The Master (37 page)

He looked down at Zee and smoothed back the golden hair that fell like a veil over her face, and he felt a stab of pure, sweet emotion, right through his awakened heart. There were some things that a man did only once—like falling deeply in love. He was born one time, and he died one time . . .

Unless he's a coward. Then I think the quoted number is one thousand,
Nick's ghost's voice said.

I wondered where you'd been! I have a bone to pick with you. I've been doing some research, and the Ghost of Christmas Future was supposed to be the silent one. Didn't you ever read the story?

Oops, guess I got that part wrong.
The ghost laughed.

Nick squinted down at the pale face forming in the healing pool. He hadn't seen it for some time, and he found himself smiling at the reflection.

Sorry to interrupt your beautiful thoughts, but I'm leaving you now and wanted to say good-bye.

What? Why?

You're on the right path. I need to be getting on to what comes next.

The right path. How can you say that?
Nick asked.
I'm as confused as ever about what to do, and I could use some advice. Are you certain you have to leave this instant?

Yes, I'm sure. You have Zee now—and many other fine friends to guide you. You don't need me.
The ghost smiled, but already he was looking more tired and pale.
Come on, Nick. You don't really think I'd stop nagging if I didn't know you were doing the right thing, do you?

That gave Nick pause.

So you think it's wise to give up our outside life when the baby is born? That we can be happy here?

Oh, yes. Only give things up when you have to, but don't turn away from the best thing that's ever happened to you. Not for anything. And especially not because you're upset and confused at having lots of happiness, love and friendship thrust upon you,
the ghost said slyly.

Put that way, Nick's continued worry and resistance did seem rather stupid.

What will happen to you now?
he asked the watery figure. The ghost's smile widened, and for a moment his image grew stronger.

Don't you get it? We're both going to live happily ever after.

Really?

Really. Good-bye, Nick. You take care of us. Our future is in your hands.

But . . . Well, good-bye. Be well.

Merry we meet, merry we part, merry we meet again.
The ghost saluted, and his shadowy image gradually faded away, leaving Nick feeling slightly bereft but also hopeful.

“What was that?” Thomas asked, leaning over the water.

“What? Did you see something?” Nick asked, curious and startled. Could someone else have seen his ghost?

“I—I don't know. I guess it might have been your reflection,” Thomas said. He shook his head and snorted. “Of course that's what I saw. Sorry, Nick. The last couple of days have left me a bit jumpy.”

“I think we're all that way,” Nick answered.

But everything was basically back to normal—or as normal as things ever were anymore. The children had all been returned, apparently without physical harm. The respectable news outlets who had any knowledge had been bribed into silence by the goblins who had—belatedly—decided that a preemptive strike against Qasim in which they murdered all the human children and hid their bodies where they would never be found might have been somewhat ill-advised. And while wild rumors were flying around the Internet about the event, and at Humans Under Ground, so far, aliens from outer space were being blamed by the conspiracy theorists. There would still likely be one or two repercussions, but there was time before the feys at Cadalach would learn what they were.

“So, do we attack Lobineau for what he did? He had to know what the corpse powder was for,” Nick added, changing the subject. A part of him marveled at how calmly he could now talk about killing goblins. He hadn't thought of himself as a vengeful man, but almost losing Zee had changed that.

“No. He was helping Qasim, of course, and Qasim is dead. Anyway, better the devil we know. For now. And he has been punished—sudden massive withdrawals have happened in his bank accounts.” Thomas smiled a bit grimly. “The money is going to the families of those kidnapped children to pay for any counseling they might need down the road.”

Roman suddenly galloped into the garden on noisy hoofs. In horse form, he had Mathias and Hansel on his back, their small hands wrapped in his mane as they shrieked with laughter. Nick looked at the prancing pooka and felt his seriousness shaken loose by the sound of Roman's whinnying—it sounded like laughter.

Yes, this was a good place. It was good for Zee as well. And when he stayed here, his children would grow up loved and knowing exactly who and what they were.

Jeffrey woke up vaguely alarmed, though his eyes told him that he was in his own bedroom and everything looked as it had the last time he'd seen it. He had a vague memory of a really scary dream where the Santa Claus at the mall was a monster who chased him. But it had just been a dream. His mother had told him that he was sick. That he had had a bad fever, and had wandered away from the mall and out into the desert. While he had been ill he had been suffering from
hill-lucy-nations
—bad dreams caused by his high temperature—but none of the scary things he remembered were real, and he was all better now. All the children who were sick had gotten better.

Which was great. He never wanted to have bad dreams like that again. It sucked that he had missed Christmas, though. They were going to have another Christmas on the weekend, with Grandma and Grandpa. And his mom had already gotten him a bike. There'd be extra presents then, as well as a turkey. But it wouldn't be the same as
Christmas
Christmas.

Oh, well; one good thing had come from his adventure: His mother's terrorist boyfriend, Ee-Em, had gotten tired of looking for him and, after shouting at the police, who thought maybe he had kidnapped Jeffrey, he had left in a huff. Now it was just Jeffrey and his mom again. That was the way it should be. Nobody needed stupid terrorists in their home.

Nick and Zee wandered through the farmers' market, looking for souvenirs to take back to the kids at Cadalach and sharing a bag of kettle corn— something Zee craved regularly now that her pregnancy had advanced into its sixth month. Today was special because it was the summer solstice. It was also their last day before returning to Cadalach. Nick was taking no risks; he wanted her near Zayn and Qasim's heart.

Nick was distracted by a medicinal herb vendor and turned away to talk shop; since working with Zayn, he had grown increasingly more interested in treating ailments through herbs. But Zee was too restless for another long lecture on plant medicine, and she continued to wander through the stalls until she reached the end of the aisle where there was a small cardboard box under a green umbrella. It said: kittens—free to a good home.

Reeeowww
.

Heart beating a little too quickly, Zee approached the box. All the kittens were asleep, except a tan one with black ear-markings and huge yellow eyes that studied Zee without blinking.

It was
her. Bastet!
Zee was certain. She hadn't seen the cat since Qasim's sacrifice.

With shaking hands, Zee reached for the kitten and lifted it carefully. “Which of your nine lives are you on?” she whispered to the baby feline with ancient eyes.

Reeow, it said again.

“I'm sorry, love,” Nick said, coming up beside her. He had a small pot of Greek oregano in his right hand. “I know I get distracted at these things. There's just so much to learn.”

Zee cuddled the kitten close in a tentative embrace, letting it rest on her slightly swollen belly. The new Bastet put her ear to Zee's tummy and began to purr. Zee shivered at this further sign.

“I take it you want this kitten?” Nick asked with a smile. “Cats seem to do fine at Cadalach. Probably because they are uncanny creatures themselves.”

“Yes, she's meant to be ours. The kids will love her, don't you think?” Zee asked, stroking the cat's velvet ears. “Maybe I'll call her Bastet.”

“That's a lovely name,” Nick said.

And Bastet smiled.

“I found him!” Abrial announced as he walked in on Midsummer's Eve dinner. “Kris. I found him.”

“Kris Kringle?” Thomas asked, putting down his fork and looking at Jack and then back at Abrial. “The one and only Santa Claus?”

“Where is he?” Jack asked. He sounded resigned.

“Up north—where we expected. He's been wandering the wastelands, living with the polar bears and seals. He's suffering from total amnesia, and I'm betting it's either a goblin drug that did it or one of Mabigon's nastier hexes.” Abrial's voice held distaste for the dead Unseelie queen.

“What are we going to do?” Thomas asked. He couldn't keep the awe from his voice. Kris Kringle was a legend, and not just in the human world. He was a death fey who'd completely renounced his magical destiny and gone to do good works among the humans. He had been—at the time of disappearance, and even after—the best ambassador of goodwill the fey had ever had. Nowadays, everyone thought he was just a legend, a charming folk story. They no longer recalled that Kris Nicholas Kringle, Santa Claus, the Saint, had been real.

“What will we do? I'll go and get him, of course,” Jack said. “I can't very well leave my great-uncle living with polar bears.”

“Well, damn,” Thomas said, exhaling slowly. “Have you thought about what this means—what he'll do when he remembers?”

“Yes,” Jack answered slowly. “And it's a bit daunting, I must admit. But our way of holding back the tide can't work forever. We juggle well, but someday we will drop the ball and there will be war—unless we can convince the world that it no longer needs to fight. Anyway,” he added with a wink, “don't you think it's time we took Christmas back from the merchants and the unbelievers?”

And the three feys sat and contemplated the magic yet to come.

Dear Reader,

It's a bit unusual to urge readers away from a book, but I am doing it. I'm making an earnest plea right up front. If you haven't read the other four books in the Wildside series, please go back and do so before you read this one. The experience will be much more fulfilling, believe me. At the very least, read
Still Life
. I don't want you lost in the strange lands of goblins without an understanding of the terrain you wander through. In order, the stories are
Traveler
,
Outsiders
,
The
Courier
, and
Still Life
.

That said, though this book travels deep in the goblin lands, it is also about something familiar to most of you: Christmas. The Yule season was always an important and beloved holiday in our family. It was my grandfather's firm belief—expressed often over an acre of warm Christmas cookies and homemade apricot wine—that if you are too old to enjoy the holidays, then you are probably too old to enjoy any of the things that make life worthwhile. And the rest of us enthusiastically agree. I throw kisses at his shade and think of him every year when I bake sugar cookies, dye Easter eggs, or carve jack-o-lanterns.

Given this background, it took some imagination stretching to envision someone who didn't like the holiday, and others who had never had the pleasure of celebrating Yule when they were young enough to truly feel the magic. But with my own grandfather's Christmas spirit to direct me, leading the misguided Nick and the innocent Finvarras to festive salvation was a pleasure.

Qasim was a harder case, but I like to think of him being redeemed too. Salvation has to be possible for all of us— and he wasn't so much evil as a creation gone wrong. And like Qasim, I also grieve for Wren and hate what the goblins did to her. However, like her namesakes in Wales and Ireland that are sacrificed so cruelly on St. Stephen's Day, she too played a part in Fate's plan.

On a lighter note, the packrat/imp story is true. Just ask Carolyn Johnson, who got to pay for a tow and to replace her car's wiring after a visit to Arizona when the rodents made a mess of her engine.

Also, Nick's lethal eggnog is not a fantasy and actually came from a horror writer friend, H. R. Knight. If you are feeling intrepid, below is Harry's recipe for one of life's real ambrosias.

 

 

As always, I love to hear from you. Below are email and snail mail addresses, so don't be shy.

 

Happy holidays the whole year through,

 

Melanie Jackson

 

www.melaniejackson.com

[email protected]

P.O. Box 574

Sonora, CA 95370-0574