Snowed (The Bloodline of Yule Trilogy Book 1)

by Maria Alexander

  I believe him, even if I don’t understand the mechanics or lack thereof. I want to throw my arms around him, ecstatic and grateful. Instead, I step back.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I believe you. I’m happy you saved Charles. However you saved him. But…I’m having a hard time with this, Aidan.” A little air. A deep breath. “You’re saying that you lifted someone twenty feet in the air—with your power. That you threw a guy against a tree—with your power.”

  Aidan wipes at his tears with his hand. “I’m so sorry, Charity.”

  “But how is it even possible? It goes against everything we know in science and physics. Your sister?” I continue. “I captured her using two things: engineering and logic.” I tap my head. “You gave me a clue in one of your emails.”

  “Peppermint. It’s a tremendous healing agent for us. And we’re drawn to it like cats to catnip.”

  “That’s our shared reality, Aidan. The observable, measurable world.” I knock on the cement wall.

  Aidan studies the ground. “The Claws.”

  “Yes?” I repeat.

  His eyes find mine again. “The Klaas.” He says it a bit differently. A soft “s” at the end.

  I frown, confused.

  “I am the Klaas. The future Sinterklaas.”

  I can’t speak.

  He looks up to the sky. “When did it last snow in Oak County?”

  “I don’t know. Twenty years ago? I hear it snows sometimes up in Placerville, but our altitude is too low for snow.”

  He lifts his palms up. Skyward. And utters one word.

  “Snow.”

  Within moments snowflakes drift down around his shoulders from the cloudless sky. The temperature drops another twenty degrees. The dark ground turns white. I shiver violently under Aidan’s coat.

  “I am the Son of Father Christmas,” he says. “The original Sinterklaas. Also known as Santa. Who is, alas, also the Krampus. The two legendary companions—one good, one evil—are in truth the same person and always have been. These days, he’s a frightful magical being who has hidden himself away in the Arctic. Once a great force for good in the world, he’s rejected his goodness and is now a despicable beast that wants one thing: To control me, his one and only human son. He tortured me for my sixteen years. And I will never let him do so again.”

  No clouds. The snow is…falling. From nothing.

  People in the parking lot shout with joy and astonishment. “Dude, snow! Yeah! Wooo!”

  My heart does a double-skip as the voices startle me. Can they hear us?

  “You said something about shared reality,” Aidan says with a sly smile.

  Awe demolishes every response. There is no response, really.

  Just Aidan MacNichol. Son of Nicholas the Klaas.

  He takes off the top hat and spins around, mouth open to capture the snowflakes on his tongue. “I’ve missed these! Have you ever tasted snowflakes? Try it!”

  I hold out my hand. Snowflakes dust my palm. I turn my face up to the night, my legs cramping from the freezing air. I taste the delicate frost of snowflakes for the first time in my life.

  Snow is thickening on the ground.

  “You might want to stop that soon. I don’t think anyone has chains.”

  “God, I hope not! How do you think I got those scars on my back?” He holds his hand out to me.

  I take his hand and he pulls me close. I clasp my lips to his. We devour each other, clinging like people falling out of a plane, not caring if the chute opens. We seep into each other, our blood, breath, and sweat mingling. Images of snow flurries spin in my mind’s eye.

  Our lips part. I don’t know how long we have kissed but anything short of eternity isn’t long enough.

  A smile like the rising sun breaks on his face. “I love you, Charity Jones.”

  “And I love you, Aidan the Klaas.”

  Chapter 30

  After we catch up with Leo and Judy, Michael brings us home along with Aidan’s things, the bike hitched to the back of the Honda. It’s almost midnight. Before we unload Aidan’s belongings, we stand by as he visits the tool shed, the site of his sister’s death.

  “She was only doing what she was told to do. He surely threatened her with death. As he does everyone.”

  The crack of pain in his voice tears me up inside.

  “Wow. Santa is one sonuvabitch,” Michael says under his breath.

  After Michael is gone, Aidan and I whisper in the sewing room. At last, the entire story unravels.

  He paces, listening patiently until I finish. “I’m so sorry, Charity. I never dreamed I’d bring this on your family.”

  “You couldn’t have known.” My eyes grow heavy. “But what if another one of your brothers or sisters finds you?”

  “It’s unlikely,” Aidan says. “This one happened to catch the trail of my scent, possibly from the blood I shed up north when I was injured. If there were another shadowing her, you would know already. But the trail is cold now. I’ve blended in. My scent is mixed with humanity, which is why it was nearly impossible for her to find me.” He seems to sense my apprehension. Sitting on the bed with me, he kisses my hand. “I’m safe now. He’ll never know. He’s too cut off from the world these days.”

  “Why didn’t you use your abilities to escape the authorities when they caught you?”

  “I wasn’t in physical danger,” he says. “Besides, I wanted to know what it was like to be a normal person. It felt more like an adventure than anything. And look where it brought me. Here. With you.”

  Getting picked up by the sheriff and dumped at a family services camp doesn’t sound like an adventure to me, but I understand. My eyes are closing. “Why don’t you go to sleep?” he asks. “I’ll see you tomorrow night. Although, I’m going to surprise your mother tomorrow morning. Her reaction might wake you up.”

  “She’s going to be super happy that you’re back.” I kiss him. I think I’m getting better at this kissing thing. “But I’m way happier.”

  I go to the bathroom to wash off the layers of makeup I didn’t need. As I return to my room, light seeps from under the doorway of the sewing room. Silence. At last, I slide under the sheets, wishing for the day we can fall asleep together. I can’t stand it. I get up and walk to the shared wall. I place my hand to the wall, imagining that he is doing the same…

  “Go to sleep, Charity Jones.”

  He knows when you are sleeping. He knows when you’re awake.

  I stick out my tongue.

  Almost as soon as I return to bed, I sink into a sweet, dreamless oblivion.

  Chapter 31

  My Dearest Charity,

  My father can emerge only one night of the year, on Christmas, which he has sworn off since I was born. And even then, he would have to find me, a needle in the proverbial haystack of humanity. I’m undetectable to him unless I’m in his reach. He had placed powerful wards to prevent me from finding the doorways, but I mastered that magic without his knowledge, reaching into the books he thought so useless. He used my siblings as gaolers. They swarmed the inside of the fortress, advising him of every movement I made. After countless experiments, the secret to deceiving them revealed itself and I plotted my escape.

  You don’t want to know what I ate. I will spare you the menu. But you get used to prison food if you want to survive.

  I often wondered why he kept so many books. I now believe it’s because he envies humanity, secretly indulging in human life through the stories he collects. For since I have lived with you, I have tasted many of the joys I only dreamed of as I devoured those tales. The beauty of trees dripping with raindrops. The warmth of sunshine and the smell of morning dew. Family. Friendship.

  Love.

  For as I mentioned, the two legendary figures are one person. Half goat and half demon, the grotesque Krampus who whips and kidnaps bad children is also the jolly St. Nicholas. The vestigial part of him that is Nicholas craves these things.

  You asked how Christmas songs have pi
cked up on the details of who The Klaas is if we are so isolated. As I understand it, when my father made the rare excursion into the world, he occasionally answered letters children left for him by the Christmas tree. He loves those letters. They feed his ego. I don’t know how but letters from all over the world appear in his vault by the thousands. And he reads them. His awful laughter fills the fortress as he reads children’s letters. Begging Santa for dead mothers to come back from heaven. For siblings to live who are dying from childhood diseases. For money enough to buy food.

  Nothing brings him greater pleasure than the suffering of others. That is why he stopped delivering gifts. He decided it was better to receive than to give. And the fewer dreams he fulfilled, the more letters came.

  One of the letters he answered was from a young Mr. Coots, who went on to write an eerily accurate song about us. Father delights in the sinister undertones of that song. He mocks humanity for turning this time of year—the darkest and most deadly—into an occasion to make merry.

  Honestly, I don’t know everything about his past. I only know what he’s told me himself and what my mother, Ciara, said before he killed her.

  She died when I was 8 years old.

  I’ve already searched online to find information about her. There’s nothing. My mother said that he raped her on Christmas night and came back for us a year later. I believe she lived in Ireland, where abortion has always been illegal. My mother was Catholic. She never considered aborting me.

  I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had. Of course, my father would have killed her when he returned if he’d discovered she was not fruitful. I’m grateful she lived as long as she did.

  My siblings are the result of the otherworldly creatures he mates with down in the dungeons. I call them “The Mothers.” They disgust my father. He treats them like animals when he isn’t rutting with them. I visited them several times, sometimes by force when my father threatened me with a cage. If the creatures have souls, they were extinguished hundreds of years ago. They have never seen sunlight. And they speak no human language.

  Telling you these things must surely make you more anxious. No more tonight.

  Your true love,

  Aidan

  Early Sunday morning. Dad and Aidan’s chatter drifts up to my room. Laughter. I don’t hear Mom. She’s probably still sleeping.

  I search online for images of Krampus. Image after image floods the screen of a goat-like being with enormous, twisted, gnu-like horns, goat hooves for feet, hands clawed like a Yeti, and a long, black tongue that hangs out of its mouth down to its chest. Its eyes bulge out of its head as it leers at Victorian women in provocative poses. In other pictures, crying children sit in the black sack slung over Krampus’ back as he leads a parade of chained little ones to some undrawn hell. Modern drawings depict a Krampus that looks even more demonic. To my surprise, I find videos of “Krampus parades.” The one in Graz, Austria is the most horrific, with countless people dressed in homemade costumes as astonishing and realistic as any monster movie. Growling horned beasts threaten watchers on the sidelines in the falling snow, scaring children, swinging scourges made of broom bristles. If I had never met Aidan, I would think this is cool. Instead, it’s a chilling tribute to the creature that once terrorized someone I love.

  A demonic creature that seems to be real.

  Later in the day, I respond to Judy’s texts (“OH, MY GOD! YOU’RE DATING SANTA!”) by calling her to discuss Aidan’s revelations. He’d done a few “parlor tricks,” as Michael called them, for her and Leo that night that left them both totally floored.

  “I’m really worried about his dad showing up,” I confide. “He killed Aidan’s mom.”

  “Someone should put coal in Santa’s own stocking,” Judy says. “But I wouldn’t worry. He’s really far away and you guys can be happy now.”

  She’s right. That evening, when Aidan returns home, I’m tormented again by his presence in the house, especially when he showers. My hormones are revving like a Harley. It’s beyond wonderful to have him back.

  Mom is up finally, making dinner, and seems happy to see him. Unusually happy. “Mr. Daniels says the best things about you. Mrs. Allured, too. I like what she did with your hair.”

  Rosy splotches rise on Aidan’s pale cheeks. “Thank you.”

  She mauls him with hugs, and then asks me about the dance. Her face contorts as I tell her about the meeting with Darren’s parents. “I’m so proud of you,” she exclaims. “You’re a grownup! How’d I make a grownup?” It’s my turn to be mauled. And kissed. And mauled again.

  Mom’s maudlin behavior is embarrassing, but Aidan doesn’t seem to mind. As I chop vegetables, he sets the table like a pro in seconds. For a moment, I imagine we’re a happy family. Maybe even a young married couple having Sunday dinner with the in-laws.

  “You seem awfully happy, Mom,” I say. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m saving the news for dinner.”

  Dad emerges from his home office and leans against the kitchen doorway, taking in the activity. Mom and Dad are so simpatico that they can communicate without speaking, just a look. Will Aidan and I ever be that connected? Mom takes him in, waiting until he speaks.

  “Looks like my last dinner home for a while,” he says. “Got to go to D.C. tomorrow.”

  “Why?” I ask. Or, rather, whine.

  “Congress is voting on cutting the defense budget. Likely we’ll lose contracts. So they want an engineer there to meet with some of the lawmakers. Win over some folk.”

  “But Charles’ hearings are this week.” Mom’s shoulders sag. “You can’t go. He needs you. I need you.”

  Dad hugs her. He shakes his head. “I tried, babe. Having a black man on the team is too good a show for the administration. I’ll lose my job if we don’t get those contracts. And we can’t afford that.”

  “Would you cut that ‘black man’ crap?” she says. “They want to send you because you’re their most brilliant engineer. And because you can match your socks and talk to girls.”

  Dad grins. “You’ll be okay without me from the sounds of things. That was some pretty great news we just got.” He ambles toward the dining room, giving me a hard pat on the back as he passes. “Besides, I’m leaving our monster hunter in charge. Did they ever figure out what that thing was? Looked like something out of John Carter of Mars.” He shudders audibly.

  I dump the last of the veggies in the salad bowl and wince. Poor Aidan. “No, Dad. They have no idea.”

  “So what’s the great news?” Aidan asks, grim. Can’t blame him for changing the subject.

  Mom opens the oven. Astounding smells flood the kitchen. A roast with garlic and potatoes. Mom’s comfort food. “Your father feels like he can just traipse off to the White House because of the call we got earlier.” Her voice cracks with tears of joy. “Noah woke up. He says it was an accident, that Charles wasn’t trying to kill him. So, the judge might actually release Charles—and everyone else—on probation for a misdemeanor.”

  She and Dad hug. Aidan and I exchange a dire look.

  Chapter 32

  Aidan needs to testify. And so do I.

  But he won’t. He loves my parents and doesn’t want to hurt them. I can tell by the way he looks at them. They might second-guess their entire relationship with him, which would be too painful.

  I will either have to tell the truth—and drag Aidan into it—or…have you ever wondered if you could commit perjury? It’s a felony to lie under oath. If I wanted to keep Aidan out of it, I could lie and say Charles was shooting at me if I don’t want the entire saga to unravel. There might be alternative stories, but nothing better comes to mind.

  You can go to prison for committing perjury. If they catch you, anyway. The worst part is that, even if I get away with that lie, Aidan will know. I don’t believe in heaven or hell, but I do believe in the sweet, mysterious boy I’m in love with. And I won’t just get a lump of coal in my Christmas stocking.

  He’l
l hate me. Or at least no longer love me. In those beautiful eyes, I’ll be a criminal and a liar. Actually, he won’t even know that. All he’ll know is that I’ve done something very, very wrong.

  But if Charles comes back, the peace we treasure will dissolve into chaos. Charles is changed. My parents have no idea how much. And that the violence is aimed at Aidan.

  Possibly me, too.

  Unless Aidan testifies.

  It’s Monday just after third period when Judy texts me.

  Going to shop for Christmas presents, we don’t all live with Santa you know ;-) want to come?

  You chauffeur today?

  Yes, ma’am! :-)

  See you at the bike racks after 7th.

  Later after school, Aidan unlocks his bike from the rack and prepares his backpack. At least now I know why he doesn’t need to wear a jacket in the cold. I stroke his arms, feeling the ripple of muscles developing in his shoulders and biceps. Girls stop to watch, commenting under their breath.

  “What do you do at this job exactly?”

  “I told you. I load trees into people’s cars or tie them to the top.” He hikes the backpack up over his shoulders. “And I unload trees from the trucks that bring them. Apparently, Christmas trees are swift business.” A touch of pride in that last statement, I note. He holds me and brushes his lips against mine. “There is something wrong. What bothers you? Are you still worried about my father? Or maybe your own?”

  My dad boarded the plane to Washington, D.C. this morning. I don’t know if Aidan picked up on what my father was saying about the defense budget. I’ve never actually told him that my father builds bombs. He’s a rocket scientist, but one who makes war machines. I hope Aidan never figures that out. “Neither, actually. I’m worried that Charles will get out of kiddie prison and ruin our lives. Or kill us in our sleep. That’s all.”

  “Oh, he won’t,” he says, unlocking the bike. “I emailed the District Attorney last night and told him what happened. I even still have the note.”