Spells and Jinglebells

by ReGina Welling

  Face reddening under a layer of artfully applied makeup, Gertrude mumbled something about not revealing her source and Mag elbowed Clara in the ribs.

  “Ow!” Clara whispered and returned the favor before putting on her most intimidating scowl. “We know you’re hiding something, now out with it. There’s an elf’s life hanging in the balance.”

  “A real live one?” Gertrude’s face registered a series of emotions. Shock followed by shame, and then an avid curiosity.

  “Of course it’s a live elf. How could it’s life be hanging in the balance if it wasn’t alive?” Mag’s patience for foolish questions could best be measured in fractions of an inch. Her willingness to point out the obvious, though, was at least a mile long.

  “Can I meet him? I’ve always wanted to meet a real, live Christmas elf.” When Gertie clapped her hands like a little girl, Mag lost her last ounce of control.

  “Have you or have you not been stealing Christmas spirit from elves and then using their husks in your little theater of pain here?”

  Every drop of blood drained from Gertrude’s face, taking it from a dull flush to a pale mask.

  “What is wrong with you? How could you even suggest a thing like that? I love Christmas and elves. I would never…I could never. Oh, Margaret Balefire, you’re a horrible person for thinking anything of the sort. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  Mag recognized truth when she saw it. She’d been playing the game long enough to identify a dead end when the wall stared her in the face.

  “Maybe there’s a way Gertrude can help us out with our elf problem.” Gently, Clara turned her attention to the older witch, who now sported a guarded expression. “But first, where did you get these?”

  “I make them.” Eager now, Gertrude spilled the truth out of ruby-painted lips. “I’ve spent years perfecting the spell for generating Christmas spirit, and I still can’t make live elves, only these,” a ring-laden hand gestured toward the shelves. “Poppets. It’s the best I can do. I’ve concluded that Santa adds a secret ingredient besides those listed in Hargraven’s because I think my Christmas spirit is every bit as strong as his. I use only the purest driven snow and the finest hot chocolate, too.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Mag stated matter-of-factly, “He’s gone to quite a lot of trouble ensuring nobody knows too many details about what happens up there, and I doubt he would have given away one of his proprietary methods so easily.”

  Clara noted the crestfallen look on Gertrude’s face and an idea began to take shape in her mind, “You know what, Gertrude, maybe there’s a way we can all get what we want. We’ve got a languishing elf at home, and you’ve got enough excess Christmas spirit to save him.”

  “You mean you’d let me see him, talk to him, maybe even ask him a few questions about his, er, constitution?”

  “In exchange for enough magic to revive him, absolutely.” Clara agreed.

  “Let us go back home and see if it works first,” Mag cautioned, for once the more conscientious sister, “No sense making promises we can’t keep.”

  Positively giddy, Gertrude left the room for a moment, returning with a gilded potion bottle that sparkled with inner light.

  “This is my best stuff. It’s from the most potent batch I’ve ever made. I keep a few bottles handy just in case. You call me, and I’ll drop everything to come and meet that elf.”

  Chapter Three

  A cold northerly wind had sucked one side of a set of old lace curtains through the kitchen window. Clara saw the flutter of white as soon as she and Mag turned the corner.

  “I thought this was a safe, quiet town,” Mag grumbled. “Looks like we’ve been robbed.”

  “I don’t think so.” Hagatha’s walker stood next to the front steps. “But it is a home invasion of sorts.”

  “Don’t know why she bothered to move out if she’s going to be here every ding-dong day.” Ding-dong had not been the phrase Margaret meant to say, Clara could tell by the look on her sister’s face. Hagatha had left a few handy charms on the old place, and an anti-cussing spell was among the more annoying ones.

  That old Haggie had chosen to substitute her own phrases for those spoken within the confines of the property made Mag’s verbal gaffes even more hilarious to her sister. In a fine fit of pique, Mag stomped up the steps, tried the door, and found it still locked.

  “I don’t care if I have to wallow through snow up to my badonkadonk,” Clara hooted until she nearly cried at the idea of Hagatha even knowing that word, much less preferring it over whatever Mag had been trying to say. Eyes slitted and sparkling with barely contained ire, Mag continued, “I’m doing a cleansing ritual to rid the place of her influence if it takes fifty pounds of salt and a garden full of sage.”

  “Okay.” The giggles still coming, Clara agreed. “I’ll help.” Keeping the peace might be less amusing, but was probably the best course of action.

  The rooms at the top of the stairs felt even colder than the air outside because Hagatha had turned off the heat and conjured an industrial-sized fan to blow on the elf.

  “What were you thinking putting a blanket over a Christmas elf? Don’t you know anything about the species? They’re made of snow and magic. He was practically transparent by the time I got here.”

  Clara looked and felt chagrined, unused to being in the proximity of a witch with so much more knowledge and experience at her disposal. “Oops. I didn’t even think…”

  “No matter, he looks much better now. And we’ve managed to get our hands on some concentrated Christmas spirit, so let’s see if we can revive him enough to get him back to the North Pole.” Mag thundered across the bedroom and perched herself on the edge of the bed. “Down the hatch,” She placed one thumb against the little guy’s chin and not-so-gently pulled his bottom lip open far enough to deposit the swirling mist directly into his mouth.

  With a cough and sputter, the elf stirred. His eyes fluttered open, and his gaze darted back and forth for a moment before he hit panic mode, “Where am I? Who are you? What happened?”

  “We’ll be the ones asking the questions. What were you doing down here anyway? I thought Christmas elves stayed in the North Pole.” Mag got straight to the point, making no effort to comfort the creature and causing Clara to sigh and push her sister aside with a harder-than-necessary shove.

  “I’m Clara, this is my sister Mag, and this is Hagatha,” Clara gestured to the senior witch who, for once completely silent, watched with amusement. “We’re not going to hurt you; we’re trying to help.” She added with a gentle smile.

  “Yes, yes, I can see that. I’m sorry. I came here because someone has been stealing elve’s Christmas spirit. I need to find whoever it is and return the culprit to the North Pole before…before it’s too late. It’s almost Christmas Eve, and there’s important work to do.”

  “Tell us exactly what happened. We’re witches; maybe we can help.”

  The elf held up a tiny hand in the gesture that means stop. While Clara and Mag waited, he took a moment to compose himself, and then rolled his eyes up and to the right as though accessing his memory bank.

  “Clara and Margaret Balefire; daughters of Tempest, mother and aunt to Sylvana, grandmother and great-aunt to Alexis. Correct? Yes, I believe you are trustworthy. I permit you to help me.”

  Mag and Clara exchanged a look of annoyance, “Is there some sort of hobknocking briefing about the Balefire clan circling around? Why does everyone and their grandmother seem to know who we are?” Mag grumbled and ignored the fact that her words had once again been censored.

  “Well, if it makes you more comfortable, my name is Evergreen Goldensparkles, and I happen to be Santa’s right-hand man. It’s my job to compile the naughty and nice lists every year, and neither of you has been on the naughty list since you were children.” He shot a pointed look at Mag.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Evergreen. Now, please, explain what we can do to help.”

  “Didn’t you
just hear him, or do you have cotton balls stuffed between your ears?” Hagatha piped up from the corner, “Obviously, someone hijacked his connection to the Christmas spirit, and if he doesn’t get it back he’ll fade into nothingness and cease to be.”

  “Is that all of it?” Clara’s eyes burned daggers at Hagatha, who she vehemently hoped would disappear instead. The brief conversation seemed to have taken its toll on Evergreen Goldensparkles, because Clara had to give him a second dose to keep him from fading away on the spot.

  “Yes, precisely,” Evergreen sighed, “I followed the trail from the North Pole all the way here, but then I was attacked out of nowhere. Must have…tipped off…”

  As he talked, Evergreen turned paler by the second. Either Gertrude’s spirit-brewing skills were not as potent as she thought, or she had been right about Santa leaving an ingredient out of the recipe when he’d give it to Hargraven.

  “Tipped who off? Tell me who did this so we can help,” Clara implored.

  He gasped, “Elf. Not like me. Name is Ja….” With that, he lapsed back into an unconscious state leaving the sister witches staring at each other in consternation. Mag dumped another dose into Evergreen, but it wasn’t enough to rouse him.

  “Haggie, you know more than we do about elves, can you keep an eye on him while we try to track down whoever did this? They couldn’t have gone far. Keep the Christmas spirit going and try to keep him alive while we’re gone,” Gertrude’s bottle passed into Hagatha’s hands, “it won’t be a very fun holiday if we kill an elf before the eggnog’s been served.” Mag sprang into problem-solving mode and began to delegate. Haggie agreed with a bit more enthusiasm than necessary, leaving Clara wondering what condition the place might be upon their return.

  “Yes, of course, he needs to conserve his strength. One thing, before you go.” Hagatha held out a hand, and a thermometer appeared in her palm. Into Evergreen’s mouth it went, and after a few seconds, she pulled it out, wiped off any moisture on the back of her pants, and handed the fragile glass to Clara.

  “It’ll measure how much Christmas spirit he has left. Get back here before it’s all gone. Now, there is one place someone looking for the holy grail of Christmas spirit might go in this town—The Harmony Holiday Hullabaloo, which takes place tonight at the community center.” Hagatha offered.

  “Organized by Gertrude Granger, right? She mentioned it was the culmination of her fourteen days of Christmas celebration. Gone a little overboard, hasn’t she? Most people do twelve.”

  “Gertrude Granger doesn’t have a lower setting. But she’s got a heart of gold, and she’s one of the most generous women in town. Mind your manners, little lady.” Clara’s ears turned candy apple red, and Mag couldn’t suppress a grin wondering if they were about to pour steam.

  “I’m a couple of hundred years old, I’m hardly a “little lady,” she grumbled once Hagatha was out of earshot.

  “I heard that, and you’re still practically an infant compared to me.”

  “That woman has ears like a hawk,” Clara muttered.

  “It’s eyes, but I get your point,” Mag agreed, “She’s going to be a handful.”

  “Understatement of the year. Now, we need to come up with a plan, and I think I know exactly where to start.” Mag followed her sister downstairs to the shop, where Clara searched behind a counter for some paper and a pen. “We’re calling in reinforcements. This is Santa’s mess; he can come clean it up. I want to be back in Port Harbor by the time Lexi and the faeries start their midnight snack on Christmas eve.”

  “What are you planning on writing? Dear Santa, if you want to see your elf alive again…?” Mag affected a deep, Italian accented voice in a perfect impression of Don Corleone.

  “You really don’t want any gifts this year, do you?” Clara chided, but the reproach held no weight considering the gigantic smile on her face. She might be a big, fat, pain in the badonkadonk, but Clara wouldn’t change her sister for all the magic in the world.

  Chapter Four

  Held at the town hall, the Harmony Holiday Hullabaloo had Gertrude Granger written all over it. In glitter and canned snow. Armed with the enchanted thermometer and very little information about who they were looking for, the Balefire sisters braved the winter wonderland-themed party. The decorating committee had outdone themselves in shades of blue and silver and white.

  “Hagatha would have had a field day with this,” Mag commented when she got a look around the room. Coven members made up a tiny portion of the attendees with the rest of the throng being townsfolk who weren’t supposed to know they lived among the magically inclined. “Good job convincing her we were too stupid to look after the elf without her help.”

  “Speaking of Evergreen, we have to figure this out fast. Look!” Evergreen’s spirit meter showed the barest hint of glimmer at the lower end of the glass. “We’re almost out of time.” Whispering loudly, Clara poked Mag with her elbow.

  “Think I don’t know that?” Mag scanned the crowded room with an eagle-sharp gaze. Hopped up on the excess of Christmas spirit thanks to Gertrude’s ministrations, several likely suspects sported sparkling auras more dense than the rest of the spirit coloring the air. She dragged Clara toward the front end of the great hall and through the door where a set of steps led to a curtained stage.

  Dust lifted off thick blue velvet when Mag twitched it aside to peer out over the crowd from the elevated platform that gave a better vantage point.

  “I count six possibles,” she said.

  “Same here. We can rule out Gertrude and her familiar, don’t you think? That leaves four.”

  “And I think those two kids are probably okay, too. They’re too young to be that diabolical.”

  Together, Mag and Clara focused their attention on the remaining two people who stood out.

  “I’ll take the guy dressed up as Santa; you get the other one.” Fake Santa’s laugh, to Clara’s practiced ear, held a note of derision at odds with the amount of Christmas spirit pouring off him. She’d have laid a crisp hundred dollar bill on him being the culprit if anyone had been taking bets.

  The other suspect was a twenty-something looking girl with a mane of curly dark hair falling over the collar of a hand-knitted sweater in a white snowflake pattern scattered over an ice-blue background. Shorter than most of the adults, but taller than the children, she flitted in and out of the crowd without speaking to anyone.

  “Deal.” Mag chortled, and without further ado, the sisters filed back into the main hall to track their quarry. Clara made a beeline for Santa while Mag ambled in the direction snowflake sweater girl had gone.

  “Excuse me, might I…”

  “Out of the way, lady. I got something I gotta do.” Fake Santa dodged past Clara and lurched toward the side door while her heart thundered in her chest. He must be guilty if he was trying to make a break for it, but how had he figured out she was onto him?

  “Stop.” Power sizzled up from the source of Clara’s magic, from the place in her center that owed everything to the mighty Balefire from which she took her name. The command scorched the air between her mouth and where it landed on the cheap fuzzy back of his red coat.

  Santa stopped so fast his top half continued on a pace longer than his feet had carried him and he overbalanced to land on in a heap on the floor. People rushed to cluster around the fallen man, but Clara was already on her knees beside him.

  “What happened?” The muffled question came out from behind a beard that had been knocked askew in the fall. Wannabe Santa ripped off his stocking cap, yanked the elastic band off over his head, and spit out strands of fluffy white. Annoyed, he tossed the beard and hat away and turned his face toward Clara. Bald and wearing makeup to simulate rosy cheeks, the man didn’t seem like much of a threat.

  “Why were you leaving in such a hurry?”

  “Look, I just need to go to the can. Some kid peed on my leg, and I gotta clean up the suit. It’s rented.”

  Squinting, Clara took sto
ck of the Christmas spirit swirling around him. All of it came from the suit, none from the man. She’d made a mistake. Of course, she had. Hundreds of children speaking their Christmas wishes to the man in the faux fur would imbue the suit with enough spirit to be seen from space.

  “Sorry. Here, let me help you.” Clara braced herself and yanked fake Santa to his feet before searching for her sister.

  Despite Mag’s assurances that her advanced age only went skin deep, her slower pace allowed Clara to catch up.

  “Not Santa,” Clara said as she rocketed around her sister to cannon into the back of the second suspect. No small woman, Clara’s tender mercies nearly knocked the poor thing off her feet, and in the ensuing scuffle to get the younger woman righted, exposed the merest hint of a pointed ear lurking under the riot of hair.

  “Oh, I am sorry. I didn’t see you standing there. Are you all right?” Acting concerned, Clara grasped the woman’s arm firmly and leaned down to make eye contact. “My name is Clara, and I’m such a klutz sometimes. This is the second time I’ve knocked someone over in the last five minutes.” While she prattled on, Mag had time to catch up.

  “My sister is a hazard to herself and others. Allow me to apologize on her behalf. Are you hurt, Miss…”

  “Jackie. Jackie Frost.”

  The name fit what little the elf had been able to say before he passed out.

  “Miss Frost?” Solicitously leading Jackie Frost toward a less populated area, Mag peppered her captive with questions.

  “We’re new in town. Have you lived here long? Did you help with the party? Everything looks so festive, and the people are so nice. It’s nothing like the city where we used to live.”

  Clara held back a snort when her sister put on a voice to match the doddering exterior she displayed to the world. There’s nothing more harmless than a little old lady with a cane. Unless that little old lady was Margaret Balefire, who possessed a keen intellect and a rare gift of magic that had been passed down through the family line. Jackie Frost didn’t stand a chance.