinting. "Men outside... they said... it's off. They said... no Christmas...."

Casset hugged her sister. "I heard, Gael. I heard, but you have to understand, they say that every year. I'm sorry. They just want us to lower our guard, make us easy pickings for the Krampmen."

The joy on Gael's face disappeared, and she clung to her sister. "Will we be safe here?"

"No," Casset said. "No, I don't think we will." She'd hoped the factory's frightening exterior would keep the Krampmen away another year, but she'd caught sight of young men with clipboards outside the building at odd hours. She'd been thinking it over and was now all but sure the building would be raided. "We need to move."

"Should we tell the others?"

Casset didn't hesitate. "No." It was cold-hearted, but it was necessary. The other children would follow them, and they'd draw attention if they tried to move together. "Meet me in back in fifteen minutes. If anyone asks, you're going for water."

Gael nodded and wandered away. Casset went to gather her few possessions of value: a handful of coins she'd been collecting, a wrench, and a single earring - the last of her mother's things she'd managed to keep after her parents' death. She left behind bedding, pots, and other essentials. It felt awkward abandoning items they'd need, but these would be easy enough to replace if they couldn't come back. There was about to be a surplus of such things all over the city.

Casset met her sister in the alley behind the abandoned factory. They started off without speaking and stayed close together. A man on the ground eyed both of them, but they hurried by. Once they were a ways from the factory, Gael asked why they hadn't warned the others. Casset tried to explain, but her sister didn't seem to understand. In the end, she simply said, "It's safer this way."

It was mid-afternoon by the time they reached Westgate. Casset had hoped they'd be able to sneak by and find someplace to wait out the night in the countryside, but at a glance she could see the exit was too well guarded. She might have been able to get herself past, but she'd never manage with her sister: they'd be arrested and sent to the orphanage for sure.

Instead, they headed back into town, turning south towards the river docks, where Casset used to gather shellfish that fell off the carts while being wheeled off the ships. There were other kids around gathering what they could before running to whatever homes they had. Casset was desperate enough to ask a few if they had a place they could stay, but everyone dismissed her. After a while, she began asking another question instead: "Do you know Club?"

Club had been an orphan like Casset and Gael, but he was fourteen, old enough to not have to worry about Christmas Eve or the Krampmen. Casset had known him back when he was Winston Hadleigh. But the rule in the South End is you take a new name when you kill a man to throw off the law. Casset doubted Club had really killed anyone: more likely, he'd taken the name to impress people.

Most of the kids said they'd never heard of Club. Casset knew they were lying: everyone by the docks knew Club, regardless of what they thought of him, but she didn't press anyone. Eventually, a boy directed them down an alley without an outlet. There was no one down there, but when they turned, they found Club blocking the way out.

He was an attractive boy, and like most, had an inflated opinion of himself. But to his credit, he'd avoided or outfought the police long enough that it was no longer a crime for him to live outside the orphanage.

"I hear you were looking for me," Club said. He had a perpetual smirk on his face, which Casset had always found off-putting. "One question first: who sent you?"

Casset rolled her eyes. "No one sent us," she said. "I need a favor."

"On Christmas Eve? Good luck getting it," Club said.

"Fine then. We need a place to last the night, and we'll pay."

"Well then. What have you got?"

"I've got some money," Casset replied. "Do you have a safe spot?"

"How much?"

"Do you have a spot?" Casset said again, this time louder.

"Not one of my own," Club said. "Might have some friends who can help you, though, long as the money's good."

"Who are these friends?"

"Oh, I've got lots of friends. Which ones I introduce you to depends on how much you got. Some of my friends have more expensive lodgings than others."

"I have a little more than three pounds," Casset said.

"That's not so much," Club said.

"Damn it! Can you put us somewhere safe or not? You know what tonight is!"

Club's smirk widened. "Might just know a few lads who can help. Just let me hold the money."

"You can have it when we're safe. Whatever's left over after you arrange it with our host."

"You're putting me in an awkward position here, Cass. Might be you don't have what you're saying. Might leave me looking bad in front of my friends."

"I wouldn't do that to you," Casset said. "Besides, what would I gain? I'd just lose the time it takes, and you know damn well I can't afford that."

Club considered this and nodded. "Alright, Cass. I've got some friends who can look after you and your sister." He led them through brick streets and past the railyard. They took a long bridge over the trains, which disgorged soot, smoke, and steam beneath them.

Gael coughed as they passed through the vapors, and Casset patted her shoulder. "It's okay," Casset said, "We're close now." She looked up at Club, who glanced back with a smile and a nod.

It was getting late, though: in a few hours, the Krampmen would appear and begin the annual roundup. The police would always arrest runaways and orphans whenever they could, but Christmas Eve was something else. They deputized thousands of young men and paid a stipend for each child caught. It was a dangerous night to be on the street.

They reached where they were going soon after. It was a small room in a worn down complex. Club pounded on the door, while Casset held back. After a moment, the door opened, and someone several years older than Club looked out.

"Berke said you guys could take in strays if they were friends of mine," Club said, motioning to Casset and Gael. "I'll vouch for them. They'll mind their manners and not take anything. Just looking for a place to avoid the Krampmen; that's all."

The man in the door looked at the two girls and shrugged. "If you're friends of Club's come on in."

They approached slowly. They'd almost reached the doorway when Casset froze: no one had asked for money, and that wasn't how the world worked. She grabbed Gael and started to turn, but she was too slow. The man in the door grabbed them both and started pulling.

Casset kicked at him, but he held on. "Club!" she cried. But Club just stood there smiling.

A few seconds later, two more men appeared and helped the first. Soon after, they were all in the room, one of the men blocking the door. They told the girls to wait in the corner while they handed Club a couple notes. It wasn't much, but it made Casset's three pounds seem like a joke. "You see anymore, you bring 'em here," the older man said. "But be quick about it: they only come by once. After that, they're useless to us."

"What's going on?" Gael asked softly.

Casset hugged her. "They're going to sell us to the Krampmen," she said. "Probably for ten times what they're giving Club."

Club shrugged, "The costs of running a business."

Casset glared at him. "I'll kill you for this."

Club turned to look at her. "Say hi to Father Christmas for me," he said with his usual smirk. Then he left the way they'd come in.

The men kept an eye on the girls, but mostly left them alone. There was nothing in the room they could use as a weapon - there was nothing much in the room, at all, beyond a couple of chairs the men sat in.

When the sun went down, the noise started. They could hear people outside yelling and hooting. Every now and then, something would break. One of the men looked out the only window in the room.

"I see them," he said to the others. "Keep a watch on those two. I'll be back."

When he disappeared, Casset whispered instructions to her sister. Then she got up and approached the man who wasn't guarding the door. He stood up to meet her. "What do you want?" he asked.

Casset screamed and leapt at him. She dug her fingernails into his cheek and began kicking him repeatedly in the shins. She spat on him and tried to bite him, but he stepped back, almost tripping on the chair.

He yelled and pushed her backward. Then he struck her, sending her flailing to the ground. "You little--"

The man guarding the door was laughing. "Got to watch them, Berke," he said.

Casset ignored him and said, "I'll tear out their eyes. You hear me? You hand me to a Krampus, and I'll tear out his eyes."

Berke shook his head and raised his hand, as if he was going to hit her again. But he didn't approach. "Go ahead and try," he said. "Krampmen aren't as gentle as my brother and I." He wiped his cheek and looked at the blood on his palm. Then he backed over to the door to wait.

After a few moments, there was a knock on the door. Before either of the men could turn to open it, Casset charged forward. Berke struck her again and grabbed her, turning her around so he was behind her. She elbowed and struggled until the door slid open. As soon as the Krampus stepped in, she froze.

He was a large man, but not an old one. Like all the others outside, he was dressed in old clothes and had painted his face red. He also wore a pair of false horns strapped to his head. In one hand, he carried rope and a number of small sacks; in the other, he had a club. An odor of alcohol permeated the room when he entered.

Still holding Casset, Berke said "You'll want to knock this one out before takin' her in. She's a fighter."

Casset went mostly limp and looked the Krampus in the eyes. "Please," she whimpered, "My name is Susan Goldman, and I live at 641 Goldman Street. These men grabbed me and my sister and covered us in dirt. Please, our mother's going to be so worried."

The Krampus stared hard at Berke. "What's going on here?" he demanded. "Pinn said you had strays."

"These are strays," Berke said. "I mean, I think they are. We got them from Club. You know Club, right?"

"He's lying," Casset said. "He grabbed us this afternoon off the street himself. I don't know any 'Cub.'"

"Shut up!" Berke said, pushing her down.

Casset fell hard and crawled toward the Krampus. "Please. Can you help us?"

The Krampus wasn't paying any attention to Casset. He approached Berke and jabbed a finger into his chest. "They don't pay for strays if they aren't strays," he said. "In fact, a man can find trouble bringing in kids who have a home."

"Back off," Berke said, trying to act tough. It wasn't easy: the Krampus towered over him. "Look, if they won't take the girl, come back and I'll return our cut."

"I heard them say they were leaving tonight," Casset shouted.

"Shut up!" One of the men by the door bent down to strike her.

Casset covered her face and cowered. "Please!" she cried. "Help!"

"So that's it," the Krampus said. "You were gonna take the money and run. Maybe we should all go down to the Christmas Celebration together."

"You know we can't go there. Police might recognize us."

"Then maybe I'd better hold on to my money and the girls. Once I've got my reward, I'll be back."

"Thank you!" Casset said. "Thank you! They'll give you a reward when they arrest them!"

Berke eyed Casset and squinted. He knew what she was doing. "No," he said. "If you don't want to do business, just go and we'll find someone else."

"Don't think I can do that," the Krampus said. "I think I'm owed something for my time."

"The girl's a stray! She's lying! I wasn't even the one who found her!"

"Why would she lie about who grabbed her?" The Krampus asked. "I think I'd better take the girls and go. Like I said, if they're strays, I'll be back with your money. If not, I'll tell the police where I got them."

Berke jumped him. "Get his money!" The others abandoned the door and attacked the Krampus, who freed his arm and started wailing on Berke with club.

Casset looked at her sister, who darted to her. They ran for the door together. If anyone saw them, they were too entwined to do anything. Just as they ran out, Casset said, "Come on! We've to meet up with Club!" When she'd told Club she would kill him, it had been a hollow threat, but now she wondered if she'd managed just that..

They ran away from the apartment, hurrying through a few small streets, and headed for an alley. Casset looked behind her: no one was coming after them yet. The girls stopped to catch their breath. They'd escaped, but were now outside on Christmas Eve. They could hear gangs of Krampmen running through nearby streets shouting and searching for stray children.

"Are you okay?" Gael asked.

Casset was bleeding from where the men had hit her. She felt sore, but she could move, which was all that was important. "I'm fine," she said. "Out in the farming villages, this is all that happens on Christmas Eve. The Krampmen come and beat the children who are bad, then they leave them alone."

"That's all?" Gael said.

"That's all. All the children have homes out there. If your parents die, someone else takes you in. It's just how it is." Casset leaned against a building. "Give me a second, and then we'll press on."

"Where are we going to go?"

"I don't know," Casset replied. "We'll think of something." In the distance, they heard dogs barking, and Casset stood up. "We need to go," she said. They continued through the alley, not daring to return the way they'd come. By now, the fight would have ended and someone would be looking for them.

They were in the Rail District, though they weren't particularly close to the trains. There were worse parts of the city to be, but Casset was mostly unfamiliar with the area. There were a lot of factories here, mostly assembling parts for the ever-expanding train system. Between the smoke pouring out of the factory towers and the concoction of steam and soot billowing in from the rail yard, the air was thick. You could feel a powder build in your lungs and in the back of your throat.

They stopped in the shadows at the end of an alley to wait for a gang of Krampmen to pass by with their prizes. The group was dressed like the man they'd escaped earlier: tattered rags, face paint, and horns. Some even had fake tails pinned to the back of their pants.

Half of the Krampmen walked; the others rode with their prisoners in a wagon partially powered by a coal engine that spewed out a black cloud. To supplement the coal, they'd hitched a pair of donkeys to the front. The larger prisoners were bound and wearing sacks over their heads. There were larger sacks beside them containing the smaller prisoners. As they passed, the Krampmen sang their Christmas songs, hollered, and drank from jugs of cheap wine, beer, and mead.

Once they were almost out of sight, Casset and Gael darted silently across the street into the next alley. They breathed a sigh of relief, then almost jumped when they realized they weren't alone.

It was a homeless woman. They'd almost tripped over her, but saw her at the last second. Casset raised a finger to her mouth to plead for silence.

The old woman smiled. Then she called out, "Strays! There's strays here! Come get them!"

Casset kicked her in the leg as hard as she could and started running with her sister. Behind them, the woman who'd betrayed them cursed and called out for the Krampmen.

The two girls tore through the alley blindly. Behind them, they could hear people in pursuit. They heard a boy's laughter. They heard another howl. And a third: "Come out, strays! Come out for Christmas!"

Casset kept one hand on Gael as she ran, and she steered her sister in the maze of small streets and alleys. As soon as they lost the group after them, another spotted them crossing a street, and the chase was on again.

Fortunately, the girls were fast. They were exhausted, but they'd spent their lives in conditions like these. Eventually, they lost the men after them, but they no longer knew where they were. They's moved out of the Rail District into one of the central neighborhoods, but Cassset didn't know which. They'd turned so many times, she didn't even know which direction they'd gone in.

No sooner did they stop then they heard a glass bottle break far behind them. Casset grabbed her sister's hand and pulled her on. They could hear Christmas songs behind them. These Krampmen weren't on the hunt, but that would certainly change if they realized there were strays close by.

The girls hurried ahead, focusing on stealth as much as speed. Soon, they realized there was noise in front of them, too. It was loud, almost like a market, though it was far too late for that. Nevertheless, there was no going back and nowhere to hide, so Casset pushed on.

When she reached the end of the alley, her breathing froze. A cold sweat formed on her face, and she stopped, unable to move. "Not here," she whispered.

They'd stumbled across the Christmas Carnival.

There must have been five hundred Krampmen in the square, along with several times that many shopkeepers, fishmongers, and clerks there in the hopes of repaying an old score. Then there were the spectators come to watch: men, women, and even entire families from all walks of life had come out to enjoy the festivities.

Entire families.

Casset grabbed her sister's shoulders and knelt beside her. She spoke frantically. "Listen to me, Gael. Listen. Those boys are getting close, and if they catch us... that's it. So we can't go back, and there's no place to hide. We got to go on. We have to go the Carnival." As she spoke, she ran her fingers through her sisters hair and wiped the dirt from her face. "You need to listen to me. There's so many people there, no one can tell what's going on or who's with who. Stay close to me, but you have to smile. No matter what, you need to look like you're having the time of your life."

She didn't wait for her sister to answer: there was no time for that. So she grabbed her hand and pulled her into the light. She made for the busiest crowded spot of families she could see. She skipped, laughed, and pretended to be excited. She pointed at the center, at Father Christmas, sitting on the stage in front of the parade of orphans.

Father Christmas. As was tradition, it was the chief of police, dressed in flowing red robes. He was supposed to be wearing a fake beard, but he'd pulled that off, and it sat instead on his desk weighed down by a stone.

As the children passed in front, Father Christmas bellowed, "Tell us your name, child!" And the unfortunate boy or girl was forced to do so by one of the officers. Most of the children were bruised from their treatment by the Krampmen and all were terrified. Then Father Christmas would address the crowd, "Does anyone know this boy? Has anyone a grievance?"

As a general rule, no one spoke up for the younger ones. Even if the child had stolen from them, they let it go. It was considered bad form; besides, if anyone had spoken out, Father Christmas would have ignored them.

"I see you've been a good lad," Father Christmas said in such cases, "and so I'll send you to a good home." Then he'd jot a note and order the officers to put the child with the others headed towards the orphanages. Casset had never understood how the orphanage could be mistaken for a "good home," though it was better than the alternative. The children judged harshly were drafted into the military and sent to help in the colonies.

Either way, there was a loud cheer after each proclamation. Then another hood was pulled off another child, and they were sent onto the stage.

Casset felt her sister tugging her sleeve. She leaned over, and her sister whispered, "I know her." Casset shushed her and reminded her to keep smiling, but when she looked up she discovered she knew the girl on stage, as well.

They'd known her as Eliny, though she was introduced as Elinore Roserie. A single shopkeeper claimed she'd stolen from him on multiple occasions, but Father Christmas glared at him and asked if he was certain. The man took the hint and said, on further reflection he might be mistaken, so Father Christmas announced the girl had been good and would receive her just reward. Apparently he'd decided the crowd would be happier with a happy ending for this child. The next few weren't so lucky.

Casset pulled on Gael's hand, leading her through the crowd. People were moving all around them. Without warning, they found themselves in the midst of a pack of Krampmen smelling of alcohol. Most looked like they'd been fighting, either with stray kids or with other Krampmen over their prey.

The nearest Krampus looked down at the girls and tilted his head. He squinted, as if thinking. Casset didn't give him time to finish. "Sir," she whispered. "My mother's wearing a black hat with a pin of a flower in the middle. She was just here, but... but we can't find her. Can you help us?"

The Krampus sneered. "Get lost, kid, before I sell you to Father Christmas and tell him you're a stray!" Casset gasped, grabbed her sister, and hurried away, while the Krampmen laughed.

The girls reached the edge and Casset waited for an opportunity. When she saw a pair of families heading off together in the same direction, she pulled her sister along, keeping them directly between the two groups. At a glance, no one would be able to tell which they were supposed to be part of.

They hovered between the two families as they headed down the street, passing gangs of Krampmen towing found children behind them. When one of the families split off, it was time for them to do the same. Fortunately, they were a ways from the thick of the Carnival, and there were more options for hiding places. They went down the smallest, darkest alley they came across, and found a hollowed out crevice in the corner of a crumbling brick building. A few hours ago, they'd never have had a chance here, but Casset figured the Krampmen wouldn't waste their time searching this close to the Carnival: by now, they'd figure all the strays in the area had been captured.

The two girls huddled together for warmth. They heard gangs of Krampmen and police go by (after midnight, the Krampmen's authority officially expired, and the police took an interest in their increasingly rowdy behavior). Even with the Krampmen no longer employed by the police, they were still dangerous; perhaps even more than before. There were almost always a few strays found dead the morning after, so the girls kept to their spot. At one point, a pair of Krampmen stumbled into the alley to throw up, but they were far too drunk and far too distracted to notice the girls.

Casset didn't trust it was safe until the sun came up. The girls were sore, tired, hungry and dehydrated. They weren't sure whether the things they'd left behind had been dragged into the street and burned. Even if not, they weren't sure whether the kids who'd lasted would let them return: some might even suspect they'd sold them out to the Krampmen.

But all that could wait. Because the girls were still together, still a family. And, for what little it was worth, it was Christmas morning.

THE WEEKS LEADING up to the last day I ever saw Walter were bizarre to begin with. Come to think of it, the decade leading up to that Christmas Eve was pretty bizarre. Walter has always been... odd. Hell, I started hanging out with him because I felt sorry for the guy. That was... eighth grade, I guess. I mean, I was never what you'd call 'one of the cool kids,' but people seemed to like me. I had friends back then, groups I belonged to; hell, even a girlfriend. Walter didn't really have any of that. I mean, there were people he ate with at lunch, people he hung out with and all that, but he never really seemed to care about any of them. There wasn't a lot he did care about. Certainly not school. He could have aced those classes if he'd tried, but none of it really seemed to click with him. He never went out for sports or anything. He always seemed like the kind of guy who should be hanging with the nerds, but he just didn't care. When he got into high school, most people assumed he was a stoner, but he never touched any of that stuff.

Honestly, I was just about the only person he talked to. What made me so special? Far as I can tell, it's because I gave him a Christmas present once in ninth grade. No, seriously. See, it turns out there was one thing Walter did love, and that was Christmas.

I mean, most people think they love Christmas. Who doesn't like Christmas, right? But with Walter... shit. I think it was almost romantic love or something. Not in some perverted sense or anything; it's just that there was something there. A spark or something. I never really got it. For me, the best part of Christmas was a week out of school and a few new video games. I hadn't believed in Santa since I was six and Jesus since I was seven: as far as I was concerned, it was the granddaddy of all hyperinflated toy commercials.

Other than Christmas, there was only one other thing I've ever seen Walter love. Well, maybe two, but I'm jumping ahead of myself here. See, in his senior year, his father decided Walter needed a car, so he bought him a 1994 Chevy Corsica. This thing had a hundred and fifty thousand miles on it when Walter got it; it had seen better days. But for whatever reason, Walter fell in love.

I really don't think I've ever seen anyone take better care of anything than Walter did that car. Like I said, the guy was smart, and he started reading up on automotive repair. Then on design. Engineering. Within a year, he'd read through the library's entire car section and most of what they had on physics. He started tinkering.

I was glad to see him take an interest in something. I was in college by this time. Alright, community college: never said I was some kind of genius, but I knew I'd be better off with a degree than without one. Not surprisingly, Walter didn't care about his future. But apparently he did care about car repair. And for a while it looked like that might pay off. He took a job at Henry's Garage, and damn if he wasn't great. He could run circles around Henry, fix anything anyone could tow in front of him.

Henry, for his part, kept trying to convince Walter to go to school, get a degree in that stuff. "Ford'll pay you six fig's," I'd hear him say. "Sky's the limit, kid."

But Walter... he just smiled and shook his head. "I don't care about any of that stuff. I'm happy here." Thing is, he wasn't. I might have been the only one who could tell, but Walter was never happy, not really.

Henry didn't know that. All he knew was wasted talent. You ever seen a sixty-five-year-old grizzled vet break down into tears and tell an eighteen year-old he was an artist and it was breaking his heart seeing that talent squandered? It's a hell of a thing.

Walter didn't care. He just kept at it. He kept that Chevy running, and he kept learning more and more. Every time I saw him, he rolled up in that old thing, and every time I expected to see it fall apart around him. I think he must have rebuilt half that car. But there's a limit to what you can do, and eventually it just stopped running.

I asked Walter what had done it, and he said something about fuel injection and how he thought he'd be able to get around the problem. But within a few weeks he'd bought a used Dodge. I cracked a line about Old Yeller (which Walter didn't think was funny) and assumed the matter, along with the Chevy, was done with, even if he'd entombed the Chevy in his garage and relegated his pickup to the curb. All this was in the spring; I wouldn't realize how wrong I was for nine months. Not until that Christmas Eve.

Like I said before, the weeks leading up to that day were weird. Walter's life had started unraveling, not that you'd know it to see him. Harry decided it was time to retire and shut the shop, and Walter seemed pretty content. Mark, his landlord, started calling me - I still don't know how he got my number - trying to track down Walter, seeing as how he was two months overdue on his rent. When I asked Walter about it, he shrugged and asked if I wanted to hit the bar.

Christmas was coming up, and Walter was out of a job and - unless things changed drastically - about to be out of a home. And for a guy who'd spent the previous entirety of his life in a depressed daze, he seemed to be doing pretty well for himself.

It all came to a head on Christmas Eve morning. I got a call from Walter at six in the goddamn morning. "Hey, Kyle. Merry Christmas."

"The hell's wrong with you? Do you know what time it is?"

"Huh? Oh, right. Sorry, man. Listen, I might be going on a trip soon, and... it's a long story. But I wanted to know if you want my 360? Games, too."

"What?"

"My X-Box. I'm not taking it. I'm not taking much of anything, and I've got a feeling what I don't give away is just going to get sold by Mark. Thought I'd give you first dibs."

"Wait. What? Where are... I'm coming over."

"Cool. Make it fast, though. I've got a lot to do today."

I threw on my clothes, grabbed a chocolate bar from the counter, and ran out the door to try and talk a friend out of killing himself. But when I actually reached his house and found him in his garage with the door open, he looked about as animated and energetic as Walter got.

"Hey, Kyle. Glad you came by. Want to take a look at those games?"

"What? Walter - forget the games. What the hell's going on?" I don't know why I even asked. I could see damn well what was going on: the Chevy's hood was wide open, and it was obvious Kyle had been tinkering. In fact, from the look of things, he'd been tinkering for quite some time. I'll be frank - I don't know shit about cars and less about how they're supposed to look under the hood. But I know how things aren't supposed to look, and that's exactly what I was looking at. There was... too much there if that makes sense. Way too much.

"Oh, you mean mean the Corsica? Yeah, I've been doing a little work in my spare time. You know, it all kind of turned into a hobby."

"Right. Does it... I mean... does it work?"

"She'll start up," Walter said, grinning. "She'll work. Today at least."

"I don't get it," I said. "Didn't you say the fuel thing was busted?"

"Fuel injection," Walter said. "Yeah, that was part of the problem. Honestly, just about everything from the transmission to the suspension was shot. I'd started replacing it all, but at some point it just started feeling pointless. I mean, think about it. A car's engine is what's destroying it. Putting it back the way it is, it just doesn't make any sense. If I poured gas on you and lit a match, it wouldn't really count as warming you up, right?"

"Right," I said, because it sounded better than telling him he was nuts.

"I figured there had to be another way, a better way of doing it. I mean, why's a car have to run on gas, anyway?"

"You mean, like, vegetable oil?"

"No. I looked into that, but you'd run into the same problem. No explosions. No motor. None of that. I rebuilt the engine to run on magic. Well, Christmas magic, anyway. You know, good will and holiday cheer. Because that stuff's just around. You can just pull it right out of the air."

I stared at him, not sure whether he was messing with me or if he'd completely gone over the edge. Walter stared back for a minute, shrugged, then went back to work, adjusting wires and tightening a few bolts. I stayed there, just watching him for about five minutes. Froze my ass off, too, but I couldn't think of a single thing to say or do. Then, abruptly, Walter slammed the hood of his car shut, gathered up the tools he was working on, and turned back to me.

"Want to go for a ride?"

To this day, I'm not sure why I got in that car. Maybe I just wanted to be there to comfort him when nothing happened. Or maybe I still thought this was some kind of messed up joke I just hadn't figured out yet. Whatever the reason, I climbed into the passenger seat, and Walter inserted a key.

At first I thought the radio came on and I was hearing Christmas music or something. Mostly, it was like bells or something. I honestly don't know whether I've ever heard sleigh bells in my life, but I'd bet money that was what I was listening to. Only, in the distance, I'd almost swear I was hearing laughter, like I was hearing kids open presents on Christmas morning.

I felt warm. Hot almost, and I started to open my coat.

"Sorry about that," Walter said. "Christmas magic's strong stuff. I'll turn it down." He adjusted a dial on the dashboard, one of many which shouldn't have been there. It was around this time I noticed a few things. I noticed the controls were about three times as complicated as they should have been, I noticed things like the radio and heater were no longer present, and I noticed for the first time that we were moving.

The car was going pretty fast, barrelling down Tavern Street. But it wasn't making noise. I mean, I couldn't hear anything coming from the car itself. Not the engine, not the road under us, not the radiator: nothing but the wind.

"This is incredible," I gasped.

"I don't know," Walter said. "Suspension feels a little off."

"No way," I said. "This is the smoothest ride I've ever been in."

"No, look. Walter dug around in his shirt pocket and pulled out a marble. He set it on the dashboard, and it rolled slowly toward my side of the car. "See?"

"See what? The road's curved, that's all."

"Huh? Oh, no. We're not touching the road," Walter said.

"What?" I rolled down the window and looked out. I had to undo my seatbelt and practically lean out the car, but I finally got a good enough angle. Sure enough, we were about six inches off the ground. When I took my seat again, I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. I was as pale as a ghost.

"Yeah. I'm going to head out of town. I need a good stretch of road, so I can get her up to speed. You have anywhere you need to be, Kyle?"

"What? Uh... no. I'm okay," I said, still completely disoriented.

"You okay?"

"A little nauseous," I admitted.

"Oh. Okay. I'll turn up the magic," he said, twisting a dial. The sounds of bells, children laughing, and ice cracking in moonlight filled my ears, and my stomach calmed down. Part of me felt better than I ever had before; another part felt all the more terrified.

The streets were pretty empty, which I suppose I should be thankful for. For the most part, the handful of people we did pass didn't seem to notice us. The few that did were doing double takes or staring at us dumbfounded. It must have looked like an optical illusion or something.

When we hit the country, there was no one around. Just long, open stretches of road. That's when Walter's tests could begin in earnest.

"Jesus! How fast are we going?" I must have been yelling, despite the fact he could hear me fine. There still wasn't a sound coming out of that car other than those distant echoes of holiday cheer.

"About one-ninety," Walter said, calmly. "Yeah. See that. The car's really starting to tilt. That's a problem."

Then there was a popping sound, the car banked, and I started screaming. We veered away from the road and pulled over a field. Walter braced the wheel, and the car tilted up. After that, I'm not entirely sure what happened, because my eyes were shut, and I was sure I was about to die.

"Easy," I heard Walter say. He sounded amused, like he was stifling laughter. "Take it easy, Kyle. We're stopped."

I slowly opened my eyes and verified nothing was rushing by the car anymore.

"Sorry," Walter said. "I really should have warned you that was a possibility. For what it's worth, we were never in any danger."

"The car... went... up," I said.

"Yeah, but I brought us back down. Look. Fair warning this time: there might be a small jolt when we land." He flipped a switch beneath the steering wheel, and the car dropped a few feet and landed on the ground. It was jarring, but not too bad.

Shaking, I pulled open the door and stepped out. I was breathing heavy when I heard Walter get out as well. Before he shut the door, he popped the hood.

"You okay?" he asked.

I sat down. We were in a field, a good hundred yards from the road. "I'm okay, Walter," I assured him, wondering whether or not that was true. Part of me was freaking out, but another part... I mean, that's a hell of a thing. It was an adventure, and my mind was reeling at the possibilities.

Walter was just leaning under the hood, making adjustments and that sort of thing. "Yeah. The psychic aligner's out of whack. I don't think it's transferring the residual energy from the Universal Unconsciousness right. Could you maybe hand me the screwdriver. No, no. It's too... Uh. Know what? There's a box of candy canes in the back seat. Could you grab me one? I think that'll do the trick."

"You can... you can get... magic out of it?"

"What?" Walter asked, looking around the hood at me. "Dude. It's sugar and food coloring. What do you think?" He laughed.

"Well, what the hell do I know? I mean, I don't know how the hell any of this shit is supposed to work!"

"Well, in this case, the candy cane is small enough to fit in the intake valve, so I can scoop out some of this astral discharge then correct the mechanism that prevents what we just went through." I practically threw the candy cane at him, and he just chuckled. "Magic candy canes," he muttered.

He worked for another fifteen minutes, shut the hood, and wiped off his hands. "Well, Kyle. I think she's ready for another test drive." I nodded, and Walter looked at me. "Look. If you're not up for it, I can go alone."

"I'm okay," I said again. "Look, this is... it's a lot. I mean, it's a hell of a lot to take. But it's also incredible."

"Thanks," Walter said, as if I'd just told him I liked his shirt. "If you're sure. It's just... you're not going to...."

"Going to what?"

"You know. Throw up. In the car."

I punched him in the shoulder. "I'm not going to hurl," I told him.

We got back into the car, and Walter started it up, again without any sounds beyond those of Christmas. Then he started driving over the field, not that we were really on the field. He sped up, adjusted some levers, and pretty soon we were really moving.

"How fast?" I asked.

"Don't know," Walter replied. "We're off the speedometer. I only upgraded it to two-fifty."

Then, without warning, we were off the ground, too. Technically, we hadn't been on the ground at all, but we weren't just a few feet off anymore. Now we were ten, twenty, thirty feet up and climbing. And this time I just leaned back and cheered.

I was a little sad when Walter brought the car back down, but he looked a lot worse. "What's wrong?" I asked him.

"Nothing's wrong," he said. "She works. She works just like I'd hoped."

"Then why are you... you know?"

"Why am I what?"

"Like, well, you. Look, Walter, I've known you a long time. I know when you're upset, mostly because you're pretty much always upset. And right now, there's something gnawing at you. So, what's going on?"

Walter sighed. "It's just... you have to understand I can't stick around. I don't know what I'd do if I did. The car's only got one more day in her here. This thing's going on Christmas magic, and that doesn't last all year. I'd have to wait it out, right?"

"So? What are you going to do?"

"I'm leaving," Walter said.

"Leaving? Leaving for where? That town in Michigan that thinks it's always Christmas?"

"God no," Walter said. "I doubt it would ever work there. I need to go... north. I've got a feeling they'll have work for me there, you know?"

"North?"

"North," Walter said again. "And don't say you don't know what I'm talking about, because you do. And don't say there's no such thing, because if you do that, this car will short out." I must have looked terrified, because Walter laughed and said, "I'm sorry. Kidding about that last part. But not the rest. I'm leaving this afternoon. I just need to pick up a few things at my old place."

"Look, Walter. This thing you've done, I don't know how you did it, but you've got something here. Something amazing. You show this to... I don't know, the government or GE or someone, you could be set for life. You could be famous."

Walter just looked at me sheepishly. He didn't say it out loud; he didn't have to. It just hung in the air. _I don't care about any of that._

The ride back was pretty uneventful. He took it slow and the car stayed low to the ground. We'd barely said a word to each other by the time we pulled into his driveway. We got out of the car, and I helped him gather up some clothes and food. He hardly brought anything else. I even saw him pull his cell phone out of his coat pocket and set it on the bookcase.

Once he was packed, he handed me the keys to his apartment. "You know where the 360 is," he said. "Far as I'm concerned, anything in there, just take it and leave the keys on the kitchen counter. When Mark comes looking for me, just tell him I was acting weird, and you haven't seen me. What's he going to do, right?"

"I guess," I said. "You're really sure about this?"

"I am. I know it seems crazy, but...."

"Damn right it does," I said, and we both laughed.

Then he kissed me. Once, quickly, on the cheek. And he stepped back to look at me. "I love you, Kyle," he said.

I didn't know until then. I think if any other man had said that to me, I'd have freaked out. But it wasn't any other man: it was Walter. I wish I could have told him I loved him. And the thing is, I did love him, but not the same way. Not the right way. "I'll miss you, man," I said.

He left first, and I watched his Chevy drift away. I'd half expected to see some kind of magic powder coming out of the exhaust pipe or something, but there was nothing like that. It just looked like a car driving down the road. Only, if you looked closely, you could see the wheels never quite met the road.

So what happened next? Did I start getting new, unexplained X-Box 360 games every Christmas morning or hear echoes of bells on the roof? Afraid not. But no one ever came knocking on my door to say they'd found Walter dead in a car crash on a glacier, either, so it's not like it's all bad. I don't know what happened to him or whether he found anything. But I kind of believe he did. If you asked me whether I believe in Santa Claus, I'd probably laugh at you. But I do believe in my friend.

"MR. JULIARD?" the woman asked, extending a hand over his hospital bed. She was beautiful, or at the very least attractive. Exotic would be the best word: her ethnicity was difficult to pin down, even for Hugh, who'd always been good at that sort of thing. Part Spanish, part Indian, maybe?

Hugh didn't ask, of course. He simply raised his hand. It was tiring, but mainly because the painkillers sapped his energy. "Hello. I didn't catch your name," he said.

"Burkwitz. Melody Burkwitz." She smiled. "I'm not sure if you've heard of me."

Hugh shrugged. "Sorry," he said.

"I'm not offended," she said. "I've done a few morning shows. My books tend to gather attention. It's not always the sort I'd like, I'm afraid." She cleared her throat and removed a notepad and pen from her purse. Hugh was surprised it wasn't a tablet or at least a fancy notebook. "First of all, I'd like to thank you for agreeing to speak with me."

Hugh looked uncomfortable. "They... they said there'd be money," he said. It was more a confession than anything else.

"Of course. My publisher will take care of that."

"It's not for me," Hugh said, apologetically. "I have a daughter. In college. No matter what happens, I want her to have it."

"I'll make sure they know," Melody said.

"What... what day is it?" Hugh asked.

"December twenty-eighth," Melody replied. She glanced at her watch. "It's a quarter past three."

Hugh nodded. "Is there anyone else?"

"I'm sorry. There was one other survivor at first...." Melody paused to check her notepad. "A Mr. Friedland. But he passed away yesterday. Did you lose someone on the flight?"

"No. No one close to me. I was flying alone. It's just... I hoped there'd be someone else."

"I understand," Melody said, but the look on Hugh's face made it clear she didn't. Melody inhaled slowly through her nose. Then she asked, "How much do you remember about Christmas Eve, Mr. Juliard? Do you remember the events leading up to the crash?"

"Yes," he replied. "What are they saying caused it?"

"As I understand, there's some trouble with the black box. But they're attributing it to a lightning strike."

Hugh snickered. "Lightning," he said. "Is that why you wanted to talk to me?"

"To be honest, I'm not as interested in the cause of the accident as I am in what came after. I'm interested in how you survived the crash."

"I don't know," Hugh said.

Melody nodded and made a note. "Do you remember being found?"

Hugh shook his head the smallest bit and grimaced. The drugs were helping, but they didn't take care of everything.

"When they were removing you from the wreckage, you were half-awake, and you were talking. One of the paramedics overheard you say something about an angel." Hugh went pale at the word, but Melody continued speaking. "Angels are my specialty, Mr. Juliard. But before we continue, I'd like to clarify a few points. I am neither here to confirm a religious point view nor to discredit one. I have a masters degree in theology from Harvard and a doctorate in sociology from Yale. I'm not trying to brag, I just want you to understand that I'm not here with an agenda. I want to understand what happened, and I can offer you anonymity if that's what you'd like. In addition, your arrangement with my publisher will stand regardless of what tell me, so please don't think you need to lie or alter your explanation to fit any kind of existing framework. If it was just a dream, I'll wish you the best and your check will come regardless. But if you did see or experience something extraordinary, I would genuinely like to hear about it."

"Do you believe in them?" Hugh asked.

Melody considered this for a moment. "That's a very good question. To be honest, it's not my place to believe or disbelieve. My research has given me powerful evidence angels may exist, but to date it is entirely circumstantial. I'm sorry I can't be clearer."

Hugh bit his lip. "I'll tell you what I saw. But... you have to understand... I never believed in them before."

Melody jotted down another quick note. "Did an angel save your life?"

Hugh started laughing. It was a worried, troubled laugh. "Saved my life," he said. He shut his eyes and kept them closed for a long time. When he opened them, they were red. "Saved my life? An angel killed everyone else on that plane.

"We took off in Philadelphia a little before seven at night. Supposed to get to LA around ten-thirty. Time zones, right? We were over the midwest, damned if I know where, when we hit that storm. It was bad. Black clouds all around. I mean pitch black. Then rain started beating down. Hail, snow, sleet, pounding against the window. The pilot, he came over the radio: we're experiencing turbulence. Please stay in your seat. Turbulence.

"There was a woman sitting across from me, sort of diagonally. I couldn't see her that well. I was in a window seat, but I could hear her talking to her kid, saying they were lucky, because it was snowing for Christmas. I guess that's the kind of thing you tell kids. I don't know if I'd have thought to say something like that. I wasn't the best father when I had the chance.

"There was lightning. Lightning all round. But I don't think the plane got hit. Some guy a few rows back started saying we were going to die. I heard people trying to shut him up or comfort him. I just thought he was a nut. I mean, the storm was bad, but I travel a lot. And sometimes you see weather you can't believe. But you always get through it, right? Those planes are made to take whatever nature throws at them. But this time... that guy was right. This time, we weren't landing safely.

"When we broke through the clouds, people started to applaud. It was so sudden. One minute, we're surrounded by rain and lightning, the next the sky's clear and silent. Then we saw him. Those of us on the left side of the plane, anyway. We saw him, and we gasped. I felt the guy beside me pushing to try and get a look, too."

Hugh paused for a moment. He inhaled slowly and shook as he breathed out.

"Was this the angel?" Melody asked.

"Yes," he whispered.

"Could you describe him to me?"

"He... he was a big guy, but not huge. I'd say, six foot six, maybe. He was wearing white robes. They whipped around him in the wind. He had wings, too. They were golden. Not like the metal. More like... like a hawk, I guess. He didn't have a halo like in picture books, but it was like there was light coming from him. I could see him like it was day.

"He flew at us and perched on the plane's wing. His face was like stone, like it was carved out of something. I don't mean it was colored like that: it was colored like... like skin. But it didn't move like there was muscle or anything underneath.

"We sat there, just in awe. I heard people crying, praying, and this one old woman just started shouting, 'Thank you.' I guess we all thought he'd ended the storm, that he'd saved us.

It happened so quickly. He lifted a hand and suddenly there was a sword in it. It hadn't been there a second before: it just... appeared out of thin air. Then he lifted his head and stared at us. Then he swung the sword.

"It was fast. It... the wing of the plane... it just fell apart, and the angel just spread his wings, and we just started to tumble. Luggage was falling everywhere. There was a stewardess who was tossed around the cabin. I think I heard her neck break. Something hit me, and I woke up here."

Melody was busy making notes. When she finished, she looked up. "I'd like to ask you just a few more questions, Mr. Juliard. Why do you believe you were spared?"

"I don't think I was. At least not on purpose. I mean, there were kids. That girl whose mother told her it was snowing for Christmas. If you were choosing someone to save, wouldn't you save her? I think it's an accident I'm alive. Just random."

"And do you think the rest of it was random, too? The plane, I mean. Or do you think there was a reason the angel attacked?"

"I think he wanted to kill someone," Hugh said. "I think there was someone on that plane he wanted to die so bad it was worth killing the others, too."

"Do you really think an angel would think like that?"

"I don't know. I never believed in them. But I know what I saw. And, if you think about it, what if he knows something? Something about the future, about what someone will do? What if it's something that affects thousands, or millions of people?"

"Do you believe there was someone like that on the plane?"

"I... I don't know. Maybe. I.... Since I arrived here, I've been drifting in and out. Sometimes I look out the window and... I think I've seen him out there."

Melody's tone shifted and she asked, "Mr. Juliard, what is it you do for a living?"

"Government work," Hugh said. "Computer work for... I'm sorry. I'm not supposed to discuss it."

Melody nodded. She make another note, but her hands seemed unsteady. "Thank you, Mr. Juliard. I can honestly say I have never heard an account quite like this one, though elements of your description are more common than you might think. If it's alright, I'd like to follow-up with you at a later date."

"I hope we can," Hugh replied dryly. Melody stood to leave, but Hugh added, "Wait! Wait. One more thing. My daughter... you'll see she gets the money? If anything... happens."

"Your doctors expect you to make a full recovery. But, I will make certain my publisher understands."

"Thank you," Hugh said, and she left. He lay in bed, barely listening to the doctors and nurses who came in. His eyes stayed glued to the window. And he waited.

Christmas Eve, 1954

BRIAN WICKS LAY in bed with a candy cane dangling out of his mouth like a cigar and an issue of Captain Marvel clutched tight in his hands. Sure, it was dark, but the multi-colored glow from the lights dangling right beneath his window was more than enough to make out the words, though his mom would have thrown a fit if she knew. "You'll go blind!" she'd have hollered. "Blind for Christmas!" Of course, she'd have been far more upset if she knew about the candy he'd snuck into bed. "Rot your teeth out! What's Santa gonna bring you then? Dentures?"

But what his mom didn't know wouldn't hurt either of them. Well, unless his teeth really did fall out or that blindness-thing was actually true. But Brian had heard enough of his mom's stories to dismiss the lot of them out of hand.

Besides, if there was one night of the year he should have some leeway, this was it. Tomorrow was Christmas! This was about as far removed from a school night as you could get outside of summer. So, by Brian's rationale, if he wanted to stay up til one reading comics and slurping down candy canes, that should be his prerogative.

Besides, it's not like he was missing out on sleep. Grown-ups might laugh at kids believing in Santa, but that's nothing compared to buying the myth that kids sleep on December 24th. Come on: with the haul waiting? Not likely.

Brian dropped the comic onto the floor. He was too distracted to read, anyway. He considered sneaking downstairs to check out the packages and try to decipher what was inside. But that's the kind of risk that gets you caught. Even if his parents went easy on him for the holiday, who wants to get yelled at the night before Christmas?

Still, his legs were feeling cramped. Brian sat up, shifted the sheets off, and walked over to the window. It was foggy; he couldn't even see to the edge of the lawn. But he could see something. It was weird; some kind of light in the sky. Probably some decoration or something.

But it was moving. Brian squinted to get a better look. Whatever it was, it was getting brighter; coming closer.

For a brief moment, the obvious crossed Brian's mind. But it couldn't be _that_ , because _that_ isn't real. _That's_ just a fairytale grownups tell toddlers to get them to stop whining. Brian knew this, just like he'd known it for years. But it's the kind of thing you know in the day, when you're around friends. At night, on Christmas Eve, when everything feels magical and everything feels possible... it all feels different. And what should and shouldn't be real maybe isn't as convincing.

The window was misting up. Brian wiped it with the sleeve of his pajamas, but the mist was on the outside. Slowly and carefully, so he wouldn't make any more noise than he had to, he grabbed the window and pushed it open. As he did this, the string of lights just below him shook. Brian froze as powdered snow fell off the wires. He cringed, expecting to hear icicles snap and shatter, followed inevitably by his parents' door slamming, yelling....

But there was none of that. The wires settled, and his parents hadn't stirred. He was safe. For now.

Brian peered out of his window. He could hear something faint, but it wasn't what he'd have expected. It was mechanical, like a plane. But quieter. The light was brighter now and getting closer.

It must be right over the neighbor's house. He leaned out the window to get a better look. It wasn't one light: it was several. Dozens even. Some were blinking; others were steady. Then it broke through the fog.

Brian fell back on the floor. Even before his mind had grasped what he was looking at, his instincts kicked in. He wanted to look away or run. But he couldn't.

It was huge; at least as big as his house. It was round and metallic. And it seemed to drift like a balloon while its lights scoured the ground below.

Brian had read enough comics, listened to enough radio shows, and spent enough Saturday afternoons at the movies to know what this was: it was a craft from another world. It slowed down and drifted over his house. The light shone down into his window, and Brian dove for his bed, burying himself beneath the sheets. Part of him wanted to scream for his parents, but another part was too scared something else might hear him, too.

He stayed absolutely still for several minutes. The bizarre sound was still audible, and the light was still visible. Slowly, Brian pulled back his sheets and looked out. He stared at the window. Scattered flakes of snow billowed in on plumes of white mist, illuminated by both the alien craft and the candy-colored lights outside.

Brian barely blinked, and he didn't make a sound. Then, slowly, a hand reached down in front of his window. Whatever it belonged to must be lying on the roof, reaching. The hand was more than three times as long as his own, with four fingers, each with two joints more than it should have. The skin was pale white; almost like snow, but slightly translucent. It stretched down, connected to a long, sinewy arm. The hand reached the bottom of the open window. It felt around for the underside, and the fingers wrapped around.

The arm bent, and the creature's head came into view. It's eyes were each the size of Brian's head. Its mouth seemed absurdly small for the size of its face.

The lights overhead shifted from white to a deep red, and the creature turned its head and hissed. Then it turned back. Its other arm reached over and down past the first, and its hand braced against the outside of the windowsill.

Then, quickly, it clutched one of the Christmas lights, twisted it, and pulled it from the wire. The rest went dark, but the one in the alien's fingers glowed for a second longer. It held this for a moment, then pushed itself back up onto the roof. A few seconds later, the craft's lights dimmed, before disappearing completely.

The room was frigid, but Brian stayed completely still for ten minutes staring at the open window. Finally, he stood up, walked over to the window, shut it, and locked it for good measure.

He could just make out the prints on the glass where the creature had placed its hand.

Brian then looked down at the dark line with a missing bulb. "Crap," he said. It was right under his window; his parents would never believe he wasn't responsible for taking it. Making matters worse, he was pretty sure they didn't have any spare bulbs, so when his cousins arrived later, there'd be no lights on the house. His mom would never let him hear the end of this.

"Worst Christmas ever," Brian said.

DEB WOKE UP while Keeve was strapping the shotgun to his back. She stood up, stretched, and came towards him. There wasn't a lot of light in the room - just what seeped through the boarded up window - but it was enough to see she was worried. Keeve, satisfied the shotgun was secured, held her and kissed her on the lips.

"Uh," he said, laughing. "Your breath's not too good."

"Yeah," she laughed back, before growing serious. "Where are you going, babe?"

"Oh. Yeah. I left you a note. Thought I'd grab some supplies from town, you know."

"Jesus. I should come," she said.

"No. Look, I love you, but we both know I'm faster."

"I can outrun any bee," Deb replied.

"I know you can, but I don't want them following us back here, clawing at the door and all that. Remember October? We had to kill them right on the porch. Still doesn't smell right out there, either."

"That wasn't my fault," Deb reminded him, poking him square in the chest.

"Didn't say it was," Keeve said, defensively. "I just don't want it happening again. Look, there are just some things I want to pick up, okay? It's no big deal."

Deb tilted her head and crossed her arms. "This better not be about tomorrow."

The corner of Keeve's mouth curled up into the slightest smile against his will. He wiped his face with his palm to try and hide it. "No idea what you mean. Is it our anniversary or something?"

Deb smacked him on the arm. "You know as well as I do tonight's Christmas Eve. Come on, Keeve, I don't need anything. You're enough, and... I don't want to lose you."

"Relax," Keeve said, "it's me. I can handle myself."

"Isn't that what Chuck said? He was good, too. But sometimes, people go out alone and don't come back. Or worse. Keeve, I love you. I can't stand the thought of ever having to...."

"You won't," Keeve said, gently raising her chin up with his thumb. He looked her in the eyes and said, "I swear, Deb, I'd never put you in that spot. I'll take so much care nothing'll ever happen. But if I ever screwed that up, if I ever got bit... I'd make sure I didn't put you in that situation. I'd end it there, the way Chuck should've. Nice and clean, out like a man. I promise."

"Please don't go," Deb said. "I know you're good; you're the strongest man I've ever met, but I want you here with me today."

Keeve smiled. "Don't worry so much," he said. "I'll make it back. Nothing's going to happen to me out there. I won't do anything stupid: if the bees are out in force, I'll bail."

Deb nodded. "You'll need the glock," she said, her voice cracking a bit.

"I was just about to grab it."

"And one of the bats," Deb said.

"I take too much with me, I'm not going to be able to carry much back," Keeve said.

"Yeah, well, long as you come back, I don't care about the rest. I mean it: the only thing I want for Christmas is you. Nothing else matters."

"I'll be careful," Keeve promised again, before putting the glock in his pack, alongside a bottle of a water, a jar of peanut butter, and a flashlight. He pulled the pack on one shoulder and adjusted the strap until it was as comfortable as it would get. Then he grabbed the bat, looked out through the boarded windows, and opened the door, keeping the bat in front of him. Deb had picked up the rifle, in case there were any "surprises" on the porch, but it seemed safe.

Keeve headed out, while Deb locked the door behind him. There was nothing outside the house they were living in, so he hurried down to the street and climbed on the motorcycle he'd found a few months earlier. He walked it down the street a ways - starting it would make noise, and the last thing he wanted was to attract the bees. Once he felt he was far enough, he climbed on and fired it up.

He started toward the city, veering around the rusting husks of cars crashed years before. Every now and then, he'd see a bee stumble out of the woods, likely drawn to the noise. Even at the relatively slow speeds he was moving at, he didn't have any trouble avoiding them. A few years earlier, back when they'd first risen, he'd have stopped to fight, shot them up until he was out of ammo then turned tail back to wherever he'd been holed up with other survivors. Back then, most everyone was angry, panicked, and itching for a fight. A lot of people died in those days, trying to fight this like it was a war. Hell, that was almost him. It would have been him, if he hadn't found Deb. She'd saved his life by giving him a reason to live it.

At some point, it became abundantly clear there were too many to kill. The trick was finding a way to outlast them. Sure, bees are tough, but they need to eat. And, frankly, there wasn't much of a food source left. The human survivors were holed up in small communities or pairs, like him and Deb, and the bees had managed to get most of the dogs, cats, rats, and mice they were likely to get.

When bees get hungry, they'll go for bugs. But half the time, they don't chew them right, and the bugs wind up eating the bees from the inside out until they just fall apart. It's not pretty, seeing a decomposing human body crumble like that, but that's dropping a hell of a lot more than bullets or chainsaws.

Keeve parked his motorcycle on the outskirts of the city. Driving it into the city was more dangerous than being on foot. It was easy enough to see bees coming in the country, but the city was compact; too many places to hide or scurry out of. Besides, there might be worse things in the city than bees. Most survivors were just trying to get by. But it wasn't like the outbreak favored good people over bad. Everyone came to the city to scavenge, and seeing as he was alone, Keeve wanted to keep as low a profile as possible.

There was a time stepping foot into the city meant certain death. More people meant more bees. But they used up their supply pretty fast. By the end of the first winter, the majority of bees were just bodies again. As for the rest, most were missing limbs and so slow you almost wanted to pity them. Others just wandered out into the wilderness in search of food. As the years passed, their numbers kept dwindling.

The problem is, a lot of the ones who were still out there - the ones who still had both legs and arms - they were real dangerous. Natural selection in motion: the bees who were left were deadly. Some were stronger, others faster. Some just seemed to have better instincts for the hunt. It didn't really make sense: bees couldn't think, not really, but they didn't all always behave the same way, either.

Of course, some of them were just new. Hell, Keeve had more than one friend who was likely still lumbering through those streets, looking for roaches, rats, or people to gnaw on. He just hoped he never turned out that way.

He started in, avoiding any obstacle that could potentially be hiding bees. He'd seen enough people who'd crept up along cars only to get dragged underneath to resist the urge to attempt to use cover. Same went for building fronts: bees don't hesitate coming through glass. Not for a second.

The best strategy is to stay out in the open. That way, if anything comes at you, you can deal with it.

He didn't have to wait long before finding something to deal with, either. A bee missing its legs began crawling out from beneath a car. He used the bat and made short work of its head. Another two appeared in the shattered doorways of what had once been appartment buildings. Keeve maneuvered so they wouldn't reach him at the same time. He considered the gun, but decided the noise would make too many problems.

The first moved at a good clip, though, and he found himself second-guessing his decision to stay with the bat. But Keeve had some experience with bees: he swung away, breaking bones in both arms, then taking out its right knee. The bee kept at him, of course, but it fell over and was forced to crawl.

Keeve stepped back, then brought the bat down. In all likelihood, this bee had been around for years and had likely killed more than a few people in that time. But in the end, it didn't fare any better than the one he'd shut down trying to get out from under the car.

That left one more, and it didn't look too tough. It was short and, as Deb would've said, already busted. It moved with a limp, and its arms didn't work so well. Even so, Keeve took it seriously. He stayed focused and finished it off with a sideways hit to the head. Then, after making sure there were no more around, he retched from the smell. Rotting flesh and decomposing brain are odors you never get used to.

He forced down some of his water then pushed on through the streets. Another bee showed up at the corner of Eighth and Main. He took out one of its legs, then left it hobbling. It was considered somewhat unethical not to finish bees since they were still dangerous, but he didn't want to push himself. Crushing human skulls wasn't exactly pleasant work.

He reached what had once been the shopping district soon after and pulled out his flashlight and gun. He found what he was looking for - a jewelry store - and set the bat and pack down outside. Then he pushed the door open with his shoe, and raised the gun.

He didn't see anything, so he said in a low, firm voice, "Hey. My name's Keeve. I'm not a bee, so if anyone's in there, don't shoot." He shined the light around and didn't see anything. He glanced over his shoulder, too, in case there was something coming up behind him. There wasn't.

"Look, if anyone's in there, I don't want to hurt you. If you're in there, let me know." Still nothing. He stepped in. It was dark and musty, but so was everything. It didn't smell particularly bad, though, and he didn't see anything. He moved in slowly, half expecting something to come at him from behind the counter. But there was nothing there. He checked the back room next, starting with the same greeting. There was no one there either.

Once he decided the place was secure, he shined the light into the first case. It mainly held necklaces, so he moved on. A few of the glass cases had already been smashed open, and a handful of the jewels were gone. He found the engagement rings soon after. Unfortunately, those cases were still intact and locked, so he'd have to break the glass.

He chose the one he wanted first, then smashed the top of the glass with the butt of his gun. The sound reverberated through the building, and he cringed.

He grabbed the ring, shoved it into his coat pocket, and ran. There were three bees on the street when he reached the door. One was missing most of its face: Keeve shot it through the head first, so he wouldn't have to keep looking at it. Then he picked off the other two.

He scooped up his pack and started running, leaving the bat behind. The noise brought more, but he ignored them. The only bees he took out were the ones in front of him. The rest, he just outran. He was exhausted by the time he reached the bike. He started it up and took off as soon as he was seated.

When he knew he was free of the city, he stopped to rest and finish off his water. Then he pulled the ring out of his pocket. Would Deb find it tacky? A marriage proposal in a post-apocalyptic wasteland? Who did he think would perform the ceremony?

He pushed those thoughts away. Deb would understand: this was a symbol. It represented his love for her and his commitment to spend the rest of his life - however long that might be - at her side. They didn't need a priest: they'd marry each other. He relaxed. An engagement ring, the perfect gift. What was he worried about?

He took his time returning home. This would be a Christmas to remember. He thought about stopping off at a gas station and rummaging through the ruins to see if they had any wrapping paper, but he decided that really would be stupid.

The only question he had left was whether he should wait until tomorrow to give her the present or hand it over tonight.

It was early evening by the time he approached the area where he lived. He stopped early and began pushing the bike back. He was tired, and his attention was elsewhere. By the time he heard the bee stumbling towards him, it was almost too late.

He dropped the bike and jumped away, just the bee lunged at him. If it hadn't tripped over his falling bike, it would have had him. As it was, he barely got the shotgun out in time, barely leveled it at the bee's head and pulled the trigger.

From the neck up, the bee just dissolved in front of him, its body collapsing on the ground. Keeve stood up and looked around frantically. He'd had close calls like that before, but this was different somehow: he had so much to lose now. That, and he was so close. If it had gotten him... if it had bitten and killed him before he could turn his gun on himself... it was too horrible to think about. The idea of dying was one thing; breaking his promise to Deb was another.

He was breathing frantically, glad to be alive. "I'm alive!" he shouted, since Deb must have heard the shot. He didn't want her thinking he'd been too slow.

He still couldn't hear too well from the gunshot, so he had no idea whether she was calling back. He hurried towards the house, shotgun still in one hand. With the other, he rooted around his coat pocket until he found the ring.

He ran towards the door, still keeping an eye out in case there were any other bees around. But he didn't see any. At least not until he reached his lawn.

There were at least twenty - more than he'd seen in years - lying in front of his house. The bodies were scattered, each with one or more holes in its head. There were more dead on the porch, mainly around the door.

The door they'd clawed open.

Keeve charged. "Deb!" he screamed, approaching the stairs. A half-decomposed bee stumbled out at him and he took its head off. Another was in the hallway: he pulled out the glock, blew it away, and kept going.

The thoughts came quickly now. He should have been here. Why did he leave? How did this happen? It's okay - she could be holed up in the back. Deb's a survivor: she's lived through worse than this. She....

She stepped out from the kitchen. Keeve was standing on the other side of the living room. He stepped back, as she stepped forward.

Not stepped; lunged. When the bees got to her, they must have eaten some of her leg before reaching her throat. There were chunks missing from her all over, but not so much she couldn't come back. As one of them.

She was still beautiful, even now. There's no greater compliment Keeve could have paid anyone: even with the wounds and empty eyes, she was beautiful.

"I should have been here," he said aloud, raising the gun with both hands. She took another step towards him, and he took another back down the hall. He stared at her down the barrel. At her face. Her lips.

He stepped back again and she forward, like it was some kind of dance. His eyes went out of focus from his tears, and he looked at the gun then at his hand. There was something in it. Something....

He opened it. The engagement ring lay still in his palm. He aimed the gun with the other but couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger. Slowly, he lowered the gun and distantly felt it fall from his grip. Then he let the ring tumble, hitting the floor and rolling against the wall.

It was stupid. The idea it meant anything. It wasn't a symbol: it was cheap garbage. All Deb ever wanted was what she still wanted. He held open his arms and closed his eyes as she embraced him.

The perfect gift. Himself. All she'd asked for on Christmas.

Based on a TRUE story

THE INNKEEPER was a fat man, and he was exhausted. These were the first two observations going through Joseph's mind upon setting eyes on the owner. And why shouldn't he be tired? It was late – nearly midnight. And here was a couple, the woman clearly in labor, on his doorstep.

The innkeeper rubbed his eyes. He didn't wait for Joseph to start in. "Look, kid. We're full up. Sorry."

"What? You can't be," Joseph said. "You must have, what, two dozen rooms in this place. Who's renting two dozen rooms?"

"Almost three dozen," the innkeeper corrected him. "And it's these damned stargazers. Pouring in from every town for a hundred leagues. Astrologers, astronomers, you name it. Everyone's got to come gawk at the giant bloody light in the sky. Or didn't you notice it?"

"Yeah, we saw the stupid star," Joseph said.

"Well, apparently this spot's got the best angle for viewing. I don't just mean in Bethlehem: I mean this exact inn. Lucky me, right? Goddamn astronomers. I thought Roman soldiers were demanding, but these bastards take the cake."

Mary cried out in pain.

Joseph sighed. "Look. Can't you bump someone? My wife's with child here."

"Yeah, well my inn's with mortgage. Word gets out I'm tossing paying guests, folks are liable to steer clear. Before long, I'll be out of business."

"We'll take anything," Joseph begged.

"You can stay in the manger," the innkeeper said with a shrug.

"With animals?" Joseph glared.

"You said anything," the innkeeper replied.

"Joseph," Mary interrupted between deep breaths. "The manger's fine."

"No, it's not fine," Joseph said. "I don't want my wife giving birth knee-deep in cow shit. There's got to be something else."

"Sorry," the innkeeper said, showing no emotion whatsoever. "We're full up."

"Look," Mary said, grabbing her husband's shoulder hard enough to make him cringe. "I'm sure you keep a very clean manger, and we thank you for your generosity."

"Yeah. Look, I'll have my boy follow you out with some water and some rags," the innkeeper said, relaxing his demeanor a bit.

"But—" Joseph started.

"Let's go," Mary interrupted with a hard tug on his arm.

A few minutes later they were in the stables. The animals were all gathered round, bathed in the light of the star pouring in through the open door. Joseph elbowed a goat in the ribs to get it to move, and it gave him a look that suggested it wanted to show him the business end of its horns, but it thought maybe - just maybe - that wasn't such a good idea.

Since this whole debacle had started nine months earlier, animals had acted weird around him. It was nothing compared to how they were around his wife, what with birds landing on her fingers and squirrels dropping nuts at her feet and other batshit crazy stuff like that, but there was this bizarre understanding. It was like they knew Joseph would be raising the son of God and they knew better than to fuck with him.

"That's right," Joseph said to the goat, as it backed away. He straightened his robe, grateful for the chance to seem tough after the emasculating exchange with the innkeeper.

"Honey," Mary said, "I could use some water."

"Yeah. He said the kid would meet us here."

"That's peachy, but sooner would be better."

Joseph rolled his eyes. "Fine." He walked out of the stable and looked around. A few minutes later he caught sight of a boy, no older than six, carrying a pail of water. He had a handful of rags tossed over one shoulder.

Joseph met him halfway there, tipped him, and headed back into the stables. "Hi, Hon. I've got the water."

"Thank God."

"Yeah. Let's thank HIM again," Joseph muttered under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Oh. Nothing. Nothing at all."

Mary was sweating and breathing quickly. "Could you give me a drink?"

"Uh..." Joseph set the pail down and started going through his things.

"Oh. Are you kidding me?"

"The cup. I must have left it on the mule. I'll go get it."

"Go quickly. This baby isn't going to wait."

"Are you sure? I mean, you know what today is, don't you?"

"Joseph. I really don't think--"

"I know, but... it's the Solstice. Don't you think that's a little... inappropriate? This is the son of the true God, right? Shouldn't his birthday not fall on the center of the pagan calendar? This is already the birthday of, like, a half-dozen deities in the Roman pantheon alone."

"JUST GET ME A DAMNED CUP!" Mary yelled.

Joseph hurried out of the stable and headed over to where they'd parked the mule. The thing looked up at him cross eyed and half-yawned, half-belched. It didn't bother getting up first.

It turns out you can get a mule dirt cheap in the desert, provided you don't care how ugly, old, or stupid the damn thing is. Or how bad it smells, for that matter. Joseph held his nose while he fished through the saddlebag.

In Joseph's defense, it had been a long nine months, full of prophecy, supernatural visitation, and strange portents. Like any good, God-fearing Jewish man tasked by an angel of the Lord, he was doing his due diligence. But that sure as hell didn't mean he had to like any of this. He'd put up with a lot of shit these past few months, and it just kept piling up.

His wife was to give birth to the son of God. Great. And she'd gotten pregnant before they'd been officially married. Sure. Oh, and it wasn't enough that it'd been a virgin _conception_ : to officially count as a fully-sanctioned miracle, it had to be a virgin _birth_.

Yeah. That seemed fair.

Where had Mary even met God? And who gave God the right to shit all over Joseph's life like this? Ha. Who gave Him the right - who else? God. No conflict of interest there.

Joseph finally found a cup and headed back to the stables. He gave his wife something to drink and did his best to keep her relaxed. A few hours later, the baby was born. Mary looked at the child and teared up, and Joseph was speechless, as well. It was a beautiful boy, and the couple smiled at each other. Mary held the baby close and whispered, "Could you close the window? That star's light is blinding, and I really need some sleep."

Joseph walked to the window and found himself staring right into the eyes of a shepherd. More specifically, he was staring at the nearest shepherd in what appeared to be a roving gang of shepherds. And they weren't alone: a good portion of their flocks had come with them.

"What now?" Joseph asked.

The shepherd gasped. "Are you... is that... we saw the star from our fields. It led us here."

"Yeah. Star. Got it."

"It is the sign we were promised!" another shepherd proclaimed, shoving the first out of the way. He faced Joseph at first, then spun to the rest. "Within this manger, our King is born! Oh tidings of great joy!" The shepherds cheered in unison.

Behind him, Mary said, "What in God's name is going on out there?"

Joseph looked back to try and explain, but before he get a word in, someone yelled from a window overhead, "Shut the hell up!" And someone else: "We're trying to sleep here! You want me to call for the guards?"

Joseph wanted no trouble. "Look. If you... if you can all promise to be quiet, I'll let you in for a minute."

Another cheer rose up, and the crowd poured in through the stable doors. They gathered round a confused Mary, who had only heard bits of the conversation through the window. "Uh... Joseph. Could you... WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?"

Joseph was trying to reach his wife, but he kept tripping over shepherds prostrating themselves before his infant child. "Would you... please... move?" he hissed through his teeth. He eyed one of the shepherd's canes and briefly wondered if he might be able to pry it away from the guy and, if so, how much damage he could do to the assembled mass.

But that's when the damned kids showed up. There was a good dozen of them, and they snuck in through the back and hung out behind the shepherds. A few had instruments - flutes, horns, even... God, no... drums.

"No," Joseph said, frantically, "Do not play."

"But, Sir. It is the only thing we've to offer our Lord."

"I don't care. He needs sleep. His mother needs sleep."

"Sir! Are you the husband of yonder maid?" The voice was different than that of a shepherd, and Joseph looked up in shock. The speaker was large, broad shouldered, and dressed in fine fabrics - finer than anything Joseph had ever seen up close, in fact.

Joseph was dumbstruck. Before he could begin to fathom who this new visitor was, he had to contend with the realization he wasn't alone: two more men in similar dress appeared beside him, and a large crowd of servants stood behind.

The rich visitor cleared his throat. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Balthazar. My associates, Melchior and Caspar, and I have come some distance to be here."

"Oh. Oh God. Listen," Joseph said, tripping over another shepherd. He quickly regained his footing. "Listen, please. My wife and I don't know these people, and I don't know why they're here. I'm so sorry they woke you and--"

"Nonsense!" Balthazar laughed. "We haven't slept in two nights. Had to make haste getting here and all. Besides, you're the one we want to see. Well, more to the point, your wife and her child."

"Oh. Ah. Good," Joseph said, looking to Mary, who was trying to push back shepherds seeking the blessing of her newborn baby. "Uh... how can we help you?"

Balthazar laughed again. "We are kings of a sort, and we've come to gaze upon the King of Kings, as prophesied."

"There he is," Melchior added, pointing at the baby with his thumb.

"Can't argue with that," Caspar put in.

"Oh, my!" Balthazar added. "Where are my manners? We've brought gifts for our newborn Lord, of course. Servants! Get those chests in here!"

"Gifts?" Joseph asked.

"Oh my, yes," Balthazar said. "We've brought frankincense from India. It symbolizes ascension. To honor the prophecy the child fulfils, we bring myrrh. And lastly, in recognition of his standing as King of Kings, we brought you gold."

"Wait. What was that?"

"Frankincense, from far off lands, to symbolize--"

"Oh, yeah, I got that, but what was that last part?" Joseph asked.

"What? You mean the gold? The symbolism isn't so refined, but--"

Joseph stopped him again. "Just to be clear. Is this symbolic-gold or gold-gold? I mean, first of all, thanks for coming all this way, but I just want to make sure I'm understanding. Is this--"

Melchior interrupted, stepping in front of Balthazar with a bow. "It is both symbol and reality, for this is symbol made real. Just as the child is God and man, so too must the gifts--"

"Joseph," Mary called out. "Did he say they brought us gold?"

"I... I think they did."

"How much?" Mary asked.

"The amount isn't actually so important as what it represents. But I brought a chest full, just in case," Caspar said. Some servants came in with a massive chest.

"That chest? Is full of gold? For... us?"

"Oh, no. That one's actually the myrrh. The gold's coming up next." Another pair of servants came in with another chest. "But yes. This is for you. Well, technically it's for the child, but as the boy's legal and heavenly appointed guardians.... Excuse me, miss. Are you... crying?"

Mary was indeed crying, so Joseph stepped in. "You have to understand... I'm a carpenter. We came across the desert on a mule."

"Oh," Balthazar said. "We were actually wondering why you were choosing to deliver the child in a manger."

"We'd been discussing it, actually," Caspar added. "Melchior thought it was supposed to be symbolic."

"Not really," Joseph said.

"But what about these shepherds? Surely anyone with so many slaves and goats--"

"They're not ours," Joseph explained. "We came here with nothing but ourselves, a dying mule, and a small pouch of coins."

"Huh," Caspar said. "So. By the way, where should we put this stuff down?"

It was almost dawn before the wise men departed, and most of the shepherds started to pick up after them. As the last rays of the heavenly star above began to fade from view, Mary turned to Joseph and said, "Before the shepherds all leave, why don't you see if any of them want some myrrh or frankincense."

And so was born our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, in the town of Bethlehem in the year 1ish. And henceforth was this to be known as the first Christmas, which coincidentally fell more or less on the 4000th Winter Solstice, which was also the birthday of Hercules and Dionysus and a shitload of other gods associated with the sun, death, rebirth, and all that.

So Merry Christmas, one and all, and rejoice in these glad tidings.

IF I'M GOING to hold the books someday, I have a lot to learn.

Today is December 24, and tomorrow is Christmas Day. It's an old story, and the old ones are hardest to grasp. Truth and myth are entwined; fable and metaphor are one and the same with description. Learning the words is easy. Memorizing is only a matter of time. But untangling what is from what's said is a skill my grandfather spent his life mastering.

There were never such things as dragons, but there are fish large enough to swallow a man whole. Alligators are not mythical; vampires are. There are wolves, but not werewolves. I spent weeks studying the writings about dinosaurs before I asked father.

"No. They're made up," he answered, paused, considered, then corrected himself. "No, I'm sorry. Dinosaurs are real. Or they were once."

I'm used to this. I should have asked Grandfather instead, but I didn't want him to know I was having so much trouble. Father's an engineer; the things he sees make it hard for him to think, to remember. I understand, and am glad I'm not suited for that work. My sister, Lue, and our brother, Thom, are. They're learning the trade with Father, who says it's for nothing; that they'll never need to practice the trade in earnest. "We'll reach Earth before that," he says. But he yells at them if they don't pay attention to his lessons about grav condensers or air circulators. He says they'll never have to carry on the tribe without him, but we're so far. And he's not as strong as he was once.

Lue and Thom have always been smarter than me, and I pity them. If you're human, being smart makes you an engineer, and they're starting to show the signs. Staring into the core changes a person. Working on machines that bend space bends the mind. I used to think there was something wrong with my dad, because Grandpa isn't like that. But Grandfather keeps the books, like I'm going to. Until Lue and Thom went to learn Father's trade, I didn't understand.

They used to be so fast. They used to hang around the Meb, back when we were on Esx, and the Meb won't put up with you if you aren't clever. More than clever: brilliant. Meb get bored communicating with humans. They get bored with almost anything other than themselves. But they made friends with Lue and Thom. They'd sit around, communicating with box-translators, making jokes I couldn't understand, talking about math and science.

I've never seen a Meb become an engineer. I asked my father, but all he'd say is, "They don't do that work." I think they could but won't. I think they know what it does to you.

These days, Lue and Thom can barely talk to me after a day in the core. Even when they get a day off, they usually just want to go somewhere and sit silently. It's like something's burning out inside of them, and they're trying to remember what it was.

This will be our first Christmas on the Ile. Last year, we were on Esx Station. Grandfather jokes that he's glad he'll be able to die off of Esx, that if he'd passed there, the Jithi would have eaten him. Father scolded him for the jokes. He said stories of Jithi eating alien flesh were just old tales. But when the Jithi look at you, you'd swear they were wondering what you taste like. Sometimes old tales are true.

We spent a year and a half on the Esx. Father said he rebuilt half the systems on the station in that time, and I'm sure if the Jithi had their way, he'd still be there, earning our keep working on the other half. Humans make good engineers, I've heard.

There's little good I can say about Esx, but when the station reached the right part of its orbit, you could look out across the stars and see Earth. Well, you could see Sol, but that's the same thing. Grandpa used to point at it. "That's home," he'd say, softly. "My mother's mother used to tell me about it."

We were close on Esx, closer than our tribe's been since our ancestors left to colonize Ulisin. But seeing the Earth and reaching it are not the same. The Jithi swore a human ship had left right before we arrived, that one came through every six months or so. But we waited a year and a half on the station, living in the lower cord, fixing the Jithi's station, before growing suspicious. Trade routes are complicated. They change over time. Some are abandoned and others established. They're easy to lie about and hard to verify.

I didn't like Esx station or the Jithi who ran it. I still avoid the Jithi aboard the Ile, but at least they're not in charge. They're passengers like us. Just gypsies moving through the stars. Almost everyone on the Ile is. Maybe even the Helb.

The Ile is a Helb ship. I'd always heard it said the Helb were slow in the head, but at least you can trust them. I've never heard a Helb called a liar. I'm not even sure they know how.

It's good to be moving again. We hadn't been on a ship since the Porpo, the only human vessel I ever knew. I miss the Porpo to this day. I loved it and wish we could have remained. But Father said it was time to leave and tolerated no questions. The core of the Porpo always made a tinging sound, like a bell. You could hear it everywhere on the ship, but it was quiet and never troubled me. But I think Father knew more about it. Lue said so, that a Master Engineer like Father knows when to leave a ship.

I asked Lue whether she thinks the Porpo ever made it to Earth, but she just shrugged. I think she liked the captain's nephew, and doesn't want to think about it. But maybe she's just lost. Engineers are usually like that.

There's another tribe of humans on the Ile. The Goeng are an engineering clan, like us. There are twelve of them here. Their leader, Zhen, arranged for us to be on the Ile. The Helb negotiate with him directly. The captain of the Helb's translator only recognizes Chinese.

Fim, another Helb, has a translator which recognizes English, but he only speaks to me and my grandfather. I've tried to get him to speak with Father, but he's always refused. His place on the ship confuses me. Grandfather suggested that maybe he keeps the Helb's books. They don't seem to have books like we do, but the comparison seems sufficient.

Grandfather's asleep, and I'm studying the books. I'm reading the computerized versions, of course, so I don't wear out the bindings on the Holy Books we travel with. The Holy Books are printed on paper: artifacts of Earth. If we ever lost the ability to use the digital, we would turn to them. I used to laugh at the idea, but we met a tribe on Esx whose family computers were destroyed a generation prior on an Pifi-Lur ship. Something had happened there involving radiation. My brother and sister understood the details and tried to explain, but it is increasingly difficult for us to communicate these days. We tried to help them by giving them a copy of our digital records. At first they were grateful, but that changed as they read. Eventually, they accused us of giving them false books, of spreading lies. They deleted the files we gave them.

"They've been out here too long," Grandfather explained. "Telling stories from memory. They've lost sight of what's real."

He was right. They said things that made no sense, that the city of Chicago was built on the wind itself and sailed all over the world, and that snakes could grow so long they could circle the world. It was impossible to talk to them about Earth, and they'd yell at you if you tried. I once thought one of them was going to attack Thom for insisting whales couldn't walk on land.

After that, I took my job more seriously. One day, we will reach Earth, and when we do, we will need to prove we belong. We will need to tell them who we are, so we must never forget.

I'm studying the books of Christmas. There are so many stories. Myths of Jesus and Saint Nicholas. Tales of Santa Claus and flying reindeer, which I'm now certain don't exist. Accounts of trees growing inside of houses, covered in lights (there is some truth to this, though I do not fully understand). I have read of snowmen and elves, gifts and plants hanging from passageways which fill men with lust. These are old stories, and it is hard to know what to make of them.

Eventually I grow tired and go for a walk. In the hall, I hear arguing: my father and Zhen.

"We're passing the nebula by!" Father screams.

"Helb won't go in," Zhen says. "They're in a hurry. I'm sorry. I don't know what to tell you."

"It wouldn't take more than a week. A week! We could get off at any of the stations. Please. Can you talk to the captain again? Make him understand."

"I've done all I can," Zhen says. "Why do you want to leave so badly? The Ile's a good ship. She's safe, clean. Better than any of those stations. Most of them are infected with bugs from a dozen planets. Not a good place."

"We're going further and further from Earth," my father says.

"So?" Zhen replies. "Why are you so anxious to reach Earth?"

"It's where we belong," my father explains.

"Your ancestors didn't think so."

"And we know how well that worked out."

"You have too much faith. I hear stories sometimes from young tribes passing through. I hear Earth's gotten worse. War. Crime. Disease. Not a good place to be."

"Maybe in China," my father replies. "But not America. Never America."

I hear Zhen laugh. "What does it matter? They'd never let you into America. I don't think they'd let you into China, either."

"My family is American," Father says forcefully.

"Your ancestors were American," Zhen says. "That's not the same thing."

"They'd take us," my father tells him. "We remember who we are."

"You remember who you used to be. It's not the same thing."

"They'll take us," my father insists. "Besides, it's no concern of yours. Just take my message to the captain."

"The captain's plans won't change," Zhen says. "I'm sorry. But it's for the best. You have it good here. And the Ile is better for having you. You're a good worker, and your children are smart. Maybe someday, maybe our tribes become one tribe, eh? Your younger daughter's about the age of Qing. Who knows?"

There's a moment of silence. "I don't think you ever asked the captain to change course. Listen, Zhen, I'm getting my family off this ship and my daughters away from your sons."

"Do what you think is best. But you'll be making a mistake."

I hear my father walking towards me. I quietly move back to the room I was studying in, so he won't know I was spying. I sit down and pretend I'm still reading. He opens the door and steps in.

"Kija, I wanted to talk to you. It's about... that Helb you keep meeting with. I know he won't talk to me, but maybe you could take him a message. We're nearing the Juthinar Nebula. There are some stations there, and... if we could reach them, I think we could... we might be able to book passage back to Earth. Or at least to Ottite. And that would put us near some shipping lanes. It would only be a matter of time if we can get there."

"I... I'll ask him," I tell my father.

"Good. I think... I don't think Zhen did. I think Zhen... there are people who hate being human, Kija. They... they don't want to return to Earth, because.... I don't know. It doesn't matter. Ask your friend. See if he'll talk to the captain. See if maybe he'll help us."

I nod. I don't remind Father that Zhen has always helped us when we wanted better quarters and food, and I certainly don't tell him I kind of like Qing. He looks funny, but he seems smart and kind, and he holds the Goeng's books like I hold ours. I don't say these things, because while they are true, they aren't what important. What's important is getting home.

I think Fim is surprised to see me, but it's difficult to read the Helb. They walk on two legs, like humans, but have three arms, like the Meb. Their middle arm is longer than the other two, and sometimes they lean forward and use it like an extra leg. Their heads are large, but flat. They have four large eyes, which occupy most of their face. They're very sensitive to the light, so they keep most of the ship dark. They let us keep our areas as bright as we'd like, however.

Usually, Fim seeks me out. He seems more curious about us than the other Helb, but I don't know why that is. Maybe he's just the only one able to communicate with us.

"Hi, Fim," I say.

He turns on his translator and utters a short series of clicks from his throat. "Hello," his translator says almost instantaneously. I didn't need the translation to recognize the greeting.

"I wanted to talk with you," I explain. "It's about my family. We're trying to get home. If we could go through the Juthinar Nebula, it would be much easier. Zhen won't convey our message to the captain, and we wanted to know if you'd help."

Fim adjusts the dial on his translator. "Zhen speaks for humans. It would improper. I would be interfering with your species' business."

"I don't understand."

"Zhen negotiates for humans. It would be improper for me to interfere."

"But we want you to," I explain.

"It would be improper." If he's irritated, it's not coming through the translator. But then, I doubt my irritation is, either.

"Fine," I say. "I'll tell my father."

"I regret if you are saddened."

"That's... that's okay. Merry Christmas, I guess." I mean it as a joke, but Fim touches his head with his left hand. It's a sign of interest from the Helb, I think. "It's... it's a holiday. On Earth."

"It is the star holiday," Fim says.

"Huh?"

He adjusts his translator again. "Christmas. It is the Earth celebration of the guiding star."

"There's a story about three men and a star," I say. "That's part of Christmas."

"Follow," Fim says, and begins leading me through the ship. It's difficult to navigate in the dark, but I do my best. There's some light, but not much. We travel for almost ten minutes. We're deeper in the Helb's section than I've ever been. Fim leads me into a room. He adjusts a dial on the wall, and the light begins to increase. It's still dim, but it's enough for Fim to shield his eyes with his outer hands. With his middle, he adjusts a control on the wall nearest to us.

The far wall opens to reveal a series of panels, each containing a piece of artwork. Fim enters some sort of command, and they begin flipping by, moved by a mechanical arm. I see a cutout of a stone wall go by, followed by some sort of animal hide and things closer to what I'd recognize as canvases. Each piece houses a picture, always of an impossibly bright star.

The slides stop with a picture from Earth depicting shepherds, animals, and angels overlooking the baby Jesus. Overhead, occupying the majority of the painting, is a star.

"The guiding star," Fim says.

"Where did you get this?" I gasp.

"Earth," he says.

"You... you went to Earth?"

"Seventeen..... ago." It takes the translator a second, then it repeats, "Twenty-four point seven four years ago."

"Could... could you go back?" I ask.

"There is no reason," he says. "We seek the star. All through the galaxy, we follow it. It is like our own star made whole. Our star, on our homeworld, is its reflection. This is the true star."

"I don't understand."

"No one but the Helb understand. And then, only some. Most Helb won't leave. They think there is only the one star. But we have found proof." He motions to the paintings. "The guiding star has appeared to many worlds. Even Earth. It is your Christmas." With all four fingers on his middle arm he points to the star.

"Thank you for showing me this," I say, "but I should be getting back. I have to get ready for Christmas Eve."

"No hurry," Fim says. He goes to a panel and enters some data. I can't understand what he's doing. Even if I could read their symbols, the screen is far too dim to make anything out. "On Earth, Christmas Eve was..... ago." It takes the conversion programs on the translators a few seconds to catch up, and then it repeats, "On Earth, Christmas was three point three nine weeks ago."

"No," I say. "We have an electron clock. We've had it for generations."

"It must have lost time," Fim says. "Most do, if they're not calibrated."

"No. It's... we always. I... I need to get back," I say again. "I need to talk to my father."

"Of course," Fim says. "Follow."

He begins leading me back the way we came. "My father won't be happy about Juthinar," I say, but Fim ignores me. He leads me back to the human section and thanks me for the discussion. He tells me he's learned a great deal more about humans and about his own search. I nod, but I don't care.

I don't go in search of Father; not yet. I know he'll find me soon enough to hear Fim's answer, but I don't want to tell him yet. He'll be upset. He might even yell. So, I go back to the room where I study.

Grandfather's awake now, and he's going over the books. I'm crying when I come in, so he asks what's wrong.

"They... they said our clock is wrong," I say, and I tell him about meeting with Fim.

Grandfather shakes his head. "That's impossible. The clock's been with us for ages. It's always worked."

I smile, but I wonder. If a few seconds have been dropping away since our clan left Earth, we'd never have noticed. It could easily add up.

"The Helb visited Earth," I tell him. "They have a painting of a star."

"All these Helb care about is their star," Grandfather mutters. "He tell you they're seeking a magic star? They're chasing nothing. A figment. Their planet... it never spins. It's always night there on one side of the planet, and the other's too damn close to their sun. Life only grew in the dark. But there's a star close by. A sister star to their sun. They can see it part of the year. Their species evolved looking up at it. Using it to guide them. Their species is hardwired to want that light. Most Helb understand that. These... these are damn pilgrims. They think there's a perfect star out there. One that heals the sick and brings back the dead and all that, and they'll search the whole galaxy. But... it's just a story, Kija. Just a stupid story."

I listen to him, but it just makes me more conflicted. I hide it as best I can until my grandfather leaves to lie down. Then I go for a walk to the outer rim of the ship. I pass dozens of aliens; some are species whose names I don't even know. The Helb make deals with many gypsies from many worlds. I wonder what they're looking for. Stars. Paths home. A way to escape whatever war or plague they're running from.

In the end, they're all just chasing stories. They're chasing made-up stars and imagined stories of worlds they've never seen.

When I reach the edge, I look out. We're passing close to a solar system, and the star shines bright. I reach out and touch the glass. The light is blue and soft. Silent and peaceful.

"Kija!" I almost jump. My father is marching towards me. "Did you find him? Did you ask?"

"I... Fim said he wouldn't do it. I tried to make him understand, but...."

Father just sighs. He doesn't look angry, just sad. "Helb," he says beneath his breath. "Their heads are thin. Do not worry. We'll find a way. It might take longer, but we'll find a path that leads back to Earth someday."

"I... I know," I say. I should feel bad lying to my father, but it doesn't seem like a lie. It seems more like a story.

Father looks out the window with me for a moment. The light is beautiful. "We should get going. We need to get ready for Christmas Eve. We'll put up lights. Lue and Thom have already started drawing the tree on the wall. If we hurry, maybe they'll let you draw the star on top, if there's any chalk left."

I look at him and nod. "I'd like that." I take his hand and we start back. This will be a beautiful Christmas Eve.

* * *

Novels by Erin L. Snyder:

Facsimile

For Love of Children

Short Story Collections:

Tending the Fire

25 Christmas Eves

Get details and more at <http://www.erinlsnyder.com/>

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