Amy didn’t fight the tears that slid hot down her cold cheeks. She wrapped her arms around Dusty and held him and laughed and cried some more.
She pulled the delicate bubble of blown glass from her pocket and hung it from one of the tree’s slender branches. There it filled with moonlight and hope and joy.
“It’s…” she had to swallow hard to speak. “It’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.” She could only look at the young tree with its new bauble, for some reason she couldn’t turn to look at Dusty.
“Well,” Dusty considered Amy’s profile and wondered for the hundredth time if he was about to do the stupidest idea he’d ever thought up. Of course that had never stopped him before.
A decade ago, the day before Dusty first reported for basic training, his father had stood with him by the Rosa canina, the old Briar Rose. They had stood a long time in comfortable silence, the summer tourists flowing past the two silent men entranced by a single rose bush among ten thousand.
“Your heart knows it is right for you to go into the Army,” his father had spoken softly. “If you always listen to it, you will make no mistakes, at least not about things that are important.”
Dusty heard his heart clearly and knew it was the right choice as he gently turned Amy to face him and he looked down at the tracks of her joyous tears still glistening in the moonlight. He just hoped she thought it was right too.
Again he kissed her long and deep before setting his hands on her waist and stepping her back a half step so that he could form a complete thought.
“Amy?”
“Yes, Dustin?” He liked that she’d started using his full name.
“There’s something I have for you that I hope you’ll wear some day. It’s far too soon, but I know it has to be here, on this night of Christmas Eve, in front of this young willow tree. I hope, Amy Patterson, that someday you’ll want to wear this.”
He reached into his pocket, then held out his hand before her. In the center of his palm lay the circle of gold with a square-cut diamond he’d chosen that afternoon. It caught the moonlight and glittered.
Amy studied his hand in silence for a long time. She pulled off her right glove and reached out to trace a tentative fingertip once around the circle of gold before withdrawing her hand.
Then she looked up at him, studying him, clearly thinking hard. Maybe he understood his father’s silence a little better now, as Dusty found himself struck dumb, mute before this beautiful and amazing woman.
“I think…” Amy’s face revealed nothing to him as she inspected his face.
Then a smile flowed across her features as she pulled off her left glove and held her hand out to him.
“I think I’d like to start wearing it now.”
***
Young Willow liked the little bubble of blown glass that caught the moonlight, and the reflection of the people past and present. Amelia and Hiroshi. Amy and Dustin. Old pain might run deep, but Young Willow knew, this love would always run as fresh as spring rushing to brighten new leaves, born of the Christmas cold and the moon bright.
Young Willow knew that the ghost of Old Willow would agree that they’d done well.
Note:
For over ninety years Old Willow (actually a weeping beech which looks like a willow) stood in the heart of the International Rose Test Garden in Portland, Oregon. It was removed for safety reasons in early 2012 and replaced at the turn of the year in 2013 by a young flowering magnolia in the same planting bed (A89).
Introduction to “Toasted”
A New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling writer, Mary Jo Putney writes everything from what she calls Jane-Austen-ish Regency romances to historical fantasy with real history and not-so-real mages. Her most recent Regency novel, Sometimes A Rogue, appeared in September. You can find out about all her series, including the magical Guardians series, on her website, maryjoputney.com.
I discovered Mary Jo Putney through her Regency romances, in particular her classic novel, The Rake and The Reformer, and have proceeded to read everything she’s done, including the romantic suspense novels she hasn’t mentioned here. (She’s reissuing all of her older novels in e-book format.) She helped me through my first Romance Writers of America convention, and I was able to return the favor by helping her through her first science fiction convention.
When I asked writers to join Christmas Ghosts, I let them choose what they wanted to write. I had no idea what I’d get from Mary Jo because she’s done so many things. I just knew the story would be superb—and it is.
She writes, “Though I’m known mostly as a romance writer, I read sff long before I discovered romance, and I love writing fantasy. My Guardian series is about human families with magical gifts and a very low profile. In the three full length 18th century novels, their work behind the scenes produced history as we know it.” She connected those stories to “Toasted.”
“In short stories I can play,” she continues, “and where better than New York City for Christmas ghosts???”
Toasted
Mary Jo Putney
“HELPPPPP!!!!!”
The silent scream rang in my head, waking me from a deep and much deserved sleep. With a groan, I rolled over and dragged a pillow over my head. I was off duty, dammit, and some other doctor could answer the page.
“HELPPPPP!!!!!”
The scream was back even louder, and I woke enough to realize that I wasn’t home in Boston, but lying in an obscenely comfortable bed in a boutique hotel off Fifth Avenue. I rubbed my chin since bristle length was a good way of judging how long I’d been on duty at the hospital. About three days’ worth. Right, I’d come off duty and gone straight for the train station. Christmas in New York was my holiday present to myself. Bright lights, big city, endless carols.
But though I could leave the hospital, there was no holiday from ghosts. Usually they were a gentle presence, easy to greet and send off to the Light. This one was unusually annoying. And strong. I opened my eyes to see a softly glowing shape sitting on my chest, rather like a cat I’d had once. “HELPPPPP!!!!!”
The ghost was in terrible pain, I realized. Newly dead, still vibrating with death agonies, and desperate to communicate a last message. Instinctively I reached out with my inner senses to lessen the pain, a skill I developed before I learned to read and write.
When the pain had diminished to more bearable levels, I communicated with the ghost, speaking aloud to focus my reply. “I’ll help if I can. What’s wrong?”
I felt a sense of relief coming from the frantic entity. “Come with me, come with me, come with meeeeee!”
I didn’t hear actual words, of course, more like telepathic understanding. “First I need to know what’s needed. Settle down and let me study you.”
The energy jittered a little, then stilled. I called on inner senses as I analyzed the ghost. “You’re female and young and newly dead, yes?”
The ghost bounced, tickling me. “Yesss.”
“Hold still, I need more information.” I slowly moved my hand into the ghost. She had a lovely energy, vibrant. I’d say full of life, except that she was a ghost.
I caught my breath as our energies snapped into resonance together. “You’re a Guardian like me, aren’t you?”
She bounced again. “Yes, yes, yesss!”
“Really, you don’t need to say things three times. You have some important task to accomplish before you can let go and follow the Light?”
“Yesss.”
At least she said it only once. I sat up and considered turning on the bedside lamp, but that would make her harder to see. We Guardians come from families in which magical abilities run very strong. We’re sworn to help those in need, and not to cause damage. We also keep a low profile—ancestral memory is very strong where witch burnings are involved.
Most of us have one particularly strong talent, and we’re drawn to fields where we can use those talents. I’m a healer, which is why I be
came a doctor. “What kind of Guardian are you?”
“Hunter…”
My brows arched. Female hunters aren’t unknown, but they’re rare. “Were you killed while hunting?”
“Yes. Children stolen! Hurt! Danger!”
That got me out of my comfortable bed in a finger snap. “Do you want me to call 911 to get help for the children quickly?”
“Can’t explain…where.” Her energy vibrated with frustration. “Can guide you.”
“So guide me and I’ll call 911 as soon as I have the location. Then maybe I can help any injured children.” I started grabbing clothes from the chair where I’d thrown them. “My name is Simon Harlowe. And you are?”
“Rebecca. Malmain.”
The Malmain family is famous for producing hunters and enforcers. Tough as nails and rock solid integrity. I narrowed my eyes as I studied her ghost. She’d been coming into better focus as we talked. The Malmains were famously tall and blond and scary good looking as well as just plain scary, but Rebecca seemed smaller and darker than most of her family. I pulled on my jeans, wishing I’d met her when she was alive.
The winds can be very cutting through the skyscraper canyons of New York City so I wore several layers. No time to shave so I probably looked homeless, but no matter. I headed out. “Where to, my ghostly friend?”
“Not far. First, to Fifth Avenue.” The wind was blasting when I stepped out of the hotel onto the sidewalk. A bundled up fellow from somewhere in the Middle East was presiding over a brazier and selling hot chestnuts. Since I hadn’t eaten all day, I bought a bagful and ate as I quickly walked the two blocks to Fifth Avenue.
This close to Christmas, the streets were jammed with shoppers and stores dazzled with their displays as familiar carols laced through the clamor of people and traffic. In spite of the busyness, there was a general good-natured air. I blinked at the sight of rhinestone leopards climbing the walls of a famous jeweler. “Now where?”
“Turn…right. Be…careful. Danger.”
I frowned as I obeyed. “Danger from whoever attacked you and the children?”
“Yesss.” There was a silence and I sensed she was trying to organize her thoughts. “Not…human.”
My frown deepened. “Some kind of energy being?”
“Demon.”
I swore under my breath. Negative energy beings were rare but dangerous. They were often behind mysterious, inexplicable crimes. No one knows where they come from. Maybe the pits of hell, or outer space, or an alternative dimension. The Guardian hunters who occasionally had to deal with such creatures just say demons. “I can fix physical injuries, but damned if I know how to handle a demon.”
“I’ll protect you.”
“But you’re dead,” I blurted out, then wondered if it was rude to point that out.
“Won’t…go to Light…till children safe!”
Rebecca Malmain was one hell of a woman. Or she had been.
I continued fighting my way through the crowds, giving barely a glance to the gigantic Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. I almost got run over by a man staggering under a huge box, and I tripped over a little boy who should have been home in bed. Unhurt, he stuck his tongue out at me as I apologized and moved on.
“Left.”
I obeyed, heading east toward Grand Central Station. The crowds thinned out some, which was a relief. But with less distraction from shoppers, I began sensing images from Rebecca’s mind. A huge-eyed little blond girl, her hand held by an older black girl. Identical boy twins, maybe about eight. A dark-skinned girl with straight, shining black hair, and a redheaded boy who looked Irish. All of them frightened and huddled together. I wasn’t sure if this was real time, as they were now, or as Rebecca saw them when they were taken.
I was passing the mouth of a narrow alley when something blasted me into the alley and against a wall. It was a black, sucking hole of vicious energy. The demon? So that’s what one was like!
As I fell, stunned, against the cold brick, the glowing light of Rebecca’s ghost came between me and the demon. Dear God, it was going to suck her away to whatever hell had produced it!
Instinctively I threw up my right hand so that I connected with Rebecca’s energy. I felt the rush as my power joined to hers and she flared larger and brighter. Her fierceness was dazzling, and the demon retreated, then vanished like a popped bubble.
I sagged against the building that made one side of the alley and had just enough sense and power to produce a don’t-see spell. Any passersby on the street a few yards away would not be inclined to look in my direction.
What the hell had I gotten myself into? Rebecca was so dim I could barely see her. Weakly she asked, “Are you all right, Simon?”
She was like a delicate scarf of warm light wrapped around me. “I’m rattled but okay. I can hear you much more clearly now. Because we shared energy?”
“Yesss.” Her words were almost a sigh. “But most of my power…gone. If the demon returns, I won’t be able to stop it.”
Tired though I was, I had more strength than she did. “Let me send you some power.” I visualized magical energy channeling from me to her. I couldn’t spare a lot just now, but it was enough to brighten her glow. I asked, “Can you tell me what happened with the children?”
“A small specialty toy store near here. Antique and rare European toys, expensive. Some magical. They have a Santa. I saw him possessed by demon. Led half a dozen children away and into tunnel below store.”
This just got better and better. “Does it connect with the subway system?”
“Not sure.” She flickered like a candle about to burn out. “Move quickly! The Light is pulling at me harder and harder. Don’t know…how long I can stay here.”
“Rebecca, hold on!” I said sharply. “I need to know where those children are! Once you give me a location you can go with my blessing.”
“Do…my best.” Her attenuated energy was saturated with pain and determination. “Find my body…then can tell you how to find children.”
I speeded up, cutting between shoppers ruthlessly. Rebecca had fallen silent and I was following the barest thread of her energy. Dammit, don’t leave, Rebecca!
The thread led me into a side street. There were several small and surely very pricey shops. Oriental curios. Antique snuffboxes and smoking accessories. Toys. I halted in front of the shop, which was on the corner of the side street and a narrow alley. “Devilish Delights” was carved on the wooden sign above the door, and the shop window was filled with the most extraordinary toys I’d ever seen.
Clockwork mechanisms that belonged in the Metropolitan Museum sat next to exquisitely crafted antique dolls. Sets of toy soldiers wearing ancient uniforms clustered around a rocking horse with an evil eye and a frayed tail. And yes, many of the toys had a glow of magic. No wonder this shop had attracted a demon. I couldn’t see anyone inside, and the door was locked when I tried the knob.
“Right. Down the alley.”
The wisp of energy led me to a shabby metal door. I guessed that it was right behind the toy store. Warily I tried the knob, and was relieved when it opened under my hand. My medical skill set doesn’t include picking locks.
I stepped into a shabby little storeroom with a door opposite the one I’d used. “Devilish Delights” was painted on it in faded red letters. I put my hand on the shop door’s knob, then yanked back as a blast of magic scorched my fingertips. Not really scorched—when I looked at my hand, there was no physical damage. But that was one nasty piece of magic laid on that door.
The room was piled with boxes that radiated low-grade magic. More toys, I guessed. A metal staircase wound downward from the far right corner. A dim globe of mage light clung to the wall above the steps. It must have been created by Rebecca before she headed down. Like her, the light was flickering out.
I touched the globe to brighten it, then hesitated. If I followed the trail down, would I end up like Rebecca? Quite apart from preferring to stay alive for sev
eral more decades, I wouldn’t be able to help those kids if I was dead.
But I needed to learn the location before Rebecca was gone. I did have a couple of magical defenses, so I mentally prepared in case one was needed and headed down and down and down.
The stairwell was old and neglected. Some kind of access portal from the old days when the subways were being built, maybe. As I moved beyond the range of the mage light above, I created another and carried it. At the bottom, I found a crumpled female body lying on her side.
Rebecca.
The faintest thread of light connected the ghost to her. I usually think of hunters as large and athletic, but she was petite and curvaceous. Her dark hair showed a glint of red in the mage light. She was dressed all in black like a junior ninja, her face a pale oval against her hoodie and her features slack with death. But in my mind I heard, “Hello…Simon. Here…just in time.”
“Hello, Rebecca.” I knelt beside her on the grungy concrete floor and laid a hand on her forehead in benediction. And caught my breath as I saw that the gossamer strand of vital energy was still connected to her solar plexus.
Scarcely believing, I turned my wrist so that the crystal watch face was directly in front of her mouth. The faintest of mists clouded the polished surface. “You’re actually still alive.”
“Close enough to dead that there’s no practical difference,” she thought with black humor. “Paralyzed. Can’t move…can barely breathe. As soon as I tell you how to find the children, I’ll let go. So…tired….”
“Don’t be in such a hurry! Wait till I’ve examined you.” Very gently, I placed my fingertips on both sides of her head, brushing aside her silky auburn hair. “I’m one of the rare healers who can work with nerves.”
Christmas Ghosts - Fiction River Page 12