Naughty or Nice

by Barbra Annino

  Chip, for example, somehow gets clear enough, (this has something to do with intense prayer and the Grace of God, I believe, because he is such a pompous boob he totally doesn’t deserve it) but isn’t able to make many.

  Meli, as mentioned, is consumed with ick. She’s had trouble for years, some years making one or two, other years none. (Of course this is someone else’s fault. Everyone else’s fault.)

  Elsa and Hart are solid, always, as are my parents and Gran.

  And I … have failed for two years in a row, starting the Christmas after losing Quill. I failed from pure grief the first year and last year … well, I failed again.

  Failing sucks on a personal level, of course. Making the angels, calling them forth, is a beautiful, creative, amazing thing to be able to do. It is a moment when you are intensely connected to something bigger; to the universe. And it sucks in the family—people get stressed and worried. But most of all, it sucks because it diminishes goodness in the world. The angels I don’t make can’t be there for the person who needs them, for the catastrophe, the life-save, the comfort, whatever it might be.

  This keeps me awake at night.

  I can’t keep failing.

  Mom’s eyes are on me and so are Gran’s.

  “Okay, okay,” I say, and walk onto the field to find a spot.

  Once there, I send up a short prayer—something to the effect of “Please, please …” and then lie down in the snow and make a snow angel. Then I get up, step carefully away, and watch.

  Other people are watching too—not everyone, but enough. I can feel it. But I keep my attention focused on what’s in front of me. Waiting.

  And waiting …

  For nothing.

  All around the field angels are coming forth, lifting up out of the snow, hovering among us for a few beautiful moments.

  I have nothing.

  Have achieved nothing.

  Have failed some unknown person.

  “Try again, dear,” Gran says. She has come up beside me and reaches over to pat me companionably on the back. “Sometimes the first one is … sticky.”

  “Yes, Sarah … try again …” this is Quill, his voice in my head so clear and warm.

  “Sometimes you have to do the thing you fear most,” Gran says. “What do you fear most, Sarah?”

  “Losing Quill.”

  No one needs to say I have already lost him.

  I know.

  And no one needs to say I haven’t let go of him and therefore am under the illusion that I have not quite lost him.

  I know that too.

  “You’ll find him again,” Gran says after a long silence.

  “I promise,” he says.

  “Everybody shut up,” I say, and Gran arches a penciled-in eyebrow. “Sorry, Gran.”

  “I’m no dummy,” she says with a knowing look.

  “Never thought you were,” I say.

  “But you need to do the suit proud,” she says with a wink.

  And I look down at my awesome, hilarious suit and giggle, just a little.

  “You were always sexy in that suit,” Quill whispers.

  “You are biased,” I say to him.

  “Of course I am,” Gran says. “But I do see a lovely clear spot, right there.” She points at a moonlit patch of glistening, pristine snow.

  “All right, all right,” I say, then walk around my failed angel to the new spot, plant my feet, and, doing it the proper way, let myself fall backward, landing with a poof.

  Once there I look up at the moon, try to clear my emotions …

  And not think about Quill, because maybe that will help.

  No Quill. Yeah right.

  Then he’s there, as there as he has ever been since he died, lying gently on top of me; his limbs on my limbs, his face just above mine.

  “I feel you,” I whisper.

  “Good.”

  “Do you feel me?”

  “Yes and no,” he whispers.

  “Damn it …”

  “Sarah, this is the best I can do. But it won’t ever be enough.”

  “It’s better than nothing.”

  “I know it was in the beginning. But now … is it?”

  Tears are coming again, hot and wet and dripping sideways down into my ears and onto the snowsuit’s hood.

  “Can you see the moon?” I whisper.

  “I’m looking at you.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ll have other times to look at the moon.”

  “Okay.”

  “Right now … I want to help you make the angel. You know I never got to make a real one in life.”

  “I wish you could have.”

  “It was enough to see them. But I can do it now. I feel it.”

  “Really?”

  “Maybe … Sarah … maybe I am one.”

  The idea comes as a jolt. “NO.”

  “That’s less creepy than being a ghost, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t understand any of it and I don’t care, as long as it’s you.”

  “Hey, maybe Meli made me.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Seriously. If I am, she could have. Think about that next time—”

  “—I don’t want to think about Meli.”

  “Just think about it. Later.”

  “Fine.”

  “I can’t stay, Sarah.”

  “Don’t say that. Please don’t say it.”

  Instead of answering, he puts a hand on my cheek. And I imagine him looking at me with his deep-soul eyes, knowing that I know too, but waiting, giving me a chance to make at least one small portion of a decision about him leaving me forever.

  “All right,” I say, swallowing hard. “Let’s do it. Let’s make an angel, Quill.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And then?” I say, voice cracking, heart cracking … but trying to keep it together so we can do this, and do it properly and well.

  “Then maybe I’ll be able to kiss you one more time,” he says.

  “Quill …”

  “Shhh …” he says, and then begins to move, and help me move, arms up and out, legs out and back. I feel him, feel him heavier now on top of me, his fingers even intertwined with mine, his cheek on my cheek.

  And we make the angel.

  Slowly, slowly as possible, we make it.

  “I think it’s done,” he says, finally.

  “No,” I say.

  But it is.

  “I’m too heavy for you.”

  “Oh, don’t go all symbolic and double-entendre on me, Quill,” I say, although he is actually now so heavy I can’t move my legs or arms.

  “I am,” he chuckles, then stops. “You know it’s true.”

  I lie there, seeing the moon through where his face should be, feeling him heavier on me by the second. And I can almost smell him, almost feel the rasp of his facial hair, almost run my hands over his back.

  “Quill …”

  Almost.

  “I’m going to kiss you,” he says.

  “And then ...” I brace myself and bite my lip to stop myself from sobbing out loud. “Then you’ll promise to go somewhere I can find you someday …?”

  “Yes,” he says. “But not too soon because you still have a lot of angels to make.”

  “Maybe.”

  “And some little Angel-makers.”

  “Don’t,” I say. “No.”

  “You will though. I give you my blessing in advance.”

  “You better make it a really good kiss,” I say, “since you’re already pushing me toward someone else …”

  “I’m not,” he says. “But I’ll try to make it good regardless.”

  “Now …?”

  “Yes, my Sarah. Now.”

  And he does.

  Almost.

  Because of course he is not quite there.

  But I feel his lips on mine, his body on mine, and then I hear him saying, “I promise,” and at the same time I feel the heaviness of him be
gin to change, as if it is sinking into me, and through me, down into the snow and earth below me, and for a moment I almost feel like I could go with him.

  And then he is gone like he has never been gone before.

  And I lie there feeling the loss, then look at the stars and take a deep breath and say, “Thank you. For him … for all this time. Thank you.”

  And then I stand up incredibly carefully, step away …

  And watch the golden light gathering in the place we once were.

  The End

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Danielle Younge-Ullman is the author of the critically acclaimed novel, FALLING UNDER, (Penguin/Plume) and the upcoming young adult novel, PRINCESS REHAB (Entangled Publishing). Danielle's short story, Reconciliation, was published in McGraw-Hill's MODERN MORSELS, an anthology for young adults, and she is hard at work on a new novel. Danielle lives in Toronto with her husband and two daughters.

  One Stormy Christmas

  ONE STORMY CHRISTMAS

  A Holiday Adventure

  by

  Toni LoTempio

  Dedication

  To Kris Weber, who never gave up on this book…and to Josh Getzler for making it happen.

  (This short features characters from the paranormal suspense novel, SOAPSUDS, SEX AND SILVER BULLETS, July 2014, Entangled Publishing. The events in “One Stormy Christmas” take place right after those in SSSB.)

  December 23, 10:00 a.m.

  Abraham Adams pushed the beaded curtain back and stepped into his storeroom. When he’d taken over A. C. Antiques from his cousin, Aaron had advised him a ton of boxes and artifacts awaited him, some valuable, mostly trash. Now for the first time, Abraham stood, hands on hips, and surveyed the jumbled mass of boxes.

  Oy vey. Aaron wasn’t kidding.

  He opened the nearest one and a cloud of dust rose from the interior, which caused him to sneeze loudly. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, reached in and pulled out a tri-color vase. He held it up to the light, then set it down with an oath.

  “Junk.”

  He continued to plow through the first box, and by the time he’d reached the bottom, he’d arrived at the conclusion that most of what his cousin had left him was indeed worthless trash. Still, his feeling that there was an object of immense value here persisted. And his feelings were never wrong. Well, almost never.

  He started to turn away when he heard it. At first it was just an indistinct noise, a soft hum, but as he stood there the sound grew in volume and intensity, blocking out all else. He put his hands up to cover his ears, but that did no good. And just when he thought his head would explode from sheer pressure, the hum turned into a soft hypnotic voice, whispering in his ear.

  Your greatest treasure has yet to be found. Keep looking.

  Then, as suddenly as it had come, the voice and the hum faded. Abraham shook his head to clear it. Had that really happened? Or was his imagination just on overdrive? He turned to leave, and his toe caught the edge of a loose floorboard. He lost his balance and sat down with a soft thud on the hardwood floor.

  That was when he saw it, wedged underneath the back shelving, where no one could possibly see it—a small teak box, about as big as a shoebox.

  “What’s this?” he murmured. He crossed to the far shelf and bent down. Abraham gripped it firmly and gave a mighty tug. He rolled back on his haunches, but the object of his struggle was clasped firmly in his hands. He held it up to the light, turned it over. There was an odd inscription on the cover; some sort of drawing, accompanied by a few faded words. He also noted there was a large padlock on the front of the box. He frowned. What on earth could be in here?

  Abraham took the box out into the office area and set it on his desk. He grabbed a brass paperweight and brought it down hard. The lock groaned and then separated in two. Abraham set the paperweight down and rubbed his hands in anticipation. He started to raise the lid and then suddenly paused. He actually felt apprehensive.

  Don’t do it, his inner voice said. It will only bring disaster.

  But then there was that other voice, the low, guttural hypnotic one, calling out to him:

  Open the box, Abraham. Open it.

  He hesitated only a brief moment, his hand above the lid, uncertain of what to do. His fingers brushed the edge of the lid and he slowly started to raise it, when he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He whirled. The young girl who helped him in the afternoons, Tricia, stood there, hands on her hips.

  “Mr. Adams? Everything all right? I just wanted to tell you that I have to leave early tonight, but I can put in some extra time this afternoon and restock the shelves.” Her lips parted in a wide smile. “Lots of people shop last minute, so it’s best to have a full stock ready.”

  He whipped a handkerchief from his pocket and swiped it across his forehead. “Yes, good idea. Don’t worry about tonight—I planned to work late anyway.” He grabbed the box, shoved it far back on the top shelf, and then motioned to Tricia. “Come, I’ll help you.”

  In the doorway, he turned and cast a cautious eye back at the shelf, then switched out the light and left the room in darkness.

  ****

  December 23, 4:00 p.m.

  Snowflakes brushed against my office window, making a pretty pattern on the glass. It was the first time I’d seen a snowflake in almost ten years, ever since I’d moved to LA, and ordinarily I’d have had my nose pressed against the glass, drinking in the sight. Instead my eyes were glued to my computer screen, and the words staring back at me:

  Fade In:

  A black night, a starless sky, lit only by the glow of the full moon. The camera pans across the rugged countryside and we can see the village of Stormy Seas, far below. Cut to: the crest of the hill. A dark form appears. As it draws closer, we see that it is a man-beast, a wolf wearing man’s clothing, the monster called werewolf. He lifts his head, sniffs the air. Then he drops to all fours and lumbers across the crest of the hill, pausing only once to look backward, lips parted in a beastly snarl.

  Cut to: the village square. The streets are deserted, it is the middle of the night. Suddenly we hear a mournful howl, and the wolf appears under a street lamp. He plods forward, all his senses concentrated on just one thing: finding his prey, his object of desire. Suddenly, as he passes a store, he tenses. He can smell his quarry. He picks up a rock, hurls it through the window of the store. The wolf lopes inside, and reappears a few minutes later, his hairy arms full of … handbags. Designer handbags. Kathy Van Zeeland, Maxx New York, Diane Von Furstenberg, Angier and Gucci. Blues, blacks, metallics. Totes and messenger and crossbody ….

  The voice at my elbow stopped me cold. “Please tell me this is some sort of joke skit you’re doing. You’re not seriously considering turning my character into a cross-dresser, are you?”

  I looked into the twinkling eyes of Simon Halliwell, my favorite werewolf and the star of the gothic soap I write for, Stormy Seas. Simon is over six feet and resembles a green-eyed blonde god except for one night out of every month, when his hairier self takes over. Aside from that, he’s every woman’s dream man and the main reason Stormy enjoys such a high female demographic, although his Inheritor Vampire cousin and costar, Brice Benson, would argue that point. His hand lightly brushed my shoulder and as, usual, his touch almost caused me to wet my pants. I must confess I’m not the only female to have that reaction.

  I put my tongue in my cheek and smiled back. “Why, what’s the matter? I’m considering letting you show off your feminine side.”

  “Really.” His long tapered fingers scraped along the edge of his jawline and he raised his upper lip in a half-snarl. “Werewolves don’t have a feminine side. I can prove it, if need be.” He tapped at my screen with one slender finger. “Please tell me you’re not serious with … that.”

  The mere thought that he (or his character, for that matter) would possess hormones remotely female brought a smile to my lips. I scraped my chair back and stood up. “Relax, Simon. I was just … doodl
ing. Sometimes writing improbable scenarios helps me concentrate.”

  “In other words, you’ve got writer’s block.” He eased one hip against the edge of my desk. “You know what I’ve heard is good for that? Sex. Might I assume your vampire detective lover hasn’t been much help in that area?”

  I folded my arms across my chest. “Not that it’s any of your business, but Logan’s out of town.”

  His brows drew together. “What, there’s not enough crime in New York?”

  “Once again, not that it’s any of your business, but they’re on special assignment.”

  Simon regarded me shrewdly. “Must be pretty special, to get him out of town two days before Christmas.”

  I grimaced. Logan Slade, the handsome Inheritor Vampire detective I’d met while working to clear Simon on a murder charge, had embarked on a relationship which unfortunately was on hold right now thanks to his job. My one bright spot was he’d called that morning and assured me he’d be back in time to attend Stormy’s Christmas Eve party. “I’m not thrilled about it,” I ground out, “but—it is his job, after all. Crime doesn’t take a holiday just because Santa Claus is coming.”

  “Quite true.” He shifted his position so his face was scant inches from mine. “I only hope you’re not too lonely in his absence.”

  “I’m bearing up.” I raked a hand through my tumble of auburn curls and gestured at my computer. “As a matter of fact, tonight I’m putting work on hold and going Christmas shopping with Mallory and Selena.”

  One eyebrow quirked. “Ah, so you’re one of those.”

  “One of those what?”

  “Last-minute shoppers. The ones who invade Macy’s, Saks and Bloomie’s at the last minute hoping for a bargain.”

  I made a face at him. “I take it you’re not one of those.”

  He tapped at his chest with one long finger. “My presents have been ordered for months now.”