Her eyes dart to Priapus and then at his giant sock-covered dick resting in the specially made section of the booth made for his, er, support.
“Of course, of course,” Priapus booms. “One’s genitals are theirs to share or not share as the spirit moves them. Though tips are better if the spirit does move you, you know.” He winks.
The girl blanches. Her gaze skitters past me and lands back on Hermes, as if desperate for reassurance.
He gives her another bright smile. “That’s right. Hoo hoos are always optional at Hoo Hoos. But tatas are not. So drop the feathers and show us what you got.”
I feel like I should say something. The girl looks like she’s going to cry and all her confidence from before has evaporated. But it’s not my business. Anyway, this place is in demand. She’ll make good money if Hermes and Priapus hire her on.
Still, it’s hard to watch as her hands go over her breasts and the feathers drift away until they’re just a pile at her feet. Unable to take anymore, I stare down at my hands on the table instead.
“Nice, sweetheart, very nice,” Hermes encourages.
“But we can’t see through your hands,” Priapus adds. Dipping into his shirt pocket with his right hand, he pulls out an old-fashioned monocle and brings it up to his eye. “Let’s get a good look at—”
BAWK!
Priapus drops the monocle... “Good gods!”
“A chicken!” Hermes says.
I look up to see a fluffy chicken’s backside as she struts her way back up the catwalk.
“Well, that explains the feathers,” Priapus says, collapsing back into his seat as the girl disappears behind the curtain.
“Too bad,” Hermes says with a shake of his head. “We could have set up a running joke about cocks.”
“Indeed, indeed,” Priapus agrees. “Except she’s a girl, old friend. You could see that even with her hands covering her niblets.”
Hermes claps his hands. “Niblets! We could have done a whole thing…chicken thigh, chicken legs.”
“Chicken breasts,” I add, and Hermes lights up.
“Tatas,” Priapus muses. “We could have served food and done a tapas and tatas night.”
Hermes shakes his head at the loss. “Go get her, Nico. Tell her we want her back, feathers and all.”
“I don’t work for you,” I remind him, rubbing my thumb and fingers together. “Not yet.”
“Straight to business, right, boy?” Priapus says. “Guess you’ve got to operate that way, when you’re a mercenary.”
“What’s your business with Fern?” I ask, cutting even further to the point. I know my old classmate has their interest, but I don’t know why. My work is usually straight up killing, and I try to make it quick and clean. I am a trained assassin, after all.
But Hermes came to me a week ago, asking me to kidnap Fern, and given their line of work, I’ve got questions.
Fern’s a nice girl, and I don’t like the idea of her being made to do anything she doesn’t want to do. The skin trade was never hurting among humans, but when shifters entered the scene, it exploded. Guys with all kinds of weird fantasies came crawling out of the woodwork, and gods like Hermes and Priapus were happy to cater to them, for a price.
But Fern is a healer, and while hot nurses are definitely still a thing, you don’t need to actually be one in order for that to play out. You just need the outfit.
“Our interest in Fern…” Hermes repeats, eyeing Priapus, as he decides how much to tell me.
“Is it an STD?” I go for the obvious. “Because I can get you some antibiotics—”
“No!” Priapus shouts, suddenly hunched protectively over his massive man part. “Don’t even joke about that!”
I stand up, ready to edge my way out of the booth. “I’m not nabbing Fern to prance around for a bunch of perverts,” I say, gesturing to where a lonely feather is still floating along the empty stage.
Hermes waves my words away and pulls me back down to sit.
I talk tough, but I don’t have much choice other than to stay and hear him out. I might be a legend among shifters, but Hermes is still a god, and if he chooses to kick my ass, I can consider it kicked.
“No, no, nothing like that,” Hermes says smoothly, using his charm on me now. He slides his candy cane drink to me. “Look, we’re all friends here. Have a drink.”
I push the drink back Hermes’ way. I’m pretty sure they put ambrosia instead of vodka in this, and I don’t need to be that kind of messed up. “No thanks.”
“Nico.” Hermes’ hand squeezes my shoulder, just a little tighter than comfortable. “You seem tense. It’s the holidays. That’s what everyone says. And the apocalypse thing. Both, very stressful events. So relax a minute. Have some candy cane delight and just listen.”
I pick up the glass and take a small sip. It’s good. Sweet. Cold. Smooth. If I was truly among friends I’d drink it down without another thought.
But I’m not.
I put it down. “Delicious. Now what do you want with Fern?”
“We want Fern for her natural talents…or rather, a mutual friend does.”
“That’s right,” Priapus says. “Antibiotics can’t fix everything.”
“Ah,” I say, understanding. “Someone has a magical wound?”
“Yes,” Hermes says. “Someone that Fern would probably prefer to stay wounded.”
He doesn’t go further, which is weird, for Hermes. He tends to run his mouth, his tongue flapping as fast as the wings on his feet. But I don’t need to know more. Hermes and Priapus have more than their fair share of questionable friends in both the paranormal and human world, most of which I doubt Fern would be in a hurry to heal.
“I’ll bring her to you,” I say.
“Great!” Priapus, says, moving to smack the table. He misses and hits his dick instead, making his cheeks go bright red, then purple when he forgets to inhale again.
Hermes smoothly slips a wad of cash into my hand.
“This isn’t enough,” I say gruffly, standing once again. “Not by far.”
“That’s just the down payment,” Hermes assures me. “You’ll get the rest on delivery.”
“I want triple my normal rate. Kidnapping is much harder than killing. And I need a bonus—holiday pay. We clear?”
“Crystal,” Hermes says, glancing down at his clipboard.
“We better be,” I growl, and Hermes looks confused.
“No, I mean, Crystal is up next. Wanna stay for the show?”
I glance up at the stage, where a blonde has stuck her head out from behind the curtain, the red velvet clutched tightly around her.
“No,” I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
I’m halfway to the door when Hermes calls after me. “Hey, Nico! Merry Christmas!”
“Bah, humbug,” I mutter, as I step out into the harsh daylight.
3
Back at home, I feel a bit down.
I mean, I really don’t care about Christmas or any of the crap that goes with it. It’s just, usually about now, Chester brings me my dinner. Then I tell him all the things he did wrong that day.
It’s weird without him here.
I grab a bottle of scotch—the really, really good stuff—and grab a glass. Sitting at the table I pour myself a healthy serving, then gulp it down. The booze fills me with a warmth and all my dark thoughts are forgotten.
Well, almost. When you’re a Tralano and your heart is still beating, there’s going to be some darkness there.
I take another glass full and am so relaxed I don’t want to get up when I hear the storm door clanking on its hinges. The weather can turn to hurricane winds without any warning and I must not have secured it when I came in.
Sighing, I loll my head back, pleasantly drunk… but not drunk enough to just leave the storm door swinging. I’m about to get up when I realize...it can’t be the door. The noise is closer than that. It sounds like it’s in the living room with me.
I
turn slowly and drop my glass. It shatters on the wood floor.
Before me is a ghostly figure, wrapped in chains. It floats with each footstep, until the chains bring it back down to earth, creating a terrible racket.
It—no, not it—she looks at me and my stomach jumps.
“Mom?” I croak out, then I turn and vomit into a nearby vase. What was in that drink Hermes gave me? I only took one sip; surely it couldn’t have this effect.
She’s not there. I burned her.
Maddox is not in this house with me, floating like a spectre in chains.
Except…she is. When I turn to look at her again, her dark eyes, always so scrupulous, are trained on me.
“Mom, why have you come?” I ask.
Werewolves don’t do the whole ghost thing, not normally. We try to do everything right in life the first time around, that way you don’t have to come back and fix everything. Mom should be in the Elysium fields, tearing the necks out of rabbits, or whatever it is we get to hunt in the afterlife. Because, let’s face it, Maddox is not going to be happy in the afterlife unless she’s killing something.
“Nico,” she says, her voice low and raspy. “I haven’t time. I must warn you…” She takes a heavy step, straining against her chains. “I was wrong in life,” she tells me.
“No…” I shake my head. This can not be my mother. Maddox Tralano was never wrong a day in her life. And if she suspected she was, I seriously doubt she would say so.
“Silence!” She raises her hand and wind gusts through the room, papers flying everywhere. “Do not contradict me,” she booms.
Okay. Never mind. This is definitely my mother.
“In life I was cruel and vengeful. I cared only for the hunt, for the kill. I lived a very narrow existence, and now I am paying for my sins. I must wander the Earth, weighed down by my former hatred, for all eternity.”
“Mother,” I say, tears forming at the thoughts of her bonds.
“Don’t get all teary-eyed on me, Nico,” she snaps, her arms coming her hips. “From the moment you were born, you were a crybaby.”
I know better than to try and defend myself against this line of attack. If I tell her all babies cry, she’ll recount the story of how her own mother took Maddox to the doctor when she was a week old, afraid something was wrong because she never cried.
“I always wondered if you were strong enough to follow in my footsteps,” she continues. “Now that you see where murder and blood led me, have you got the balls to go the distance? I wouldn’t trade these chains for a so-called “better” life. I loved my life. My only regret is that I didn’t murder more!”
Throwing her head back, she unlooses a horrible moan as she rattles her long chains. I clench my jaw tight to keep from howling along.
“I earned these chains,” Mom says, rattling them like they are medals instead of bonds. “They want me to be ashamed of them. They call this a punishment. I say each link is a mark of honor. But…” She pauses, eyeing me. “I have been sent to show you the consequences. The path you choose, is up to you.
“You will be visited tonight by three ghosts. They will try and confuse you. Don’t let them get into your head. I never led you wrong in life; I wouldn’t start in death. Listen to me, Nico. Listen to your mother. Not the spirits.” She turns to go, but I step toward her.
“Mother, wait,” I shout. But another gust of wind circles the room and she is gone. I stumble to my chair, grab the bottle of scotch, and take a gulp. Then I study it.
Of course, my mother was not really here. It’s the drink, it got to me. Probably mixed with the small mouthful of whatever Hermes mixes at his low-class joint. I throw the bottle across the room where it smashes against the wall.
How stupid could I be? Drinking before a mission, getting myself all worked up, hallucinating my mother. I’m not acting like myself.
I rest my head in my hands. I just need sleep. I’ll get Fern tomorrow. I might even be able to convince Chester to bring her here. I’ll call him and tell him I’m sick. Marguerite might come, but I can handle one vampire. It’s better than having to fight the entirety of the MOA A-team. I can probably convince them to leave Marguerite, since we have bad blood.
I stumble to my bed. Yes, I’ll do that in the morning. First though. I need sleep.
4
I fall asleep almost instantly. Liquor will do that to you.
But come awake even faster.
It’s still night, though I’m not sure of the time. The power must’ve gone out again.
I remember seeing my mother. Hallucinating. She said more ghosts are coming, but obviously that isn’t happening. The only ghost in my future is a hangover.
“I ain’t afraid of no ghosts!” I boast to the empty room.
“GHOSTBUSTERS!” Someone yells back at me. And then they start to make the sound of the guitar part with their mouth so that it sounds like, “Ner, ner, ner, ner ner ner.”
That’s when I see him, crouched in the far corner of the room, playing air guitar.
Jordan. One of my former classmates at Mount Olympus Academy.
“Jordan…” I get up, too confused to be angry...though I will have to eventually kill him for invading my home. “What are you doing here?”
“Dude, I’m the ghost of Christmas past!” He grins at me, his skin is kind of glittery, like fresh snow, and he has a crown of mistletoe. “They wanted me to do Christmas Present, but I was like nah, man, I wanna use the time machine!”
“Time machine,” I repeat, keeping my voice calm, but then in a lightning fast move, I shift. As a wolf, I leap toward Jordan.
And then through him.
I hit the wall and crash halfway through it.
Jordan laughs. “Dude! You totally Wile E. Coyote’d that wall! Crazy!”
Shaking plaster from my fur, I turn and this time take a much more careful swipe at Jordan. Once again, my paw passes right through him.
“Who and what are you?” I growl.
Jordan squints at me. “I saw an almost empty bottle of scotch downstairs. Hitting the bottle a little too hard lately, huh Nico?” He shakes his head and then says slowly, like I’m an idiot, “I am Jordan. I’m a panther shifter and tonight I’m also the ghost of Christmas Past.”
“So you’re dead?” I ask, seeking a silver lining.
“No. Dude, come on. Keep up,” he says, like I’m the slow one. “This is all spiritual and stuff. Just, you know, roll with it.”
I close my eye and sigh. “Okay, ghost who is not a ghost of Christmas past. Whose past?” I demand.
He smiles. “Yours.” Jordan walks over to the window, but I notice now that his feet don’t quite touch the ground. “Nice night for time travelling,” he observes, then glances back over his shoulder at me. “You ready?”
I shift back to my human form and quickly throw on new pants and a T-shirt. At MOA they had magical uniforms that would shift with us, but I was never into those. “You got a DeLorean parked out front?” I ask Jordan, deciding to humor him.
“Back to the Future! You know that one? Yeah! I love all the oldies too!” He puts up a hand as if for a high-five. Knowing we won’t connect, I raise my hand to his anyway. But to my surprise, he clasps my hand in his own. Jordan’s grip is stronger than I expected, even as I pull away, he holds me easily. “Come on, Nico, we’re going this way.” He nods his head toward the window.
“We’re on the second floor,” I protest. “Maybe cats land on their feet, but I’m a wolf.”
I mean, Maddox would roll over in her grave if she thought I couldn’t handle a two-story drop, but I’m in a mood and feel like giving Jordan a hard time. Even if this is most likely a crazy dream.
“No worries, I got you.” Jordan gives me a mischievous wink.
And then suddenly, we pass right through the glass of the window, out into the night.
We float over the city, the lights below us flickering on or off, depending on whether the power is fluctuating or not. Electricity hasn’
t been the most dependable in the apocalypse. Out to sea, everything is a blanket of black; not many boats have been going out since the tides became so unpredictable.
“Pretty sweet, right?” Jordan asks, rolling over in mid-flight to do a backstroke, hooking my fingers through his belt loops first. “I’ll come clean. I also wanted to do the flying thing, along with time travel.”
“Watch it,” I growl, not wanting my hands so close to another dude’s waist. I let go of him, and instantly plummet. Jordan does a dive to come up underneath me, easily bringing back up into a smooth flight.
“Gotta do bro love tonight,” he says. “Or fall to your death. I mean, your choice, but I do exfoliate so—”
“Where are we going?” I shout at him as we head into a cloud bank.
“When are we going?” he corrects me, and then we break through the mist, and somehow, some way, we’re over the Smoky Mountains. It’s not possible that we could have traveled so far, so fast, but Jordan only grins at me as we begin a slow, circular descent down to the ground, landing softly near the opening of a cave mouth.
I know this place. Know it too well.
“How?” I ask, but Jordan puts his fingers to his lips. As he does, a wolf cub emerges from the cave mouth.
My throat closes, and my hand goes to my empty eye socket as I watch a younger version of myself—whole bodied—trot into the clearing. My steps are high, my eyes shining.
I look…happy.
“Almost don’t recognize you,” Jordan whispers in my ear, and I swing an elbow, but he dodges it.
The wolf cub raises its head, sniffs the air, and then gives out a long, low call. It’s not for hunting, or to alert the pack to a kill. I’m calling for my friend.
She comes over the rise, answering me with her own call, one that now—as an adult—makes the hair on my neck stand up. But child-me answers with an elated yip, and runs to meet his friend…a manticore.
“Merry Christmas, Nico!” the little monster calls, a giant smile on her face.
“Bah humbug,” I yell back, trying to look grumpy, but ruining the effect with a giggle.
She runs at me, wildly ringing a wreath of silver bells that jingle merrily in her hand. “I’m going to get you, Grinch! And I’m gonna shove this Christmas spirit right up your butthole!”
Chaos & Christmas Page 2
