Holiday Magick (47 page)

Blue shook his head. “I dunno, hopefully nothing. I'd like them to leave us alone forever. It's not like we can hurt them. Mangled, we can shoot but…there's no defending ourselves against the Tempests.”

“Will you share your food with us?” Hannah asked again, stepping closer to him. “On this night of celebration? Like they did on the first Thanksgiving?”

Seconds ticked by slowly, almost physically, as Blue considered her question. Giving had always been looked upon as a positive thing, a necessary thing, back in the days of cell phones and video games and instant mac and cheese. Giving had been part of good manners, of religion, of becoming a functioning cog in the machine of society.

But survival was ugly, and it was selfish.

Finally, Blue nodded. “All right. You can join us this evening…it
is
Thanksgiving, after all. We don't have a lot to share, but we'll do what we can.”

As they turned to head back to the crater, Blue caught Nicolas's death glare. Oh well. Blue was the leader; he would have to hold himself responsible later for his decisions. And perhaps in some grand scale of ancient fairness, his offer of generosity would be rewarded. Perhaps rain would be sent to them or they'd be led to a stash of supplies in a dingy basement somewhere.

Blue led the way down one of the ladders and into the crater. A hush fell over the camp, because many of the children hadn't seen strangers in a very long time, and all eyes seemed to be fixed directly on Hannah.

“We have guests tonight,” Blue said, his voice not as strong as he wanted it to be. He cleared his throat and spoke again. “They're going to join us for Thanksgiving.”

Danny picked his way through the small crowd and stood at Blue's side, peering at Hannah with wide, curious eyes.

“Let us sit down,” Hannah said. “And let us eat.”

Nicolas kept his shotgun, even after everyone had formed a messy circle and attempted to return to the ‘feasting' that had been taking place before the interruption. Hannah and her two companions were given plates, and food, and after a few tense moments, someone made a joke that set those around him laughing. The mood shifted, slowly but surely, to something more lighthearted. One of the pipsqueaks got up and sang a few off-key notes of a song she'd made up. One of the teenagers slapped his friend good-naturedly on the back so hard that food shot out of his mouth.

Blue hadn't heard so much laughter in a long time, so he decided against jumping into the more serious discussions he'd planned for their feast.

No matter how happy the faces looked, though, or how much laughter brushed his ears, Blue couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. He'd left his rifle in its usual spot, but found his fingers straying to the gun at his side more often than he wanted to admit.

Danny noticed it first, though.

The pipsqueak stopped eating, mid-chew, and his eyes bulged. He pointed to Hannah with a grubby finger, choking out, “She's…she's… her eyes!” he said.

Blue dropped his plate as he swung his head to look at their visitor. He'd heard those words before, “look at her eyes!” when he was all of twenty and sitting beside his little sister in their expensive kitchen, surrounded by expensive appliances, talking to friends on expensive gadgets. He'd heard those words just before their mother (or, something evil in the shape of their mother) had tried to murder both of them, her eyes ablaze with the sickening blue flame of the Tempests. His sister had ended up a Mangled. Blue had barely escaped.

A scream erupted from near Blue, but he didn't have time to look or speak. He and Nicolas leapt to their feet at the same moment. Nicolas fired once, twice, taking down Hannah's companions, who were closer to him. He shot Hannah next, but the bullet whizzed through her as if she was made of smoke.

“You poor fool…they were not my kind,” she whispered in an eerie new voice, casting a glance on her fallen companions and the blood that pooled around them.

Blue reached out, grabbing the barrel of Nicolas's gun before he could shoot again. “Stop,” he whispered, though he never looked away from Hannah. “Have you always been…?”

“Of course not. Hannah didn't want to bargain with me, so…” The Tempest shrugged, smiling. “It cost her several of her followers. And of course, herself. Selfishness and greed are such ugly things, aren't they?” The Tempest peered at Blue, silent for a few seconds. “You, you've been selfish many times. But you've also sacrificed. You've offered thanks.”

Though his throat burned with horror and unspoken words, Blue managed to say, “Yes.”

“How much
would
you be willing to sacrifice?” the Tempest whispered, and somehow, Blue felt he might be the only one who could hear her voice. He willed everyone to stay put, to keep silent. If she touched them, she would infect them, and turn their minds to the insane, violent state of the Mangled. But perhaps it was possible to talk her down. Blue had certainly gotten himself out of dangerous situations before…

“We're thankful for our safety,” he said. “And we give you our gratitude. We only want peace with you. We'll set aside this day for you, every year, if that means something.” Desperation flowered within him as she failed to respond, and the situation slipped further and further from Blue's control. Since the original attack that had destroyed most of the world's population, Blue had never been faced with a Tempest. Mangleds were one thing…mindless and stupid and still vulnerable to a knife in the neck. But the Tempests were something else altogether, ancient and powerful spirit beings that could take on the form of a human or dissolve into shapeless destruction.

“We'll invite you,” Blue said. “We can celebrate together, all of us, in peace. It'll be like Thanksgiving. Do you know that story? The new settlers invited the natives to eat with them and…and celebrate the fruit of the land. It was…it was their way of…it was peace.” He locked eyes with her and whispered, “Please.”

Suddenly, the silence was broken by Danny running at the Tempest, the flash of a tiny blade in his hand. He threw himself at her, stabbing again and again and again and again. Finally, the Tempest grabbed hold of him, her hands shimmering with the power of whatever awful sort of being she was.

“You may be forgiven this once,” she said, looking up and meeting Blue's eyes again. “Your sacrifices and gratefulness have saved you. But now you face another sacrifice.”

Danny shook in her grip, his eyes taking on the glazed mark of the Mangled.

The Tempest released Danny. “I will be back next year for your day of peace. In the meantime, be careful of your choices,” she said, dissolved out of the assumed form of Hannah, and disappeared from sight…soaked into the ground, drawn back to the center of the earth.

“He's been infected,” Nicolas shouted. “Keep away from him!”

If Danny was approached, he would know nothing more than to destroy. His mind was now filled with only violence and death, wanting to kill everyone around him with an empty-eyed glee.

“Keep away!” Nicolas shouted again.

Blue drew his gun from his hip and shot Danny dead.

The holiday now known as Christmas has undergone some drastic changes since its first observance hundreds of years ago. Ancient Yule celebrations, adopted and adapted by the Christ-worshipping Roman Empire, made the occasion familiar to the various cultures that it ruled over. With the passage of time, traditions were added and subtracted to better suit the interests of the masses. People in Northern Europe believed that the Krampus was a creature that doled out punishments to the children who did not deserve presents. Most of the world, however, has never heard of him or has forgotten him, just like people have forgotten England's tradition of telling ghost stories, or the Irish custom of cleaning the outhouse before Christmas.

What happens to those traditions that are left behind? What about the characters of Christmases past who are cast aside in the name of progress? What happens to them?

Barry thought he had a pretty serviceable constitution; he couldn't win any actual drinking contests, but he could spend a night at the tavern without losing himself. So when a seven-foot-tall goatman with fiery red eyes and crooked black teeth appeared on the stool next to his, he couldn't just chalk it up to the half-pint of beer he had already knocked back. The monster raised a gnarled claw, and when it spoke, it sounded like a man who used acid for mouthwash: “Barman! Burton Ale over here.” The barman filled a mug and passed it over, but his eyes never met the customer's face.

As the dark brew vanished into the creature's horrible gullet, Barry braced himself with a swig and turned to his new neighbor. “Are you Satan?” he inquired in what he hoped wasn't a particularly fearful voice. The creature guffawed repulsively, flecks of spit and drink spattering the bar.

“Ha-hagh! If only. Satan's a big name. Satan gets
respect
. He's got his own damned religion, bratty teens think he's the height of fashion, and he still scares the crap out of most folk. Every time some holy man sees something he doesn't like, first thing he says is, ‘Oh, it's the work of Satan, no doubt!' That's free publicity right there, and he doesn't even have to lift a finger for it. Hell, I'd give my left horn to be Baphomet, or Asmodeus, or any one of those old glorious bastards. Demons have it easy, I tell you.” The creature ruefully inspected the bottom of its mug and waved it in the air. “Another ale!”

Barry was resigning himself to a conversation with the beast; no one else seemed to notice it, but they didn't seem to notice
him
talking to it either. Whether or not he was going crazy, at least no one would think he was. “So you're not a demon?” he asked. “What are you, then?”

The not-demon thumped its mug on the bar and straightened up, its curved horns threatening a nearby lighting fixture. “I am the one and only Krampus! Also known as Père Fouettard, Zwarte Piet, Belsnickel, and a host of equally fearsome names!” It looked down expectantly at Barry, who stared back with an expression of blank-faced concern, and then fell back into a weary slouch. “None of those mean anything to you, do they?” Barry shook his head apologetically. The one and only Krampus sighed and returned to its mug. “I'm used to it.”

Barry began to feel pity for the monster; perhaps it was one of those misunderstood grotesques that people were always writing books about, like Frankenstein's creation. “Why? What exactly does that mean?” he asked, trying to sound sympathetic.

“I used to have a good thing going for me,” the Krampus replied. “Once every year, Saint Nicholas, or whatever you want to call him, would tromp from door to door, with a bag full of presents and sweets for the good little girls and boys. But what about the bad ones, eh? That's where I came in; I'd be walking right behind him, always looking over his shoulder, scoping out the little brats who hit their siblings and talked back to their parents. Oh, the guilty looks on their faces when they saw me coming…” It made a horrible little chuckle that sounded distressingly similar to someone choking.