Minor Warning for a reference to domestic abuse: don't worry. She's fine - Santa kills her abuser.
Yes I know prompt week was in May. Don't me. At least I got it out in the same year. I still have stuff in editing from last year.
Sometimes you just get to a point where your brain is the only one that works that way and have to write the thing yourself. I hope you all enjoy the chaos Nathaniel is in for as much as I enjoyed writing it. Title happily stolen from the 2022 movie of the same name.
For every prompt I pulled a three card spread with the first card being the one associated with the prompt post. Because my understanding of tarot beings and ends with "wow that's some quality artwork" do not be surprised when the spread and associated story have absolutely nothing to do with each other.
THE TIMES OF LONDON
DEC 3, 2008
THE FROST FEST IS ON: WINTER CHEER IS HERE!
Preparation for this year's annual Frost Fest are in full swing here in the London. Once again, our benevolent government - lead by the esteemed Prime Minister Devereaux - has seen it right that the capital of such a powerful and diverse empire should make a point to devote a few days around the Winter Solstice to festivities. The weather would sure agree these last few days! Its been wonderfully mild, with light snows - the perfect consistency for snowballs!
As last year, the Fest will cover three days of merrymaking; Pageants are being practiced, musical acts rehearsed, and practically every caterer has got some order for festive foods and drinks - nonalcoholic of course!
This year, eyes are on John Mandrake. This will be the first major holiday he would oversee as the new Head of Internal Affairs.
As many readers may recall, the former Head of Internal Affairs (see pg.3 for our Six Month Tribute to the "Much Lamented and Greatly Missed" Julius Tallow) tragically perished this summer. Bravely sacrificing his life to defend London from a hideous demon masquerading as the mortal remains of the great William Gladstone. Tallow's valiant efforts had played a major role in the successful destruction of the monster.
According to sources within the Security Ministry; subsequent investigations revealed that the beast had been called upon by a group of cowardly traitors. These villains - in league with the disgraced former Police Chief Henry Duvall - had no formal training in the complex and difficult magical arts. Naturally they immediately lost control of their monster. It slaughtered them and then turned its vile attentions upon London. Well, as they say "To be united by hatred is a fragile alliance at best."
Hopefully no such disgraceful behavior will ruin the upcoming winter festivities. But The Times is sure that Internal Affairs and our capable police force will be vigilant. Of course, John Mandrake has risen to every challenge laid before him yet. In all likelihood, the most difficult part of the upcoming holiday for the government's rising star will be picking out the perfect gift for the Internal Affairs Office (for This Years Hottest Gift Ideas, see pg.5)
QUENTIN MAKEPEACE PREMIERS NEW PAGENT!
Caving to fans of his work, talent playwright and famous local Quentin Makepeace will be premiering a new winter pageant at this years Frost Fest: A Festival of Snowflakes. "I cannot wait for you all to see it!" the Prime Minister's confidant told our reporter. "This year will be special - I am sure viewers will be awed..." interview continued on pg. 6)
CAR ACCIDENTS ON THE RISE.
The local metro police would like to remind all drivers that winter conditions leave the roads more dangerous than usual. Collisions are on the rise as drivers fail to take the increased risk into account. So far, the increase in accidents has yet to cause serious injury but police say its only a matter of time... (continued on pg. 4)
It was nine o'clock in the morning, and John Mandrake looked down at the cold corpse of Cassie Lorine. Who, until about ten hours ago had been the Chair of the Committee for Event Planning (under the auspice of the Information Ministry). He did not have time for this.
"I don't think I heard you right. Could you say that again?" he asked Ffloukes, who was bending to examine the unusual pentacle that had been drawn out on the floor.
"It sounds just as mad to me Sir." The other magician apologized, "But the circle was broken from the inside. Whatever she was trying to call up was almost certainly the culprit."
It was the only logical conclusion. But, then - "Then why was she killed with a ceramic pine tree? Demons aren't usually the type to go for bashing over the head." Nathaniel pointed to the remains of the offending decoration that still surrounded the corpse's head. "Demons also don't stop to raid the fridge for milk and cookies after killing."
Unfortunately, the universe didn't care: whatever had killed Lorine had decided to do both. "I want a report on what everything Lorine was researching by the end of the day." he checked the clock again in the hope it was running fast. But no, "Actually, make that first thing tomorrow. I have...rehearsals to get to." The reluctance for the last bit was a little too clear
Ffloukes chuckled. The other magician at least had the decency to try and conceal the noise as a cough. It was not an undeserved reaction: the writing was horrific, the dialogue trite, and he had to dress up as an animated hunk of wood.
Outside, his driver stood awkwardly by the car. They looked at each other for a minute and then she scrambled.
"Excuse me, Mr. Mandrake, sir. Still getting used to the chauffer thing." Ms. Ross apologized as she opened the door. "My last job was barely fancier than a taxi service."
"Roberts said you were his best." Actually, Roberts said she had a 'highly unique' interpretation of traffic regulations and received more police citations than most of his other driver's put together. But, Roberts also hadn't fired Joanna Ross despite her driving apparently being all downsides. That was a better recommendation than anything the man could have said.
"To the theater." his seatbelt had barely clicked before they where in traffic and accelerating. Whatever else you wanted to say about him, Roberts was not a liar.
Rehearsals went as well as they could have. By some miracle Makepeace's had improved: mostly. The plot was coherently constructed, the story had actual themes, and on paper the characters were interesting. Unfortunately, all the great intent in the world couldn't save the abysmal execution. Still, Nathaniel took great comfort in the fact that Makepeace's bubbly ward - and head of the technical crew - Elizabeth was taking Makepeace's latest travesty with a significant lack of grace. She'd spent the entire rehearsal glowering at the back of the playwright's head.
He found Fflouke's report in the exact middle of his desk.
"Mr. Mandrake, I read though Lorine's notes, and have come to the conclusion she was attempting to summon something called 'The Holiday Spirit". Due to other facts of the murder I believe the the same is -" Nathaniel didn't even finish the second sentence before heading for Ffloukes's desk.
His underling was saved from having the report slammed down on his desk, followed closely by a "are you out of your mind?" by an out of breath imp, bringing news of another whimsical murder. If you could call being strangled by holiday lights "whimsical".
The killer had brought the lights. Jasper Gold - legendarily nasty- certainly didn't own any. And just like at Lorine's there had been a post-mortem snack of cookies and milk.
So instead of questioning the other man's intelligence, Nathaniel just held up a hand to forestall whatever defense Ffloukes had prepared. "Considering how Jasper Gold was just murder, you have one minute to convince me."
Ffloukes spoke with the speed of a man who knew every second would be counted:
"So, the commoners have this memetic idea about a 'holiday spirit'. Sources listed a few different names. But whatever its called, the most common depiction is a cheery fat man in red or green who gives presents to good children and punishes bad ones. He enjoys milk and cookies, travels by flying reindeer pulled sleigh, and apparently lives at the North Pole of all places. I'm have it on good authority, that trying to bind it would count as naughty, and nobody has anything remotely nice to say about Gold."
'I'm sure you've noticed that neither of our victims - naughty or nice - could be considered children." Nathaniel probably should have been more annoyed about the implied 'discussing an ongoing investigation' thing. Everyone knew Ffloukes's 'source' when it came to anything commoner subspecific was his sister-in-law. But there were some fights it wasn't worth having: like the pictures of an admittedly adorable toddler that often appeared in his peripheral vision.
"Well, no." that sounded like it had been a hard admission to make. "But, clearly some escalation is taking place... Look, as strange as it sounds it does fit our facts: Cassie Lorine was obsessed with harnessing the power of this holiday spirit, Something busted out of her pentacle and killed her with a holiday decoration, Jasper Gold - also killed with a holiday decoration - was a textbook example of someone on the naughty list. Oh, and both houses had the fridge raided for cookies and milk. " Ffloukes had certainly been thorough.
"Your point is made" Unfortunately, it was hard to argue with bit about the cookies and milk. Unlike Tallow's response to a frustrating theory, Nathaniel wasn't just about to ignore a theory that annoyed him. "Do you have a solution to stop this... this thing, or am I going to have to explain to higher authorities the concept of a naughty list?"
Ffloukes didn't have an answer. "None of my research has ever covered this Santa going on a rampage. But if you want my advice, I'd get an appointment with Ms. Murrow. She's usually regarded as a source for the strange and peculiar. Assuming you can drag her away from her mites. Here, let me write down her address."
A short visit to the scene at Gold's house provided no alternate explanations. Damn, he'd have to talk to Murrow. Stepping out onto the porch, Nathaniel was distracted from his cloud of coagulating facts when a snowball caught his shield on the right shoulder, the puff of snow as it shattered briefly outlining the magical protection.
He spun, gazing landing on a turning Ms. Ross. She paled almost to the point of making the surrounding snow look dingy, a second snowball fall from her hands to land at her feet.
"Sorry sir," she was very intently not looking at rustling bush one house over. "I swear this was just an accident. I got bored and was messing around pass the time. You just don't usually get snow this fluffy in London. At least not after the first ten minutes."
Joanna hadn't thrown the offending snowball. It probably had been an accident. Bad timing, and bad aim. And, it was just a snowball. Whoever was hiding behind that bush was probably embarrassed and chastised enough as it was.
So all he sent the bush's way was a disapproving look. "There has been a change of plans, my next stop is this address." He shoved the paper with Zelda Murrow's address at Joanna. "And next time you get bored I suggest a book. I can't be sure what would happen if a rouge snowball hit any of my colleagues."
Nathaniel was getting more used to her driving. He grabbed the handled above the door on pure instinct when they took a turn on what felt like two wheels. It was almost a good thing that Joanna considered speed limits suggestions. The faster they traveled the less time he had to over think the needed conversation with Zelda Murrow.
Of course, he had heard of the magician during his apprenticeship. She was universally referred to as 'eccentric' by magical society. Eccentric, the polite way of say "well, she's crazy, but she does get along with the important people." In Ms. Murrow's case her 'eccentricity' was shown in a complete fascination with the endless varieties of mites, and - to Nathaniel's advantage - a habit for taking commoner fairytales far too seriously. Supposedly the woman wouldn't even wear the color green for fear of attracting unwanted attention.
Hopefully a surprise visit would limit how much nonsense he would be subjected to for whatever usable information Murrow would -
For once, his train of thought had not been upended by Joanna slamming on the brakes to spare whatever hapless automobile or pedestrian she'd been playing chicken with this time. Instead it was her humming. He knew that song. He knew the tune. The words escaped him, even as the tune burrowed into his were the words? Oh that would be something? Something what?
Nathaniel cleared his throat. "Ms. Ross. What are you humming?" It took something from him to make the question sound so nonchalant.
A task he didn't quite succeed from how discombobulated Ms. Ross sounded. But she managed to met his eye in the mirror. "oh. Um. Its just 'Will You Take Me to Town on Strawberry Day. My Mom used to sing it to me and - to me as a lullaby."
"I don't suppose you're mother is a music teacher? I'm sure I've heard that song before." In fact the lyrics had come into focus as soon as Joanna named the song.
"Nah, my mom was a copy editor. She checked over otherwise complete documents for things like grammar and spelling and formatting errors before it got sent to print. I think the lullaby was just something she spun up from an old children's book and the tune of some popular song. Probably what you're thinking of."
"Well," that didn't explain why he now had the lyrics dancing through his head. "it could be interesting to know if you're mother is aware that she's continuing a long line of musical tradition."
"I hope so too." there was something just a bit fragile about the way she said it. "She and my dad passed away a few years ago. Accident you know?"
Ah." Things were suddenly very awkward. "Did she ever tell you stories about Santa Claus?"
"What did he leave you coal?" The answer had clearly not been thought about. There was a brief silence and then "I am so sorry Sir. Not sure where my brain just was. If you want me to contact Alex I can. I'm sure he's still free and probably better with the niceties than I-"
Nathaniel cut her off "I've had to deal with worse. No, the name came up in connection to some case and I found myself curious how it seems like every person I speak to has a different version of the story."
"Well, we were specifically celebrating Christmas, but Santa's not to concerned about what specific winter holiday you celebrate. He'd keep track throughout the year of all the things you did both naughty and nice. And if the nice list was longer you'd get presents and candy. If the naughty list was longer, well then he'd leave you a sack of coal." Her tone was still a little edged, but focusing on the good memories clearly was cheering her. "Christmas was always Mom's favorite holiday. She had this miniature village that she put out every year."
"This Santa doesn't seemed like the type to hurt other people then."
"Santa? No. But, well. Maybe Krampus if you believed in him."
That was a new name. "Krampus?"
Joanna's nod was reflected back at him in the rearview mirror "He's like, Santa's evil twin. If you did something really bad you wouldn't even get coal. Instead, he'd come down the chimney and stuff you in a sack and haul you away." There was a dramatic pause. "Dad never could decided whether he'd then eat you or make you work in the coal mines until you learned to behave - and he didn't get to tell the story often because it'd give some people nightmares and Mom would get really mad."
Zelda Murrow's home was an charming bungalow nestled into what could only be called a quaint little garden. She had gnomes with little red hats scattered around doing cute domestic things. Large multicolor glass orbs hung in the windows. The door had a small stained glass window of a rose, a nice modern doorbell to one side, and an owl shaped doorknocker right in the center of the door covered in a thin layer of rust. Nathaniel pushed the doorbell.
The friendly *ding dong* that followed was swiftly answered by a young woman who couldn't be much more than a year or two older than Nathaniel himself. Between the aggrieved imp sitting on the girl's shoulder, and the cozy casualness of her dress he guess she must be apprenticed to Murrow instead of some domestic employee.
The girl stared at him like she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. She wet her lips and then gave a polite smile.
"Oh, good afternoon Minister Mandrake. Ms. Murrow is expecting you. Why don't you - "
"Rebecca," an elderly warning voice called from inside causing the girl - Rebecca - to instantly silence herself. "Do not invite him in until he's used the knocker."
The imp stretched up to whisper in Rebecca's ear. "But, Ms. Murrow!" It didn't sound like Rebecca had much hope her argument would be accepted. "According to Wargoyle, Mr. Mandrake is wearing a silver tiepin. It can't be something else pretending to be him."
"What have I told you girl?" Came the immediate retort. "Not every Other fears the touch of silver. Many are only harmed by iron. No invitations until he touches the knocker."
Rebecca sighed. "I am so sorry Minister." She whispered, "But you can't reason with her about these things." She gestured at the door knocker. "If you would be so kind?"
After he'd pounded on door to Ms. Murrow's satisfaction, Rebecca escorted him into the sitting room. Zelda Murrow was almost the physical opposite of Jessica Whitwell: plump, grandmotherly, and with a fashion and decorating sense Nathaniel could only describe as having belonged to a color blind Romani.
"Thank you, dear." she said sweetly as Rebecca poured three cups of a tea smelling sharply of peppermint and licorice. "Why don't you go and finished that Sumerian translation."
"But, its mostly just customer complaints about bad copper." As she spoke, Rebecca's imp made grabby hands at the plate of cookies on the table. Rebecca automatically handed the creature a cookie before taking one for herself.
"Which sounds fascinating in its own right." Despite how friendly Ms. Murrow sounded, there was a core of steel to her voice. "Take some of the cookies up to your room. But I'm afraid this conversation is just a little classified."
Rebecca sighed, but left with her tea and several more cookies. Her ascent up the stairs was marked by a series of creaks. Ms. Murrow smiled fondly after her. Then took a sip of her tea.
"Now that we're alone Minister, why don't you ask those questions about Kringle's behavior that you came to ask me."
"How do - ?"
"I know about the true identity of you're culprit?" she chuckled gently. "Well, it's rather obvious if you're paying attention. Cassie Lorine has never been subtle about the focus of her research. And then when she passes under suspicious circumstances its followed by London experiencing some of the most picture perfect winter weather in decades? Obviously she tried to drag him into this plane and bind him. It seems she partially succeeded." She took a sip of her tea "Which is often worse than failing outright. But that just means it was only a matter of time before someone from Internal Affairs came knocking on my door looking for answers."
"You keep referring to it as Kringle. I've been hearing Santa or generally The Holiday Spirit."
"He is quite old. It shouldn't be surprising that he's picked up a few names. But as far as I can tell Kringle seems to be his actual name." Murrow glanced down at the tea cup in his hands. "Ah, you've finished. Would you be so kind as to flip the cup over for a minute or two? This blend is usually quite forthright, but the dregs of the tea can muddle any reading."
Dutifully, he flipped his cup upside down on the saucer. "And what about Krampus. Is he another name or another being altogether?" Somehow, talking about a supernatural giver of gifts was the less confusing option.
"Well, the commoner's think its like an evil twin or alter ego of some sort. I believe that both are overcomplications. Krampus just seems to be a name assigned to the nastier behavior Kringle engages in. While you certainly haven't asked for advice, mine is to flag him down, apologize, and fix whatever issues Lorine caused.
"Apologize?" Nathaniel spluttered. "It - " he received a stern look from Ms. Murrow "- He has already killed two people."
"Well, than I guess you should hurry up before he finds another naughty adult. Nobody can hope to defeat him." There was something just a tad smug about the way she spoke, "Kringle isn't like any spirit from the Other Place: he's something far more strange and powerful. Similar to how nobody has ever quite been able to figure out how the spells on a golem work. The just do. Kringle just is."
The worst bit was that she was completely correct about the golems. Words might have their own magic, but nobody had figured out why a creature made of some old words from a half forgotten religious text written in human blood would cause a creature of mud and clay to arise. Nor why the thing was so antithetical to the demons.
Murrow took his silence as as permission and scooped up his tea cup. She held it up to the light turning it this way and that. Making little 'hmmm' noises occasionally. Eventually she set it down and gave him an appraising look.
"A very interesting cup Mr. Mandrake," she finally said. "And a fair bit more positive than many other magicians of you're ability. Yes, there is a snake in the grass, but one split apart by a wolf. There is a fish smoking an long pipe, and this last one, which may either be a heart or a sun depending on how you look. You are a fortunate young man."
This time his silence was simply pure confusion. "What?!"
Murrow did not seem insulted by his inability to understand. "The leaves took on shapes that loosely foretell your future: the snake represents an unknown enemy, but they'll be defeated with the help of family. The fish is someone who will become a friend while the pipe symbolizes a reconciliation with an old friend. " she tilted the cup and pointed a blob of tea leaf residue that was apparently a smoking fish. "From how closely the two symbols are, I would say the new friend helps with reconnect you with that old friend. A sun suggests joy or well-being, while a heart indicates romance."
Ms. Murrow gave the offending blob another critical look. "Although, I do think it looks more like a sun than a heart now I think of it. I would say that if there is romance in the cards for you it is far off in the future."
The end of the reading signified the end of his visit.
Things got really quiet after his meeting with Zelda Murrow. There were no holiday themed murders. Rehearsal's at the theater continued as expected: Makepeace and Elizabeth managed to be a study in the similarity of opposites. Both gave the impression of great birds as they moved through the theater.
Makepeace was like some brightly colored obnoxious tropical bird, prancing around the theater. He poked his nose into everything, had the technical crew change the stage design multiple times, and spend the rest of his time mercilessly correcting his increasingly tired actors.
Meanwhile, Elizabeth spent most rehearsals stalking around like some brightly ornamented heron. There was something almost childishly petulant about her behavior: like a pre-teen upset with a parent after being denied something.
If the backstage gossip was to be believed - the professional actors had quickly accepted him magician or not - sometime before casting there had been a spot of drama over the credits for A Festival of Snowflakes. Elizabeth held the unusual honor of being given an editor's credit - even if it was in tiny lettering - and even a shout out for inspiring her guardian. It was that second credit that had fueled the brief argument between guardian and ward: she'd felt her contribution had gone beyond simply inspiration into a full blown co-writer. Makepeace had said no, and there was a minor betting pool based on when Elizabeth would stop sulking.
His mood came crashing down the day before one of the numerous small winter holidays. The one Joanna celebrated...what was it? Oh right, Christmas. A third magician had been murdered. Ivan Randolf had been stabbed repeatedly through the chest with a razor sharp, giant novelty candy cane. Although, Nathaniel was having a hard time associating it with the smaller less murdery versions sold in shops. To him the murder weapon seemed more like a giant red and white stripped sword than a peppermint confection.
But this time, there were witnesses: Randolf's wife and young apprentice. Considering how the Internal Affairs Ministry was starting to get pointed notes about resolving the case Nathaniel was personally handling the interview.
"I'm glad he's dead." was practically the first statement out of her mouth. "I wished it had taken longer." The first sentence had been a utilitarian statement of fact. The second had been laced with venom.
Jessica Randol was a waifish woman. So pale she might have been translucent, with large fashionably dark eyes. The air of fragility she gave off was magnified by the livid handprint shaped bruise darkening along one side of her face. Nathaniel found himself trying not to look at it.
Mrs. Randolf shrugged at Ffloukes's raised eyebrow. "Well you did say to be honest." She turned and glanced through the open door of her husband's study at the archway into the far less pristine den. Everything about her softened just a bit as she looked over at her husband's apprentice. "The kid's gonna be ok right? I'm happy to adopt him if a new placement can't be found."
"That will be up to the Ministry of Education, but if you're helpful I'd be happy to put in a good word for you if it comes to that." Ffloukes promised her.
Ffloukes was the one interviewing Mrs. Randolf. Nathaniel might have had the authority of being a Minister, but he was also 15. Even cooperative commoner adults found it difficult to take him seriously.
Some things weren't worth fighting over: especially when for all the same reasons adults had trouble taking him seriously, small children would instantly assumed he was one of them with little argument. So, Nathaniel left the wife to Ffloukes and followed the path of Mrs. Randolf's gaze to see if he could get anything useful out of the six year old apprentice.
The little redheaded boy was intently playing with what looked like a new toy set. When he noticed Nathaniel he shifted over slightly to create a place to sit next to him. The child was nibbling on a large gingerbread man.
Nathaniel let himself be shown how to stake the cut wooden logs into little cabins for a minute before asking "I'd like you to tell me about last night."
"Jessica was just making me so coco. I couldn't sleep. I'd had a really bad dream." The young apprentice wouldn't meet Nathaniel's eye, but nothing about him suggested a lie. "We must have woken up Mr. Randolf, because he came downstairs. He was really angry at Jessica. They went into the living room and he was shouting at her."
The child paused his story briefly to show Nathaniel how to create a roof for the recently finished building from flat green slats. When the roof was finished, the boy continued "While he was shouting, I heard a big thump on the roof. Then Jessica screamed and the shouting stopped. I heard someone new talking with her for a minute and then she came back with Santa."
"Santa?"
The little boy looked up at Nathaniel. There was a joyful light shining in those little eyes. He nodded vigorously: "Santa! He looked just like the drawing in the books. He had a big fluffy white beard and was wearing a big red suit. He had this huge sack slung over one shoulder. He gave me these -" the wooden toy set was indicated, "And Jessica got an old book. And then we made cookies."
That was the end of the useful information. Randolf's apprentice had a who lot to say about how amazing Santa Clause was, but the fact the man could touch his nose and have cookies finish baking instantly was of little use. Thankfully, music class created a natural end to the interview. Nathaniel rejoined Ffloukes in the study.
"So after you're husband was stabbed repeatedly in front of you, you baked cookies with the killer?" the acquisition in his tone curled up and died at the venomous smile Mrs. Randolf gave him.
"My late husband and I had a very unhappy marriage: some people might even argue I was blackmailed into it with the wellbeing of my brother's business held at stake. Besides, after the killer changed shape in front of me I wasn't sure if he wasn't one of those demons I've been told so many horrifying stories about. And what could a poor untrained woman do against something like that?"
"So the killer could change its shape?"
"He came out of our chimney as some horrific large black and grey goatman in extreme winter gear. He stopped Randolf from slapping me again. When he turned to me, it was like all the excess hair and horns grew in reverse and then, well he was Santa Claus. It looked he'd stepped right out of the pages of The Night Before Christmas. Then he suggested we make cookies because all of us could use the pick-me-up, and I used to have such fun decorating them with my mother. He even knew her recipe; got it right out of the family cookbook. We all thought it had been destroyed when our house burned down."
She offered an older leather-bound book to Ffloukes's. He took it and flipped through it before handing it to Nathaniel.
"Did it say anything that suggested its next moves to you?"
It was a perfectly ordinary book. Not a magical thing about it. Just an old leather bound book about two thirds full off recipes with names like "Aunt Mary's Pecan Clouds".
"No, he never spoke about any next move. He was totally focused on making sure the boy and I had a plan for what we were going to do without Ivan."
The interview with Jessica Randolf had highlighted a problem. The most frustrating part of trying to track down this "Christmas Spirit" was that it felt like they were perpetually playing catch-up. There was no rhyme or reason to its targets beyond them being some ill defined status of 'naughty'. Trying to construct a geographic profile narrowed nothing down. Besides being generally unpleasant, nothing that linked the victims except for all three being magicians. And for all that population was far from majority it still was far too large a group to issue any reasonable warning.
And it didn't help that the thing could walk through magical protections like they weren't even -
"We've arrived sir." Ms. Ross cut into this thought process. They were pulled up to the curb next to his house. She promptly opened his door. As he stepped out of the car, she offered him a rather kitschy holiday themed bag and a smile.
"I made cookies last night! Thought you might like some. And I threw in some hydrocortisone: my mom always said it was a good thing to use on cat scratches."
"Its that bad?" Nathaniel's scene partner had been out, and Elizabeth had stepped in to practice dancing. The fluffy white demon known as 'Ana' had taken Elizabeth's personal space very seriously, and used every excuse to claw at him.
"It looks like you lost a fight with very unhappy cactus. Sir" Ms. Ross sounded apologetic.
The cream did sooth the angry red scratches on his arms. Apparently cat scratches were all the same. Whether they were created by a real cat, or an insane, overprotective thing pretending to be a cat.
It certainly made focusing on the complete mess that tying to triangulate Santa Claus, its hunting ground, or the next victim easier. Easier, but no clearer. The big grandfather clock in his hallway struck the hour. Twelve loud gongs rang through the empty house. Midnight, Christmas morning.
Its well past bedtime and here I find you awake? The flicker of a half-forgotten woman's voice jokingly scolded Its time to go to sleep. Santa won't come if you're awake sillies.
Nathaniel threw his pen down. He was getting nowhere with this besides sleep deprived. His eyes flickered over to the packet of notes taken from Lorrine's house. It had to be the hour; he wouldn't be considering this if he wasn't so tired.
Lorrine's ritual was an worryingly simple to setup: it was barely more complicated than the pentacle and candles he'd have used to call Bartimaeus. The strange thing was that the ritual wasn't just words and will: it required bait. He had to stage his living room to draw the spirit in.
Dutifully, he lit candles, and placed a pot filled with some water, and a mix of cloves, rosemary, cinnamon, and orange peel on a low power burner. A plate of cookies and a mug of brandy spiked eggnog completed his scratched together decorating. The brandy had also been a gift: so he'd have something nice to try when he eventually started drinking. Trap set, he returned to his study and sketched out the modified pentacle.
The spell Murrow had sketched out was horrifyingly familiar. And in English. Nathaniel triple checked that he was completely alone.
Then he began, off-key, "You better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout I'm telling you why..."
He finished singing. The pentacle glowed, sparked, fizzled, and then went out. Before he could consign the attempt to failure; there was a thump that seemed to shake the entire house, and the sounds of several large somethings moving around on the roof.
A jolly booming laugh echoed down the hallway. Warm, flickering firelight was pouring out of the living room's cracked door. There was a new smell in the air; pine, and cold, and a whiff of large animal.
Suddenly timid, Nathaniel cracked the door open, and peered around the frame. He was spotted instantly.
That cheerful booming laugh matched perfectly with the giant standing in his living room. A mountain of a man dressed in a red winter suit that had been lined with fluffy white fur. The man whipped crumbs from his snow white beard as he turned to Nathaniel.
"Ah, Nathaniel! Its been such a long time!" The man continued to boomed, but even though he knew Nathaniel's birth name the pure joy and genuine delight in the man's smile made him feel totally safe. He properly stood and joined the red clothed giant in his own living room by the plate of cookies.
"You know, your father once suggested spiking the eggnog. Of course, he was planning to drink it himself. But you were adamant that since I had to driving the sleigh it would be very bad for me to drink." another long sip was taken from the mug of eggnog. "It was the year you got Fluffy."
The memory was far stronger than those half-shaped memories from before Underwood usually were: waking up first, the tree aglow with lights glittering with tinsel surrounded by gifts. Mom's Christmas village on the low table below the window. And the fluffy white teddy bear with the red bow sitting centered under the tree.
"We weren't supposed to touch the presents until after breakfast; just the stockings, but Mom made an exception because Fluffy wasn't wrapped."
"A happier time," the giant agreed. "Which makes me sadder about the several years of coal you've wracked up."
"Coal?" Nathaniel found himself staring at... well at Santa Claus.
"I am afraid so." a huge scroll that looked like it was made from honest to goodness parchment emerged from a pocket that it could to possibly fit into. It unrolled longer than Nathaniel was tall, and continued to roll away. A comically small pair of spectacles appeared from a breast pocked as Santa Claus begin to read; "Let's see here; kidnapping Jacob Henyrick, threatening human beings with spirits, enslaving spirits, that stunt with the rosemary tin was bad enough that its still on the list, General Despotic Behavior," as he spoke the parchment was pulled up and rolled over Santa's hand to spill out over the floor, "Ah, and not washing behind your ears." he finished. The scroll rolled itself up with a crisp snap. "I know that it might seem like a waste of time, but Mrs. Claus is insistent that it will help with your acne."
"All of which naturally leads to coal." It came out in a voice that he wouldn't have been surprised to hear coming out of Bartimaeus.
"You're a good kid." Santa completely ignored Nathaniel's snark. Instead he spoke with a frankness that suggested he believed every word. "But you do have a lot of bad influences. But, I'm certain you can rise above them when you apply yourself"
That ringing endorsement was followed by him dipping one of the cookies in milk and taking a bite. "Ahh, Lydia Ross's recipe. I'd recognize it anywhere." Santa chewed thoughtfully. "Homemade, but I guess not by you?"
"A gift from my driver." Even as he said it, something suggested to Nathaniel that Santa had already know. "She's a Ross, so I guess Lydia must be a family member."
Santa nodded knowingly, "Ah, Joanna. I should have known immediately. What with the abstract pattern and bright colors. You were always so insistent that only realistic decoration take place. That issue caused quite a few entries to the naughty list.'
How Joanna's cookie decorating preferences had any relation to Nathaniel's was a question for another day. Instead, he took a cookie for himself. There was absolutely nothing exceptional about it: it was just an iced sugar cookie: he wouldn't have been able to pick it out with any reliability.
"You need to stop killing people." Nathaniel decided that it was best to treat this like he would have Bartimaeus: straight to the point to minimize room for garden pathing, reminiscing, and other forms of sidetracking.
"I suppose convincing your peers to improve their behavior isn't an option you've considered." While the levity was gone, Santa's voice had not lost an iota of its kindness. "Most people wouldn't expect it from my opposite extreme, but he does respect someone who is actively trying to better themselves."
Images of Joanna's poorly concealed panicking when the snowball smacked against his shield and Jessica Randol's vicious purple bruise intruded on his mind's eye. It wasn't a bad idea theoretically: too many of his peers were unnecessarily cruel. Cruel to spirits, commoners, and each other alike. Everyone would benefit. His peers would never ever do it.
He looked up meet twinkling blue eyes. "A wise woman once told me that even the smallest person can change the course of the future." a hand landed on his shoulder to squeeze it reassuringly. "But changing an entire culture is a lot to ask by from an unprepared fifteen year old, and I do miss my wife. Tell me, have you heard to Ptolemy's Gate? A few modification's should send me right back home."
Weak winter sunlight shining directly on his face woke Nathaniel. He sat up suddenly, sending the thick quilt that had been laid over him spilling off the couch and pooling onto the ground.
His encounter the night before was already fading like it had been a dream. It was almost beyond belief! And yet, there was evidence of it scattered all over his living room: most evidently he did not own any quilts. Especially not antique quilts with perfect snowflake patterns. There was a lingering smell in the air of pine and snow, wood glue and large animals hanging in the air masking the usual scent his housekeeper used.
Then of course, someone had leaned a large sack of charcoal against the fireplace. On the coffee table, between some notes in Nathaniel's handwriting, dirty mugs and plates with cookie crumbs someone had laid an cardboard envelope with a big red bow.
A folded note sat next to the envelope. It was addressed in big curly letters: TO: JOHN MANDRAKE.
It continued in the same curly script inside:
Dear John,
It was a joy to talk face to face with you! You've certainly grown from that little boy who was so concerned that I might drive under the influence! Nurture that urge to protect and help others, and I'm sure you'll find yourself on the good list next year.
Mrs. Claus sent me back with the quilt - she was worried you would be cold. The envelope is also from her. You'll need people who are unquestionably in you're corner when you're ready to change the world. Just try not to fight about how to decorate the cookies this time!
Santa
The envelope was one of those stiff types for transporting pictures. With some care, Nathaniel opened it. For a second, the picture stuck, but then it slid out into his hand. It was just an old photograph, edged with paper that suggested it had been ripped out of an old scrapbook. Two young children looked up at him from where they sat on a dock.
He was soaking wet, clinging to his just damp sister's arm. Joanna - it had to be a pre-teen Joanna - had the same glint in her eyes that he usually saw in the rearview mirror right before a especially flagrant violation of traffic laws. She had her cheek pressed down to the top of his head.
Nathaniel stared at the picture. Had he seen this picture before? It gave him the same frustrating just out of his grasp feeling that he usually only got when Joanna forgot herself and started humming.
Idly, he flipped the photograph over hoping that the previous owner shared Mrs. Underwood's habit of labeling the backs of the photos. They had. In frustratingly familiar writing, someone had scrawled JN, XXXX, Founder's Day. Taken by Edmund Smith, Kensal Star across the back.
It had been taken just a few months before Nathaniel had been placed with Underwood.
THE TIMES OF LONDON
DEC 28, 2008
WINTER MYSTERY SOLVED!
In a statement released last night, the Ministry of Internal Affairs released a statement regarding the tragic - and mysterious! - deaths of three members of our esteemed government over the last week.
Elsa Greer, spokesperson for the MIA, explained that all three deaths were the result of simple accidents and coincidences:
"Despite some hysterical rumors to the contrary, there is nobody is targeting government officials and any suggestion of a holiday serial killer is pure foolishness," Ms. Greer elaborated. "Talk of that kind is nonsense and should be stopped at once. Instead, let's take this opportunity to realize that even the smartest person is at the mercy of chance and be sure to take every precaution to ensure safety!"
Well, I guess that's our que to remind all of you to change the batteries in you're Carbon Monoxide detectors!
