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LET IT SNOW!

Season's Readings for a Super-Cool Yule!  
Ten eclectic stories in off-beat holiday settings by:

Red Tash, Jack Wallen, Jessica McHugh, Axel Howerton, Tim Tash, Mercedes Yardley, Claudia Lefeve, Marian Allen, Connie Roberts-Huth, and T. Lee Harris. Approx 42,000 words

Genres: contemporary fantasy, horror, thriller, young adult, teen, lgbtq, mystery, crime, high fantasy, sci fi, humor, paranormal, detective, adventure, and holiday.

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LET IT SNOW!

Season's Readings for a Super-Cool Yule!  
Ten eclectic stories in off-beat holiday settings

Foreword

A Laurents County Landfill Christmas, by Red Tash  
Silent Night, by Jack Wallen

Crazed in Christmas City, by Jessica McHugh

A Manlove & Kickerdick Xmess, byAxel Howerton

The Snow Wolf's Gift, byTim Tash

A Serial Killer Christmas, by Mercedes Yardley

Old Mexia Christmas Brew, by Claudia Lefeve

The Pratty Who Saved Chrissmuss, by Marian Allen

Believe, by Connie Roberts-Huth

**Hau'oli** Hanukkah by T. Lee Harris

End notes & Acknowledgements

Foreword

Happy holidays and welcome to our quaint little holiday collection of zombies, crazies, fairies and treasure-hunters (and more)! Doesn't that just give you the warm fuzzies? If you said "yes," then you're in the right place.

Dear reader, you hold in your hands an ebook of over 40,000 words. That's the size of a small novel, my friend. Enjoy it. Within, you will find **ten** undiscovered gems of the ereader world. Ten seasoned writers with volumes of work in their catalogs, just awaiting your discovery. Are you all atingle yet? Read on!

Why "LET IT SNOW?" Well, we went round and round with what to name this collection, and finally decided...Wait. I'm getting ahead of myself, already. Perhaps first I should tell you how this book came to be.

Quite simply, I was jealous. Jealous of the kind of writer who can churn out a book a month, and in so doing, can always have a new offering for the ebook gods. Writing has always taken me longer than that. I can never let go of a finished story that quickly, let alone a finished novel!

After some thought, I decided I would write a Christmas story set in the world of my most recent novel, TROLL OR DERBY. The more I thought about it, the more I realized I should draft some of my friends into writing Christmas stories—or Chanukah, or Yule, or some other end-of-the-year holiday—as well. After all, the more the merrier, when it comes to holiday parties.

And what would a holiday party be without your favorite characters? For once, I don't meant the office lothario or the lady with the lampshade on her head. No, this time I invited each of these authors because I knew they had favorite characters to bring along. That means that if you like a certain story within this ebook, you can find additional stories or novels starring the very same characters, just by following the links or googling these authors. It's like picking up a free sample and finding out it's a full-sized product! We hope you'll decide these characters are your new favorites. Nothing would make us happier.

But back to that title. The thing was, once everyone's stories were in, the only theme in common between them was that they were set at the holidays. There was at least the mention of snow in each story, even if there were no snowflakes to be found. We tossed around a hundred witty titles, and eventually, LET IT SNOW leaped out as the clear winner. I think of it as a snow shower of good writing. Pick up this ebook and shake it like a holiday globe—inside, our favorite characters are knocking around just waiting to meet you!

Lastly, I want to add that it's not just the characters that make this book a treat. All of the contributors to this collection are special people and terrific storytellers. They may not be "rush job" writers, but they have other gifts, spending several months crafting the tales you will find within this collection _just for this ebook_. That, dear reader, is an amazing thing. When is the last time someone wrote a story just for you? Never? Well, that's not the case anymore. The next time somebody asks, you can say "LET IT SNOW was written just for me—here, it says so right in the Foreword!" (I dare you to do that and not end up in Taunton Asylum.)

I know you will enjoy reading this collection, and I want to thank you on behalf of all the contributors for downloading this anthology. Should you have any questions about where to locate other works by the any of us, check their websites (links are at the end of each story). Failing that, all of them are on Facebook.

We look forward to getting to know you, just as you get to know our beloved characters.

Wherever you are, whatever you celebrate—happy holidays, from each of us to all of you.

Sincerely,

Red Tash & friends
A Laurents County Landfill Christmas,

A story of winter pixies and moonlight

by Red Tash

Harlow

Winter in Laurents County, Indiana is cold, damp, and gray. Winter in the landfill is even worse, which is why I like it. Nobody bothers me.

_Usually_.

I woke from a nap and decided to brave the conditions outside the mansa for a lap or two around the swampy ground, and who did I see creeping? This old wizard dude. He's been coming around for years, just often enough to irritate me. Don't know what he wants, because he doesn't speak.

He looked like he was thinking about something, then he grasped his staff with both hands, thumped it into the ground, and a snow shower came on like magic.

"Show off!" I yelled, although I doubted he heard from across the dump. "Weirdo."

The day before, I'd managed to score a near-pristine copy of Rachael Ray's holiday magazine, and now her sweet face was becoming pocked with the falling snow. Stupid of me to have left it outside, I guess. I reached for it, scanning the teasers again.

Uninvited guests this holiday season? No problem! Celebrate in style with these last minute gift ideas!

I scoffed.

"I got your gift right here!" I shouted to the old man, but he was gone. In his stead, a fading twinkle of glittering lights, then a puff of smoke.

"Good riddance," I said, stroking Ray's face lightly before tucking the magazine inside my jacket. I could glamour it back to its original shape, but it'd have been nice to have something not half-broken for once.

"Speaking of half-broken, might as well invite the whole gang over," I said to Ray. As usual, she did not reply—although, this time she was in my jacket, so maybe she did and I just couldn't hear her.

I reached into the mojo sack I wear around my neck, and pulled out a sprig of holly. I held it between my tusks and teeth, marched in a circle three times, and sang a few lines of All I Want For Christmas Is You by Mariah Carey. Wizard or no wizard creeping, I sang the heck out of that song.

I clapped my hands seven times and whistled, but I didn't have to wait long before a bevy of snow pixies were hovering around me.

"My handwriting's not what it used to be, guys, so make this look extra pretty for me, okay?"

They clanged in response, their voices ringing flat like tiny mangled sleigh bells.

I waved my hands in the air around them, half-hoping to swat a few as I shook out my knuckles to loosen them up. Although Christmas Pixies were a lot nicer lot than the warm-weather Tinks that had plagued us a few months earlier, they could still be nasty little critters.

Etched like frost on a glass window, I wrote out the invitation as nicely as I could. According to Deb, my hand-writing was surprisingly delicate, although my precious flower didn't quite use those words. "You write like a girl," she'd said. "You write better than me, anyway."

I wondered what she'd been up these past few days with her mom and her sister, back at the trailer park. Well, hopefully I'd find out soon.

I drew a scalloped edge around the lettering, then jotted the names of all my friends in succession.

"That should do it," I said. "Here's hoping Deb doesn't bring her mom." One of the pixies winked and clanged in that awful tenor some unintelligible response. I probably shouldn't have said that last part out loud.

"There's some lavender tea & local honey in the house," I said. "Warm up on that before you head out, would ya?"

I glanced again at Ray's magazine. _12 Christmas Gifts Your Family Will Love!_

"You know, Rach, I think you stole that story from Woman's Day, but whatever," I said. "You're right. I do need to go shopping." I tossed the magazine inside the mansa, and kicked away some trash from the door. A piece of glossy heavy paper flew up and caught the breeze. I grabbed for it, but it hit me directly in the face before I could catch it.

"What is this?" I said as I pulled it away from my face. An impossibly beautiful man, tall and bare-chested, willow-thin like a teenager stared intently at the camera. The shade of enormous white wings hung behind him, well-glamoured for the photoshoot, but still visible to the naked magical eye.

"Well, I'll be dipped in horse manure and rolled in cracker crumbs," I said. "It's him."

The pixies emerged from the mansa. As I was counting them to make sure they were all there, one of them grinned mischievously and tossed cracker crumbs at me.

"Hey, I was kidding about that. Don't you dare go dragging manure of any kind into this house."

The pixies jingled in unison at me, their wordless bells now chiming out the tune to the Twelve Days of Christmas. "Much better," I said. It was the only real reason I didn't swat them like flies, or like Summer Tinks or some other pest. Hard to feel good about stopping the music, you know? "Now off with you," I said, and they zoomed away, over the hills of garbage, now very prettily disguised under several inches of snow.

I scrounged a bit until I found the magazine the beautiful man's image had been torn from. It'd been years since I'd seen him, and talk about awkward! He was a changeling, and hadn't known it at the time. I'd always wondered what had happened to the guy since the night he fledged out in front of me in an abandoned hunting cabin. Never had forgotten those wings of his, white as snow. Looked to me like he'd either become a model or a movie star—I honestly couldn't tell what the ad was for. _Moonlight_? Maybe a cologne. I smelled the page, but it only held the scent of garbage.

"Good for him," I said. "Beauty like that doesn't last in a place like Bedrock, Indiana."

"Well, Rach, I'll see you in a bit," I announced, as I opened the door of the mangled olive green fridge I'd installed near the front door of the mansa, and disappeared down the Fridgerator Shoot. Fastest route to the Troll Market.

The swirling haze dumped me out from the familiar drainage pipe across a field from the Trollin' for Bargains Flea Market. The sign that boasted its status as the "2nd largest flea market in the Midwest" now flashed in a blinding staccato of blue and white, as a series of poorly-attached LED icicle lights lit up either end of the banner. A large section of lights simply hung there, not lighting up at all. As I neared the Flea Market building, I could see that section was actually made up of Summer Tinks, each of their little arms crossed in stubborn defiance. Whatever they'd done to deserve this treatment, I was sure they'd deserved it.

Making my way through the English side of the flea market was a lot quicker without Deb and Derek tagging along. No one was stopping at every other booth to look at Christmas crafts (Derek) or to handle the collectible swords (Deb). When I passed the seventh bin of $1/bottle recalled CoverGirl, I noticed fortune teller Madame Zelda bent over a box of the stuff, filling a shopping bag like she intended to bless the stockings of everyone she knew with it. For all I knew, she'd do exactly that. I made a mental note to hustle past her tent fast as I could. The last time I'd let her tamper with my dreads, it'd taken years of glamour to live through the results. With all the party preparations, I was definitely not up for a makeover, Zelda-style.

Past the impromptu bluegrass music circle (a 24/7 jamfest, thanks to the fairy musicians that hopped in and out when the English tired of playing), I found the Unlimited Topping Pizza and Broasted Chicken counter at the back of the flea market. The glamoured fairy behind the register gave me the bird as I feigned interest in the menu. Two English kids shared a pepperoni pizza in the back of the snack area as they pored over a stack of comic books, flipping pages with greasy fingers. Behind them hung a poster for that same movie I'd looked at earlier, the one starring the white fairy changling. _Moonlight_.

For a moment, I thought the kids were Deb and Derek, but they weren't. They'd be at the trailer park, waking up with their families, of course. Or, in Deb's case, what passed for a family.

"Three cheese pizzas with a side of mermaid caviar, Charlie," I said.

"That ain't the password no more," he said, reaching out for the supply closet door with his bare feet, and twisting the handle open.

"That's what you always say," I said.

He shrugged, and turned his attention to one of the English kids, who was approaching the counter with an empty drink cup in hand. "No refills," Charlie hissed, flexing his wings and showing his pointed teeth. The girl recoiled.

"Be nice, Charlie," I said, before I disappeared behind the shimmering curtain that disguised our world from theirs.

"Fuck you, Harlow," he said, but I could barely hear it over the roar of the Troll Market.

Yes, it was Christmas even in the Realm, and the shoppers were out in force. If you think the combo of cabin fever mixed with holiday tension is rough for humans, you should see how it affects the fae. As I scanned the vicinity for any available shopping barrows, I saw a hovering blue fae dive-bomb a slow-moving gnome in front of a bin of oversized mushrooms.

Normally, I'd have been able to carry my own weight, but with the clock ticking and so many people to buy for, I saw no alternative: I would have to hire a personal shopper.

I gestured, and six golems approached me so quickly, I couldn't help but feel the sting of fear. I tried not to let it show.

"Aye. Prince Harlow, ain't it? Daddy's got a new crown and Sonny Boy needs to spend some of that hot McJagger gold for Xxxmas, right? Bored today? Shopping spree?" I didn't know her, but I took it she was one of Dave's old customers. From the looks of it, Faeth was a bit harder to come by since my uncle died and my cousins had gone into hiding. Withdrawal did not suit her, and I had the impression this gal hadn't exactly been a looker to begin with. Now her hair hung in limp gray clumps, her gums bloody around the broken stubs of what had been her pointed teeth.

"Need to hire one of your shoppers, but if you're going to be a jerk about it, forg--"

"No, no, wait, wait, yer majesty," she hissed. "Anything for the new Prince of the Realm." She clapped her hands, and the smallest of the six golems shuffled forward. "BrindleTop here will be your personal shopper for the day." She turned to the golem and waved two long, grey fingers in front of his face, the jagged, stained fingernails shimmering as her magic stirred and attached itself to him. "Be a love, BrindleTop," she said. "You're serving royalty today."

I sighed, but remained otherwise silent while the golem put himself into a harness, and pulled the large wooden barrow before me. He grunted, and I hopped into the barrow, tossing some change to his wretched mistress.

"I don't know exactly what I want, so let's just scan the market and see what leaps out at us," I said. Of course, the moment I said it, I knew I didn't really want anything to leap out at us. I hadn't brought my mace, or my bow. "On second thought, nothing that leaps, right off the bat. Not 'til we've stopped into the ironsmith's booth, anyway."

He pulled the cart surprisingly swiftly for a golem. I patted him on the shoulder to stop before a home furnishings booth. Enchanted armchairs and floating carpets were well and fine, but I wasn't sure I had enough seating in the mansa for a proper Christmas Eve party. I jumped out and threw three lavender-filled bean bags into the barrow. BrindleTop looked at me quite seriously. "Okay, you're right, of course," I said, and threw in a fourth, just to be safe.

Some dried jerky rabbits, whole, would make a nice offering for my thunderbird friend, if he showed up. I found those in the booth adjacent to Gruber's Farms Apple Butter. Those U Pick It Grubers were everywhere, even finding ways to distribute their wares on this side of the curtain. One of the trolls outside the booth offered apple samples to passers-by. I saw one forlorn child reach for the apple, but before I could hop down and knock it from his hand, another troll beat me to it. I didn't know her, but she was young and I liked her vibe. She seemed decent, at least at first impression.

"Never eat anything offered in the troll or fairy realm," she said to the child. "Food here is only safe if you've purchased it, and even then, little one, perhaps not safe enough for you."

I saw what she meant. This was a human child. How did he get in?

I tapped BrindleTop on the shoulder. "The boy," I said, and before I could finish, he had gently lifted the stunned child onto the back of the barrow, and placed him on a shimmering bean bag so large, his tiny frame was absolutely captive atop it.

He looked familiar. Ghostly pale skin, and his hair so pale it gleamed almost white, even beneath the ghastly flourescence.

"How old are you?" I asked him.

He blinked at me in reply. Was he stunned? Dazed? Drugged? All of the above?

"Do you know where you are?"

I thought I caught the faintest nod of agreement in response, but he still didn't speak. The enormous beanbag was shifting around him, and he didn't struggle against it. Maybe he felt safer, hidden inside the pillowing chair.

"Small for your age, but I'm guessing you're about seven years old, am I right?"

Still nothing.

"Well, sit tight. I've got some more shopping to do, then I'll get you out of here." I had no idea what I'd do with the kid, but I'd think of something. There wasn't any good that was going to come of leaving him here, that was for sure.

"Hey, Harlow!"

Skating down the cobblestone aisles on enchanted skates were a pack of rollergirls, Betsy Won't leading the way.

"Hey, Betsy." I wasn't sure what to say to her. I didn't really know her, and it felt awkward, her being part of Deb's former roller derby team and all. Was the team even going to keep skating together, after Jag's departure? "Merry Christmas." Gods, that was probably lame, but whatever.

"Deb here?" she asked.

I must have looked suspicious because she hurriedly added "We're getting a team together for RollerCan—totally above board, just need to skate, and a bunch of us want to head out West and take on some challenge matches. Might even form a WFTDA league, if they'll have us." She handed me a brochure. IF IT ROLLS ON 8 WHEELS, IT _WILL_ BE AT ROLLERCAN!

"I'll pass this on to Deb," I said. It pained me to think of her skating off with these girls again, but then, April wasn't part of the group anymore, as far as I knew.

Betsy grasped my hand and looked me hard in the eye. "She's a tough kid, Harlow. She can take care of herself, you know."

"Merry Christmas, girls," I said. "Stay off the streets, won't ya?" And then they were skating off, a pack of raggedy fishnets and feathery boas, and before I thought better of it, I heard myself invite them over.

"Come by the mansa later, recruit her yourself," I called from atop the barrow like some magnanimous idiot.

Betsy wheeled around and stopped. She smiled, her eyebrows arched in surprise. "Sure, Harlow." She agreed so quickly, I was pretty sure she was doing so before I could take it back.

"What am I doing?" I whispered.

BrindleTop growled.

"You're right, you're right, man. Better pick up some food."

I looked over my shoulder at the tiny pair of holey tennis shoes and the fluffy head peeking out from the beanbag. "What do you like to eat?" I said. "Ham okay?" He wiggled. I took that as a yes.

We loaded up on Gruber's Farms finest, with several hams and a leg of goat thrown in, just in case. All that shopping was thirsty work. I purchased three Croaks—one for me, one for BrindleTop, and one for the boy, who jumped when it opened, its trademark froggy sound bellowing out with the flip of the metal cap.

"It doesn't actually taste like a frog," I said. His eyes were enormous, looming like two dark saucers. He drank the Croak faster than BrindleTop did his. I slipped him a slice of cheese bread, another Gruber's Farm specialty. Those Grubers were damned good farmers, damned good cooks, damned good wine-makers. You name it. There's no cooking like Amish Troll cooking.

I'd just about spent all the gold I'd brought, and was getting perilously close to having to barter for goods, so I figured I'd call it quits and pick up some Bingo Pull-tabs as last minute gifts for the gang. God only knew who would show up. I'd invited a dozen people, I thought, including the band. Now the rollergirls.

Not to mention, I had a kid to smuggle out of the market. I picked up a few unlimited topping pizzas on the way out, and a couple of whole broasted chickens.

"Why not? It's Christmas."

Deb

The invitation hung on the air, so delicate and magical, like all things Harlow does.

I missed him.

Hadn't seen him much lately since Mom and I were trying to work it out. I mean, I didn't _have_ to stay with her. Didn't always want to, either, but things had improved so much between us since the whole Jag thing went down. Whether it made sense or not, I still loved my sister and wanted my mom in my life—shitty mom that she was, she was still the only mom I'd ever known.

I knew I had every right to leave her after all her lies and manipulations, but she was working so hard to make things right between us, I really felt like I owed it to her to give our family another chance. And, anyway, it was Christmas. She'd promised to spend it with Gennifer and me this year, somewhere other than the Bingo Hall. Nevermind the fact she was still banned from the Hall for diddling the Bingo host. It was the thought that counted.

"You gonna go?" Gennifer asked. We stood outside the Buy-Lo, Gennifer having a clove cigarette while Mom filled up the shopping cart with the gods only knew what would pass for a holiday dinner. Probably Saltines and butter, the way she'd been spending money lately. Another great reason for not leaving her entirely. I wasn't sure she'd survive without someone to pay the utility bills and deliver the rent money to the trailer park office.

Gennifer puffed on her clove, pausing to lick her lips, and smile. She was still pretty husky, but since she was back home, she'd picked up basketball again for her senior year of high school, and seemed to have the faeth pretty much out of her system. I knew she missed it sometimes, knew she missed Dave—or the dream of Dave, whatever it was she was in love with before. I couldn't leave her alone, either. Whether or not the debt I owed her and her mother was legit, magically, in my heart I didn't want to throw my sister to the wolves and walk away. From what I'd seen of the world so far, there wasn't all that much worth sacrificing a loved one over. Maybe when we were both a little bit older, I'd have Mom trained up better to take care of herself, and Gennifer and I would both find our way out of Bedrock.

Maybe Harlow would, too.

"Yeah, I think I'll go," I said. "You wanna come?"

"I thought you'd never ask," Gennifer said, stubbing her clove out on the sidewalk with her flip flop. There was an ashtray three feet away, but she seemed to miss it, completely.

By the time we got home, Mom had bitched for so long about why in the world we'd want to abandon her on Christmas Eve, Gennifer and I both had major guilt trips going. As we unloaded the groceries, however, all that changed.

"Mom, you seriously only bought chips and booze?" Gennifer pulled bottle after bottle out of the plastic bags, setting each one up on the table like evidence.

"Captain Morgan, meet your new mama," I whispered.

"Shut up!" Mom yelled. "I didn't just buy booze and chips." She rustled through a bag and pulled out a pint of Ben & Jerry's. "I bought the Americone Dream, too!"

My face was firmly into my palm before I even thought about it.

"Everybody change," I said. "We're getting out of this dump and going to a better one."

The mansa was lit up like a hot air balloon at night. I'd no idea it was all that big, but it seemed Harlow had made some magical enhancements just for the occasion. Light spilled out from every crack in the canvas, from between each tarp and what would normally be called camouflage. Was there any point in camouflaging the mansa on Christmas Eve, though? I mean, no chance the English would be hanging around the landfill on their holiest of nights, I guess.

"Hey, babygirl!" It was Derek, hugging me around the neck like old times. For once, it didn't bother me. Maybe the fact we'd survived McJagger's together had made me fonder of the redneck gangsta wannabe, but what the hell. It was Christmas. I hugged him back.

"Aw, yeah, that's what I'm talking about," he said.

"You're a gruesome twat," I said, pulling away from him.

"Just like you like it, baby," he said, pushing his hands through my hair, getting them tangled in the frizz.

"Damn it, Derek," I said, but before I could chastise him any further, a little boy was tugging on my shirt tail.

"Where'd you come from?" I asked, probably a bit too harshly, because he took his hand off my shirt and backed away. Sometimes I forgot to glamour my teeth, and they were pointy as hell now. Probably terrified the little guy.

"Hey, I'm sorry," I said, squatting down to be eye-level with him. "Are you lost?"

He pointed toward the mansa, and before he could answer, Harlow pushed open the door flap and bounded out, the sound of an electric guitar doing a sound check unmistakably drifting out from within.

"Deb!" he said, and then his arms were around me, holding me gently and hugging me like I hadn't just seen him the day before. Harlow may not have been my type, but his hugs sure were.

I dislodged myself from his hulking embrace and grinned up at him. "Sounds like a party in there. Brought the fam, hope that's okay." I gestured over my shoulder to where my mom and sister had been standing, but when Harlow's eyebrows shot up in amusement, I turned to find mom digging through a trash pile several yards away.

"I bought party favors, honest!" Harlow called. "You don't gotta do that." He reached into one of his pocket and pulled out some Bingo pull-tabs, shuffling off to catch up to her.

"Keeping it classy, yo," I muttered.

Gennifer had glommed onto the mystery kid, and was braiding his long hair. "You're a filthy little guy, aren't you?" she said. Despite all she'd been through in the past year, or maybe because of it, she had softened so much. She never would have touched a strange, dirty child before she was kidnapped by drug-dealing trolls and held for ransom.

Derek stooped in front of the kid, too, and held out a small parcel. It looked as if someone without opposable thumbs had pulled a piece of Scotch tape a yard long and hastily applied it to a balled wad of last year's wrapping paper, and I couldn't help but chuckle. "Here, little man," he said. Then, whispering to me "I was going to give this to you, but..."

The kid unwrapped a shiny new belt buckle, studded with turquoise and red stones against a sterling silver background. _Budweiser_ , it read.

I rewarded Derek with a kiss on the cheek. Probably shouldn't have. Sixteen years as neighbors had taught me that he was the horniest of horndog teenage boys in town, but that business of getting himself kidnapped and then pretty much being my only friend inside McJagger's lair had sort of brought us closer.

"Damn, babygirl," he said, rubbing his cheek. "I'm all tingly now."

I stood up and kicked him sideways, everyone laughing as he fell into a pile of frozen garbage.

"You're lucky it's Christmas," I said. I tried to keep a grim face, but I'm sure the smile leaked out the edges. What wasn't to love? Everyone I loved was here and we were ready to celebrate. The only thing that would have made it better was...

_April_ , my mind filled in.

"Food!" I yelled, unintentionally.

"Did somebody say food?" It was Holly Kingsgaim, the bassist in Harlow's band. No sooner had the "f" word left her mouth than the rest of the band was salivating, spilling out around here into the scene.

"Best break out a case of them Croaks you like, sir," I said to Harlow. "Otherwise you're going to have a riot on your hands, with this bunch."
Harlow

And what a riot it was. The food was gone in no time, and with swift purchase the Eve was upon us, all rollicking trolls, friendly fae, and miscellaneous orphans. "Oh come let us adore him," I sang to the mysterious orphan, and he quite nearly cracked a smile.

My dad even stopped by for a bit, leaving me a package wrapped in a golden cloth, trimmed with a purple velvet ribbon. Hey, he might have been locked in a dungeon for most of my life and presumed dead, but now that he was back on the throne, my dad did the whole King-thing right. I couldn't wait to see what he'd brought me, but I decided to wait until the morning, have a proper Christmas for once.

"Y'all open your gifts," I said.

"'Y'all?' Since when do you say 'y'all?'" Deb asked, tearing the paper off a Lord of the Rings-branded sword, standing up to swing it, an instant blur above the heads of our friends.

"Hey, watch the hair!" Holly said, unwrapping a Pixies Monkey Gone to Heaven tee shirt, and holding it up to her chest. "Thanks, Harlow," she said. "This rules."

The rollergirls arrived not long after, and egged us into improvising a 12 Days of Christmas thing. We'd already worked our way through twelve pixes chanting, eleven Croaks a-ribbiting, ten Grubers farming, nine rollergirls, eight trolls-in-waiting , seven bingo junkies, six golems shopping, five fae musicians, four extra beanbags, three unlimited topping pizzas, and two flea markets. I was just singing "and a changling in a magazine" for what I hoped was the last time, when I realized who the kid was. Call me dumb, but it took a dozen repetitions to place him.

To place him.

I looked around the main room of the mansa, and the kid was nowhere to be found.

"Kid!" I yelled. "Come out! I gotta present for you!"

And then I couldn't help it—my eyes went to the makeshift Christmas tree the gang had dug out of the landfill pickings, an old threadbare silk ficus, probably a Big Lots reject from the year before. The snow pixies hovered about the thing giving it the appearance of lace snowballs, lighting up from within with tiny blue sparks as they rattled their smashed-bell voices along with the music. Beneath it, where I'd left my dad's gift, an obvious hole glared at me. A hole in the gift-time continuum. My prezzie was gone.

"Damn it, kid!" I yelled, this time with more anger than I'd have liked, but what the hey, man. I might be a nice troll, but I'm still a troll.

I ran out of the mansa and into the dumpscape. The snow as coming down good now, and the tyke had left tracks. I set off after him, his smell filling my nose, fresh with longing and desperation. He was young and confused, well-fed and not particularly afraid of us, but perhaps this night had been too much—I still had no idea what he'd been through at the market, how he'd come to be there or how long he'd been among the fae. Heaven only knew what he thought we'd do to him this Christmas Eve.

The clanging of smashed bells behind me told me the snow pixies were on my tail. "Go back to the party," I said. "I've got this covered." These were nice pixies, but, still—as a species, they had a way of getting in one's way at the most inopportune times.

I ran several acres away from the mansa, past the mountains of recent trash and into the tundra of frozen ecopoisons, when I found him, a tiny bundle silhoutted on the white plain of snow, now thick enough to swallow up his backside as he crouched over something. He had to be freezing in his worn and grubby clothes.

I reached down to scoop him up. "C'mon, kid," I said, "let's get you back ins--" That was when I saw it. The gift my dad had given me. The boy clutched a golden microphone in his hands, a tag hanging from it. Gently scrolling calligraphy moved across the slip of parchment in red and green ink, twinkling as it went.

I am a magic mic

For wishes and for chants

This Christmas night

Speak true and right

For one is all I'll grant

I'm told you are a singer

Of charisma and prowess

Perhaps you'd like a record deal or

A rollergirl princess?

And should you waste your wish

Don't worry

Don't you fret

For a tender price you might

Buy another yet

The Wizard

"What a weirdo," I said.

The child clutched the microphone to his chest.

"You know that was a gift from my dad, right?"

The kid just looked at me, his white-blonde hair gleaming in the enormous moon. His skin shone pale as the snow in that ethereal light. I was reminded once again of the changeling-turned-movie star from the Moonlight films. His eyes were huge and dark, but I saw the hope within them. Maybe hope he hadn't dared to let grow until just now.

I sighed. I could hear the pixies clanging from the distance, and I glanced over my shoulder to see a blue glow approaching from the direction of the mansa. From the sounds of it, the whole party had come in search of their errant host, and as he was me, there was only one thing to do.

"Go on and make your wish, kid, before the crowd shows up and it goes all hooey."

He leaned forward, cupped his hands around the mic, and spoke so quietly, I wouldn't have heard him at all if I weren't magical.

"Let me go home," he said. I felt something inside me crack, where I didn't know there was anything left to break.

As the gang gathered round, smiling and smoking and singing in the moonlight, the child looked up at us all, a smile on his face.

"Hey, I don't know which one of us is going to take you home, little man, but it has to come true now, doesn't it?"

And then, I did know.

The old, bony hand of The Wizard pushed its way through the circle of friends. Skinny as a breath and remarkably decked in red and white robes, his roman sandals peering out from beneath, the old man lay a finger aside of his nose, and all fell silent.

"You called?" he said, looking over cresent moon glasses to face me. Although he was at least a foot and a half shorter than me, he felt taller.

I pointed to the kid.

"Naturally," the Wizard said. When he spoke, his voice sounded gruff, as if it hadn't been used in ages, or perhaps it had been used too much, too often. Extending his staff to the child he motioned as if the child should reach out and take it.

"Wait a second, wait a second!" Deb yelled. "Where are you going with this kid?" She didn't know the Wizard—not that I did, but she'd never lain eyes on him, to my knowledge. "What if I'm his protector, are you gonna go through me to get him?"

The Wizard regarded her cooly, then bowed his head in reverance. "My dear lady, I have no desire to challenge a Wheeler to duel on this most hallowed of nights. I am only here to fulfill the child's wish, and escort him safely home."

Deb looked to me for confirmation. "How do we know we can trust you, old man? Who are you taking him to? His folks?"

The Wizard sighed. "Might I at least have a beverage if we're to do this much cavorting first?" Holly passed the old man a Croak, which seemed to perk him up a bit. He magicked the lid off and smiled as the bullfrog noise filled the air. He took a deep swig before continuing. "Ah, much better. I'm afraid it's 'All Hands On Deck' in the wizarding world on Christmas Eve. Only so much old Santa can conjure on his own, as it were." He rubbed his forehead with his staff hand, lifting the magic weapon into the air and sending rollergirls scattering out of the way, lest they be transformed into toads.

"So what about the kid?" I said again.

"Yeah," Deb said, a bit more aggressively than I would have liked.

"The child," the Wizard said, "asked to go home, and I shan't lie—I won't be taking him to the home he remembers." The kid's face wrinkled in despair, before disappearing beneath a dirty shag of bangs as he cried into his hands. Derek crouched behind him and patted him, glaring up at the Wizard as the band, the rollergirls, and even Katarina Breedon grilled the old man on what exactly he thought he was doing, and who he thought he was, etc. etc., and then some.

"Stop!" I yelled. The hush fell over the group as if it were magic. It probably was. I was good at that, after all. "Explain," I said.

"The child's parents raised a changeling, as I believe you've discerned, Harlow."

How did he do that? Was he a mind-reader?

"The actor from Moonlight," he continued. There was a stunned silence from the group that wasn't of my making, this time. Finally, Deb spoke.

"I guess if you took him back to his real mom and dad after all these years, they'd be pretty freaked out, wouldn't they?"

I thought of my dad, and how I'd felt when I'd learned he still lived.

"I guess I can imagine how awkward that would be for the kids' parents to wake up on Christmas morning and find a younger version of their son, waiting beneath the tree. I mean, the person they thought was their son. You know what I mean."

"Indeed, fair prince," the Wizard said. "You have the widom and leadership of your father in you." He nodded in approval.

"So, where then?" Deb asked. Derek held the boy, patting him on the back of the head. Gennifer was reaching for him, as if to have a turn holding him, as well.

"We could keep him," Gennifer said.

Her mother snorted, but kept her mouth shut.

"Fortunately," the Wizard replied, "I have a colleage who keeps an enormous book of wishes, which he updates frequently—especially on this night of the year. I feel certain that within it, there are many hopeful couples who would be quite happy to welcome a quiet, well-behaved boy into their home for the morning's celebrations. Perhaps even a bit of a theiving one, truth be known."

And then the Wizard looked down his nose, over his glasses at the child, and I saw through the veneer of aloof distance the old man wore as a matter of course. He may have been a weirdo on the outside, but inside? He had a heart for children.

"Okay," I said. Deb looked at me, pointed teeth bared and wings spread at the ready to swoop in and retrieve the child.

I shook my head at her. "No," I said. "He's going to be okay," I said.

And then the kid raised his head from Derek's chest, and in the light of the biggest moon I'd ever seen in my life, above a plain of cushy white snow in the middle of a the frozen Indiana night, he reached out for the Wizard's staff.

They went twinkly.

"Goodbye, Harlow!" he called, but the voice was already far away, like he'd been pushed down the Frigerator Shoot and was waiting on the other side. "Thank you for the wish!"

We stood in stunned silence for a few seconds, before Kat brought us back to reality. "I'm freezing my ass off out here!" she yelled. "You got anymore of them Bingo pull-tabs, or was that it, ya cheap bastard?"

On the walk back to the mansa, I couldn't help but step a little lighter.

Deb linked her arm through mine on one side, Holly on the other. "Three unlimited topping pizzas," Holly sang, "two flea markets..."

Maybe I'd given up my one wish for the night, but somehow I couldn't help but feel others were coming true.

"And a changling in a magazine!" I roared with delight.

I looked over my shoulder at the looming moon. "Thank you," I whispered, and felt Deb squeeze my arm before she spread her hulking black wings and flew up behind us, an eerie silhouette of dark joy protecting us all.

"Best Christmas ever," she whispered in a voice only I could hear.

This story takes place in the time between TROLL OR DERBY and the forthcoming sequel TROLL OR PARK. For more by Red Tash, visit http://RedTash.com.

Silent Night,

The holiday viral sensation

by Jack Wallen

Silent night. Holy night. All is calm, all is quiet.

The music gently massaged the ambiance of the holiday occasion. It was a celebration that would have profound and epic repercussions on the human race. And, most importantly, it might well be the only such celebration this holiday season.

My name is John Burgess. You should know that name. If you do not, it will only be a matter of time before you do. I am the leader of an organization that has been charged with the grand, sweeping change of the human race. A cleansing if you will. This organization is comprised of politicians, men and women of industry, philanthropists with particular desires – dark desires and darker designs.

We are the Zero Day Collective. We are remaking humanity, forcing its molecular biology to shift, proving evolution can be controlled.

' _Round yon virgin, mother and child._

We are currently tracking down a woman crucial to our goal. She has been part and parcel to our grand design and will help ring the death knell for mankind. Bethany Nitshimi is with child. That baby will be the first human born immune to the Mengele virus. That child holds within his DNA the cure which must not get into the hands of the people. That cure would undo everything the Zero Day Collective has worked tirelessly for.

But, for now, there is a joyous occasion to celebrate. A moment ripped from time. A piece of peace, stolen from a purer past.

Sleep in heavenly peace. Sleep in heavenly peace.

With a tap of spoon to glass, I had everyone's attention. God damn power is money, sex, everything.

"I want to thank you all for joining me for this Christmas celebration. But this is not just any holiday meal. What this meal represents is a new beginning for mankind and, more importantly ..." I paused to take in the seduction of their rapt attention. " ... an absolute control over every consumer market, property, and person on the planet. This is absolute power and it will corrupt absolutely."

Applause exploded and echoed off the walls in the room.

I had two big reveals for this auspicious occasion – the first was a video feed, but not just any video. This particular scene the audience was about to gaze upon a glance into Christmas yet to come. Our future silent night. With an elegant wave of a tiny remote the lights in the room dimmed. Candlelight flickered off the glasses and sequined dresses of the more feminine attendees. I would say 'female,' but there were some in attendance of questionable gender. The moment was perfect, a romantic notion that was about to be juxtaposed with a slice of Armageddon.

The video screen lowered in absolute silence. When the first images of the video feed appeared, the audience wasn't quite sure what they were seeing. The feed was live from Munich.

"Ladies and gentlemen, what you are witnessing is the Quantum Fusion Generator designed and built by our own Dr. Lindsay Godwin."

As if on cue, Dr. Godwin walked in front of the camera, inadvertently blocking the view to the device.

"Ladies and gentlemen, what you are witnessing now is the ass of Dr. Lindsay Godwin." The audience laughed – eating up every word I spoke. They were mine, the world would soon follow.

"This device has a two-fold purpose. The first purpose is a ruse to make the general populace think we are delivering a perfect source of renewable energy. It's the second purpose that brings the Zero Day Collective together, with a singular purpose." Another smile. Another pause.

Finally Dr. Godwin moved away from the camera lens, giving the audience another glimpse of the future. Apparently (and unknowingly) the good doctor decided to give us a show by running some tests on the device. A brilliant red glow shone from the top of the generator. The glow was quickly followed by an almost sickeningly low thrumming sound.

Secretly I turned the volume of the feed up. The noise grew uncomfortably loud. Patrons squirmed in their seats. Men and women alike pressed the palms of their hands to either their ears or their eyes, to keep the pressure from the sound at bay.

Thankfully the lighting in the room was so dim, otherwise everyone would have seen the grin gracing my lips.

"Jesus Christ Burgess, turn it off!" one of the board members yelled over the din.

I complied. As much as I enjoyed the suffering, I needed these people alive and on my side.

From my pocket I pulled a mic out and flipped the power switch.

"Merry Christmas, Doctor Godwin!" My voice had a twinge of mockery.

The doctor turned to the camera and glared. "I have no time for you at the moment. As you can see, I am very busy." Godwin started to turn back to the generator, but quickly had a second thought. "Merry Christmas you dare say? You are about to unleash Hell on the planet and you would dare utter those sacred words – "

Mute. There was no way I was going to allow yet another one of Lindsay Godwin's tirades ruin this moment. He knew his place and it was not to be judge and jury. The man was a creator of life and death. His work with the Heizer Sequence was genius – which was precisely why I had to pull him away. And now, I have his partner in genetic crime working for my team.

I am, in a word, brilliant. I will, in a word, rule.

"That was only a glimpse of what is to come. Now I have something really special to share with you. In honor of this occasion, this Christmas dinner, I have arranged to give everyone a first-hand look at the future of mankind. I hope you all have strong constitutions."

With a sotto laugh I waved the screen away with my magic wand. As the screen slid up into the ceiling, the wall behind it vanished into the floor to reveal a three-inch Plexiglas wall. The dramatic lighting kept the secrets that lay behind the wall still in the dark. Only I had the power to reveal the sights that would forever change the lives of the people seated around the festive tables.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you ... the Mengele Virus." Another wave of the wand and the lights changed to reveal the first amplified human. To call the thing human was a bit of a stretch. It was still bi-pedal and remotely resembled homo sapien 1.0. But try to dig any deeper than flesh and bone and the similarities quickly ended.

The thing, the zombie ... turned and raced at the clear wall. It knew. It could sense, smell, almost taste what lay on our side.

Brains.

The Santa suit the beast wore was in tattered rags, the fake beard hung by a thread – it was left for effect. The effect worked wonders on the audience's sense of irony. I couldn't help but laugh. It was a thing of genius seeing a group of the world's wealthiest, the kings and queens of capitalism, shrink in fear of the one man that saved their monetary system year after year.

Oh what would they say if they knew the ruined Saint Nick they were viewing was the very same man whose lap their children had recently sat upon and in whose ear was whispered the secret of secrets by each youngster – _what I want for Christmas_.

Well, little Cindy, what you want is your life; what you'll get is suffering.

The Santa-thing crashed a broken, meaty fist against the wall, causing every member of the affair to nearly jump out of their seats. Women screamed, one man stood and slammed his hands onto the table. The man made like he was going to bolt the room, but the holiday music wafted to his ear and convinced his body to sit back down.

God rest ye merry, gentlemen, Let nothing you dismay ...

The holiday music continued on in the background. What should have been a soothing balm for the attendees went completely unnoticed, save for one shivering man.

Weakness. It sickened me. I made a mental note to use the shaking man as my next experiment. In a blink, the man's shelf-life had practically disappeared.

All eyes and ears were on the morbid horror displayed in front of them. The zombie continued pounding, the audience continued jerking and jumping.

Remember Christ our Savior was born on Christmas day ...

The monster stopped his pounding and stared at his audience. He sniffed at the air; his eyes, his sour-milk eyes, were worthless, save for the ability to see light and shadow. I knew the delight that tickled his nasal passages. Beyond a sliding door a gift awaited my subject. That gift was my _coup d'etat_ and would serve to prove to everyone in the room just how serious the Zero Day Collective was about its mission.

To save poor souls from Satan's power, when we were gone astray.

Yet another wave of my wand and a door hissed open. From out of the doorway rolled a remote controlled dolly, which came to rest in the center of the room. On the dolly was strapped a man. The man was alive, awake, and was about to witness, first hand, the new world horror.

Everyone immediately recognized the man with no future. Only yesterday, Tab Donagal sat at my right side ... both literally and figuratively. It wasn't until he began questioning some of my, shall we say, more "fringe" decisions, that I decided the man had to be disposed of. When the opportunity arose, I took it. That opportunity was here and now.

"John, what have you done? That's ..." The first of the audience recognized Tab with a shock.

The response to the realization had the exact effect I had hoped for – respect and mind-numbing fear. Each and every member of the board knew not to fuck with me. If they ever questioned that, they wouldn't now.

The zombie slowly approached the dolly, sniffing the air as it walked. The look on the thing's face was a mixture of confusion, rage, and bliss. It desperately wanted. It only had no idea what it longed for.

Donagal screamed out. He had no idea why he was there, why he was about to become the Christmas Goose for the undead. One minute Tab was leaving his office, to spread some holiday cheer. His wife had signed them up to join a caroling group Hell-bent on spreading holiday spirit to a home for senior citizens. He hated Christmas almost as much as he hated retirement homes filled with senior citizens wishing life would just finally release them from their mortal coil. The next the man was injected with liquid sleep and strapped to a remote control dolly. Now the man was about to become the first undead Christmas meal.

O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy. O tidings of comfort and joy.

When the undead beast finally stumbled upon the dolly, it reached its bony fingers out so it could feel what it was that beckoned. The greasy hands found the ex board member's head. With a great sniff the zombie took in the meaty smell with its rotting nose. The stench wafting from the fear induced sweat on the man was like Christmas morning to the beast. It wasn't the fear, or the sweat, or the skin, or the meat the thing wanted.

Without warning the zombie placed its palms on either side of the man's head and began applying pressure. The bound man screamed out, but the undead Kris Kringle had not the power to succeed in its task

Never fear Kris, I have tricks up my sleeve to rival that of your magical elves.

The wand waved and the dolly's straps were loosened. Donagal was free. That freedom would only buy the man his death. Slowly the mouse began to back away from the cat. The cat, of course, wasn't finished playing with the mouse.

The man turned and ran toward the clear wall.

"Jonathan, help me! Let me out of here!" The desperate pleas for help were delicious music to my ears. They sang out again, and again, and again.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light. From now on, our troubles will be out of sight.

The collection of board members around the table were back in their seats. It was clear, by the looks on their faces, they were enthralled with the spook show treat laid out before their eyes. Each attendee knew they were witnessing the fate of mankind, the new evolution of the human being, the perfect storm we brewed in Petri dishes and lab rats. And as Zombie Santa was about to unwrap its first Christmas package and dig into its first holiday meal, the board members around me were drinking the Collective Kool Aid and worshiping at the altar of Armageddon.

Through the years We all will be together, If the Fates allow.

The zombie bull-rushed Tab. The two bodies fell, clumsily to the floor – one screaming for help, the other moaning in some sort of post-life ecstasy.

"Jonathan! Why are you doing this? Help me! This thing is going to kill me!" The man's voice was pure panic.

Crack.

The zombie bashed the man's head against the floor.

"Someone ... help me." Tab's voice was growing weaker.

Crack.

Again the skull slapped against the once-white tile of the floor. A hand reached out, hoping to grab purchase on something, anything. It found nothing.

Crack.

The body went limp.

I looked upon my subjects as they stared on in a mixture of horror and blood lust. The thirst for power swept over the crowd. The switch had been flipped. Fear made desire.

Hang a shining star upon the highest bough. And have yourself A merry little Christmas now.

The next sound was a wet, slurping symphony. The zombie had its gift unwrapped and was enjoying the sweet meats within. Members of the audience were practically standing on the table to watch the hunched-over monster digging into the brain pan of a man who was once a brilliant colleague. When the zombie finally stood up, gray matter clung to its lower jaw as it roared its thankful approval for the gifts it had received.

Applause rang out within the room, sealing mankind's fate. My life's work, nay dream, was given wings and allowed to fly. With the acceptance of my peers came the green light to move forward to the next phase of what I was calling _The Great Cleansing._

The monster ran at the window and began another round of pounding at the Plexi. We had all seen enough of my morbid nativity. As the wall descended, hiding from sight the screaming beast, the audience reseated themselves and began discussing the possibilities that lie ahead.

The wait staff drifted in on silent feet, carrying trays of pure delight – our own Christmas meal. Before the first course began, I stood to make one final speech.

"Thank you again for attending this special occasion. What you have witnessed is only the beginning. In a matter of weeks the world's population will be greatly reduced and the remaining humans will be desperate for salvation. That salvation will have a price. The wheels of commerce will briefly stop, but as Christmas time rolls around, capitalism will have a new savior – The Zero Day Collective!" As the last word rang from my mouth, I held a glass of wine aloft in a toast. The entire table joined me with a joyous _hurrah_.

"Merry Christmas to all!" I shouted above the excitement.

And so I'm offering this simple phrase, to kids from one to ninety-two, although it's been said many times, many ways, Merry Christmas to you.

"Unto the world I bless my fellow man with this gift." I smiled over the crowd and lowered the video screen once again.

On the screen the Quantum Fusion Generator was whirring to life once again. Although the revealing of the device wasn't for another week, I had grander designs already set in motion. The virus had already been released. It was time for the first amplification.

The true _Silent Night_ was about to begin.

This story takes place just before Jack Wallen's I ZOMBIE I series. For more by Jack, visit http://monkeypantz.net.
Crazed in Christmas City,

A party you'll never forget

by Jessica McHugh

The only gift Avery Norton received during her first Christmas in Taunton State Lunatic Asylum was a heavy dose of sedatives. While other patients decked the halls, she struggled to keep her eyes open so she could watch the snow slowly blanketing the lawn of the New England asylum. This year, she hoped for a visitor. Any visitor. She would've been happy to have the mailman give her a sincere "Merry Christmas" through the window before speeding away from the hospital, but even that was a long shot. Not as long as a visit from anyone in her family, though.

It had been over a year since Avery was incarcerated in Taunton Asylum, since her life went mad, since the start of the therapy to convince her (and then cure her) of that madness. She acted convinced most of the time, but she still had her doubts. If only the authorities in her life didn't have such strong powers of persuasion. Especially her mother, Faye. It was Faye who laid the story out to the police. To everyone, actually. And she always told it with a wounded voice and perfectly timed tears brushed away by trembling hands. Avery tried to tell the police about how steady those hands were when she saw Faye lift two dead bodies into her trunk, but no one believed her. No one, except for her boyfriend Paul. He was with her when she saw her mother with the bodies. At least, she thought he was.

Unfortunately, there were so many more people there when the carnage was discovered. So many more people to see Avery on the blood-stained floor of the basement, huddled beside stacks of human remains. Besides, Doctor Aslinn seemed intent on convincing Avery that Paul's presence at the scene of "Faye's crime" was just another hallucination anyway: something Avery invented to deal with the guilt of her own killings. Even though Faye had admitted to hiding her daughter's homicidal tendencies, even to the point of helping her stash the bodies in the basement, it was never Faye's fault. Avery was the sick one, the blood-thirsty one. She was one who had to pay for those lives with her childhood.

"You are a murderer, Avery," Doctor Aslinn stated time and time again. "The sooner you accept it, the sooner you can recover from it."

But it was so hard to swallow. Those words, "you are a murderer, Avery," seemed like such nonsense. Faye claimed her daughter suffered from blackouts, during which she was inclined toward violent outbursts that, at age four, caused her to kill a puppy. And a few years later, her own father. Avery was always strong, always scrappy, but she couldn't imagine killing anyone, especially at such a young age. It all seemed too difficult to believe. But the police sure seemed to believe it. The doctors, too. Or maybe it was just easier for them to take Faye's story as gospel and move on to locking away the next problem child.

But there were times when it didn't seem so difficult to believe she could kill. In her dreams, she saw the rabbits as she had on that day in the garden. She didn't want to hurt them, but her mother's lessons about dirty deeds urged her heart into craving their pain. They had betrayed each other with their bodies, and they had to be punished for their lust. Mocking her with their immodesty, the fornicating rabbits were yanked apart by the ears as Avery had done on that fateful day, but her strength was even greater in her dreams. The rabbits' ears were ripped from their heads, along with the rest of their scalps, but Avery didn't shrink back at seeing their slippery skulls. She giggled, before digging to expose more. She sheared the meat from their faces, from their legs, paws, and bellies until they were no more than bone bunnies bouncing through a skin-strewn cabbage patch.

Those were the dreams that kept her up at night. But her conscious thoughts were no less bloody. In room eight of Taunton's juvenile ward, with her roommate Flint fast asleep, Avery would sit awake and think about ways to kill her mother. She hated herself for it, but hate often came with a small smile. Faye had ruined Avery's life, and for what? Just to keep her away from Paul? They hadn't done anything besides kiss, but as far as Faye was concerned, those few kisses had transformed Avery into a poisoned garden beyond salvation. Bad water pumped through her veins, causing her to grow wild, like the worst kind of weed. And what do you do with weeds? Rip them out at the roots and throw them in the garbage—or a crazy house.

Taunton could be considered the garbage can of life: chock full of weeds. Avery often felt like she was at the bottom of the bin, desperately trying to climb the sides for one glimpse of the world beyond, where flowers bloomed beautiful and rabbits were just sweet, fluffy creatures rather than the monsters they'd become in her mind. Worse was knowing that _she_ was the real monster—to rabbits at least. She wondered if she had become some kind of boogeyman in the minds of the species. Had news of her attack on the Norton's garden rabbits spread through the warrens as quickly as news of the other murders had spread through New England?

Mad thoughts like that didn't help her case, even where her own beliefs were concerned. The deeper she speculated, the farther away sanity seemed.

Luckily, holidays distracted her from the horrifying past that so frequently haunted her present; for a while at least. Avery hadn't been allowed to participate in the Christmas festivities the previous year, as she hadn't yet proved herself docile enough for the privilege. Instead, she was loaded full of "vitamins" and plunked down in the day room next to Violet to watch the falling snow. Because of the annual holiday display at Taunton Green, Taunton had earned the nickname "Christmas City." Although Avery couldn't see much detail, the display in the distance was still quite a sight to behold. With strings of white lights stretched and spiraled around pine garlands, Taunton Green taunted her with normalcy. While Bing Crosby and Kay Starr crooned carols through the hospital, Avery thought back on holidays past, drifting through her memory as slowly as the falling snow. She wondered if Violet thought about the same thing as she watched the window, but it didn't take Avery long to realize that the catatonic girl wasn't watching anything. Her eyes were fixed: staring rather than watching. It could've been raining gumdrops for all Violet seemed to care.

The other girls had been nice enough not to brag about how fun last year's Christmas party was when they filed back into the ward. Sheila mentioned it unprovoked, but it was only to say how much she liked the guy hired to play Santa Claus.

"I got a peek at him without the beard," she said. "I swear he looked just like Marlon Brando. I could've screwed him right there, Santa belly and all!"

That kind of talk made Avery blush, but she didn't mind it. In fact, she'd always enjoyed Sheila's lusty attitude, and had missed it in the past three months since Sheila had left the ward—under mysterious circumstances. One day, she left for an appointment with Doctor Aslinn, and she never came back. But after the surprise birth of her baby and the heartless confiscation of the child by the Taunton nurses only weeks before, Sheila hadn't been the same anyway. She stopped getting dolled up, even for visitors. Then, she refused visitors. Then, she was gone. The ward was rocked by unease, especially since no one had told Frankie, Taunton's only male patient living in a female ward, that he was the father of Sheila's baby. Or as the patients called the conception, "the worst game of Truth or Dare ever." The birth was an impossible secret to keep, but considering Sheila's wide array of gentlemen callers, there was no way to prove who the father was. Although Frankie never mentioned it, when Flint told him of Sheila's pregnancy, it was clear the night of Truth or Dare (and the resulting question of paternity) crossed his mind.

The topic of Sheila's whereabouts was still a hot one. Even when her room was filled by another girl and Nurse Mathis began her lauded Christmas decoration of the asylum, the girls of Taunton speculated. Patients left Taunton all the time, but Sheila had been around for a while, and Avery really liked her. It was difficult to regard her as just another patient who didn't return from Dr. Aslinn's office.

But Avery wasn't about to let it ruin her holiday. As much as she wished she were celebrating on her own terms, on _free_ terms, she was determined to make the best of it. She didn't want to be back in her mother's house, but she did long for Martha's Vineyard. She longed for the snow-speckled Gingerbread houses, the soothing aroma of cedar Christmas trees, and the delightful scents wafting through Edgartown.

And she longed for Paul. Not even his lips or words of affection. Just him.

But that ship had sailed. Sunk, more precisely. Avery couldn't go to the island any more than Paul would ever come to Taunton again.

The juvenile wards had been so well-behaved during the previous year's festivities that the Taunton administration decided to throw the patients a co-ed dance. The announcement inspired excitement in some girls and dread in others, but Avery was indifferent. She was just happy to be included. She would've been content to stand quietly in a lavishly decorated room while Nat King Cole sang to her from the radio, but she had a feeling there would be more entertainment than that. The hospital staff was just as excited about the holiday as the patients. They gave out little cards and gifts to ensure that everyone, including mute orphans like Violet, got something for Christmas. Avery had been too drowsy from vitamins to remember what the hospital staff had given her last year, so she was eager to get to the party and open her first gift to remember. She didn't care what it was, as long as it was better than the card she'd received earlier that day.

As Avery was brushing her silky black hair in preparation for the party, Flint had entered with mail in hand. She tied a red ribbon around her head and Flint sat on her bed, fanning Avery with the card.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Nurse Moore wanted me to give it to you. I think it's from your mom," Flint replied.

Avery rolled her eyes as she sat down next to Flint. She flipped the card over and over in her hands, silently debating. Flint's fingers twitched in anticipation, and she started tugging on a string dangling from Avery's quilt.

"Well? Are you going to open it or not?" she finally asked.

"Did you get any mail?"

"Do I ever?"

"I can't believe your parents didn't send you anything for Christmas," Avery said. "My mother hates me and she still sent me a card."

"Your mother sent you a card because she hates you. You know whatever's in that envelope isn't candy canes and snow angels," Flint replied. "My parents do everything they can not to think of me at Christmas. I was sent here around this time, after an incident that almost caused us to lose our house. Did I ever tell you that?"

"No, what happened?"

"What always happened. They left me alone...by the hearth, no less. I couldn't help myself," she replied. "I didn't expect the tree to catch fire so fast. I thought I'd be able to watch it burn for a little while and douse it with my milk or something. But I watched for too long and the fire got out of control. My father was able to put it out before it spread too badly, but for my parents, it was the straw that burnt the camel's back."

"That's horrible," Avery whispered.

"Not at the time. When it was happening, it was beautiful. It was the best Christmas ever," she said, her eyes glimmering with joyful tears. "Anyway, I'll give you some privacy."

Flint started out, but Avery said "wait" and ran to the corner of the room. She pried up one of the linoleum tiles and reached into a secret hole in the floor. She set aside the diary she'd only written in once and grabbed what was hidden beneath. When Avery withdrew a box of matches, Flint's face lit up.

"Where did you get those?" she gasped.

"Tyler found them under the couch."

"Tyler? As in Brianne's imaginary friend?"

"That's what she told me," Avery replied and pressed them onto Flint's open palm. "You'll be careful, right?"

"Probably not," Flint replied with a smirk, but when Avery moved to take the matches back, she said, "Okay, okay, I'll be careful."

"With what?" a voice asked from the doorway.

Flint quickly pocketed the matches. After turning to the door, she dropped to the floor with laughter while Avery slapped her hand over her mouth to stifle her own. Frankie, however, didn't find his presence so amusing.

"I take it that means you don't like my outfit?" he asked.

Frankie was dressed fancier than Avery and Flint combined. From the lace on his bobby socks to the bow in his hair, Frankie was the very definition of "festive."

"You look like my older sister," Flint laughed.

"You look like someone who wants to get murdered," Avery said. Flint and Franky stared at her awkwardly until she added, "Not by _me_. Jesus, you guys, I meant by the boys ward."

"Oh, I can handle them," Frankie replied, kicking up a ballet slipper.

"You were moved over here because you couldn't handle them, remember? Or maybe you don't remember—the concussion and all," Flint said.

Nurse Radcliffe walked by room eight, caught one glimpse of Frankie, and said the word "no" fifty times in one breath. She grabbed him by the collar and towed him back to his room to change while Flint followed to see what was sure to be a tantrum to remember.

In the quiet wake, Avery sat on her bed, daring herself to open the Christmas card from her mother. Before she knew it was happening, her fingers sliced the envelope apart, revealing the rosy cheeks of a cherub on the branch of a Christmas tree. Avery had seen the card many times before and briefly wondered if sending such an obvious piece of home was the warning fire for her mother's attack. With the card open, Faye's bold handwriting immediately filled Avery with dread.

Dearest Avery,

_Merry Christmas! I'm sure it doesn't seem as merry as usual, but we know that's for the best, don't we? We couldn't go on the way we were. I know_ _I_ _couldn't have lasted another year of hiding the truth—from you, and from the authorities. Still, it broke my heart to turn you in. You do know that, don't you, sweetheart? Yes, I know you do._

You wouldn't have wanted to be on the island this summer anyway. It was swamped with children—lewd ones at that—and your little friend Paul made a fool of himself with some of the off-island girls. I suppose he figured he could do what he wanted because he wouldn't see them again. I always knew he was a bad seed.

I bet you're a little thankful you don't have to deal with that nonsense anymore. At least in Taunton you can stay safe and innocent...well, I suppose you wouldn't be there if you were innocent... but you know what I mean. In Taunton, you can focus on forgiving yourself for what you did to those poor people. And I'll try to do the same.

I do miss having you around. Life has changed so much since you went away. People stare at me like I'm some kind of monster just because I'm your mother. I try to tell them you're a good girl, that you're just a little sick right now, but they don't believe me. You have no idea how much that hurts, Avery. I've changed my daily routine so much, but no one appreciates it. I'm just the mother of the Martha's Vineyard Killer. I am the Martha's Vineyard Killer.

Avery read last sentence again. "I am the Martha's Vineyard Killer." She blinked wildly and leapt off her bed. She ran from her room and slapped herself against the window of the Nurse's Station.

"Betty, my mother confessed!" Avery screamed at Nurse Moore. "Look, it says it right here in her Christmas card. She admitted to being the killer. I'm innocent, just like I said!"

"Calm down, Avery."

"Please, just read it," she said, sliding the card under the window.

Nurse Moore put on her glasses and started skimming over the card.

"Do you see it? She said 'I am the Martha's Vineyard Killer.'"

Nurse Moore looked up, sighing as she removed her glasses.

"Avery, this says 'I'm just the mother of the Martha's Vineyard Killer. I might as well be the Martha's Vineyard Killer.'" She passed the card back and Avery snatched it up with her eyes furiously scanning the words.

Nurse Moore was right. Avery backed away with an apology, faintly hearing Betty say something about getting dressed for the dance, but she didn't care about dressing up. She didn't care about dancing or looking good for boys who were just as crazy as she was supposed to be. Instead, she sat back down on her bed to finish reading the worst Christmas card in history.

_But I brought this all on myself,_ Faye continued. _I denied your illness, so you denied it too. My greatest fear is that you will deny it forever, that you never be the sweet girl I always wanted you to be._

Sometimes Faye sounded so sincere. How could someone who spoke with so much hope for her daughter's sanity possibly be the one who destroyed it? How could someone so sweet be a killer?

But wasn't Avery sweet? Or did her diseased mind just tell her she was in order to continue condemning her mother?

I love you, Avery. I've always loved you, and I've always wanted the best for you. I hope you realize that, even if my 'best' wasn't what you wanted. I wish I could also tell you that Natalie sends her love, but...just try to forget about your sister's fear. Someday, she won't hate you so much. I'm certain of it.

Merry Christmas, my darling.

Love, Mom

When Flint walked in, Avery dropped the card to the floor.

"Are you alright?"

Avery didn't answer. Instead, she jumped off the bed, making sure to land on the card, and smashed it underfoot as if it were a terrifying spider.

"Come on," Flint said, holding her arm open for Avery to curl against. "Let's dance."

The only time Avery was allowed to leave the ward was to go to her appointments with Doctor Aslinn, but some of the girls had wider privileges, so they weren't so awed by the juvenile wing's common room. The decorations, however, awed every girl—as did the boys.

Avery thought one of the patients on the boys side looked familiar. Like Paul. At first, she thought it was all in her mind; after all, she had thought she'd seen Paul so many times since her incarceration. But Nurse Day seemed to notice the resemblance, too, and tried to distract Avery with a few rules before she could approach him. It was the usual. She was to be on her best behavior. She was being watched. It was probably best if she didn't get too close to the other children, especially to "that boy with the dark hair."

Avery only half-listened. She was too busy drinking in her Christmas. What a beautiful gift it was. So warm. So normal. She could try to ignore the boy, but there was no point in ignoring the colors and lights strung throughout the room. The streamers were out of reach, but plenty of red and green tissue paper bells were taped to the walls, honeycombed and calling Avery forward. She ran her fingers over a bell, never expecting something so flimsy or fleeting to touch her heart so heavily. The Christmas lights lining the ceiling made the paper bells glow, but when Avery's fingers dipped into the red tissue cells, the color increased—and bled. She pulled back, but the color stayed with her, rolling crimson down her wrists. It was too familiar a sight.

"Avery, are you alright?" Flint asked her.

She looked down again to find her hands clean. The blood was just a memory gone wild.

"I'm fine, thanks," Avery said, more to the nurses giving her a discerning eye than to Flint.

The Christmas tree in the corner was even more beautiful than Avery had imagined. With the bright green boughs decked in bows and softly glowing lights, the tree appeared to smolder. Avery wasn't the only one taken with the glow; several patients stared at the tree—perhaps, like Avery, awed by their gratitude in getting to see something so beautiful after months and months of white walls and vitamin hazes. It was obvious that some of the boys were still in hazes as their nurses tried to urge them to talk to the girls. But some of the boys weren't reserved at all. A red-headed kid with scratches on his arms quickly struck up a conversation with Rachel while a younger boy, still in his pajamas, started chasing Brianne around the room. But she stopped running when she realized the boy was chasing her rather than the both of them chasing her invisible pet Tyler. Frankie was leaned against the wall, scanning the boys for prospective dance partner's. Unfortunately, the choice wasn't up to him. Only one guy approached Frankie, and it was only to ask why he was in the girls ward.

Frankie didn't answer. Instead, he asked giddily, "Want to dance?"

The boy said "oh," and swiftly walked away.

"I'll dance with you," Avery said. Frankie smiled as she took his hand and led him onto the dance floor.

She didn't know any real dances, just the typical sways and spins, but Frankie had an entire repertoire in his back pocket. When "Frosty the Snowman" hopped out of the speakers, he twirled Avery into his routine. She mimicked his mashed potato and twist as best she could, causing the onlookers to clap and holler in encouragement. By the time the song ended, she was out of breath and her face hurt from smiling so much. She couldn't remember the last time she felt such delightful pain. When Frankie twirled her out of his arms, she lost control and bumped into a dark-haired boy. The one with the familiar face.

"Sorry," she whispered as she started away.

"Wait, I didn't catch your name," he said.

Her first instinct was to pretend she was someone else: Flint, Rachel, Natalie, anyone but Little Avery Norton. But rather than choose, she walked away. The boy grabbed her arm, and three nurses promptly ran over with syringes primed.

"Avery, are you okay?" Nurse Moore asked, causing Avery's head to sink into her shoulders.

"Fine," she replied. The nurses walked away, but they didn't go far.

"Avery? As in Avery Norton?" the boy asked. "Are you that girl who killed all those people?"

"Nope, wrong girl," she muttered.

"Really? I heard she was in Taunton. Is she in your ward?"

"I'm going to get something to drink," she said flatly. The boy smiled as he said "let me." When he returned with two cups of cranberry juice, Avery thanked him and prayed that the name conversation was over. She suspected not, but when he said "So, you seem pretty normal," Avery's heart fluttered.

The words sounded so beautiful, even if she only seemed normal by comparison. Anyone who wasn't currently knocking his or her head against the wall or talking to imaginary creatures probably seemed just as normal.

"Do you want to dance?" he asked.

Avery was suddenly aware that she was blushing. The boy looked so much like Paul. She would have no problem pretending he _was_ Paul for just one dance.

Unfortunately, Nurse Meredith had other plans. "Time for presents!" she crowed, flapping her wings at the children and ushering them to the gift table.

Doctor Aslinn had changed into a Santa Claus outfit and he didn't look too pleased about it. Still, he forced a smile before placing a large white box in Avery's hands. She almost didn't want to open it. The mere occurrence of receiving a gift in Taunton was gift enough. The only one that could've exceeded it would've been her release, but she doubted she'd find that under the lid. In the end, her curiosity won. She started to pull the bow when she saw that "Francine" rather than "Avery" was written on the gift tag.

"Hey, Flint, I got yours by mistake!"

With her cup of juice clenched between her teeth, Avery carried the box over to Flint just as she was lifting her own lid.

"Oh, then I guess this is yours," Flint said and pulled the gift from the box.

Avery shuddered violently, dropping her cup. Cranberry juice splashed down her shirt, over Flint, and onto the limp white rabbit in Flint's hands. Avery sank to the floor, covering her head with a sob.

"It's okay, Avery, it's just a toy," Flint said as she danced the juice-spattered rabbit around. "Just a stuffed bunny."

"A stuffed bunny as a Christmas present? For _me?_ " Avery sniffled.

"Yeah, Santa is either an idiot or an asshole."

"What's going on here? Avery, did you make this mess?" Meredith asked.

"Did you give me a stuffed rabbit for Christmas?" Avery asked her angrily.

"Of course not. The presents were assigned at random," she replied.

"You're lying. You did it to torture me," she hissed.

"I did nothing of the sort. Now, calm down, Avery."

"Don't tell me to calm down!" she screamed, ripping the sticky rabbit away from Flint and hurling it at Nurse Day.

The other nurses immediately withdrew their vitamins and started to close in, but when Avery turned to see the dark-haired boy staring at her in morbid fascination, she took off running. She kicked the gift table, causing the presents to tumble to the floor. She knocked over the punch bowl, covering the floor with crimson liquid as she tore honeycomb bells off of the walls. John the Orderly eventually grabbed hold of her. His thick arms crossed over Avery's front, pinning her to his chest as the nurses approached with their syringes.

"No, it's not my fault! It was the rabbit," Avery mewled. "Please don't knock me out again. I want to see Christmas. Please!"

Nurse Mathis nearly had her needle in Avery's arm when a crackling sound in the corner, followed by a deep sigh, turned the heads of patients and staff alike. The majestic Taunton Christmas tree was now an evergreen inferno. The trimmings were quickly devoured by the flames, but the star still gleamed atop the tree, shining as brightly in the fire as the grin upon Flint's face. She looked happier than Avery had ever seen her. With a chuckle, Flint tossed the rest of her matches into the blaze and held open her arms for the tackle she knew would follow.

As some of the nurses worked to douse the fiery tree and settle the frantic patients, the others took care of Flint. The surge of drugs through her blood stream caused her to crumple to the floor, where she was scooped up by an orderly. She was woozy, but when she was carried past her roommate, she was still conscious. More importantly, so was Avery.

"Merry Christmas, Avery," Flint creaked with a smile before her head drooped into a heavy dream.

Avery was also removed from the party, but she wasn't dosed with tranquilizers. She could still hear Christmas music playing as she was escorted out. She could still taste the juice and feel the delicate paper of the bells. She knew she'd never find out if the rabbit present was an attack or a coincidence, but once she was back in her room, she didn't care. She looked down at her mother's card, at the chubby angel on the tree branch, and smiled. She didn't have any visitors, and she didn't end up with any presents, but at least she'd finally experienced Christmas at Taunton Asylum. However, looking around her room, where holiday colors were just memories and music was just a faint string of sad notes, she realized there was no triumph that day. Lucidity or not, she was still a prisoner.

Violet was at the window, as usual, with the Christmas City celebration reflected in her eyes like tiny explosions of color. It might've been the closest she would ever get to those lights. Avery couldn't help but wonder how close she would ever be again. Would she never stand in a breeze that carried Christmas: that crisp, comforting scent of icy cedar and sugar leading her back home after a day of playing in the snow?

"Merry Christmas, Violet," Avery whispered to the girl hunched over in the chair.

A string of drool oozed from Violet's lip, and Avery sighed as she faced the window again. She had to accept the fact that she might not get any closer to those lights, either. That kind of Christmas, a _free_ Christmas, wasn't hers anymore. For Avery Norton, Christmas would be crazed. It would have tranquilizers, blazing trees, and mocking gifts from a disgruntled Santa. Like it or not, she also had to assume that whether in fantasy, nightmare, or coed dance, there would always be a boy with a familiar face.

RABBITS IN THE GARDEN is a novel about a young girl's seemingly unwarranted incarceration in Taunton State Lunatic Asylum in 1953. This story is set during a period of time originally omitted from the book. For more by Jessica McHugh, see <http://www.jessicamchughbooks.com/>
A Manlove & Kickerdick Xmess,

Ain't no messin' with these backdoor Santas

by Axel Howerton

"So what the hell _do_ you want, you big fucking baby?"

"I told you, I don't want nothin'

Jurgen Kierkedoek stomped off, his size fifteen Doc Martens leaving thunderstorms in their wake. The sky followed suit as the grey haze opened up and pissed down a cold December drizzle.

Menlowe gave a loud sigh and shook his head at the darkening sky before turning to follow the giant.

"Sweetie, all I was saying..."

Kierkedoek stopped and swung his wide, fur-lined shoulders back to face the smaller man.

"All you were saying is that there ain't no Santa. Which you've been hassling me about for years. Fuck you, man. You know how mad that makes me. I know you aren't allowed to believe in him, doesn't mean I can't."

Menlowe stepped gracefully over a small puddle and gently placed his hands on Kierkedoek's furry chest.

"You're right, Yergie. I'm sorry. I'll stop teasing you. Now will you calm down so we can get to this job?"

Kierkedoek snuffed an unpleasant-sounding amount of snot back into his sinuses and spat it out into the street, where it slapped loudly into the gutter slush.

"Fine. Fuck it, man. Let's get it done. This fucking sucks."

Menlowe shuddered at the expellation of loogie, but moved to feed his arm through Kierkedoek's.

"I know you're upset about working on Christmas Eve, but I promise I will make it up to you in the morning." Menlowe purred.

"Did you get me the new Halo? And the anti-grav controller?" Kierkedoek bounced as he walked.

"I am not telling _you_."

"A puppy? Is it a puppy? You fuckin' did too."

"No, I didn't get you a fucking _dog_. You know we can't have pets. I have sensitive sinuses. Just realize that my gifts better be pretty damned amazing, Big Boy."

The street was filled on both sides with an ocean of last-minute shoppers, rushing and shoving, jockeying for position in the crowd. Nobody seemed to notice the mismatched pair as they strolled arm in arm. Arthur Menlowe, wrapped up in his pristine, and very new, Helly Hanson parka, and Kierkedoek, towering beside him in what could only be described as a 70's style bear carcass of a fur overcoat, made a distinct impression.

"Is it that Japanese import of Foxy playing Budokan with The Buzzcocks?" Kierkedoek asked, spinning nimbly to walk face to face with Menlowe.

"OOH! Is it the limited edition green-and-gold swirl vinyl of Foxy's new Atomic Sphinkters album?"

Menlowe rolled his eyes and threw his arms up in exasperation.

"I will never understand your obsession with that drunken idiot!"

"Don't."

"First off," Menlowe continued, stabbing a finger up into Kierkedoek's growling face, "His name is _Danny_. You know that. We know him. He's an asshole."

"Stop."

"Secondly, he ruined our Halloween party. He screwed your cousin in our laundry room and he stole Mrs. Tiddlywinks!"

"He didn't steal your fucking rat."

"She was a _hedgehog_!"

Kierkedoek glared down at his partner before plowing through the crowd like an angry bull, strafing the streets of Pamplona. Menlowe huffed and followed at the acceptable distance for a lover's tiff. The big man came to an abrupt stop in front of a questionable-looking old rummy in a frayed and stained red suit, lazily flopping a hand bell from side-to-side as he mumbled incoherently.

"Good afternoon," Menlowe sang as he stepped up behind, "Liquid lunch today, Santa?"

As Menlowe waved his hands in front of his face in the generally-accepted symbol of stank drunk, Kierkedoek shoved one giant fist inside of his coat pocket and thrust a fistful of crumpled bills towards the swinging ball of donations.

"Don't you dare!"

"Merry Christmas, man." Kierkedoek grinned at the red-suited bum, ignoring Menlowe's protests.

The rummy gazed up and sputtered out a thank you and a "Happy Holidays, Bub."

Menlowe refused to speak again until they were on the number seven bus, headed away from the six other street corner Santas who had received large dispensations from the meaty hands of a man who, three nights a week, goes by the name "Kickerdick".

"You and your fucking Santas. This is why we have to work on Christmas Eve."

"You're just jealous that you ain't got one. Whole lotta candles and shit, _no_ happy elves with awesome presents."

"No, we get thousands of years of tradition and _eight_ nights of presents."

"Eight nights of wooden spinning tops and fuckin' chocolate coins."

" _Ben sharmuta_ " Menlowe countered, shoving a very specific choice of fingers in his partners face.

Another game of ethereal ten-pin was booming through the clouds by the time Menlowe and Kierkedoek found themselves parked in a black limo on South Figueroa. The massive brick monument of The Jonathan Club towered above them, marking its place as the center of rich, white Angelenos for the past hundred years. The slush was still running sticky in the streets and what few people remained on the sidewalks were hustling by in their parkas, desperate to escape the coldest winter in memory. Of course, in L.A., that meant what would have been considered a mild spring in most other parts of the country.

"Christ, these people!" Menlowe laughed, watching an old man in a fur-lined parka waddling intently toward his Hummer, "They'd curl up and die if they ever spent a Hanukkah in Pittsburgh."

"Pittsburgh. I miss the snow in Pittsburgh."  
"You would, you big dope." Menlowe chuckled, slapping the big man's knee.

"Hey, you're the one with the big new parka. You looked like you were going skiing in Aspen or some shit."

"One has to stay stylish in this town, honey. You don't see me making fun of your pimp coat."

"Pimp coat? What? I like my coat. It's warm."

"Never mind, sweetie. Here they come." Menlowe stepped from the car, slipping a black chauffeurs cap onto his head and taking the long way around the front of the car. He opened the rear door and stood to one side, free hand at the small of his back and head dipped in deference to the customer.

"Mister Roman," he offered, with no hint of his usual lilt, "we are at your disposal, sir."

Alexander "Chips" Roman, banker, millionaire, right-wing Senator from the state of Connecticut, was a fit and imposing man at the age of sixty. He came from a long line of achievers and manipulators. He was a ruler and abuser - of the system, of his fellow man, of anything he could get his hands on. His Brioni suit and Brooks Brothers tie bespoke his status as one of the hereditary elite. Remarkably, perhaps, none of this was lost on Arthur Menlowe, who came from a long line of middle-class Jewish businessmen who held men like Roman in the greatest esteem. Menlowe, himself, had oft wished to be one of the "beautiful people", and had spent his teen years modeling himself as the "slightly gayer James Spader". Menlowe held himself back from fondling Chips Roman's Vicuna overcoat as the magnate ducked into the car. The teenage boy that followed him in was decked out in the most expensive trash money could buy. Skinny jeans hanging off of his skinny ass, giant high tops half-unlaced, neon spattered hoody under a five-thousand-dollar fur-lined parka. He wore oversize Fendi sunglasses, dark as midnight, despite the fact the streetlights were in full force.

"What the fuck are you looking at?"

He had the requisite over-enunciated smarm of a prep-school kid, and the condescension dripping from the insult made Menlowe wince. Any other day of the week, he would have bent the little shit over his knee. This was a job, and Chips Roman could buy and sell Arthur Menlowe a million times over. Menlowe smiled sweetly and let it go, tipping his hat to the boy before slamming the door on his boney ass. The resounding thud, and the following exclamation of _Oww, shit!_ Gave Menlowe a tremendous amount of satisfaction as he skipped back around to the passenger seat, already calculating the ways he could get the boy alone for some patented "Manlove" payback.

The intercom sounded before he could shut his door.

"I would suggest that you watch your manners with my son, young man. I understand that this is probably not the kind of job you people usually do, but I expect nothing less than the utmost respect and discretion. Pull anything else like that and I can easily have you regretting the day you were born."

Menlowe ground his teeth as he spat out his reply.

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir. Where are we going, please?"

"Dinner. Beverly Wilshire." The speaker crackled back.

Kierkedoek was spinning the tires away from the curb before Menlowe could reply.

Menlowe and Kierkedoek stood at attention like a couple of mismatched Marines. They had been roughly instructed to "stand over there, don't move, and don't talk" as they accompanied Roman and his son into the private room in the back of the Cut steakhouse. Cut was one of those exclusive places that served two-hundred-dollar steak dinners to the rubes, but had rooms in the back for high rollers, where Wolfgang Puck or some other white-coated superstar would whip up garlic mash with gold flake and truffle oil, pan-seared fresh-butchered milk-fed veal, or exotic fishes and strange fruits paired with two-thousand-dollar bottles of Chateau Lafite Rothschild.

"Look at these rich assholes," Menlowe whispered through the side of his mouth, "I bet this dinner costs more than our rent."

"Shut the fuck up, Artie." Kierkedoek hushed back.

Chips Roman sighed heavily, threw his napkin to the table, and pulled himself away from the table.

"You two had better shut your goddamn mouths!" he barked up into Kierkedoek's thick jaw.

"Yes, sir."

"Look at you. What went wrong with you, son? Covered with tattoos, Nazi symbols, all that metal bullshit in your face. Where are you from? Shreveport? That accent. Can't hide that, can you boy? I bet you could have been a damn fine defensive tackle. Here you are though, some white trash gorilla in a suit, paired up with some smart-mouthed asshole Jew."

"Yes, _sir._ " Kierkedoek repeated, this time through grinding teeth as his eyes lit up with volcano fury.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Roman. That was my fault. We'll be quiet and on guard the rest of the night, sir. Don't mind us," Menlowe interrupted, carefully inserting himself between his gargantuan partner and the Senator. "Go back to your meal, sir. Terribly sorry. Won't happen again."

Roman looked Menlowe up and down and shook his head in disgust before returning to the table.

"Thomas," he said to the boy, "remind me to have words with Joe Muscatelia about his suggestion for our replacement security."

Thomas glowered up at his father from the video game in his hands, shoved his plate away and huffed in reply.

Roman leaned in towards his son. "That is a fifteen-hundred dollar meal, you little shit."

"Whatever."

The slap came fast and not entirely unexpected. The boy was knocked back in his chair, more surprised than injured. The Senator remained stolid.

"Shut your mouth."

Kierkedoek tensed and took a half-step before he felt Menlowe's hand on his, pulling him gently back to the wall.

"Why'd you even bring me out here?" Thomas pleaded.

"Because your damned mother didn't want you. She went to Paris, presumably to screw around with some gold-digging gigolo."

"I'm almost twenty, for chrissakes. I could have stayed at home."

Roman slammed his silverware to the table.

"So I could come home and find you and your little friends drunk on my liquor cabinet? So you can sell your mothers pills? Crash my cars? Chase away the staff?" He used his steak knife to bayonet his perfectly marbled slab of Wagyu beef. "You little asshole."

Thomas shrugged him off and slumped back in his seat.

"I hate you."

"I'd tell you to join the club, but you can't afford the membership fees." Roman snickered.

"You." He jabbed a finger towards Menlowe. "Bring the car around."

The next thirty minutes passed in abject silence, as Chips Roman sipped scotch in the backseat, his son as far away as the seats would allow. Thomas continued to alternately click away at his phone and thumb the buttons on his game console.

Menlowe and Kierkedoek sat quietly; occasionally sneaking the small glances that they hoped assured each other that they were nothing like these people. That they cared deeply for each other. That they would never treat each other with such callous malevolence and meanness. Menlowe subtly slipped his hand across the console to lace his fingers through Kierkedoek's.

When they arrived at the destination Roman had set them, Kierkedoek pulled in to the large round drive, leading up to the biggest southern-style mansion he'd ever seen in California. It was the kind of place that Kierkedoek remembered from his childhood. Driving out on I-10 East, between Lafayette and Baton Rouge, big monster houses, set back in the trees, standing disused and ruined, leftovers from the plantation owners and rich bastards of pre-Civil War Louisiana. They always gave little Jurgen a feeling of ominous foreboding, as if he could feel the ghosts of the monstrous people that had once lived and died there. This house was new and delicious, towering above them like a glorious cake, scrolled and frosted and layered with lights. Kierkedoek took a sharp breath at the sight of it.

"Holy shit! Would you look at this place," Menlowe growled from beside him with a punctuating whistle.

A light snow was powdering the well-tended grounds, and twinkling lights surrounded the various eaves and windows, lighting the whole scene as if it had come straight from the pages of some classic Christmas tale of country pageantry and Dickensian romance. Both men were hard-pressed to keep their eyes from drifting back up to the wide-expanse of the house.

"Do you two bozos think you could pry your eyes away from the pretty house to do your jobs?"

"Sorry, Mister Roman."

"I'm taking my son in for his early Christmas present. Nineteen years old and hasn't had a woman yet. You'd think he was a queer."Kierkedoek's door crashed closed, rocking the entire vehicle. Menlowe shot him a warning glance and the big man turned away to straighten his coat. "Sorry, sir. I slipped."

"Fucking amateurs," Roman spat.

The inside of the house was even more grandiose and southern gothic, with lit candles in every corner of the room, casting a warm glow over what could have passed for a Civil War museum. Damask wallpaper, Victorian window treatments, yellowing portraits of long-dead gentlemen and corseted women, most with horses, some with beverages, a couple with both. There was an impeccably-kept confederate officer's uniform in a mahogany case as you walked in the door. Kierkedoek leaned in for a closer look, recognizing the small Maltese cross medal as identical to the one he kept secreted away at the bottom of his sock drawer. It was the Confederate Cross of Honor. The one in the sock drawer had belonged to Gustafe Willhelm Kierkedoek - Captain, 9th Cavalry, Army of the Confederate States of America - great-great grandfather of Jurgen Gustafe Kierkedoek, part-time hired thug, sex performer and homosexual ex-KKKK member.

The one in the case belonged to someone named Reginald Quinton Priest, Major, also of the 9th Cavalry. _What in the hell were the chances?_ Kierkedoek felt strangely humbled and oddly at home in this palatial cultural repository. He could hear tinny zydeco coming from another room, and he could smell cookies, honest-to-God fresh baked cookies. Something crackled in little Jurgen's chest at a flash memory of his dear ol' Omi baking cookies for the tree, while his father read Weinachten stories and Mama brewed up some of her special crawfish ettouffee for when Papa Noel would come.

Kierkedoek's reverie was not entirely broken by the appearance of a woman who would have been most men's ideal.

"Well, hello gentlemen," she purred. "Welcome, and happy holidays." She nodded to Chips Roman, "Senator."

"Ms. Priest." he replied, not softly, but with less hostility than he had shown Kierkedoek, Menlowe or his own son.

Kierkedoek took a deep breath through his nose, trying to capture another sense image from his youth that seemed to be carried on her scent. He didn't realize he was sniffing her until Menlowe pulled him back in a snit.

"What in the hell are you doing, Jurgen!" he demanded in a harsh whisper.

"Huh?"

"You were _sniffing_ at her."

"She smells like home."

Menlowe gave him a rabbit-punch in the leg as a not-so-subtle warning.

"I'm sorry about my guards. You know what it's like getting help on the holidays. Seems these two idiots are barely housetrained."

Miss Priest returned Roman's sarcasm by way of a raised eyebrow and a mild look of distaste, which may have been meant for any of the newcomers.

"Nonsense, Mister Roman, this tall drink of water must be a southern boy. Isn't that right, sugar?"

Kierkedoek blushed, which earned him another shot in the leg.

"Yes'm."

"I see you were admiring my great grandfather's uniform?"

"Yes'm. My great-great grandfather was a captain in the 9th Calvary."

Eva Priest smiled warmly, much more warmly than she was accustomed to, as she caught her own blush and immediately turned back to business, though she placed a gentle hand on Kierkedoek's arm as she led the men to the parlor adjoining the entrance.

"And who do we have here, Mister Roman?" she asked as Thomas gingerly crept in behind Menlowe.

"He's a good looking young man. Of age, I presume?" Her eyes caught Chips Roman's as he folded himself down onto the divan.

Roman was not about to be questioned, obviously.

"He's old enough. I say he's fine, which means your girls service him, or I make a few phone calls."

"Mister Roman, we have rules..."

Roman shot up from his seat, slicing the air with his accusatory finger once more.

"You listen to me, you goddamn whore. I will bury you in a cell and burn this place to the ground! You don't talk to me like some fifty-dollar trick. You will take care of my boy, and you will get some girls down here right fucking now!"

Kierkedoek's fists were balled the size of ham-hocks and clenched hard enough to be turning purple. He was still standing at attention behind Roman, and Menlowe was eyeballing the situation, praying beyond hope that he wouldn't have to pry the big man off a US Senator. This was the kind of thing that put men like them in jail for a long time. Probably not together.

Eva Priest simply laughed off Romans display and clapped her hands, shouting "Carmilla!"

She then poured herself into the chair across from Chips Roman and smiled.

"My dear, you are wound tight this evenin'. It is Christmas Eve, Mister Roman. Consider our hospitality at your disposal. You and your entourage are more than welcome here. Just take care to restrain yourselves and play within the rules. I have many of my own friends, Chips. Threats are neither necessary nor effective here."

A handful of extremely beautiful women, in various states of undress, most coordinated in some variation of greens and reds and whites, entered the room. They were led by a curvaceous brunette with a Bettie Page haircut and a whole lot of va-va-voom packed into a 50's style bra-and-lacy-panties ensemble, all set atop thick-stemmed heels that made her a full head taller than any other woman in the room.

She immediately zoomed in on Kierkedoek and shot him a wink. Menlowe glared.

Eva Priest stood and whispered something in Carmilla's ear, which caused her to look Kierkedoek up and down, glance at Menlowe and then pout as she stepped back in line with the rest of the girls.

Eva sauntered towards Thomas Roman as his father rose again; wringing his hands as he greedily inspected the line of women.

"Young master Roman," Eva was now running her hands across Thomas' shoulders, "would you care to choose first?"

"I'll choose his." Chips Roman growled from behind the girls. "He gets the same one I have. I want to inspect her first, tell her what I want done."

Eva gave a heavy sigh and kissed Thomas on the cheek. "They're all good, and gentle, they'll take good care of you, honey." she whispered.

Chips Roman stopped and grabbed two handfuls of ass from a tall Latina in black leather hot pants.

"This one. She'll do. She get rough?"

Eva Priest strutted back towards the Senator with purpose, laying her finger on his chest.

"She does what she's comfortable with. You break that rule and you will be out on your ass."

Ten awkward minutes later, Menlowe and Kierkedoek were sitting outside an upstairs room, with Thomas Roman sitting between them.

"Whatcha playing, man?" Kierkedoek whispered.

"I know who you guys are." Thomas replied. "Manlove and Kickerdick, gay porn guys, right?"

"We are club performers, thank you," Menlowe answered, "Sometimes it gets filmed for home enjoyment."

"I saw one of your videos at a party once."

"Suppose you're gonna make fun of us now? Call us faggots? Queers?" Kierkedoek growled.

"No. It's cool. I don't really... I kind of didn't... understand it."

"Didn't understand what?" Menlowe asked "It's two guys getting it on."

Thomas hit pause and set his game down

"I mean, is it the same? As sex with a girl?"

"I wouldn't know, sweetie, and neither would you, from what your father says."

"It's kind of the same," Kierkedoek added, "depends if it's somebody you love and trust, or if it's just, you know... fucking."

Menlowe's eyes lit up like firecrackers. Kierkedoek stared him down, then nodded his head toward the teen, hoping to defuse Menlowe's rampant jealousy long enough to finish the conversation.

"Well, like, you stick it in the ass, right? I mean, I've had BJ and handies and stuff."

Kierkedoek looked to Menlowe again, confused about what was happening. Menlowe had just opened his mouth when the realization hit him, and he sucked in air in surprise.

"Oh my... are you... do you think you're, maybe..."

"I, I don't know."

"How can you not know?" Menlowe shot back.

"Did _you_ always know?" Thomas was shaking, his feet tapping a light-speed rhythm on the floor.

"Of course I knew! I was born this way, kid. What kind of question..."

"Artie," Kierkedoek stopped him, "I didn't always know. I tried it with girls, did what I was _supposed_ to. I was from the dirty south, man. You did it with chicks or you got dragged behind a truck... I had no idea until I finally fell in love with somebody and they happened to be, well, Artie here. It never felt right with girls, it was never fun. It was always scary and nervous and... you know... kind of like pretending. Then I met Artie and everything kind of made sense."

Thomas nodded along, hands clasped in his lap, feet still tap-tap-tapping away.

"So, you guys love each other? Like _love_ love? Like in the movies? You live together and work together and you're best friends and you're in love? Like ordinary people kind of love"

"Exactly."

"Wow. I never. I mean, I've seen gay guys before, but it was always, you know, interior designers with pink shirts that sounded like old ladies. You guys are... kinda... _cool_."

"We're the same as anybody else." Kierkedoek chuckled, "'cept we do it on stage sometimes..."

"So, it's OK to be that way here?"

Menlowe laughed out loud. "You've obviously never been to L.A. before. Somebody really needs to set you straight."

"I came to Disneyland once, when I was fiv..."

The crash from the room was accompanied by a scream. Her scream. Then Chips Roman yelling at the top of his lungs. Doors opened, heads popped out. Eva Priest and Carmilla began calling out as they ran up the long staircase. Menlowe was up in front of him, but Kierkedoek set him aside and was through the door with a shoulder by the time anyone else could pick their unmentionables from the floor.

The girl was lying on the floor, cowering against the wall, blood pouring from her nose and mouth. Chips Roman stood in his boxer shorts, pale and unimpressive, fists balled around one end of his belt, tiny buckle scraping the floor.

"I fucking told you not to do that. Stupid whore!" he shouted, "I am not some L.A. queer!"

Kierkedoek saw the belt moving before he heard it whistle through the air. He jumped between Roman and the girl before the thought was clear in his head. The buckle landed behind his ear, removing a small chunk of inked flesh and leaving his collar wet with blood.

"What the fuck are you doing in here? Get the fuck out!" Roman hollered. "I paid for this stupid bitch!"

The next swing was caught and Kierkedoek pulled hard enough that the Senator flew forward, crashing to the floor on his face - teeth, lips and tongue all mashing into one red blur as he landed. The man was up and swinging at Kierkedoek in a split-second, as the crowd pushed in at the door. Thomas was in the corner of the room, helping the girl to her feet and guiding her out of the maelstrom.

"Hey! Getchoor handth off of her Thhomaatthh, you liddell fagggot!" Roman spat through his broken mouth.

Kierkedoek landed a glancing right that knocked him back against a wall, but he was up again fast and running for his clothes on the opposite side of the room. Kierkedoek managed to catch a leg as the old man dove for his pants and came up with a pocket knife, a three-inch blade that he swiped across the back of the giant's hand, opening another creek of red that dripped steadily onto the parquet floor.

"Fuck!"

"I gothchoo now muthhherrffucker" Roman laughed as he charged Kierkedoek's mid-section like he was running a fourth-down play. He dove in, knife-first, and while Kierkedoek dodged far enough to keep his internal organs intact, the blade sunk all the way into his shoulder, pulling loose of Romans grip as he roared to his feet, a now fully-enraged bear, climbing to his full height before crushing his attacker.

Kierkedoek planted a fist in Romans gut, burying it to his elbow and lifting the man an easy two feet off of the ground before he flew across the room and crashed through the four-poster bed. Roman lay groaning in the pile of tinder and mattress, as Kierkedoek stalked in to heave him to his feet. Kierkedoek lifted the man by his throat and cocked his arm back ready to strike. That was when he felt Menlowe's fingers wrap around his bicep, easing him back into reality.

"Shhhh. Yergie, he's done. He's just a tired old hateful bastard. Enough. Come on, baby."

Menlowe steered the still fuming giant away from the bed and towards the door, where Eva Priest took him by the arm.

"Thank you so much, young man," she said, as she led Kierkedoek out towards the stairs. She stopped at the door. "Would you mind, helping Mister Roman out of the house, mister...?"

"Menlowe. It would be my pleasure."

"Thank you, dear. There will be some... _gentlemen_ waiting for him outside in a few minutes"

Menlowe paused. "What about Thomas?"

Eva looked back over her shoulder and smiled.

"Why whatever do you mean? Mister Roman arrived here alone, did he not? I'm sure his son is safe and secure back home."

"Asshole!" Menlowe shouted as he slammed the door. He'd been slapping the hell out of the man, all the way down the stairs and out onto the steps, but he made sure to plant one solid kick in the balls before he threw Chips Roman, master of the universe, naked into the frosted bushes in the middle of the drive. A black sedan was rolling up with its lights off as he retrieved the bundle of clothes from the steps. The wallet just might have been a little lighter than when they had arrived, but otherwise, all of the Senators belongings, minus his son, had been carefully gathered and accounted for. Menlowe made the handoff to two serious-looking black-suited men, pointed out Chips bare ass in the middle of the bushes, then retreated inside. Curious, as he tended to be, Menlowe watched through the peephole in the door with barely-veiled glee as they retrieved the Senator and stuffed him into the trunk for the long ride to the airport. Eva had explained that Chips Roman would be assured that his presence would no longer be tolerated in her neck of the woods, and that he would be strongly advised to reconsider his ideas about women and those of alternative lifestyles.

When Menlowe returned to the parlor, to his chagrin, he found several of the girls (and Thomas Roman) administering to Kierkedoek's wounds. Jurgen seemed to be enjoying the attention, despite the bloody bandages he sported in several places. He was having a conversation with Madame Priest, and the girl that he had saved was sitting beside him, one hand on his knee, one hand holding a bag of peas to her face.

"We need to get you to a hospital, you big idiot." Menlowe said as he stomped into the room and sat next to his lover, brushing the girls hand away from Kierkedoek's knee.

"No fucking way man!" Kierkedoek laughed. "I been stabbed plenty of times before. 'Sides. Look who's here!" He grinned from ear to ear and pointed towards the piano, where a scrawny, pasty dude in a red silk kimono and a Santa hat sat tinkling on the keys. He was singing. Kind of.

" _Chaystnuts roasting on an open fiyurrrrrrr. Jack Frost nipping at your balllllzzzz..._ "

"Jesus." Menlowe moaned.

"Nope, just little old Santa me, Manloove! How the fook have you cocksuckers been?" Foxy Thunders hollered. " _Though it's been said, many times, many waaaayyyzzz. Merry Christmas. Happy Hannukah. Merry Christmas. Ahtooooahyoooooo!_ "

Soon the room was full of music, laughter and terrific spiced eggnog that Foxy Thunders had brought by the case from the Old Country. Kierkedoek was in Christmas heaven, what with fresh cookies and his favorite punk-rock legend tinkling the keys. Menlowe left off his jealousy long enough to enjoy his first real Christmas Eve. Friends and loved ones, singing 'round the fire, cookies and booze and well-lit trees, girls in bustiers kissing under the mistletoe, and even a drunken filthy-mouthed Santa, who actually did have a bag full of goodies, but that's a story for another time.

"Yergie?"

"Yeah, babe."

"Don't you want to go home and open your presents?"

"Yeah! Shit, let's go!"

Menlowe smiled at the childish twinkle in Kierkedoek's eyes.

"Wait."

"What?"

"What about Tommy?" Kierkedoek jerked the thumb of his bandaged hand towards the boy. "Can't leave him here, can we?"

"Yergie..."

"Please?"

"No."

"Please, babe?"

" _No!_ "

"Pleeeeeease?"

"Fine, we can keep him. For now. But he sleeps on the couch."

Kierkedoek & Menlowe are two characters from the forthcoming novel HOT SINATRA. For more on Howerton's works, see http://AxelHowerton.com
The Snow Wolf's Gift

Fit for a dragon, a mage, or a king?

by Tim Tash

Sayenne stepped out of the blue glow, taking a deep breath as the portal closed behind her. Her blonde hair was pulled tightly into a long braid, exposing her slightly pointed ears. She giggled softly as she wiggled her toes in the snow.

Sayenne looked around the forest trying to get her bearings. Crossing realms like she did was risky at the best of times and this was definitely not the best of times.

"Oh, so you're the one causing all the chatter."

"I beg your pardon?" Sayenne turned to see a small tree fairy brushing the wrinkles out of its dress of pink and white spider-silk. Her wings fluttered nervously as she hovered above a tree branch.

"The trees--they are very excited about seeing you," the fairy continued. "Is it true that you are a shape-shifter?" she whispered. "That's what the trees are calling you."

Sayenne laughed.

"What?!" the fey asked.

"What is your name, my inquisitive little fairy?"

"Amaryllis."

"Well, Amaryllis, I'm pleased to meet you." Sayenne started walking through the forest. "I'm called Sayenne. And yes, I'm one of those shape-shifters." Sayenne smiled.

"I knew it! The trees are arguing about how long it has been since your kind walked in the snow."

"I had no idea that my arrival would be the topic of such heated debate."

"You know trees--all they do is talk, talk, talk." The tiny fairy smirked.

"You wouldn't happen to know the date now, would you dear?" Sayenne asked.

"Yes!" Amaryllis shimmered with excitement. "It's All Winter Solstice Eve. I can't wait for the feast tomorrow." The young fairy licked her lips.

"I hope I'm not too late," Sayenne mused as the fairy continued to talk.

"So?"Amaryllis flew closer.

"I'm sorry, dear. What was that?" Sayenne stopped.

"How long has it been?" Amaryllis whispered, raising a tiny eyebrow for emphasis.

"It has been some 500 years since the Elders last walked the human world."

"Really? Well, that hasn't been that long." The trees rustled in agreement.

"Long enough, I suppose." Sayenne smiled.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going this way. Why?"

"You don't want to go that way." Amaryllis shook her head and crossed her tiny arms.

"Is that so? Any particular reason?"

"It's not safe," Amaryllis said, matter-of-factly.

"I see." Sayenne stopped and looked at the young fey. "Do you know why it isn't safe?"

"The mountain roared and the ground shook very hard yesterday."

"Curse it all to hell." Sayenne took off running shimmering a yellow glow as she transformed into a large white wolf.

"Well, she could have said good-bye." Amaryllis frowned as she watched the white wolf disappear in the distance.

Sayenne yelped in frustration as she bounded up the mountain slope in her wolf form, the sound of crunching snow echoing softly in her ears as her paws tore through it. Her heart raced with fear.

Sayenne stopped at the edge of an overhang, panting heavily as she lifted her head sniffed at the air.

There he is. The scent of the mage lingered in the air. He is close. She tasted the air as her wolf instincts twitched in the back of her mind.

Blood! Her tail twitched nervously. What is it with this family and having mountains dropped on them? She growled as she took off.

The mage sat propped against a rock, his leg clearly broken. Sayenne watched him from behind the tree line. His brown hair was matted with blood, his eyes dilated and he appeared to be in shock, struggling to stay conscious.

Sayenne slowly shifted into her human form as she approached him.

"Gandira, I presume," Sayenne said as she knelt before the mage.

"What?! Where did you come from?" Gandira choked, blinking rapidly.

"Rest, mage." Sayenne lay her hand gently on his chest. "Let me see what damage has been done."

Gandira chuckled. "My beautiful mirage, don't take this the wrong way, but I was hoping to have visions of my wife and son."

"I assure you, Gandira, I'm no mirage."

"Have you seen my son, Alturis?" Gandira said, his eyes wide.

"He is safe at home in front of the hearth," Sayenne said warmly.

"He was just here--he is always getting into things the moment you take your eyes off him." Gandira looked around wildly.

"Easy, mage, let me heal you--then I'll help you look for him."

Gandira slumped, mumbling his sons name as he fainted.

Sayenne moved confidently and efficiently as she wove a healing spell over him. "Two fractured ribs, a broken leg, one skull fracture, hypothermia...basically on death's door." She shook her head.

"Don't worry though, Gandira, you'll be home soon, your son sitting on your lap and your wife by your side. This much I promise you."

"Tell my wife that I love her," he whispered.

She scooped him into her arms. "You will have the chance soon enough. The world can't afford to have you die this close to home." She whispered to herself as she closed her eyes to concentrate.

Sayenne's eyes fluttered open, her shoulders slumping forward as weariness washed over her. She glanced down and was relieved that the color had returned to Gandira's face.

Placing her hand on his forehead she nodded in satisfaction. His fever had broken, as well.

She stretched, arching her lovely back to get her blood flowing again. The healing had taken much out of her.

Sayenne rummaged through her small pack and produced a tin cup. She quickly filled it with the snow, then blew into it until it began to steam. She leaned against a tree--even this trivial use of magic had left her light-headed.

She removed a small pouch from the folds of her clothes and dumped it in, stirring it quickly with her index finger and took a long drink. Sayenne closed her eyes and let the warm tea rejuvenate her.

"I should be dead," Gandira mumbled groggily.

"The worst of it is over. The internal bleeding and the head wound are healed, and as soon as I catch my breath I'll fix that leg of yours." Sayenne yawned as she knelt beside him, offering him the cup.

"'Thank you' seems so inadequate." Gandira propped himself up on his elbows and carefully sipped the hot tea. "Yet that is all I seem to have offer you at the moment. Traveler, I am Magus Gandira, and you are...?"

"My name is Sayenne, and you are welcome Magus Gandira." Sayenne bowed her head slightly. "I am curious what were you doing out here."

"In hindsight I suppose it was foolish, but I wanted to be home on the Solstice." Gandira looked sheepishly into the horizon. "I have a son."

"Yes, Alturis." Sayenne smiled. "You have mentioned him once or twice."

"I have?" Gandira looked mildly surprised. "I was rushing home and I almost made it with time to spare, but then the snow pack gave way and...well the rest is evident." Gandira swallowed hard and brushed away a tear. "If it hadn't been for you, I hate to think what would have happened."

"Try not to dwell on it, dear. I happened along and we will get you safely home."

"By the way, he said, "what was in that tea?"

"Just a pinch of Belarest root. It should have soothed some of the pain."

"Ah, I'm familiar with it. Well, then I wonder what is causing this hallucination." Gandira pointed to the sky.

Sayenne turned and looked. Her heart dropped. "I'm afraid that dragon is no hallucination." She paused for a moment, watching the creature circling above. "A dragon, yes. Interesting fact - did you know that dragons can manipulate their size? They can range from as large as three barns side-by-side, and the smallest recorded size was roughly the size of a large dog. Fascinating really." She paused, but Gandira said nothing. "Too bad the same can not be said for their egos."

The dragon circled overhead, his giant bat-like wings fluffing the snow into large drifts. As he settled into a spot on the ground, his red scales shifted together, producing a sound not unlike wind chimes.

"I wonder what he is doing here," whispered Gandira.

"Traitor, I know you are nearby. I can smell you," the dragon said. Although the words were fierce, his tone remained conversational.

"What language is he speaking?" Gandira said.

"It is the Old Tongue--the first language." Sayenne answered.

"You understand it?"

"Yes." Sayenne watched the dragon. "Gandira, I'm afraid it might be a bit before I get to that leg."

"I see." Gandira replied grimly, as he struggled to rise. "No sense in both of us dying here."

"Stop it," she snapped."I don't have time for heroism."

"By decree of the Council of Eternal Light, you are hereby commanded to surrender to Terrocio, Captain of the Guard, and your appointed escort."

Sayenne raised an eyebrow and clenched her teeth.

"I gather the message is...bad?" Gandira whispered.

"You gather well."

"You have two minutes to decide your fate: surrender or death." Terrocio said. "I hope you choose the latter."

Sayenne sighed. She looked at Gandira and his splinted leg.

"Shall I speak to him on your behalf?" Gandira offered.

"I don't think that would be a good idea." Sayenne smiled. "Dragons don't like humans."

"And why is that?"

"They used to eat humans, naturally. They're no longer allowed, so they make due with stomping on you lot. "

"I'm so glad to know that." Gandira went pale. "Thank you for sharing."

"We need a distraction," Sayenne pointed to the trees behind the dragon.

Gandira smiled, catching her meaning immediately. "I don't see how that will help."

"I have an idea but I'll have to time it perfectly."

"Then let's give it a try. I would rather not end up as a snack for this beast." Gandira cracked his knuckles and shook his hands to get the circulation flowing.

"This might hurt a bit, and for that I'm truly sorry." Sayenne whispered in Gandira's ear as her hand brushed the locket around her neck.

"Just be quick about it." Gandira gritted his teeth.

"On three then."

"On three."

Sayenne placed a hand on his shoulder.

"One" Sayenne whispered squeezing his shoulder gently as they each began the spell. "Two. Thr--"

"I have you!" Terrocio roared. The magic gathered around them a split second before the trees behind him cracked apart with a deafening explosion, sending flaming shards of wood flying through the air.

Sayenne staggered to her feet clutching the locket as she transformed into her wolf form. With a shake of her head she was off.

"Fire!" Terrocio roared. "You dare to attack me with fire!" He leaped into the air, his massive wings pushing him above the treetops in two powerful motions.

Sayenne bounded down the mountain as fast as her four legs would carry her. She could smell the dragon behind her, the mixture of brimstone and burnt wood.

"You can't run from me, mouse."

Sayenne jumped over a boulder as Terrocio's fireball exploded behind her, yelping as the concussion knocked her through the air. Her landing cushioned by the powdery snow bank, still she rolled uncontrollably down the slope tail-over-snout before coming to rest in a clearing.

She felt herself slip out of wolf form. Stay awake. This is no time for a nap. Sayenne pushed up with her arms feeling as useful as wet noodles.

"Your attempt at escape is entertaining," Terrocio mused, circling overhead.

"My dear Terrocio," she said. "Better than you have tried to capture me and failed. You would do well to quit while you are ahead." Sayenne felt the anger flush her cheeks as she rose to her feet.

"You do have a sense of humor, little mouse. Brave words. You can barely stand."

She looked up at the dragon. At this proximity she could feel him pulling magic into him, twisting the energy into a spell. With a deep breath she began forming the spell, weaving the words in her mind, the magic, and her will together. She released a fireball of her own, landing it square on Terrocio's jaw, where it exploded into a thousand shards of ice. The impact knocked the dragon from the sky, and he fell into the clearing, his cries of pain and surprise echoing through the hills.

Sayenne fell to her knees as pain took her by surprise. Clasping her right arm below the wrist, a manacle made of light appeared.

"No!"

"Run little mouse, run." Terrocio laughed, but Sayenne could tell it was forced. "Without your magic, you will be easy prey."

Sayenne felt her magic drain from her as she ran through the trees clutching her pendant. The light from the village houses cut through the night's darkness, just past the edge of the forest.

If I can just make to the village.

Sayenne's skin ripped open and hot blood ran down her back, freezing in the cold air before landing in the snow.

"You have been caught," the dragon bellowed.

The snow against her cheek felt refreshing. She squinted in the darkness, unable to surrender as she became aware of a mental tug at the back of her mind.

A small figure stepped out from behind a tree. A boy.

"Let her go!" he shouted, holding his toy sword with two gloved hands.

"What is this?" Terrocio scoffed.

"No! No!" Sayenne mouthed, fear gripping her heart. The bond, damn the bond! She was helpless where she lay, pinned beneath the Terrocio's claw.

"Go find your mother, boy," the dragon threatened.

"Run," Sayenne mouthed to the boy when their eyes finally met. He just shook his head and set his jaw, his expression defiant and angry.

"I'm Alturis of Clan Maxil" he yelled "and I'm..."

The Dragon raised an scaled eyebrow as he shot flames from his mouth, engulfing the boy.

Sayenne wept as the flame scrouched the ground black and turned the snow into steam and smoke.

With a satisfied snort from the dragon it ended, and the smoke and steam cleared to reveal a little boy.

"I was talking!" He stomped his foot, the fear in his eyes returning to anger.

"I'm the wolf!" he yelled up to the dragon. Sayenne could feel his mind instinctively using the bond to find the knowledge he needed.

The boy threw his head back and howled. The hair on the back of her neck stood up, and even Terrocio shifted slightly as the boy's howl echoed through the forest.

Interwoven with the howl was a spell unlike anything Sayenne had seen before, and by the way Terrocio sniffed at the air, she could tell the dragon was surprised, as well.

The pattern of the magic didn't make sense to Sayenne until the wolves lept into the clearing. They glowed an ethereal blue. These were no ordinary wolves, either. Each member of the pack was three times larger than a typical forest wolf, and magic dripped from their fangs. They growled menacingly, awaiting the boy's command. Yellow eyes staring unblinking as they encircled the three figures, numbering thirty in all by Sayenne's count.

He managed to weave his need with their full potential. Impressive. Creative.

"Boy, I have no idea how you are managing this," the dragon snorted, "but--"

"Release the lady and leave with your life," the child interrupted.

Sayenne wondered if the little mage even realized he was speaking in the Old Tongue.

"Now you are just annoying me, b--," the dragon answered.

Sayenne watched as the wolves leaped upon the dragon, not giving him the chance to finish his sentence.

Alturis darted for Sayenne, swinging his wooden sword as hard as he could at the manacle on her wrist.

His magic shattered the spell, jolting them all as the broken power rippled the air. The dragon roared. Alturis roared back just as loud, the magic echoing through the forest.

Sayenne could feel magic flood her body, warming her as the despair lifted.

"This mouse knows how to fight back," she said to Terrocio, whispering in the Old Tongue. The earth heaved underneath the dragon, causing him to stagger back as the wind landed an invisible blow on his chest.

Sayenne felt a little hand clasp hers. The link was complete and whole as the darkness erupted into a warm glow, melting the snow around them.

"Thank you." Sayenne looked down at the boy mage.

"You're welcome." He smiled up at her, his eyes sparkling innocently.

"It is time to go. Terrocio, you have failed," Sayenne said calmly to the dragon.

"I've failed nothing!" He panted, baring his teeth.

"She said 'leave.'" The boy stepped forward between Sayenne and the dragon, pointing his wooden sword at the large nostril before him. Tendrils of smoke and the smell of sulfur filled the air.

"I beg you, Terrocio, let this be the end of it," Sayenne said.

"I have a job to finish."

The boy didn't hesitate--mage lightning danced from the tip of his sword into the dragon's eye. The electricity in the air gathered as the boy spoke a string of words in the Old Tongue, calling down lightning on to the dragon from the heavens.

The dragon roared in pain, felling trees with his large tail as he thrashed about.

"The Lady says to leave," the boy growled in the Old Tongue. The pack of wolves echoed his growl.

"The bond," the dragon muttered as he turned his good eye toward Sayenne. The dragon's voice was filled with disgust as he leaped into the air, his giant wings carrying him east. "The council will not be pleased."

"They seldom are," she whispered softly, watching him fade into the morning sunrise.

Sayenne looked down to find Alturis nuzzling the wolves that had heeded his call. As he petted them, Sayenne watched him unravel his spell, returning them to their normal size. She smiled, pride swelling in her heart as he took on their wounds. Empathic healing was not uncommon, but it was quite dangerous.

"Stop, Alturis." Sayenne lay a hand on his shoulder. "It is dangerous to heal that way."

"Why?" Alturis looked up at her his face starting to swell and big black bruises forming on his cheeks and chin.

"Look at your arms." Sayenne pointed.

Alturis' eyes widened as he watched fresh cuts open on his flesh, and blood pour out.

"How did that happen?" he asked.

"You transfered your energy into them, and took from them the pain and hurt."

"Is that what I was doing?"

"Yes," she said, "and you must promise not to do it again."

"But your back needs..."

"No!" she cut him off. "This type of wound would kill you, and that is why most mages do not perform it."

"Okay," Alturis nodded, forcing a smile as he stood up and took her hand.

She smiled back at him as they began walking toward the village.

"Are we going home?" Alturis yawned.

"Yes, I'm taking you all home." Sayenne replied clutching the locket gently at her neck.

"Mom is going to be so surprised." Alturis giggled.

"Yes, I believe she is." Sayenne smiled softly as they walked.

Alturis waving his wooden sword fighting imaginary dragons again and again, as Sayenne struggled to stay conscious.

"Here we are." Alturis took off, running to the door of the house and swinging it wide.

"Mom!" he yelled.

Sayenne staggered to the door, noticing for the first time she was leaving a trail of blood behind her.

"Oh, by the maker, what has happened to you?" The dark haired woman cursed as she put an arm around Sayenne, causing her to moan in pain.

"What did that to your back! Inside with you."

Sayenne was guided to a room where she lay on her tummy, surrendering to sleep. After a bit of time, Sayenne woke with a start, her hand shooting to her neck. She sighed in relief. The pendant was still there.

"Good, you are awake." Alturis' mother said. She entered the room carrying a tray filled with cheeses. "I thought I heard you, hoped you might be hungry. I am Jaelyn, and you are welcome to something to eat."

"I am hungry." Sayenne nodded as she sat up. "Thank you for the healing," she said as she tenderly flexed her muscles.

"You are welcome," she handed Sayenne a cup of tea. "Alturis is saying he saved you from a dragon." She laughed.

"He did, at that, Jaelyn. He did, at that," Sayenne said over the brim of her tea cup.

"Well, that wasn't the answer I was expecting." Jaelyn bite her bottom lip.

"Yet, it is truth." Sayenne smiled and patted Jaelyn's knee. "He battled well. I have no doubt that he earned Terrocio's respect." Sayenne nibbled on a piece of cheese.

"As long as he has the dragon's respect, I suppose it is okay." Jaelyn quipped, standing up to pace the room. "I wish Gandira were here. He does better with the 'mystically unexplainable' than I."

"Perhaps, but I doubt there is anyone in this village that could be kinder to a complete stranger," Sayenne said as she stood, a piece bread in one hand, the other gently brushing the pendant.

"You should stay in bed," Jaelyn protested.

"I wish I could, but I have a delivery to make." Sayenne smiled as she handed her the tray. Sayenne turned back toward the bed, placing the pendant gently in the center. She inhaled deeply as she began chanting, weaving the counter-spell around the pendent.

There was a small flash of light and the bed creaked as the full weight of Gandira settled upon it. "..Ree!" He was yelling, his eyes closed tight and a grimace of pain squarely etched on his face.

"Gandira!" Jaelyn squealed in delight as she wrapped her arms around her husband.

"Jaelyn?" Gandira opened his eyes as her lavender scent encircled him. "Is it really you."

"Of course it is," she confirmed. "We've been waiting days."

"Leg," he whispered. "Dear, the leg--it is broken." He grabbed his leg and gritted his teeth.

"I didn't have time to heal it. I was interrupted by a dragon," Sayenne replied to the icy look Jaelyn shot over her shoulder.

"I would like to have a word or two with this rather rude dragon." She closed her eyes and focused on the healing.

After a moment, Sayenne silently walked out to the parlor, leaving the couple alone. She found Alturis asleep on the couch, his toy sword still clutched tightly in his hand. She leaned down and gently kissed him on the forehead. "My hero ," she whispered with a smile. With a small pat on his head, she made her way outside.

"Wait." Jaelyn rushed into the snow after the mysterious woman. "You are...her, aren't you?" she said, slightly out of breath.

"Yes." Sayenne smiled.

"After all this time? Why?"

"The world has need of Alturis." Sayenne placed a comforting hand on Jaelyn's shoulder, as the mother went pale. "Not today, but soon."

"When? How will we know?"

"I can't say for sure. No one can." Sayenne smiled sympathetically. "I just didn't want him to wake up tomorrow without his father."

Jaelyn nodded knowingly, reaching out and taking Sayenne's hand in her own.

"Answer me this--when the time comes will you be with him?" Jaelyn asked, eyes filled with tears.

Sayenne nodded "I will. The bond has been formed, and thus can not be broken except by death itself."

"Thank you." Jaelyn wiped the tears from her face.

Sayenne smiled as she turned, shifting into a wolf.

The pained gasps of the dragon led Sayenne right to him, resting on the edge of a volcano in the southern hemisphere. Terrocio roared as she floated down to him.

"I may be blind but I can still smell you!" The large head swung around sniffing delicately in the air.

"I'm here to help," she said. Sayenne couldn't help but feel sorry for him. As wounded as she felt, the dragon looked near death.

"You have helped enough."

"I warned you multiple times," she said calmly. "You choose to chase me, anyway."

"Humph. I believed it was a bluff," he chuckled ruefully, until the laugh turned into a cough.

Sayenne waited for his spasm to subside. "I don't bluff."

"I'll try to remember that." The dragon rested his head on the rocky floor, closing his eyes tightly. "Your pup has teeth," he grunted. "I forgot how powerful humans can be when bonded."

"He is special," Sayenne agreed, "and he was very angry with you."

"That he was," the dragon laughed, coughing up blood.

"Accept this healing, Terrocio." Sayenne whispered, tears in her eyes as she leaned forward and placed two hands on his enormous face. "Then we shall go home."

This is story by Tim Tash takes place a few years before Tales of Haydon. Catch up with Tim at http://TimTash.com
A Serial Killer Christmas

A party for one?

By Mercedes Yardley

Something about the holidays made our dear Peter sad. Perhaps it was the dreary weather or his mother's murder when he was a child, or maybe it was simply the grating Christmas carols that looped over and over and over, but the end result was despair and a good dose of desperation.

But this year! This year Peter had something different than all of the other years before, and that was a friend. Well, truthfully perhaps she was more of a _victim_ , but in this day and age, a victim is nearly as good as a friend, and isn't that what the holidays are all about? Friendship and victimhood?

Peter combed his hair carefully, awkwardly whistling, "Do You Hear What I Hear?", which he thought his mother used to sing to him, but he really couldn't remember anymore. After that, he switched to a few other carols until he eventually decided on "Baby, It's Cold Outside."

"What a charming song," he thought, evidently not realizing that it's a rather chilling and predatory song indeed, but to Peter, it was a song about love and two strangers coming together and all of the wonderful things that would happen when Bryony came to his Christmas party this evening.

Oh, there were so many things to be done! He stood with his hands on his hips, nodding in approval at his sturdy wooden table and clicking his tongue at the bare state of the apartment. This wouldn't do. It's clean and respectable, just as a bachelor's home should be, and most especially if the bachelor happens to be a serial killer, such as our darling Peter is. It's ever so much easier to pull up roots and flee town if there are few things to pack and drag behind one, but my goodness, this is a party! A party for his beautiful Bryony, and this simply wouldn't do. It needs to be special, to have glitter and shine. He must get to work immediately.

First, to invite the guest of honor. He took a snowflake that he had painstakingly cut out of tissue paper the day before. It was light and festive, covered in glitter, and if it looked more like an ornament that a small child had made for his or her mother, well, Peter certainly wasn't aware of that. To him it was a jewel, a tiara, the Hope Diamond. It was precious and perfect and he knew that, if allowed to live that long, Bryony would fold it carefully and sleep with it under her pillow, dreaming sweet dreams of his love for her.

"Thank you for killing me, darling," she would say on the day that he murdered her. She would pull the snowflake out of her pocket and Peter's eyes would widen with delight. "Yes, I kept it all of this time, and it truly was a comfort and a joy to me, and I would love to hold it in my fingers while you drain the life from me. For it was my destiny to be murdered, and you don't know what a comfort it is to have you be the one to do it. Thank you, my friend!" Then she would smile prettily, this woman who was born to die, and offer her white throat.

"Oh, Bryony, you simply are so good to me! You're everything that I ever wanted, in a woman and a victim, and I am so very glad that I am the one to fulfill the darkness of your destiny. For I was born to kill, you see, and seeing as you were born to die, it works out so beautifully for both of us! How did we ever become so lucky?"

But Peter realized that his fantasies were running away with him again, and he hadn't even sent his invitation yet.

"Come to my place tonight at seven." He printed as carefully as he could, so that the message wouldn't get lost. There was no need to sign his name, for she would intuitively know who it came from, and he rushed to his window, prying it open and flinging the snowflake into the wind and weather.

"Take it to her!" he shouted into the darkness, and the wind, who can be either quite dutiful or mischievous by turns, stole the snowflake away into the night.

But the party, oh the party! Peter pulled out decorations, boxes and bags of things that he had recently purchased. He hauled a Christmas tree inside, which flung snow this way and that, generally making a nuisance of itself. He ripped open a box of shiny ornaments, each having absolutely no sentimental meaning to him, and hung them on the tree. He covered it in tangled lights, in tinsel, and in bows. Then Peter the Murderer put a shining star on top. He had almost bought an angel at the store, but it seemed too ironic and almost cruel to have it in his home. While he was certainly no angel, Bryony would become one by the time he was through with her, and he didn't want to tip his hand too early.

And then there was the matter of presents. He had chosen them carefully for his guest. A pair of star earrings that he had kept from a previous victim. A picture of a bird that he had taken, hopping in the snow. It was sure to please her, for she dearly loved lost little things, and since it was so cold and hopeless in winter, this bird was surely lost. Perhaps it could be her pet in the afterlife, and sit upon her shoulder? Perhaps it would sing of joy and greatness? Peter felt a stab of sorrow that he hadn't killed it when he had the chance, that it wouldn't be ready for his darling when she stepped seamlessly through to the other side, that it wouldn't greet her with cheery cries. Unless...

The wind was raging outside, the snow dark and horribly threatening.

"I shall take your life and your soul!" the storm yowled fiercely. It seldom blew through this area, you see, and had to make a grand show of it whenever it did. "Nothing shall survive my treachery!"

The bird, if it still lived, most surely wouldn't make it through the night. Peter smiled at this, considerably cheered.

"I never want you to be lonely, Bryony," he vowed earnestly. "You were meant to be happy, and happy you shall be, and after all of this 'living' business is behind us, we shall have the most exquisite of eternities!"

Last of all, he wrapped a scarf that a dear friend had given him when he was in high school. She was a pretty thing, all dark hair and dark eyes, and a smile that made him warm even when it was the coldest nights. She had died prettily, as he had supposed she would, even though he was still new and his hands shook in a most unseemly way.

"I'm sorry," he had whispered to her. "This is what I am meant to do, but I am so very new at it, you see. One day it will be instinctive, and my hands will automatically do what needs to be done, but as for now, I am still a little nervous."

"Oh, it is quite all right," she said. Or at least Peter is sure that is what she would have said, for she was so very understanding and sweet, but she wasn't really saying much of anything by that point, being quite dead. But how beautiful. How divine. They were closer than ever, and he had never parted from that scarf before, but this was different. This was for Bryony. This was for love.

He pressed the scarf to his face briefly, then set it in the box and wrapped it. Sitting back on his heels, Peter saw his lonely living room transformed into something wonderful, something full of magic and promise.

"This is what a real holiday is like," he told himself, and then nodded, because it was just right. The table was perhaps a little bare, the chairs empty because he had killed most of the people who would otherwise sit there, but all in all it was a festive scene that would warm every heart.

Ah, but would it warm Bryony's? Would it?

He set his knife on the seat next to him, leaned back in his chair, and hummed merrily while he waited for her to arrive.

A Serial Killer Christmas is based upon a yet-unpublished novel that holds the working title PRETTY LITTLE DEAD GIRLS. A related story, The Container of Sorrows, is available as part of BEAUTIFUL SORROWS. For more info: <http://abrokenlaptop.com/>
Old Mexia Christmas Brew

It's the end of the Mayan World as we know it...

by Claudia Lefeve

After dinner, everyone left the Everett residence and headed back to their respective homes--with the exception of Jenny and Chase, who loitered just a little too long saying goodbye to their friends. Jenny could tell Chase was deliberately stalling because he wanted tell her something.

She also knew that if she didn't speak first, he'd lose the courage to say whatever was on his mind. "Okay, Chase spit it out. What's up?"

"What do you mean?"

His mock confusion didn't fool Jenny. It was no secret that the guy had been crushing on her for months. She figured he was bracing himself to make the first move.

"You've been acting weird the last couple of weeks. First you keep baking me those incredibly delicious chocolate truffles, then you offer to take one of my night watch shifts so I can sleep. What gives?" Jenny figured he'd been wanting to ask her out for awhile now, but he was so socially awkward she figured he just didn't know how.

"Well... I thought maybe..." Chase began to stutter.

"Are you trying to ask me out?"

His only response was a nod and she almost felt bad for the guy. Chase wasn't bad looking by any means – he was, by Jenny's standards, pretty hot – but his über-intelligence kind of made him a bit of a dork at times. In another world, she would never have given him a second's glance, but here in this reality, she really didn't have anything to lose by agreeing to go out with him. Jenny was just grateful it wasn't his twin brother Chance. He was more socially inept than his brother.

"Sure. What'd you have in mind?" It's not like they could go out and do something fun. Not in this world.

Chase just stood there and gaped at her. He probably thought she'd turn him down and hadn't quite thought this through. "To be honest, I played the odds and figured you'd turn me down. Maybe this is a bad idea. Forget I brought it up."

"Correction, I brought it up. Hey! All that talk about Christmas has given me an idea. What do you think about going on a little trip?"

"What kind of trip? You know I don't celebrate Christmas and besides, it's summer."

"Duh, I was there when we went over all that. We're capable of traveling, right? Plus you're the brains behind the time-travel portal aren't you? You can take us to Christmas!"

"Oh, I don't know about that, Jenny. We have to conserve what little power we have for the rebellion. I don't think Etta or Cooper would appreciate us traveling outside of our mission."

"Blah, blah. Rules are meant to be broken, college boy. Don't you want to have some fun? With me?" Her fluttering eyelashes worked on vapid jocks back home, now she hoped it worked on a genius scientist.

His stutter almost brought Jenny to hysterics. "Of... of... course I want to spend time with you. What would you like to do?"

"We're going to Mexico, mi amigo and we're going to have ourselves a very merry Navidad."

"For the record, I don't feel comfortable doing this," Chase said as they crossed over the portal to the other reality where they would board the plane that would take them to Mexico. It was a bit tricky logistically, since they couldn't fly from their present reality--commercial airlines had been defunct since the overtaking. That and they had to travel forward in time, since it was currently the month of May.

"You're such a worry wart. Trust me, this is going to be fun. Besides, who doesn't like celebrating Christmas?"

Chase was still apprehensive about traveling, not only to another reality when they should be concentrating their efforts on the rebellion, but simply traveling to another country. What if he got Montezuma's Revenge? That was a Christmas gift he wasn't exactly excited to receive. "I haven't celebrated the custom since Chance and I left home for MIT."

It was Jenny's turn to look dismayed. "Why? Don't you believe?"

"The holiday is based on the premise that Jesus was born on December twenty-fifth and all scholars know this not to be the case. The Christmas you know is a result of Christianity trying to get the pagans on board by promising they could still celebrate the holiday of Saturnalia the last week of December."

Jenny giggled at his attempt to intellectualize the holiday. "Oh, pooh, that's just semantics. I'm going to show you the meaning of holiday spirit you're never going to forget. Don't you want our first date to be special?"

"Of course I do."

She could tell he didn't want her to realize just how much, but it was totally obvious by the way he kept glancing at the ground and shuffling his feet.

In the end, Chase put aside his reservations and decided Jenny was right. He did want their first outing together to be memorable and was willing to do whatever it was she wanted to do. Even if it went going beyond his normal comfort level. It wasn't like they could do much in the reality they presently came from. He was well aware that in any other time or place, someone like Jenny wouldn't give him a second glance. Perhaps this was a Christmas miracle of sorts after all.

After an anxious flight on both their parts – for different reasons, of course – they finally arrived in Mexico City. Being back in her home country made Jenny excited about what they were about to do. She left the finer details about their impromptu excursion out, because she knew once Chase knew what her real plan was, he'd get all agitated again.

"So where do we go from here?" He asked as they made their way toward the rental car counter.

"Well, now that we're here, we need to travel back in time."

He stopped right in the middle of the terminal. "You mean forward in time. We're only a few months ahead of December."

A very impish smile forms on Jenny's face. "Yes, I know, but for this little exertion, we're going to need to go back several years."

"Years?"

"Yup. We want to be in Mexico, December 20, 2012."

"That's the day before –"

"Exactly," Jenny said, cutting Chase off.

"But first, we need to head over to the Mexia brewery and pick up some provisions."

"Provisions?" Another look of confusing crossed Chase's face.

"Yeah. Beer."

"Jenny, I realize that drinking is part of the holiday celebration, but can't we just go to one of the local grocery stores and pick up alcohol? Logistically speaking, it would be much easier."

"We could, but they wouldn't carry enough for what I have in mind," Jenny replied with a twinkle in her eye. "Plus, I get a very nice discount from the brewery."

Jenny's family had owned and operated Mexia brewery since her great-grandfather started the business. Her parents had long been deceased, having been blown up in an explosion due to Thornberry – the man they hoped to overthrow from power in their current reality – but she remained the sole shareholder of the company, even if she didn't reside in this reality anymore. Currently, the brewery was operated by her relatives, who believed Jenny was off on an indefinite vacation to clear her head over the death of her parents. One day, she hoped to come back to this world and reclaim her position as el presidente.

There wasn't much Chase could say at this point to talk her out of the plan she had in mind. He was just going to have to trust she knew what she was doing. Jenny knew he didn't want to get in the kind of trouble that would prevent them from going home.

After fielding questions over her absence the last couple of years and promising her cousins that she would visit more often, Jenny and Chase loaded up the rental car with the seasonal Christmas beer their brewery was renowned for.

"All set?" Jenny asked after loading the last case into the rental.

"I would be if I knew what we were doing will all these cases."

"You'll see," she said, her sly smile returning. Now, let's go back to 2012!"

After a lecture from Chase about how twenty cases of beer would affect the weight capacity of their rental, Jenny finally stopped the car in the middle of what at first glance appeared to be a deserted village.

"This town looks abandoned," he noted, getting out of the car. He mumbled something else about why they didn't just stay in Mexico City.

Jenny looked around the little village. It wasn't as developed as some of the other towns that surrounded the country's capital, but this is exactly where she wanted to be. "It's not abandoned. People are hiding."

Chase raised his eyebrows. "Why are they hiding, do you suppose?"

"Wouldn't you be, if you thought tomorrow marked the end of the world?"

Both of them were well aware that the myth behind the Mayan calendar was just that, a myth. They came from a world five years into the future, so they already knew there wasn't going to be an armageddon any time soon. Well, at least not tomorrow. And not in this reality, anyway.

"Good point," he said, helping Jenny take the remaining cases out of the trunk.

"You know, I missed all this nonsense. Getting to spend time with friends and family on the day everyone thought the world was going to end," she said softly. "I was recruited by Cooper and Etta right before we all thought this place was going to go kaboom."

"Kind of like what we're facing right now, huh?"

It was true. In their own reality, they were fighting a rebellion that could ultimately result in a state of chaos if they lost. This was why it was so important to them to come here. Jenny hoped Chase would figure out the reason for them being here wasn't to save the village from death and destruction, but perhaps to offer some peace of mind.

Jenny nodded. "But this is different. We know how it turns out. There is no end of the world. So tonight, we're partying like it's 1999!"

"I don't follow that reference. Is that year significant?"

"Sorry. I've been hanging out with Etta too long. I think that's how the lyrics go. She got that Prince song stuck in my head."

Chase looked confused. "I still don't get it. What does the year 1999 have to do with the end of the world?"

"Ugh! The millennium? Y2K? Ring any bells? Sometimes, Chase, you're hopeless. You of all people should have gotten that one."

Jenny instantly regretted saying that. The last thing she wanted to do was embarrass him, so she kissed him on the cheek. "But not entirely. There's hope you for you yet."

Chase blushed after the quick peck and went back to the cases of beer they finished unloading. "What do you plan on doing with all these cases?"

"If you build it, they will come," Jenny said, as if that answered his question. "I also took that line from Etta. I'm not sure exactly what it means, I think it's from some movie, but I think it's appropriate."

"I still don't get it."

"Think of it as bait. We're going to draw them out with beer."

They sat on the cases of Mexia Christmas Brew as they waited for the villagers to come out from hiding. As they waited, Jenny wasn't entirely sure her plan was going to work. It was wishful thinking on her part that a whole village in hiding would be enticed by beer, she thought to herself as she silently prayed her plan would work.

"This is pretty important to you, isn't it?" Chase finally asked.

Jenny turned to face him. She'd been concentrating on all the little homes, willing them to come out of hiding, and she almost forgotten he was sitting there beside her. "Well, yeah. I mean, we have the chance to commemorate the non-end of the world, which is something I'm not entirely sure I can say concerning our own futures. This is an opportunity to celebrate, not to mention it's Christmas. I'd hate to think the folks around here will miss the festivities because they believe they won't be alive come tomorrow."

Chase considered this. "Did you know that Isaac Newton predicted the end of the world to occur in the year 2060?

"No." Now it was Jenny's turn to not know a random fact. "You're not going to get all Nostradamy on me are you?"

"Who's Nostradamy?"

"Nostradamus," she said, only this time using the correct name. "He was a famous... oh, never mind." It was kinda ironic that she was having this conversation with someone who could see the future, yet had never heard of the famed seer. That's what happens when you come from different realities, she thought.

"Sorry. I'm not being a very good date, am I? You should have brought Etta, or one of the other guys with you."

The thing was, as much as Chase was brainy science guy, Jenny actually enjoyed his company. "Actually, I'm having a great time."

"You are?"

"Sure. I mean, if I'd brought Etta along she would have totally stopped me back at the airport." She laughed. "Hell, I doubt we would've even gotten that far."

"Oh, I get it. I'm a pushover."

He looked so glum, Jenny wanted to hug him, but she didn't. Aside from the chaste kiss she gave him earlier, she wasn't exactly known for exhibiting any form of affection. "No, you like me enough to believe in me. Not that the others don't, but it's different with you."

A few of the men from the village came out of hiding to investigate Jenny and her wares. It only took an hour of sitting on top of the cases waiting for them to retreat from the safety of their homes. It was just like shopaholics during Black Friday at Macy's.

Jenny hopped off the cases. "Ha! I knew they'd come out eventually."

After she managed to somehow convince the villagers that they were safe – Chase wasn't exactly sure what she said since she was firing away in rapid Spanish – everyone slowly began to enjoy themselves. From the little Spanish he knew, he gathered the villagers figured they might as well party if the world was going to end.

It didn't take long for the men to get drunk and Jenny looked like she was having a good time, taking turns linking arms with the locals and dancing to music Chase had never heard before. She finally extracted herself from one of the borachos and headed over to where Chase sat.

"You need to loosen up, Chase. Come on, have a beer. It's considered impolite to not drink during La Posada."

"Posada?"

"That's what this is. During Christmas, we celebrate the posada for the nine days leading up to Christmas. It means 'lodging' in Spanish, symbolizing Mary and Joseph's quest for shelter. From what I gathered from the crowd, they haven't been participating due to the impending Mayan apocalypse."

"Is the posada a Mexican tradition?"

"Yeah. Generally it involves everyone going door-to-door each of the nine nights before they finally reach the last house. Needless to say, it entails a lot eating and drinking. I have a feeling that after tomorrow, when they realize that the Mayan prophecy is bogus, they'll go back to celebrating the tradition until Christmas Day."

Some of the ladies took their cue from their husbands and got into the holiday spirit. In a couple hours time, they managed to bake the most delicious buñuelos, a kind of little donuts. It was certainly a fiesta for the record books.

She was having such a good time surrounded by who she considered her people. It was always a magical time here in Mexico during the holidays and tonight was no exception. Being stuck in the future, in another reality no less, she'd almost forgotten what it was like to indulge in the simple pleasures: good food, great company, and yes, even spiked beverages. Living in a war-torn universe had stripped her of some of the finer things in life. She was considered rich, but she never really understood the meaning of the word until now, watching the villagers dance and sing, drink and eat. They were the fortunate ones.

She was so wrapped up in the spirit of the evening that she'd lost track of where Chase had gone. She knew he'd spent time contemplating how much he could drink, so she didn't mention the Mexia Christmas beer had a higher alcohol content than their normal brew. He was too cute right now, stumbling around, to clue him in.

Under normal circumstances, it would have worried her, knowing that he wasn't exactly skilled in social conventions, that coupled with his obvious inebriation, but tonight, it was a free for all. It was supposed to be the end of the world, right?

This was his only opportunity to make his move with Jenny. He was supposed to make a move, wasn't he? Only, he didn't know how to go about doing it. He'd never been on a real date before, so he wasn't entirely sure what to do. For the first time in his life, he hated the fact that he was some kind of science geek. Science geeks didn't get dates with the prettiest girls, they ended up as study partners, or best case scenario, trusted confidant.

As the day turned into nightfall, Chase watched as Jenny continued to dance with the local villagers. She looked like she was having a great time. Even though he felt awkward about being here on so many levels, he was all too happy to have been able to bring her here. It was the least he could do to see her happy.

He did the calculations in his head. He knew the exact weight to alcohol ratio with respect to inebriation. Normally, he never gave in to peer pressure and avoided any and all alcoholic beverages, but Jenny had told him to enjoy himself, so he estimated he could consume four beers before becoming drunk.

But it took only three before he began to sway as he walked up to Jenny.

Jenny appeared to be amused by his loss of inhibitions. "Drink too much of the ponche Marta made?"

Just the thought of the tequila-spiked fruit punch made Chase's head spin even more. "No, just your family holiday beer. I thought I had a handle on it."

"Looks like you figured wrong."

It was just his dumb luck to get drunk and ruin the evening. Then again, it gave him just the right amount of confidence to make his next move. With his nerves abated by the alcohol sloshing in his stomach, he reached over to Jenny and kissed her. He could always blame it on the beer. But to his shock and utter amazement, she returned the kiss right back.

"Wow," they both said in unison.

Jenny pulled back a little. "Did you know this was going to happen?" Chase knew she was aware he had the ability to see the future, so he wasn't surprised that she was curious as to whether or not he foresaw this moment.

Embarrassed, he shrugged again. The kiss sobered him up enough to explain. "Not always. I see many futures and possibilities. When an event gets closer to occurring, some of the visions fade and only one outcome becomes more clear."

"So I take that as a yes?"

"Not really. In the final vision I had, I saw myself chicken out."

"So what changed?" Now she was really curious. It wasn't like Chase to get a vision wrong.

Then again, he hadn't sobered up entirely. He smiled. "Has to be the brew."

Their conversation was interrupted by Marta, who had alerted them to the time. While Jenny had convinced them to come out of their homes to celebrate the posada, the villagers were still anxious and leery of the perceived impending doom that awaited them at the stroke of midnight.

"It's almost time," Jenny translated to Chase. "They're still expecting the end of the world."

Diez.

Nueve.

Ocho.

Siete.

Seis.

Cinco.

Cuatro.

Tres.

Dos.

The villagers sucked in their collective breath as they braced for the worst. He hadn't realized just how much of a superstitious lot this culture really was until now.

Uno!

Then nothing.

Confused, everyone looked to the person next to him in bewilderment. There was no kaboom, no rain of fire, no hailstorm of death. Jenny and Chase were the only ones that weren't surprised. Although if truth be told, there was a tiny part of Jenny that expected the prophecy to come true. But it hadn't and after a brief moment of awe, everyone broke into cheer.

"They look almost disappointed," Chase observed.

"Well, when you've expected something for so long, even if it's the end of the world, there's gotta be some kind of let down. That, or the realization that you lived in fear of something that you didn't need to be afraid of in the first place."

That's how Chase felt about kissing Jenny. "Logical assumption."

Jenny ribbed him in the chest. "You would say something like that."

"I can relate is all," he said. "Of facing your fears, that is." He stops talking enough to envelop Jenny in his arms to kiss her again.

Around them, the villagers continued to hoot and holler. The couple wasn't sure if the crowd was celebrating their escape from the centuries old prophecy or the fact that they were making out right in the middle of the village square.

Taking a moment to catch their breaths, Jamie was the first to speak. "I think it's safe to say our little mission was successful, wouldn't you agree?"

"If you mean by bringing back Christmas to a small village that believed they were in the midst of the end of time as we know it, sure."

"What else is there?"

The effects of Jenny's family's old Mexia Christmas Brew still hadn't subsided and it gave him the courage to continue. "How do you know I didn't have a mission of my own?"

"Big fat liar," she accused, with a bemused expression on her face. "You knew if you took me here this would happen, didn't you?"

Chase just grinned. "I played the probabilities of all the possible future scenarios, but like I said before, the closer we are to an event, the more accurately I can predict its outcome."

"I guess that's better than using mistletoe," Jenny laughed.

"Let's just consider the entire night a Christmas miracle."

This story takes place in the timeframe of PARADIGM, book three of Claudia's Travelers series: http://ClaudiaLefeve.com

The Pratty Who Saved Chrissmuss

With a name like "Plugugly," it's gotta be good.

by Marian Allen

Dickens O'Henry was mad to begin with.

Not eyes-rolling-around-in-his-head mad, but steam-coming-out-of-his-ears mad. As had many of his fellow citizens in the primary city of the planet Llannonn, he had bought Earth names from a plausible rogue, only to learn that Earth names were free.

So, when his assistant, Humbug Plugugly, told Dickens O'Henry that one of his debtors was behind on his bill, O'Henry greeted the news with savage delight.

"Let's go pay our friend a little visit," said O'Henry, with a vicious grin. "After all, the Anti-Hot Solemnities are here, and isn't that the time for friendly visits?"

"I do believe you're right," Plugugly agreed.

O'Henry was, insofar as his surface identity was concerned, the keeper of a Bar and Grill in Central City. His big money, though, came from the distribution of prohibited intoxicants, most notably the intensely inebriating Blue Ruin, smuggled in from Telluria fortnightly on tramp spaceships, the bottles wrapped in Fair Trade hand-knitted mufflers.

The debtor was a slight male named Nittleigh Witterr. At this time of the year, when families and friends gathered to celebrate the strength of affection that enables groups of people to share warm spaces during cold weather and share resources during anti-hot scarcity, and to do so with very little bloodshed, considering, Witterr was certain to be with his only relative in the city.

Head Librarian Holly Jahangiri tipped the packer, checked her timepiece, and scowled up and down the street. Her cousin Nittleigh's luggage was here, but where was _he_? She had just climbed behind the steering stick of her hovercar, smiling at the book in the passenger seat and engaging the safety harnesses, when a runner panted to a halt beside her and handed her a note.

"Typical," she told the book. "Nittleigh says to go ahead, and he'll come along later."

"We'd best be off," said the book -- for he was a Living Book, from the very library Holly oversaw. "The sky is overcast, and I fear there may be snow, e'er we reach our destination."

Snow in the country wasn't the pretty ornament it was in the city. In the country, there was no Snow Retrieval Board to clean the stuff up and convert it to usable water. In the country, when the snow fell, it meant it.

Holly swept the street with one final glance and swooped away.

Plugugly trotted back to his employer's hovercar and slid into the driver's seat.

"Just missed 'em, Boss. Head Librarian Holly Jahangiri left about an hour ago. Heading for their hometown, Boonieburg, out in Meadow of Flowers Province. Witterr always goes with her for some cornball hick drippy sappy family Anti-Hot Solemnities reunion thing. Just like on holovision."

The hardened criminals snickered companionably and followed the Head Librarian out of town.

As the book had predicted, the snow began once they were well out of town. At first the flakes feathered down, sparkling in the thin light that filtered through the clouds. Soon, though, the flakes turned to clumps and sheets, and only Holly's driving skills got the hovercar safely to a posting inn.

A couple of bracing cups of tea and a plate of cake for two soon put the travelers right, as did the news that the inn had a snow-wagon and a pratty from Boonieburgh itself to pull it.

In the stable, Holly and the book admired the pratty, a four-legged beast both tall and stout, covered with curly wool as white as any snowdrift.

The prattler harnessed his beast to the snow-wagon, helped shift the luggage from the hovercar, and waved his quaint rustic hat in farewell as Holly and the book drove away.

"I'm _trying_ to hold 'er steady, Boss!"

Plugugly had never been in the country before, so had no experience driving on irregular surfaces and didn't even know all the things that a heavy snowfall can do to a hovercar's sensors. All the automatic gizmos that make a hovercar hover now made it try to climb into the air sideways.

"Just catch up to 'em! If a librarian can drive in this, so can you!"

"A _head_ librarian, Boss!"

O'Henry saw the justice in the correction, but said nothing. He strained forward against the force field that protected hovercar occupants from any impact, peering into the snow as if he had laser beams in his eyes. He didn't, just so you know.

Visibility was so limited, the car was upon the snow-wagon with no warning. The car's emergency brake-and-bank assembly kicked in, the heavy snowfall garbled the signals, and the car zoomed past the wagon and went nose-over-fuselage, ending with a _plumpf_ in a drift.

"That idiot!" Holly tugged at the reins, easing the complacent pratty to a stop. "Only Nittleigh Witterr would try to drive a hovercar at high speed in weather like this."

"The call of family is strong at this blessed time of the year," said the book.

"Yeah, yeah." The head librarian sighed deeply. "I suppose I'd better make sure the fool hasn't killed himself."

Before she had to leave the comfort of the primitive force field that encapsulated the wagon against the falling snow and the biting cold, two figures emerged from the hovercar and staggered toward the barely visible road.

"Neither one of them looks like Nittleigh," she said.

"Still," said the book, "the spirit of compassion which makes this time of year one of tender feelings and elevated goodness behooves us to aid them, even -- perhaps especially -- if they are unknown to us. For who knows when we may entertain angels unaware?"

By the time the book had finished this speech, the figures had reached the snow-wagon, and Holly opened the force field enough to allow them to crawl into the back. As she had judged, neither was her cousin.

When the men had shaken the snow off themselves, the smaller of the two looked from Holly, in her trademark purple feather boa, to the book, in his swallow-tail coat and top hat, and asked, "Head Librarian Holly Jahangiri?"

"Yes," said Holly. "And this is Living Book A COMPENDIUM OF CHRISTMAS CLASSICS, from the Living Library of Books of Old Earth."

"I'm Bar and Grill Owner Dickens O'Henry," said the smaller man. "This is my assistant, Humbug Plugugly."

They all hooked thumbs with one another in greeting.

"I'm looking for your cousin," O'Henry said, while Plugugly rummaged about noisily.

"So am I," said Holly. "He was supposed to come with us, but he never showed up."

O'Henry cursed, then apologized. Librarians are allowed to curse, but must never be cursed in front of. That's the rule.

"Turn this thing around," O'Henry said. "We're going back to Central City."

"We can't turn it around."

O'Henry made a slight movement of his head. Plugugly pulled a ray gun from inside his well-cut jacket and pointed it at the librarian.

"The Boss says to turn it around."

"We can turn it around."

O'Henry and Plugugly grinned and nodded.

"But it won't do any good," Holly continued. "It'll just turn around again and head the way we're going now." She sighed at their lack of comprehension. _City slickers!_ "This is a homing pratty. It has to be moved out of town by hovervan and left at a posting house. The only place it can or will go is home. _Its_ home, I mean. _My_ home."

"And your cousin's home," O'Henry said, thoughtfully. "He's supposed to be at this family thing for the Solemnities, right?"

"Neither of us has ever missed one yet."

"Nor have I, in quite some time," said the book.

"He's traditional," Holly explained. "He likes to come trade trash-talk with the village storyteller."

"Okay," said O'Henry. "All right, then." He flicked a finger, and Plugugly holstered his ray gun. "We'll just relax and go along for the ride. Then we'll wait for your cousin to come to us. He's going to be sorry he tried to run, eh, Humbug?"

"You said it, Boss."

Now, Holly had no particular affection for Nittleigh. In fact, it was her opinion that the family gene pool would be considerably elevated by his absence from it. On the other hand, he was family. It would also put a tremendous damper on the festivities if Nittleigh were abducted, pistol-whipped, murdered, or otherwise maltreated right there in his own home town.

What could she do? These men had at least one weapon and she had none. Or ... perhaps she did.

"No sense riding in silence," she said. "Why don't you read yourself to us, Compendium?"

Like most Living Books, A COMPENDIUM OF CHRISTMAS CLASSICS lived to repeat himself to patrons. It was, after all, his job.

"First of all," he said, "are you gentlemen aware of what Christmas is?"

"Crissmuss?" O'Henry eyed his henchman until it was clear Plugugly hadn't a clue. Then he felt secure in admitting his own ignorance. "Never heard of the stuff."

"Christmas is a holiday they have on Earth," the book said. "It's a time very like our own Anti-Hot Solemnities, and takes place in the same time of their solar year in the same sort of weather."

With that introduction, A COMPENDIUM OF CHRISTMAS CLASSICS launched into his repertoire. There were poor little match girls. There were people giving one another gifts they could ill afford, people learning The True Meaning of Life, people opening their crabbed and calloused hearts to tenderness, and any number of tough guys turning out to be real softies.

Neither Bar and Grill Owner Dickens O'Henry nor Assistant Humbug Plugugly had ever done much reading, and lifetimes of avoiding sentimentality had left them easy prey to it. They were, as Head Librarian Holly Jahangiri had calculated, defenseless before it. The heart-tugging tear-jerkery of Victorian-era Earth's emotional kitsch riveted them, enthralled them, held them spell-bound for the entire journey. Holly helped things along by giving them peppermint sticks to suck upon. The eggnog from the jug she had brought with her didn't hurt, either.

As the sun set, the sky cleared and a full moon gleamed on the fallen snow, making everything glitter and gleam like a set of opals. The pratty shook itself free of the clumps atop its insulating curls and followed the road like a GPS device that actually worked.

At length, the snow-wagon passed between a double row of hedges perforated by lanes. They passed houses first widely spaced, then more closely spaced, then cheek-by-jowl, and then they were in town. Holly took the reins in hand and guided the beast through the streets until she brought it to a halt in the carriage yard of a three-storied wooden building.

"The Jahangiri/Witterr/Moboy/Hannannann lodge," Holly said. "Where we all gather for the Five Solemnities."

The side door of the lodge flew open, and Holly's family swarmed the wagon, cheering its arrival, greeting Holly, the book, and the two strangers with equal celebration and warmth, carrying the wagon's load into the hall. They didn't forget the pratty; it was led into a stall connected to the hall itself, where it could eat and drink and warm itself in company with the revelers.

There was only one point of distress.

An elderly woman in the tunic and sash of a rustic clung to Holly with tears in her eyes.

"Where's my boy? Where's my little Nittleigh? Don't tell me he hasn't come home to see his mother for the Anti-Hot Solemnities."

"I'm sorry, Ancient Rustic Matron Nitterr Witterr. His luggage is here, though."

With a rattle and a pop, the trunk she indicated opened, and a short, thin man unfolded from a compartment that took up half of its space.

"Nittleigh!" The old woman threw her arms around his neck. "I knew you'd come!"

Holly's mouth was open as wide as the trunk's lid.

"Sorry, Holly," Nittleigh said. "I didn't want to worry you, but I was dodging a creditor, and I--" He stopped, his own mouth the widest of all, as he spotted Dickens O'Henry and his henchman.

O'Henry leaned over the trunk and drew out a colorful cloth-wrapped bundle. He unwound the cloth, which turned out to be a Fair Trade hand-knitted Tellurian muffler. At its center was a bottle of his own Blue Ruin.

"Oh, Nittleigh," cried the old woman. "You remembered!"

Nittleigh said nothing, but cringed as his wary glance flicked between Plugugly and his boss, unsure from which direction his doom would come.

O'Henry's eyes narrowed and widened and narrowed again, in a Morse code debate between his good and evil natures. His nostrils flared, his face turned as purple as Holly's feather boa with the strength of his warring emotions.

In a distant part of the lodge, a choir of children broke into a chorus of "Snuggle Up, Honey, It Isn't Hot Outside."

"Yes," said O'Henry. "He did, indeed." He handed the bottle to the old woman and wrapped the muffler around Nittleigh's neck. If he made it just a touch too snug for comfort, it was only by a touch. "Let me tell you about it."

He proceeded to spin a tale that rivaled the most treacly of the Compendium's collection, about the Brave Little Pratty, The Littlest Pratty Of Them All, who struggled through storm and cold and dark and sundry other obstacles to bring a head librarian and a beloved son to the bosom of their family for the Anti-Hot Solemnities.

"And now," he finished, "Blue Ruin for everybody!"

Carried away by the spirit of the occasion, Humbug Plugugly said, "And Free Trade mufflers!"

O'Henry, laughed and echoed the cry: "And Free Trade mufflers!"

Later, when all the Blue Ruin had been drunk in toasts to the season, Humbug Plugugly turned to Holly Jahangiri and said, "What kind of noise does a pratty make, anyway, Holly?"

And she told him.

"They go 'Baaaaaah,' Humbug."

FORCE OF HABIT, Marian Allen's sf/cop/humor novel from Echelon Press, features Holly Jahangiri and more of her books

Believe

_Do you believe?_  
by Connie L. Roberts-Huth

Somewhere behind me, I could hear the faintest notes of _Joy to the World_ breaking through the otherwise painful silence around me. I tried to block it out, to focus on what had stolen the last breath from the body in front of me, but the melody was like an earworm, small and persistent. And a lie.

There was no joy to be had here. No joy for the family of this child this holiday season. The death of this perfectly placed angel at my feet would forever mar every Christmas from here until the end of time. For them. For the officers around me. Hell, even for me.

And I already hated Christmas.

Granted, the only other telltale sign of the holiday in this little southeastern corner of Arizona were the commercial decorations hung from the lamp posts and a little nip in the wind, but that was more than enough for me. It could be worse, I reminded myself. It was snowing back home in Baltimore.

I sighed and flicked a pebble. That wasn't home anymore. _Here_ was home now. Hiding away in a remote little town that I had never heard of until I'd gone looking for, well, a remote little town, had seemed like the best answer to the disastrous end of my last case out east. Sure, we had caught the murderers and the smugglers. We'd even killed a great naga and saved some babies. Way to go, good guys.

But I had lost the full use of my right leg in that last fight and walked with a cane at the age of 37.

And, I had lost Daniel.

I stopped, tears welling up again. Just thinking his name hurt. It wasn't fair, not after everything we had been through, all those stupid obstacles we had overcome, that he was gone. I hadn't even had a chance to say goodbye. Just...gone.

My heart hurt in places I didn't even realize could hurt anymore.

So I had run away. Away from that familiar place and the far too numerous touchstones. Away from the faces of people who loved me but didn't have the words—were there any words to be said that could change things?—to help me through this insanity. Away from the haunting whispers of the dead. But no matter how far I went, I couldn't get away from the memory of him.

The agony was crippling, enough to shut out the new voices here in the remains of the wild, wild west and all its shenanigans. Except that I hadn't been able to just blend, and I needed to work once the money in my savings account began its treacherous dwindle. So I made friends with the cops, and well, here I was, squatting in a parking lot in the middle of December.

Another sigh escaped my mouth.

The song seemed to go on forever. My hand hovered over hers. One touch would end the holiday gaiety. Just one touch. But as I sat there, knees bent, cool breeze creeping up my pants legs, in the middle of this abandoned parking lot, I had to admit to myself that I was afraid of what I was trading for that stupid song.

It had been my experience in the ten years I had been an asset to the police that the death of a child was rarely calm or peaceful. It was always tragic. Worse, if I was brought in, because that usually meant it was also horrific. So maybe that skewed my views on this topic a little. Then again maybe it was just because of the screaming. They always screamed.

Every. Single. _Goddamned_. Time.

So I hovered.

"Ma'am?" The detective's voice had a slight drawl to it, a transplant to this little town tucked in the southeastern corner of Arizona. "Ma'am, do you need anything?"

I sighed and closed my eyes. The transition from Baltimore to here hadn't been smooth, even though my reputation had preceded me, and while the Sierra Vista Police Department had been grateful for my assistance these last few months, they were still feeling me out. Which was fine. And it's not like I could've explained to them how I worked anyway. Not really.

"Detective Henry?"

He glanced around nervously, which amused me. We had never worked together, before this case, and he did not look like he was comfortable having me around. Not that dark edge of disbelief—I don't think he'd made a decision about me yet—but more that apprehensive calculation that spoke of restraint and years of being surprised by the unexpected.

And I was nothing if not unexpected.

"Ms. Delante." He inhaled deeply and adjusted the length of his pea coat. Who wore a pea coat in Arizona? Yeah, this guy. "I've never done this before," he whispered.

I bit back the sarcastic retort trying desperately to escape from the diving board of my tongue. This wasn't my first real bite in the month I'd been in this town, but a girl should never look a possible gift horse in the mouth. Trojans? I shook the thought out of my head and faked my best 'trust me' smile. "It's okay. No one should have to say that they talk to people like me on a regular basis. I just need..." I chewed on my bottom lip. "I just need some more time."

Henry took a step backwards, hands open and offered in the universal sign of backing off. "Take all the time you need."

I heard the words, but I saw the look in his eyes and heard the whispers around us. Time was never as plentiful as I could ever want. It was as simple and complicated as that. And I needed to just get it done and over with.

I sighed in one long breath, closed my eyes, brushed my fingertips against the cool surface of her hand, and waited for the inevitable. My touch, however, was met with silence.

Like every sound around me had simply disappeared, sucked into some vacuum of space. There was no screaming, though she still lay there on the ground before me, and no one else was in sight.

_How odd._ There were usually shadows along the fringe, of people who had been there before she died (places had memory, too), moving through life of their own accord and so within their own bubbles that they had not seen her laid out here, a perfect snow angel on the asphalt.

I pushed forward, pouring power into the vision. The edges cleared, clarified like someone had drawn sharper lines in my field of vision. I could see the potholes several rows of empty parking spaces away from me. And the flitter of moths in the streetlights along the sidewalk. I exhaled and my breathe came away in almost cartoonish lines.

But it shouldn't have been cold enough for that, regardless of Detective Henry's pea coat. Which could only mean one thing.

"Can you help me?" the littlest of voice murmured from behind me. I froze—you'd think after all these years, I would be used to this whole mess, but there's something about a disembodied child's voice that always freaked me out--but that didn't seem to dissuade her. She tugged on the hem of my jacket. "Miss Lady, can you help me? I've lost my mommy."

I turned in almost movie slow-mo to see the little girl standing there, as perfect as she lay there behind me. "You're dead," I whispered before I could stop the words. "I'm sorry, I didn't...I'm usually better at this."

The little girl shrugged in her little faux fur coat, all those dark ringlets gathered around her shoulders like so many puffs of dark clouds. Darker eyes peered at me from long lashes and she cocked her head to the side. "You're _not_."

I shook my head. "No, not dead."

"But..." She considered me for a minute, her diminutive mouth pursing in thought. " _Part_ of you is dead, though. Is that why you can see me?"

My hand flew to my chest, and I stifled my initial response. This was another reason I hated talking to dead children. They saw through you, more so than when they were alive, as if in exchange for losing their young lives, they were given the ability to just _see_. And I was in no position to be seen today. Or tomorrow. Or the day after that.

"Yes, I mean, no." I shook my head again. "I can see you, because I was born able to do this, to talk to dead people."

She frowned, and it would've been painfully adorable, had I not noticed an odd splotch on her forehead along the hairline. It was like watching a train wreck. In the back of my head, I knew what I was seeing, the aftermath of head trauma, but I couldn't take my eyes off the growing crimson blob.

"Do you know who hurt you?"

"Santa." She said that one word so succinctly, as if it summed up everything, and I guessed in a way it did. "He wasn't really Santa, though," she mused in that tone of knowledge kids had when they knew more than you. "The suit was a bad one. And he was wearing those things you put over shoes...um..."

"Shoe covers?" I offered.

She nodded. The blob moseyed down the side of her face, curved at the jaw line and dripped onto faux fur only to...disappear? The girl brushed her hair back and smeared blood into the curls, smudging the edges along her cheek. "Yes, those things. Shoe covers." She started and smiled at me, bloodied hand outstretched. "My name is Eloise."

I slid my hand over hers and braced for the wetness in her palm. Nothing. _Curiouser and curiouser._ "My name is Zoe."

Eloise smiled that smile again. "I think I knew that. How could I know that?"

"I'll be honest," I conceded. "I haven't a clue. I've never met you. I've only been here for a few months. I keep to myself. I only come out when people are dead. And you've only died this once, so no, I haven't a clue how you could know my name."

She shrugged. "It's not important. It's more important that you catch Santa, that fake Santa Claus, before he kills my mother, too."

What a way to get my attention, huh? I knelt in front of her. "Eloise, do you remember where you were killed?"

She frowned, the downward turn of lips marring the angelic glow of her face. Dark eyes narrowed, and for a moment, something sinister peeked through. The hint of it, that darkness, took me aback, and I went from kneeling to sitting on my butt. I blinked and the moment was over. Else pushed back missed curls and considered me once more with a nonchalance usually reserved for adults.

"I know where I live," she retorted, as if I'd asked the stupidest question in the universe.

Did I mention how much I hated dead kids?

I righted myself, dusted off my hands, and contemplated my words. "Eloise, I'm glad you know where you live, but I don't know where you live. And I can't save your mommy, if I don't know where you live."

The frown was back with the addition of crossed arms. Nice going, Zoe, piss off the kid. "I'm not a baby. I'm seven and a half years old," she said in that cold, creepy child voice that haunted scary movies about bad babysitters. "I was going to be a princess when I grew up, with a castle and horses and teacups and..." The words faded into a high pitched squeal I imagined dogs could hear in Mexico. Her eyes glistened with big, fat tears that poured over those thick bottom lashes and down her cheeks.

The squeal gave way to crying, then sobbing, and she reached for me, her energy flowing from her like so many fingers. It touched mine, that tight shield I'd held for so many years, and I felt her need warm against it, seeking passage, needing something solid in this nothingness.

"Oh, baby girl," I whispered as I gathered her up in my arms. "Eloise, Eloise, oh, poor Eloise. I'm so sorry that you're dead. I'm so sorry I couldn't save you."

"I want my mommy," she cried into my shoulder. "I want my mommy, Zoe!"

"We're going to find her. I promise." I stroked her head, wanting so badly to wipe away the pain she was feeling. "We're going to find her, and we're going save her." I don't know how long I held her, just the two of us in the middle of that empty parking lot, but my spidey sense tingled as her sobs subsided. I opened my eyes to see the edges of the vision unraveling, letting in the encroaching darkness of the crime scene.

I could hear the faintest whispers, frantic and concerned. Which meant I was probably passed out. Shit. There was a no touching rule invoked for every crime scene, because it could cause me to leave a vision early, but most cops could only let me lay there for five, maybe ten minutes. Then the EMT would be summoned, and I'd be out, whether I was ready or not. I was running out of time.

I peeled Eloise from my body. "I have to go..."

"No, you can't leave me here!"

"Eloise, I have to go, but I need to know where you live. I need your address." The voices were getting louder. Someone was saying my name.

She shook her head. "But you're going to leave me here all alone!"

The details were fading so quickly, I half-wondered what they were doing to me on the other side. "Eloise, please, I want to save your Mommy."

She paused and leaned against me. "1500 Bella Vista Drive," she whispered.

I sighed in relief. "Thank you. I'll make this right."

"I'm coming with you."

Before I could even get the surprise what out of my mouth, she stepped into me and the vision popped.

Or my ears did. I blinked twice and the real world came into focus. I saw an EMT with a big ass adrenaline needle headed toward me, and I raised one hand. "Oh, you can stop right there, mister."

I felt hands on me. "Ms. Delante?"

"Oh, Detective Henry, I'm so...sorry about this," I said as I let him help me stand. "I know it can be disconcerting when I pass out like that." I saw the question in his eyes and nodded. "But yes, it was worth it. I know where we need to go." I relayed the address to him, and as he rallied the troops and accepted my insistence that I was fine, minus the road rash I'd received from my fall, I leaned against my car to rest.

I didn't know the town well enough to figure out how to get to the house, and if I was honest, my part was done. As long as they got there now, in the flurry of lights and sirens and miscellaneous other outbound activity, I shouldn't be needed. If we were late...

Don't say that!

Eloise's voice startled me. I pushed off the car to look for her ghost and caught my reflection in the glass.

"Oh...oh, no." I saw me, of course, but there, at the height she would've stood, I could also see the top of a little girl's head. The image moved upward, as if she was now standing on tiptoe, and those curls gave way to eyebrows and lashes.

_I'm going with you. I told you that._ If I stood on _my_ tiptoes, I would swear there'd be a pout on her lips, as clear as her tone. _You promised you were going to save my mommy._

"I am..."

_But you're just_ standing _here._

I waved at the last vestiges of the crime scene crew. "I'm not a cop. I can't just go busting in, guns blazing. Hell, I don't even carry a gun!" I could feel her disappointment like a stone in my stomach, and I moved away from the car without looking back. Her body was draped in a white sheet, a gurney clicking over the asphalt from the ambulance to pick her up.

She whimpered as I walked closer. _Don't want to see me._

My feet stopped. "Guess not, huh?" Who would, really? I know when I died, I had no intention of revisiting my corpse. "Eloise?"

He's coming.

I glanced around. Detective Henry was headed in my direction, all grim-faced. A sinking feeling that had nothing to do with my stowaway tightened in my stomach. "Tell me we're not too late."

He shook his head. "No, we're not too late. We're just at a standstill." He rubbed one hand over his eyes. "There's someone in there with her..."

Santa.

"Santa."

He cocked his head at me. "Yes, Santa," he drew the words out slowly. "How'd you..." A metallic clang caught our attention, and we looked to see the EMT struggling to get the wheel of the gurney out of a hole. Easier to do, when you don't have a package on top, and he was definitely trying to maintain a modicum of respect for Eloise's small body. Henry glanced at the gurney and then back at me. "She told you."

I shrugged. No sense in lying about it. "She did. She told me about the fake Santa. He's the one that killed her."

"At the house?"

Eloise sighed, as I answered. "Yeah, at the house." _He doesn't understand you. He wants to think you're lying about me._

"I'm not lying," I said to them both. "I could explain it to you, but I have the stinkin' suspicion that we don't have the time. How can I help you?"

The house looked familiar, not that I remembered driving through this neighborhood. It wasn't like I had friends here, knew anyone, but this house, with its large front window and carport, struck a chord with me. I touched the glass on the passenger side of the cop car, and my breath made a small cloud.

_Don't make me go in there._ She sounded small again. My hand rose of its own accord—though I suspected it was _hers_ —and drew a smiley face in it. _Please don't make me go back in there._

"Eloise?" Radio silence. Great.

Outside the safety of the car, I could see a bevy of police cars and officers. Some beat cops, some detectives. Lots of conversation going on with radios, cell phones and whispered in ears. Even more nodding and shrugs.

The way Detective Henry, now lost in the middle of the fray, explained it, Santa was inside the house in a middle room, holding our victim hostage. They'd used some sort of advanced technology to determine that there were no guns, bombs or other bodies in there. He was just holding her in his lap, a kitchen knife against her neck while he rocked her gently. And he was singing...yeah, frickin' _Joy to the World._

Someone shoot me already.

I tapped my head against the glass, and inside, I could hear Eloise whimper, muttering to herself, in a familiar frantic need to sort things out and cope with the reality of things. I hadn't died, of course, but when my father had died, when my mother had not dealt with that (or her two broken daughters), I had spent a lot of time trying to unravel his death on my own. Just thinking about that ripped at the scabs on those fragile heartstrings. I pushed the memories aside and focused on her.

She felt like a small marble in my stomach, cool, unmoving. Not true, but it was more like a really slow spin, textural white noise. I'd never had a ghost step into me before, and while I was pretty sure I didn't want it to happen again, I was glad to help her out, to be a safe harbor in her personal storm. Made me wonder...

"When Santa killed you..."

"The fake Santa," her tone adamant about the distinction.

"Yes, when the _fake_ Santa killed you..." Eloise shuddered and it sent icy waves up my spine and images...I think I stopped breathing as the images played before my eyes in that burst of her energy into mine. All those dark rooms and whimpered cries, that dulled sense of shock of repeat abuse. _Oh, gods._ "Eloise, do you know him? Do you know the fake Santa?"

Her silence screamed her answer.

I fumbled with the door handle. "Father? Stepfather? Boyfriend?"

_Mommy's boyfriend._ The words were so small, almost lost in my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

The damn door would not open. I hit the window pane with both fist. "Hey! Hey! I can't get out!" One of the uniformed cops saw me and hustled to the car. He pulled the outside latch and I tumbled out onto the ground. "Henry!" I whisper yelled. "I need Detective Henry _right now._ "

The cop didn't even skip a beat and dashed off to the crowd.

"Did she know? Did your mom know?"

_No, she didn't. I didn't tell her. And then I told her, and he killed me. He yelled at her, told her not to say anything or he'd kill me, and she told him he wasn't going to hurt me anymore, that she was going to call the cops._ She quieted, and the rest of the story unfolded in front of me.

He'd grabbed her, grabbed her so hard that the medical examiner would tell me later that there was bruising on her upper arms. They'd screamed at each other—her mother telling her that it would be okay, not to be afraid, and him yelling that he'd kill them both before he'd go back to jail—and something had just snapped.

Eloise didn't know what had happened. There had just been too much going on for her brain to process that specific moment into memory. But she remembered that it had hurt. So much. She didn't remember crying out, crying at all, just that he had slammed her against a wall, a corner, and everything went dark.

_And then there was you._ _Please help her. Please save her._

I wiped away the tears escaping my eyes. "I will. We'll get that bastard."

"Ms. Delante?"

I stood up from where I knelt on that cold Arizona ground. "He's a pedophile." I waved at the house, away from the surprise on his face. "That son of a bitch in there is a pedophile, and he sexually abused and killed Eloise," more waving in the blooming anger in his eyes, "our murder victim. He killed her and he's going to kill her mother before he's going to surrender. We have to do something about that. Right now."

If there was one thing I could always count on, it was the very special anger that existed in law enforcement for the scum of the earth who hurt children. It was unifying, motivating, and nothing said less about your chances of coming out unscathed than cops with a purpose. And I had just handed Henry all the purpose he needed.

The dénouement was swift and done with extreme prejudice. Busted doors, lots of guns out, lots of yelling, and then it was over. His mouth was still running, sure, but as I watched them walk his ass out of the house, I felt that sense of peace that comes from seeing the good guys win one. Eloise slipped her little hand in mine and squeezed. I didn't have to look down to know she shared my little smile.

_There's my mommy._ We both looked toward the door.

A short brunette walked out of the door, blanket wrapped around bare shoulders, insistent that she was not about to get on that gurney they were pushing towards her. "I want to see my baby!" she said. They shook their heads, and she planted herself on the walk. "I swear there's nothing wrong with me. He didn't hurt _me_. He was hurting _my daughter._ He _killed_ my daughter! And I want to see her now!"

Eloise tugged me forward, and I must've looked odd, fumbling across the lawn, one arm outstretched. But that was ok. We had important business to attend to, Eloise and I.

"Ma'am?" I reached out for her and stopped a breath from touching.

She turned away from the EMTs, eyes bright, as if daring me to be one more person to stand in her way. "What?"

Mommy...

"I'm..." The words failed me. Hearing that I was a police psychic wasn't going to make this day any better for her. She stood there, the rest of the world revolving around us, waiting for my follow-up, and I didn't...I just didn't know.

Mommy...

Her eyes widened. Had she heard? "Who are you?"

"I'm..." Wait, I could do this one. "I'm Zoe. And, and I..." I really hated this part, the whole cheesy I-have-a-message-from-your-dead-loved-one thing. "May I just show you?" Before she had a chance to respond, Eloise pushed—her energy, my hand—and we touched.

I heard her breathe, that sharp inhale, and we stood not on the dead grass and concrete of that house, but in an open field in the middle of a delicate snowfall. We shared a genuine look of disbelief, her mother and I.

"Did you do this?" she asked me.

I shook my head. "No, I'm good, but I didn't do _this._ "

"I did it, Mommy," Eloise whispered from behind me.

Her mother's shined with fresh tears. "Baby?" She knelt in the gathering snow and opened her arms.

"Oh, Mommy!" the girl flew from her hiding spot and into her mother's embrace.

I stepped back from their whispers of love and sadness, apologies and acceptance. Their reunion was the closure every family deserved and so few received. I was thankful to give them that last moment of togetherness. I just wished it wasn't so bittersweet. I did not envy her mother's new reality.

I shivered in the unreal winter weather and rubbed my arms, looking away from them into the endless whiteness. In the distance, I could see the silhouettes of buildings. If I concentrated, I could hear voices. White noise in a white dreamscape. Lovely.

"You did good, kiddo."

I froze at the deep male voice behind me. "Daddy?" I whispered, my voice as small as Eloise's had been earlier. "It can't be you."

A strong hand touched my shoulder and turned me around. He lifted my chin to meet those eyes I'd missed for so very long. "Don't you believe in Christmas miracles anymore, pumpkin?"

If anyone had asked me that question just minutes before, I would've said no. No way in hell. Miracles didn't happen. Not for me. But as I fell into his arms, all my heartache melted away, and I believed.

**If you enjoyed this Zoe tale, check her out in Connie's full-length novel, WHISPERS OF THE DEAD. More info (and links!) on her blog** <http://flypages.blogspot.com/>

**Hau'oli** Hanukkah

When Mele kalikimaka just won't do.

By T. Lee Harris

Hard to believe it was December. Josh Katzen settled farther back in the café chair and sipped his cappuccino, letting the surrounding conversation fade to a distant buzz and watching big airliners glide past palm trees to make impossibly graceful landings. He remembered that feeling; the exhilaration of putting a fighter jet screaming through its paces, then the triumph of guiding that big hunk of machinery in for a perfect three-point landing. Part of him missed it. That was the same part that missed the intrigue and adrenaline rush of infiltrating an enemy facility, nicking their intel and sliding back out by the skin of his teeth.

A bigger part of him that didn't miss any of that said to shut the hell up and enjoy the coffee.

"Josh? Josh!"

Pulled back to the reality of the Honolulu International Airport coffee shop, Katzen turned away from the window and his past to find his present in the form of Dr. Clayton Belderes looming over him.

"Man, Josh," Belderes said. "You were a gazillion miles away."

"Gazillion. Is that a highly technical archaeological term, Clay?"

"Damn straight. It refers to the magnitude of inconvenience caused by the discovery of shiny objects in shipwrecks." He slid a chair out and flopped into it. Gangly legs and frizzy red hair escaping the confines of his University of Hawai'i Mānoa baseball cap made him more resemble a scarecrow than a university professor. Pulling the cap off, he combed his fingers through his hair in an attempt to subdue the wild curls.

Katzen allowed a laugh. "You're never gonna forgive me for finding that gold Phoenician tableware, are you?"

"Not a snowball's chance in the hot place, Katzen -- even if it did pull in a couple last minute grants for the excavation." He grinned and resituated the cap. If anything, he looked more disreputable than before.

"It also nearly got Iskender Balikçi killed. Death, theft, betrayal -- it really is amazing what sort of trouble follows some antiquities."

"Too true," Clay said grimly. "I hope he's given some thought to my offer of a place in the UH underwater archaeology program. I tell you, Josh, that kid would be a great addition to the team -- formal education technicalities be damned." He sighed. "Well, we'll see when his flight lands in a few minutes -- that's what I was telling you when you were spaced out. The flight from Turkey is on time. Truthfully, I'm afraid his mind's been more on May Dennison than a career these days."

"May's just as bad. That last week of the dive, you'd think she'd never seen a camera before." Katzen looked past Belderes into the concourse. "Where is she, anyway? For that matter, where's Dora?"

"There was a line at the counter so they stopped to place our orders and sent me on to find you." He shrugged. "You know me and lines."

Katzen hid a snicker with a sip of cappuccino. Anyone who had been around Clayton Belderes for any length of time knew that the hyperactive professor and waits of any kind did not mix. The only time he was completely calm was at the wheel of his beloved Diogenes, the converted minesweeper that served as his diving platform, classroom, lab and dorm for most of the year.

Familiar shapes drew Katzen's attention to a Mutt and Jeff pair edging through the milling crowd: tall, boyishly willowy May Dennison and shorter, heavier Dr. Dora Hardin, who carried a cardboard tray holding four tall paper cups.

Smiling, Dora placed one of the cups emblazoned with the coffee chain's logo in front of Katzen. "I thought you might be ready for a refill by now." Placing one in front of Belderes, she sighed, "I must be insane to allow you to have anything with caffeine in it, but here it is: one café mocha venti."

May Dennison snickered and pulled a chair around where she could watch the arriving airliners.

Dr. Hardin sat and said, "So, what were you boys talking about? Bet it had something to do with the weather conditions in Chicago, didn't it?"

Belderes shifted uncomfortably. "Actually, no, but I am still kicking myself for talking Josh into staying aboard the Diogenes at Thanksgiving instead of flying home like he originally planned."

"Nonsense. I wouldn't have missed that dinner for the world," Katzen said.

Dr. Hardin frowned. "Josh! Don't be sarcastic!"

"Who's being sarcastic? I enjoyed it -- and before you start apologizing for not having any pecans -- your not-pecan pie was stupendous!"

"How do you know? You hardly ate any."

"That's because Dr. Belderes and Iskender hogged it all," May said with a laugh. "Josh is right, Dr. Hardin. Just because things didn't go exactly as planned, doesn't mean it wasn't fun."

Belderes ignored them. "Still, if you'd left from Bodrum, you would have missed the snowstorms that shut down the airports and been home now. I feel even worse because, with Iskender staying over, and the Diogenes in refit, I can't offer you a place to crash."

"But I would have also missed the leisurely sail back from the Mediterranean to Hawai'i. I kinda needed that -- and this isn't so bad." Katzen grinned. "I've been stuck in far worse places than Honolulu."

"Yep. You could be stuck in Atlanta." Belderes slid a wicked look at Hardin. "You know the saying, if you die in the south and go to heaven, they route you through Atlanta--" he broke off with an "OOF" as Dora elbowed him.

"Yes, yes, we know. If you go to hell, you stay there. I swear I've heard that a million times since he discovered I'm an Atlanta girl." She laid a hand on Katzen's arm. "And not another word about going to a hotel from you. I have a perfectly good guest room and even two cats. I'm sure it won't stop you worrying about your own, though."

"I'm not worried in the least. The student who's housesitting is more than happy to stick around a while longer. She's a forensic science student, so I know all traces of mayhem will be erased by the time I finally get back." He laughed. "As for the cats, they always pretend I'm a total stranger for days before they relent and welcome me home, anyway."

"But surely you must have had special plans for the Festival of Lights? Getting together with your family, at least!"

Katzen waved it away. "Nah! I don't have family. I was looking forward to kicking back, just the three cats and me, in front of a nice fire with a bottle of single malt. Maybe I'd dust the menorah off -- maybe not. . . ." One glance at his friends' faces told him that this had been precisely the wrong thing to say. All three were looking at him with varying degrees of sympathy.

"It isn't going to do the least bit of good if I say I like being alone, is it?"

Iskender Balikçi had been met, greeted, safely installed in Clay's tiny guest room and the day was now catching up with Katzen. The cappuccinos had been hours ago and it was longer since he'd packed his bags in the cabin on the Diogenes, tripping over drop cloths and side-stepping workmen. By all rights, he should have been taking off the same time Iskender was touching down. He should be decompressing in his favorite wing-backed chair under a layer of pitifully neglected cats in his own home. Instead, he was drowsily watching tropical scenery glide by the window of Dora Hardin's Prius, heading to her home just outside Honolulu.

"Josh, I am so glad you decided to stay at my house."

He roused himself and shot her an amused look. "Decided? I had a choice?"

"Nope! None at all," she said cheerfully. "I don't get company too often--" She broke off as they passed a sign for University of Hawai'i Mānoa. She became first thoughtful, then mischievous. "Do you mind a little detour?"

Katzen laughed. "From the way you're acting, I doubt I have much of a choice here, either."

She giggled. "Oh you are too right, Joshua. I have a secret project I've been dying to tell someone about and you are the perfect person to hear it."

Late afternoon sun deepened the rich colors of the beautifully landscaped campus as they drove along a back service road toward a large building. Parking near a side door, Dora opened it with a key card and led him out of the day's heat into the cool shadows of a corridor. Ever since she'd announced her intention to visit the campus, she'd been quiet, but near vibrating with excitement. Whatever secret she had must be a doozy.

Once inside, she relaxed a little. The term had already ended for a lot of students and some of the faculty, so the building was all but deserted. She broke the silence as they went down a short flight of stairs and along a concrete-floored hallway. "My restoration lab is just down here on the left.

"You remember that I flew home from Turkey right after the Thanksgiving dinner on the Diogenes?"

"Of course I do," he said. "You and May took the same flight. Clay, Roz and I had the devil of a time with that monster trunk of yours."

She treated him to a sneer, then unlocking the door, continued, "Well, it was a good thing I did. Almost as soon as I got back, I got a call from a representative of Marlotte's Berlin-- the German branch of that big auction house?"

"Yeah. I know them. They deal in big-ticket items. The Berlin house, in particular, handles a lot of antiquities."

"They certainly do," Dora said, swinging the workshop door wide, then closing it carefully behind them.

The workshop was a windowless room that looked like a cross between a science lab and an artist's studio. Most of the lighting came from inset overhead fluorescents with additional provided by movable work lamps. A heavy wood-topped table littered with tools and bottles of varying sizes would have dominated the room had it not been for the very large steel cabinet with keypad lock taking up most of the far wall. Josh went over to stand before the steel behemoth. "Wow," was all he could say.

Dora patted it and said happily, "The university bought this for me. It's just so cloak and dagger. I love it!"

"That's a pretty damned serious safe."

She nodded, sobering. "It is, I'm afraid. Temperature and humidity controlled -- it's even bolted to the wall which, since we're in the basement, is reinforced concrete. As much as I wish it were otherwise, this kind of security is a necessity since I work on some very valuable objects here from time to time. . . ." She trailed off and hummed tunelessly as she fiddled with the pad, then swung the heavy door aside, letting light fall on the contents. "But none, I think, quite as valuable as this one. Joshua Katzen, allow me to introduce you to the Römischbrück Helmet."

The inside was chockablock with artifacts in various stages of conservation, but the one on the center shelf stole the show. Katzen stood transfixed. From the recesses of the cabinet, a surreally calm face framed by a helmet of curls held back by a headband decorated with coiling serpents flanking a snarling Medusa's face stared out at him. He'd heard about the discovery -- anyone who followed archaeological news had. A find this spectacular made all kinds of news reports when it was discovered. It was a metal detectorist's wet dream: a nearly pristine Roman cavalry parade helmet complete with mask. Without realizing he was doing it, Katzen took a step closer.

"I love seeing you with artifacts," Hardin said, startling him out of his trance.

He glanced over to find her impish smile was back.

"I think that's the only time I ever see the real you. You're like this helmet. All I usually see is a protective mask, but when you're in the presence of ancient history, the mask rises and reveals the man beneath."

Taken aback, he struggled for a reply, but Dora made it unnecessary. "Clay says you're an old soul and the artifacts resonate with you. I believe it -- and I believe that's why you take such lovely photographs of them. Would you care to take photos of Mr. Römischbrück?"

He recovered with a wide grin. "I thought you'd never ask."

"Oh good!" She actually looked relieved. "I was hoping you'd say that." She tossed him her keys. "Fetch your equipment and we'll get started."

By the time he returned with his camera bags, a place on the workbench had been cleared and the helmet stood in the spot. Hardin bustled around adjusting lights and fabric light-diffusing panels. She looked up as he entered. "That was quick! Probably a good thing, I believe our Mr. Römischbrück has a few abandonment issues."

Josh chuckled. "Really? How so?"

"Well, first there was being so carefully hidden by whoever it was who never came back. Then the original conservator -- Dr. Johannes von Notz -- had a heart attack and left him half-finished."

"Ah! That's why they asked you to take over."

"Mmmmm hmmmm," Hardin answered, preoccupied with making sure the helmet was securely seated on the armature. "And then my usual photographer deserted me to attend to what he called 'family business' on the mainland."

Katzen looked up from his light-meter. "Ah ha! Even more becomes clear! You had an ulterior motive in offering me a place to crash."

"Maybe just a teeny one. Part of the agreement with Marlotte's is to have photographs taken all through the process. But that doesn't matter. I still hate to think of you all alone over the holidays."

"I know it's pointless to say it, but I really don't mind being alone -- holiday or not. I kind of like it from time to time."

She patted his cheek in a motherly fashion and squinted at the light-meter in his hand. "Absolutely correct. Pointless."

Now that the lighting was better, more detail was apparent than in the shadows of the safe. The Medusa's face at the center of the headband beautifully concealed the hinge that allowed the mask to swing out so the ancient horseman could fit the piece snugly on his head. The helmet was cast bronze, but the mask and Medusa's face had been coated with silver. The eyebrows, curls and Medusa's corona of snakes were once washed with gold. Remnants of the precious metals still clung to the piece like splendid ghosts. The sides and back of the headband had rings at regular intervals -- probably attachment points for colorful streamers that would have snapped in the wind as rider and horse competed in the cavalry games. All-in-all, it was a spectacular piece. Josh lost himself to framing photo after photo, only half-hearing Dora's running commentary.

"He's really almost finished. I'll have to send him home soon. I'll miss him terribly, I've grown fond of that long, elegant face. Without a doubt, the theory that these helmets were the mark of champion riders must be right. Think how magnificent. . . ."

Katzen looked up from the viewscreen as she trailed into silence. She blinked, then beamed at him, saying, "Just a minute. I have to check if I saw what I think I saw."

She disappeared into the hall and was gone a short time before returning, waving a brightly colored flier. "YES! I thought I saw this on the bulletin board. It just took a while to sink in."

With a look of absolute triumph, she thrust the paper into his hand. It was an invitation to the First Night of Hannukah Candlelighting and Pot Luck Supper presented by the Hawai'i Hillel, the campus Jewish organization. The flier was covered with incongruous snowflakes and palm trees interspersed with dreidels and menorahs and the greeting "Shaloha" at the top.

"It's tomorrow," Dora said. "A bit early, I know, but I think they want to catch more students before they head home for the break. Their parties are supposed to be quite fun!"

He stared doubtfully at the flier.

"Promise me you'll at least think about it."

"That means I'm going, doesn't it?"

She beamed and patted his cheek again. "Yes, dear, it does."

Chuckling to himself, he pocketed the folded flier and turned back to the camera. He nearly jumped when Dora exclaimed, "Well, PIFFLE!" He spun to find her staring at her watch.

"Oh, dear. I lost track of time. Clay was going to pick up some Chinese carry out, then he and the kids were going to meet us at my house. We need to close up shop and go."

She suddenly looked uncomfortable. "Of course, there's another stipulation to the job, too. I should have told you about it before I even showed you the helmet."

Katzen looked up from stowing equipment. "What's that?"

"Secrecy. No one outside of the team working on the restoration -- oh, and the captain of campus security, of course -- can know the Römischbrück Helmet is here. There have been several attempts to steal it already. The last one resulted in Dr. von Notz' heart attack -- thankfully not a fatal one, but he'll be out of commission for a while."

"Ahhhh. I get it. That's why they not only sent it out of the country, but to a conservator who hasn't worked with the auction house before, as well."

"Precisely."

"No problem." He gave her a cocky grin. "Secrecy and I are old pals."

She looked almost comically relieved. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you before, but I was just so excited . . . ." She rummaged in her purse and produced a key card. "Here, you'll need this. It's the key my teaching assistants use. It's sort of a generic pass to allow you access to the building after hours. We'll clear you with Captain Ingram of campus security in the morning."

"Wow, Mr. Katzen! Did you really find all that gold on the shipwreck? That must've been exciting!"

Another one. The fifth in the last half-hour. Josh smiled and turned toward the speaker. This one was a diminutive girl with two friends, none of whom would have looked too out of place at an anime convention.

"Yep. That was me," he said.

One of the first people he'd met upon entering the Hawai'i Hillel First Night celebration had been Tova Ostrov, one of the students who had been on the Phoenician dive. She was thrilled to see him at the event and lost no time telling everyone who would listen who he was and what happened on the Diogenes. Katzen had gone from Unknown Older Guy to Mysterious Man of Danger in zero to sixty. Flattering, but wearing on the nerves after a bit. Soon, the trio flitted away to another small group of students and another conversation giving Josh the opportunity to retreat to a quieter area by the bank of windows. He sipped his drink and stood looking out through his own insubstantial reflection at the campus lawns, but not really seeing any of it. Behind him the party was a kaleidoscope of activity. Not for the first time in his life, he felt alone in a sea of people. It was nobody's fault. Everyone he'd met had been more than welcoming. The service had been moving. The music and buffet table were great. Still, when all was said and done, what he really wanted was a quiet evening.

Wait. With a rush of self-directed amusement, he realized he was homesick. Homesick, of all things; missing the cats, missing Chicago and even missing the damned snow. Well, he had been away for a long stretch this time. He'd barely gotten unpacked from the Piedras Rojas dig in Peru when Belderes lured him to Turkey for the Phoenician shipwreck dive. He'd been away for . . . WOW . . . the better part of a year. Suddenly the music and chatter were too much. He set his drink down and decided to go over to the lab and keep Dora company for a while. Managing to avoid being snared into conversations, he collected a plate of goodies to share from the buffet table. At the last minute, he spotted a heap of glittering bags of Hanukkah gelt. Chocolate. Chocolate always helps. He snagged a bag of coins and slipped quietly out.

He took his time walking over, strolling off the regular paths and approaching the lab building from the rear to avoid the artificial lighting and savor the warm night. The university grounds were well-kept and beautiful anyway, but the moon and the starry skies painted everything with a silver glow that hinted of enchantment lurking just beyond the palm stands. Ummmm. Make that a couple people in black clothes and balaclavas lurking just beyond the palm stands. He stopped, blinked and looked again. No luck. The lurkers didn't resolve into a couple of students making out; in fact, they were now moving toward the same building he was.

Katzen watched the pair flow up onto the loading dock, then decades of ingrained covert training kicked in, and he found himself slipping from shadow to shadow to see what they were up to. Probably nothing good. Few people out for an evening stroll in Hawai'i would wear a heavy knitted hood. They appeared to be looking at the back door \-- opening the back door. He let them enter, then sighed, pulled out his card and followed.

Maybe, just maybe they weren't headed for Dora Hardin's workshop. His heart sank when they ducked into the stairwell leading to the basement. Why couldn't he ever have a peaceful vacation? Well, okay. It wasn't a vacation, but it was as close as he ever got to one. Dammit. Pulling out his cell, he dialed Dora only to have the call drop immediately into voicemail. He swore softly as he shut off his phone. The woman claimed she kept the phone for emergencies, but would never turn the damned thing on.

Peering over the rail, he pulled back quickly. The two had stopped at the base of the stairs. Well, at least he'd gotten a better look at them: a really big guy and a smaller one. They appeared to be deciding which way to go in the hall below. He needed to do something quickly, but what? Realizing he still held the plate of food, he glanced down at the encumbrance with irritation. He was going to have to ditch-- His gaze fell on the small net bag of Hanukkah gelt dangling from his finger. Yes. That would do nicely.

Depositing the plate on a bench, he tore open the bag of gelt. Grinning wickedly, he flipped one of the foil-covered chocolate disks into the stairwell, giving it enough spin to send it bouncing down the steps, glinting in the dimmed night-time lighting. It didn't make much noise, but he knew from experience, when you were in listening mode, any unidentified sights and sounds attracted as much attention as a flash-bang grenade. He moved backward, scattering more coins as he went until he reached an alcove entry for the restrooms. He dropped the bag in the middle of the hall and ducked into the alcove. The red sign of an Emergency Call Box caught his eye. Perfect. Add Campus Security to the mix, he thought, carefully removing the handset. Down the hall, a shadow moved up from the stairs. He caught his breath. That was fast. He almost wasn't ready. He left the phone dangling, a tinny voice repeatedly asked "hello, hello" as he pulled farther back into the alcove, angled so he could watch.

It was the big guy. Greeeat. Oh, well, better he should deal with the Hulk than Dora. The man approached slowly and near soundlessly, following the trail of gelt. He stopped short when he spotted the spilled bag and straightened, his body language screaming confusion.

Katzen didn't give him long to think about it. Stepping out, he landed a two-fisted hammer blow to the man's temple, making him stagger sideways. Before he could recover, Josh landed two more blows to the jaw and the back of the neck and grabbed his opponent under the arms as he toppled. Something fell from the big guy's pocket, landing with a thump on the linoleum, then rolled under a bench. The man was a good foot taller than Katzen and his dead weight nearly took him to the floor, too. After a precarious two-step, he was able to lower his unconscious dance partner without making too much noise.

Josh stood, breathing hard, pulse pounding in his ears. "Ooookay, Godzilla, let's see what you dropped."

A brief search turned up a roll of silver duct tape. Katzen gave the prone man a hard look. "So, it's like that, huh? Well, my friend," he said tearing a strip off the roll, "Sauce for the goose and all that." He'd need to move fast. The temperature-controlled safe might be state of the art, but the door to the lab and its poor excuse for a lock were pure kaka. It would take no time to get through it.

He took the steps several at a time, but found the workshop door already standing open to the hall. Dammit. He probably shouldn't have wasted time taping the big goon up. Creeping along the wall, he peeked in to see Dr. Hardin taped messily to a chair with a bag over her head. The smaller intruder stood with his back to Katzen, working on the keypad with an electronic lockpick. Josh paused in surprise. Those devices were expensive and not something found at your local Radio Shack. Slipping around, he entered the room and started toward the thief. The device gave a happy little beep as he was half-way across the room. The intruder turned to set it aside and caught sight of Josh in mid-turn. Blue-green eyes widened, then narrowed and the black-clad figure lunged aiming a kick at Katzen's mid-section.

Josh threw himself to the side, the kick grazing him, throwing him off balance. He landed hard but rolled to his feet just in time to see his opponent pull a taser out of a pocket.

"Oh, I don't think so," he muttered, then lashed out with a move like a Russian Cossack, sweeping the smaller man's feet out from under him, sending the weapon flying.

The man landed with an angry grunt, then rolled, coming to his feet beside the open door -- a door he bolted through with only a moment's hesitation. Katzen grabbed a handful of the fleeing thief's jacket and the edge of the balaclava. He jerked hard. The force spun them both. As they steadied themselves, Josh found himself nose to nose with -- her. His tug had slipped the mask back revealing a woman with short-cropped red hair tousled from the balaclava and a freckled face flushed with anger.

Taking advantage of his surprise, the thief snapped another kick at his head. Katzen only had time to register how graceful and ballet-like the pirouette was before the impact slammed him against the wall. Stars showered behind his eyes and he barely heard her fleeing footsteps over the ringing in his ears.

Dora Hardin perched on a stool, wrapped in a blanket, shaking as if she were in a deep-freeze, while campus security and Honolulu police turned her lab into a crime scene. Katzen slid a steaming mug of microwaved tea in front of her and drew up another stool. "Hey! You okay?"

Dazed, she looked up, suddenly noticed him, then the tea. She lightly touched the discoloring place along the side of his face. "Oh, Josh. You have no business doing things for me. You're the one who got hurt."

"Yeah, well, I'm not the one who's all shocky at the moment." He pointed at the mug. "Drink it, it'll do you good -- although I'm sure I didn't put enough sugar in it to suit you."

With a shaky smile, she sipped.

He regarded the now-opened safe where HPD techs were madly snapping photos of the helmet. "So much for secrecy now, I guess," he murmured. "How did the helmet get back in the safe, anyway? I thought you were working on it."

"Oh! I was!" She cradled the warm mug in both hands. "But I heard someone scraping at the lock, so I popped him right back into the safe and slammed the door. I moved him so fast I was worried I might damage him. I knew it couldn't have been you. You'd have called me if you were coming."

In spite of himself, he laughed, then winced. "Ow. That's gonna be a bugger in the morning." Still grinning, he said, "I did call. You have your cell turned off again."

"Oh." She ducked her head, face beet red. "Oh dear."

"Still, it was quick thinking. If you hadn't moved the piece, she'd have had it into that padded case and been out of the building before anyone could have stopped her."

"I had no idea he -- I mean she -- was a woman. She never said a word. Just came in and jammed that bag over my head. I was in the chair and taped up before I could even scream."

A rise in the buzz of conversation drew his attention to the door. Captain Ingram of campus security had come in and was conferring with the HPD Officer in Charge. He caught Katzen's eye and came over. "Dr. Hardin, Mr. Katzen, I'm afraid we couldn't find hide nor hair of your red-headed thief. HPD has her boyfriend downtown now, but he's not being real friendly. Good idea using the panic phone, sir. It lit up the building on our board as soon as it went live. . . ." He gave Josh's bruised face a critical examination. "Mr. Katzen, you should have that injury checked out. I can drive you over to the hospital if you want."

"No thanks, Captain. The only thing really hurt was my dignity and I don't have much of that left, anyway." He quirked a smile and was immediately sorry.

Ingram looked dubious. "Suit yourself, but I'll be here a while longer if you change your mind." He turned to Dora, adding, "I'll put a couple of my guys in here tonight, too. She's probably long gone, but why take the chance?"

At Dora's weak nod and smile, he turned and headed back to talk with the HPD OIC.

Dora had been silent, watching the police photographers. Finally she said, "At least there's nothing in there that can be hurt by bright light." Then her face crumpled. "Oh Josh! I don't know what I'm going to do. I'm so nervous now, I'm afraid to work on him again."

"He's almost finished, remember?"

"But what if I make a mistake? What if she comes back?"

"You can do this. You're the best, most careful conservator I've ever seen and I think you'd need dynamite to shift Captain Ingram from your doorstep for a while. You can do this."

She nodded weakly, then after a second, nodded again more firmly. "I certainly hope the blizzard holds up for the duration, then."

Katzen frowned in confusion. "What's the blizzard got to do with it?"

She drew herself up and said, "Joshua Katzen, if you think I'll even attempt to finish this project without you right here, you're sadly mistaken."

He found nothing to say, but stared like he'd been kicked again. As much as he hated it, Dora had a point. The redhead was gone now, but this was a professional job from the git-go. He should know, he'd seen enough of them -- hell! he'd pulled enough of them. The other thing he knew was that professionals didn't just quit.

She melted and turned pleading eyes on him. "Just a week? Maybe until the snow lets up?"

After a moment, he smiled and said, "Sure, Dora. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Want more Josh? There are currently several Katzen tales about, and a novel in the works. http://TLeeHarris.com

End Notes & Acknowledgements

Well, you've reached the end of LET IT SNOW! We hope you found it chock-full of cool yule tales. For more by each of these authors, check out the websites listed at the ends of their respective stories. Here's hoping you discovered something magical between these ecovers.

The editor wishes to thank author/editor Thea Gregory for donating her considerable proofreading skills to making LET IT SNOW a better book. Gregory is truly a thinking person's author, and you would do yourself good to pick up any of her Zombie Bedtime stories, or her new novel Sanity Vacuum!

The editor also wishes to thank Jack Wallen for cover design. He delivered exactly what was asked for and was a joy to work with.

Not least, all the contributors. You rock my socks off.

Comments? Questions? Want to join the email list for Red Tash Books in case we do another one of these crazy samplers? Email Red at RedTashBooks@gmail.com.

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Many thanks, and a happy new year to you and yours.

RT
