I doubt they believed us, but the evidence supports it.
After Detective Bristow saw the destruction, he visited me in the hospital. “You’re incredibly brave. Why didn’t you call me for help?”
“You would have been killed outright,” I replied. “I couldn’t be responsible for that.”
He said, “I’m sorry” and nothing more after that.
My brother mysteriously disappeared from the detention center that Christmas night. The FBI is still looking for him. Maybe that was his deal with Krampus, if one can make any kind of deal with that monster. Trading Aidan for his freedom. There’s no telling where he is now. Probably far from home. In hiding. My brother will be fine.
Our family is shattered. My parents are divorcing. I haven’t heard much from my mom. She crashed emotionally after Aidan was kidnapped and the house destroyed, unable to forgive herself for letting it happen. She’s living with her cousins as she struggles with alcohol and depression. I worry about her constantly. My dad says I worry him, but he loves me and knows how capable I am. And I love him very much. Shortly after the battle, I told him the truth about Aidan, about our relationship. I’ve not told him about the mission I’m planning next April, but I did confess that I wanted to save Aidan.
“You’d throw away your life on a boy?” he shouted.
If there’s anyone in this world worth saving, it’s Aidan. Judy, Michael, and Ricardo all agree. While my dad doesn’t want me trying to save Aidan myself, he’s heartbroken over Aidan going back to his horrible dad and very much wants to rescue him. But I don’t want him to jeopardize his career—his entire life. I’m young. I don’t have as much to lose at this point in my life in terms of reputation and money.
As I recovered from my injuries, I graduated early from high school. Aerojet offered me a full scholarship to Carnegie Mellon, but I used the offer as a negotiating chip for a full scholarship from Volertech. Dad was mad at first, because Aerojet is the company he works for, but he eventually understood that I have very specific goals.
Maybe he was right about my talent, though. I might not even need to graduate from CM. I’m already developing drones and other tech that would make Tony Stark blush. Ricardo says I should go into business for myself. Maybe I will someday.
Michael graduated early from high school, too. He came with me to study programming but dropped out to become a hacker for hire, mostly working for shady business ventures, but also for me.
I’m not sure what Ricardo is doing, but he has black belts in various martial arts, is an expert marksman, and even trains tactical teams in Krav Maga with one of his brothers. Plus, he’s hella smart. I wish he’d go to college, but he refuses. He’s mentioned possibly going into business with his brother, but I don’t know that business would be. Whatever he chooses, he’ll be great help in my plans, tactically if not financially.
Judy is taking her considerable artistic skill to study anthropomorphic animation at Stanford, writing more about The Elves than anyone. (Everyone calls them The Elves, not because they know their origins, but because the attack happened on Christmas.) She draws an insanely popular web comic about them. She also has a vlog with over a hundred thousand subscribers.
She still grieves Leo’s death. I don’t know if she’ll ever recover. But I do know she’s all in on the rescue mission once it forms.
As much as I want to save Aidan, I need to destroy Krampus. In addition to the drone, I’m developing the weapons to do just that…
A scruffy Russian crew member stumbles into the bunk room to retrieve some breakfast supplies from the lockers. “Dobroye utro,” he says.
“Dobroye utro,” I reply, dour. I don’t want to encourage him. He watches me with shark eyes. I wish I could have brought a Taser. As I’ve tinkered with the Taser at home, I’ve toyed with some ideas about how I can interfere with Krampus’ power over gravity. It’s all experimental, of course, as I didn’t get to study Aidan’s powers. But I have theories.
I’m obsessed with this plan to save Aidan, but I have work to do first. And money to raise.
This morning, we’re moored at an outpost not five hundred kilometers from the fortress. The icebreaker is to stay a day so that the scientists on board can take some climate measurements.
I’ll be conducting my own tests with a prototype I call Ghost.
It’s only 5:30 a.m. Before layering up, I make a trip to the bathroom and pull my ever-unruly hair into a huge ponytail. Thick bands of hair turned white that night. I dye them purple like Judy’s. I love my hair these days. Fully clothed and coated, I tiptoe out of the bunkroom and close the door behind me.
The Russian crew watches me as they go about their business. My face, even my teeth, ache in the freezing air. It’s only 28 degrees. This one trip to the Arctic Circle won’t be enough to acclimate me to prolonged exposure to cold. Hopefully when we save Aidan the exposure won’t be for that long, though. Just a couple of days.
I climb the mast of the great red ship. The winds are calm this morning compared to last night. Actually, this time of year it’s twilight all day.
I wear goggles to protect my eyes from the winds racing around me. I hold steady, hunkering against the ladder to keep my balance. The height is thrilling as I overlook the surrounding bluish-white sheet of ice. Sea ice is at its lowest in the past century, which is evident by the ghostly gray pools of water pock marking the glacier. It’s part of the reason our ship can get as close to the Pole as it has.
When the winds die down, I pull off my glove and let it dangle from my lanyard. I wear a second, thinner glove beneath so I can work in the freezing weather. The Arctic winds are underscored by the muffled purr of the ship’s engine far below, peppered by the crewmember’s voices. Withdrawing a piece of paper and duct tape from my coat pocket, I clumsily affix the piece of paper to the mast. It’s symbolic, as the tape won’t really stick to the icy surface.
Perhaps we shouldn’t advertise, as Keiko once said. Keiko is literally saving the whales these days. She lost interest in mathematics entirely and has plunged into environmental causes, majoring in marine biology when she starts UC San Diego in the fall. We don’t talk a lot—not because we’re not friends, as we totally made up, but because we’ve both been ridiculously busy. I miss her more than I can say.
The paper on the pole is a simple letter to someone very special. Soon, I will see him. Before I let go, I read it once more in the Arctic twilight through my goggles.
Dear Santa,
I’ve been a very good girl this year. I want two gifts for Christmas more than anything.
Aidan.
Your head.
See you soon.
Sincerely,
Charity Jones
As I climb down, the winds rip away the paper from the mast and carry it off.
To Krampus.
Acknowledgements
There is so much for which I’m grateful. Due to hand disabilities, I couldn’t have written this book without Dragon NaturallySpeaking running on VMware for my Macbook. Nuance Communications has saved me more times than I can recall, and this was no exception. Merci mille fois.
I’m also grateful to have had such kickass teen beta readers. Many thanks to Miri, Hannah, Livi, Kate, and Jonathan for helping me see Charity and her world through their eyes, and for their relentless excitement about this book. (Holy crap, you guys are awesome.) I’m in debt to their parents, too, especially Betina and Judy. Their enthusiasm, love, and support for both me and the story kept me away from many a ledge during the darkest hours.
Not that I ever got too close to ledges. My wonderful agent, Alex Slater, has been my rock. His belief in this book meant everything to me, and still does. Ditto to Jennifer and John at Raw Dog. I’m so proud to be part of their literary family.
As for the crime drama, the story wouldn’t have been so painfully accurate without my consultations with retired homicide detective Derek Pacifico. He even went above and beyond to get me necessary details about
the juvenile court system. (Any procedural errors are my fault, not his.) I also consulted an open online support forum for parents who have incarcerated children. Their posts broke my heart. I wish everyone in that situation blessings and brighter days.
Last but not least, I’m entirely thankful to my friend Neil Gaiman for writing Nicholas Was lo those many years ago. When he later read my short story “Coming Home,” he said, “This is the story I should have written.” Bless! Published numerous times, “Coming Home” went on to be adapted to various formats, and it was stolen more times than I can count. Now it’s a novel. This novel, to be precise...
Merry, merry, merry Christmas.
About the Author
Maria Alexander is a multiple award-winning author of both YA and adult fiction. Her short stories have appeared since 1999 in publications such as Chiaroscuro Magazine and Gothic.net, as well as numerous acclaimed anthologies.
Her debut novel, Mr. Wicker, won the 2014 Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in a First Novel. Publisher’s Weekly called it, “(a) splendid, bittersweet ode to the ghosts of childhood,” while Library Journal hailed it in a Starred Review as “a horror novel to anticipate.” Her breakout YA novel, Snowed, was first unleashed on November 2, 2016, by Raw Dog Screaming Press. It won the 2016 Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in a Young Adult Novel and was nominated for the 2017 Anthony Award for Best Children’s/YA Novel in mystery writing.
When she’s not stabbing people with a foil or cutting targets with a katana, she’s being outrageously spooky or writing Doctor Who filk. She lives in Los Angeles with two ungrateful cats, a Jewish Christmas caroler, and a purse called Trog. Want more? Visit her website at www.mariaalexander.net.
Excerpt from Snowbound
Book 2: The Bloodline of Yule Trilogy
Chapter 1
December 25
Thirty-six minutes after midnight
On the roof of the Jones house…
“Charity!”
I scream myself hoarse. The only loving home I’ve ever known has been destroyed. One of my friends is dead. And now I’m being kidnapped by my father to return “home” — the Klaas fortress in the Arctic, where Father will no doubt make me suffer for running away.
To save my sanity, I’m going to write this mental letter to you, Charity, as if you were still with me. As if you weren’t lying on the floor of the living room dying yourself from my Father’s attack.
My father, Krampus.
He’s forced me into an ancient, magical bag that originally belonged to the Norse goddess, Frygg, wife of Odin. The bag binds my powers in its dark interior. I haven’t been in this bag since I was a baby, when he kidnapped my mother and I twelve months after he’d impregnated her early one Christmas morning.
My father now jostles the bag violently as he climbs up to the roof of the house where the sleigh awaits. I hear the wind climbers bleating with fear when they see him as they wait with the sleigh. The rest is eerie silence. Sirens wail in the distance. Help is already on the way. It’s too late for poor Leo. I pray it’s not too late for you...
“You cowardly little bastard,” he snaps. The smell of his burning flesh from where you hit him with the mistletoe seeps into the bag. “I would have almost respected you if you had fled and sacrificed your friends for freedom. You would have shown some sense of survival, a true Klaas.” He slams the bag into the sleigh. My head rings with agony as it hits the sleigh floor. “Onward, you filthy beasts!” he roars, his lash tearing their hides with a crack. The sleigh rises into the air but the trajectory remains low. “One stop, my pets, and then we go home!”
Why would he want to stop? Who else would he want to kill besides us? Maybe Detective Bristow, the officer who investigated Darren’s death? Or your father? But your father is in Washington DC, and the sleigh is not headed in that direction — at least, it doesn’t seem like it. If I concentrate, I can pick up fleeting details outside of the bag like the temperature. The air quickly grows colder.
We are headed into snow.
Misery and disgust. My father sings the rest of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” his deep voice booming into the night. He laughs over the line “to save us all from Satan’s power,” changing it to “Santa’s power.”
I’m already planning my escape. I vow to you, Charity, that I will not only avenge Leo’s death, but I’ll return to you as soon as possible.
All isn’t lost. At the fortress, there’s a very special tome — The Book of Sigils — that I used to break the magic seals that held me captive. I’ll find the book again and break free once and for all.
That is, if he hasn’t already found the book and burned it...
Icy breezes rush over the sleigh until it lands on another surface. Father climbs out. I no longer hear the clamor of his cloven hooves. Instead, I hear the sound of leather soles treading on a thin layer of snow.
He must have transformed into a human.
I hear automatic sliding glass doors open with a hiss and close again.
Snow falls on the sled, flakes dusting the bag. The scent of pines saturates the air. In the distance, a cheap radio plays Christmas tunes. Any moment now all hell will surely break loose. This isn’t the first time he’s killed someone on this night. I’ll never forget the time he returned licking his fingers, his tongue snaking around his hand to savor every last fleck of blood in his fur. That was the Christmas before he killed my mother.
The glass doors slide open again, and two sets of footsteps emerge from the building beneath, one heavy and one hesitant. In the twinkle of an eye, the two sets of feet land on the roof. Someone’s teeth chatter between gasps of terror.
“Stop your sniveling,” my father says. “You got your Christmas wish. Now, shut up and sit tight.”
The bag opens. A blast of shadows as another body plummets into the blackness with me. It closes before I can see who it is. I can’t fathom why he’d bring anyone to the fortress. Perhaps instead he’ll dangle them from the sleigh hundreds of miles in the air just to hear their terror. I’ve never seen him do that, but he’s that sadistic.
The other person in the bag — man, woman or child — retreats into the abyss. It’s as if we don’t share the same space at all, but the scent of their fear is stifling. I want to comfort this person, to protect her. Or him. But I don’t dare. The scars on my back tingle. He’ll soon tear open my flesh again. I have to be stronger than ever.
Despite their treachery, I mourn the deaths of my siblings in the battle. I don’t hold it against them. The poor things did what they were told. They had no choice. They’re just collateral damage in this family war.
The sleigh soars upward. An intense, misty chill settles on the bag as we break through the cloud layer. I imagine the cold moon above us as we race northward. Home. You’re going home for the holidays. I saw maps on the computer of my home. The vast stretches of snow layering broken ice stirred by the swirling waters. The ice is receding from global warming. Mankind is slowly killing the Klaas. This is extremely dangerous. More dangerous than anyone knows.
We fly into the eternal sunset of Arctic winter and the freezing air pummels us. The cold worms under my skin, which means it must be very cold indeed. I worry for the other person. If they survive this trip, it’s just the beginning of a frightening new life.
As we approach the fortress, the sled’s trajectory lowers. On the ice, my siblings howl with glee as they scurry about the perimeter. Some of my remaining siblings might even make it back home now that my father has called off the hunt.
I try not to imagine the punishment in store for me. He might kill me. But why wait to do that?
Arctic breezes buffet the sleigh as it slows to a halt on top of the fortress. The chatter of my siblings swells as they gather around the sled. I gag on the stink of their fur and breath.
“Get back!” he shouts. “Paws off the bag or I’ll throw you into the fires!”
A frenzy of fear. There aren’t any “fires” pe
r se; they’re too simple to realize this is an empty threat. They fall back as he hoists the bag from the sleigh and slings it over his shoulder.
He curses as he limps over the ice, cracking the lash at his adoring children to keep them at bay. The familiar stench of seal meat, rotting plankton and creature piss mixed with the smell of my father’s smoldering flesh punches through the bag’s magic. I take deep breaths, fighting the urge to vomit.
Their voices echo in the majestic caverns. I recognize how sounds ping ice and stone, especially as we enter the throne room. Sound changes there as if we’ve slipped underwater, everything loud and muddy. My father’s hooves crunch into the ice floor, his breathing labored. His warmth seeps through the sealskin into my body.
The Other person hides. Silent.
“Behold, my wayward son!” Father swings the bag from his back and I spill out of the open top onto the ice. The impact is jarring. Every bone feels like it’s about to break. My siblings shriek with joy, peals of cruel laughter needling the air. Their goat-like faces reveal vicious teeth, their bodies something between a sloth and a chimpanzee. The males have twisted horns like Father’s. My powers flood back, restoring warmth to my body, and I rise cautiously on my knees. Father laughs, pointing at me.
“Who said you could stand?” With lightning reflexes, he snatches the scourge of chains by his throne and lashes my back. The metallic barbs tear my skin afresh, waves of fiery agony searing my back. I collapse, my chin splitting open on the hard surface. I hold my breath against a wave of nausea.
More laughter floods the room, followed quickly by a ripple of astonishment. I lie there, wondering what’s captured the attention of my siblings. Father laughs more heartily than ever.
Snowed (The Bloodline of Yule Trilogy Book 1) Page 23