“Maybe I should be in charge of the water pistols,” Michael says.
“No way,” I say. “We need your muscle.”
Ricardo agrees. “He’s done this before. We met in this class. He’s just rusty. Rotate from your core!”
Michael does so, swinging his own buckler at Ricardo to bash away his “claw” to shoot water at his face and neck with a water pistol.
“Better,” Ricardo says.
“Where did you get the shields?” I ask, noting some bigger shields stacked by an open duffle bag on the deck.
“The SCA,” Ricardo says, sending Michael to the ground with a kick to his unguarded leg. “The Society for Creative Anachronisms. It’s a medieval recreation group I’m in. We fight in big tournaments that go all weekend.”
Aidan shakes his head, indicating the current animation. “I don’t think your attack is quite proper. You still need more reach.”
“You’re right,” Ricardo says. He drops the knife and buckler in the duffle bag and dons gloves that have a giant aluminum claw sticking out of the tip of each finger. A Freddy Krueger costume glove just like in the movies. “We use this from now on.” He then scurries around after Michael in a squat, swiping at him. Michael barely stifles an “Eek!” before he regains his cool and works to protect his legs and crotch.
Ricardo must have steel calves and thighs. “I’ve got shin protectors if you need them,” he chides his opponent.
“Much better,” Aidan says, rocking on his heels, hands in pockets.
I turn to Aidan. “Since Krampus can’t hurt gifts, the Nikitas will be wrapped lightly as a gift to you under the tree here,” I explain, “ready to burst from the tissue.”
“You don’t even need the tissue,” Aidan says. “Just a bow on everything.”
Michael interjects as he successfully dodges a claw swipe. “We’re assuming he’ll come down the chimney.”
Aidan confirms. “The only other way they can enter the house is the front door if it’s left ajar or someone opens it for him.”
“Like vampires,” I add.
“I suppose. Yes.” He calls to Michael. “You and Ricardo will flank from the kitchen with pistols and shields, then?”
“Aye, captain!”
During a training break, we continue to plan our defense and offense while Michael and Ricardo guzzle water from the refrigerator dispenser between smooches. Despite the circumstances, it thrills me to see Michael happy and just being himself. “We’ve got to secure the first floor. Put safety latches on the kitchen cabinet doors. Stuff like that,” Michael says. “Those sibs of yours could start throwing dishes. Turn anything into missiles to use against us.”
“Should we all use shields or armor?” I ask.
Aidan moves under the archway of the downstairs hallway. “Perhaps I should remain in this opening, obscured by shadows but with a good view so that I can do my worst. Judy and Leo can be stationed above. I’ll bind and injure as many of my siblings as possible as they emerge from the chimney.”
“And you’ll be putting Mr. Spotty to the right of the fireplace,” Michael adds, indicating me.
I don’t say anything.
“What’s wrong?”
“We don’t have time to alter Spotty.”
“What?”
My cheeks burn. The whole room narrows to just Michael and me.
Michael fumes. “He was going to blast mistleballs! What are we going to do without that?”
Our nerves are frayed from finals topping the horrendous stress of the last month. Things could get ugly fast. “Look, the air cannon is easier to build,” I explain. “It’ll take only a few hours.”
“What air cannon?”
“Hey, sweetie. Relax. Hear her out,” Ricardo urges Michael.
“I’ve got plans I found online for a PVC air cannon. It can launch a mistletoe cannon ball up to three inches in diameter.”
“We don’t have that much mistletoe!” Anger twists his face. He’s losing it.
“We have enough!” I catch myself yelling. “Judy’s coming over tomorrow and we’re making cannon balls using the extract and a form of maltodextrin as a base. Plus a binder. It’ll hold together.”
“I love this woman,” Ricardo says to Michael. “Air cannons? Quadcopters? This is insanely cool!”
Michael takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and puts his head in his hands. He sits with Ricardo on the couch. Ricardo plants a kiss on Michael’s cheek and asks the question I was hoping he’d ask. “How’d you come up with that?”
“Judy did. It’s a cooking thing her mother taught her.”
“I thought she was this sensitive punk artiste.”
“She is. But she’s finding her inner mad scientist. It’s awesome.”
Aidan sits with me on the adjoining couch, pensive. He takes my hand in his. Warm. Amazingly soft. “Sorry to change the subject, but it occurred to me that I might have misled you about my father’s appearance.”
“Oh?” Michael guzzles more water. “He’s not a big chain-slinging goat muncher?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course he is,” Aidan replies. “But he might appear differently to you than he does to me. He can do that. At home, he hasn’t much occasion to change his appearance, but I recall him seeming far more human around my mother when I was younger. He breaches the chimney by changing his shape, after all.”
“Does it affect how he’ll respond to the mistletoe?” I try not to sound annoyed. But I am.
“No, but it could affect you psychologically,” Aidan says. “And that might be his greatest weapon.”
Chapter 42
“I’m so proud of you, my Little River.”
I sit on the floor of my bedroom, back against the bed, exhausted on a Wednesday morning. Mom is overwhelmed with work. Everything that can go wrong in her eighty-five cases has. Aidan is helping Michael, Ricardo, Judy and Leo downstairs.
I hold up my phone. Dad’s face is in a hotel room somewhere in D.C. Judy’s parents sent him a link to the video. “Are you okay, baby?” he asks. “You look beat.”
“Finals kicked my butt,” I reply. “You look kinda tired, too, mister.”
He rubs his eyes. “I’m okay. I’m sorry your visit with your brother didn’t go too well.”
Ah, Dad. Deflecting my concerns. Changing the subject from him to me. “Yeah, I think it’s going better in the Middle East.”
“I’m sorry you went through that, baby. I’ll make it up to you when I get home.”
“Which is?”
He shakes his head. “No idea. But I promise to jump on the first plane out of here as soon as they give me the go. Even if it’s today.” He looks wistful. “You taking care of your mom?”
“Trying. She’s on autopilot.” She sleeps all the time and her temper is on a hair trigger. Yesterday morning she mumbled something about seeing the doctor after the holidays. It’s killing her to have Christmas without Charles. “After work today she’s supposed to go to the detention center to visit Charles. She said to expect her late.”
A sound from downstairs. “Aidan! Stop!” A crash. Huge laughter. Everyone is punchy with stress and jitters. At least it’s an improvement over all the bickering.
I close the door and sit down again. “So congress is buying? Or will you have to open a BombMart on the Mall?”
“Shop smart! Shop BombMart!” Dad says in a jolly Bruce Campbell voice. “We might have to,” he says. “No one wants to invest in defense these days except the usual suspects. And they’re so busy fighting everyone here that they ain’t gonna get their way on anything else.”
My eyes heat with tears. Is this the last time I’ll see Dad? “I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you, too, baby. Don’t be sad. Give Aidan a hug for me, too. Okay? I’ll see you all soon.”
A dozen sharpened pencils hover in the air at the hallway arch. Michael and Ricardo stand off to the side of the fireplace. Everyone wears goggles and holds SCA shields, watching the giant
stuffed polar bear sitting in front of the opening. Standing by the tree, Aidan holds up a finger and then drops it suddenly. The pencils launch into the polar bear. Shut shut shut shut.
Ricardo points at Aidan, his mouth hanging open. “Holy shit! You just shot—with…Did you see that?”
“Yeah. I told you he does that,” Michael explained. “He did lots of parlor tricks for me when he was staying in the guest house. You’ll get used to it.”
Upstairs, Leo madly pumps the air cannon as Judy shouts, “Fire!” She hits the foil covering the back of the cannon with a padded mallet. The test “snowball” explodes out of the PVC pipe and ruptures against the bear’s chest, crumbling in a not very satisfying hit. Like the pencils, the test snowball doesn’t have the extract. Once finished, the cannon balls will be transferred from the garage freezer to an ice chest. The maltodextrin ensures that they stay in a solid ball shape yet not freeze hard. Judy has numerous pre-covered back ends for the cannon that seal it shut before the pump sucks out the air in the pipe.
“I hope the snowballs are enough.” Aidan lifts his goggles to survey the damage. He walks over to the bear and digs a finger in its belly to withdraw a pencil buried deep inside. “I don’t like the pencils. My father can use them against us.” He looks to me. “Charity, are the Nikitas ready?”
“Yup!” The controller is set up in the loft.
“Aidan!” Leo calls down as I scramble upstairs. “What exactly happens to you when you’re hit by mistletoe?”
The room dims as Aidan speaks. “It’s a poison that penetrates the skin and mucous membranes to enter the bloodstream and curdle the blood. The effect is quite gruesome.”
“You’ve seen it?” Michael asks.
Aidan’s mouth thins to a grim line. “Yes,” he replies.
“What’s to keep him from blocking the attack?” Michael asks. “Like you did with those douchebags when they punched us?”
“The element of surprise.” Aidan looks up to me. “Ready?”
“Ready!” I direct a symphony of talcum terror. The copters buzz as they rise from under the tree. Everyone seems just as riveted by the copters as the pencils. Number 1 soars over Michael’s head and unleashes a payload of baby powder. Ricardo laughs hysterically. Simultaneously Number 2 zooms high up into the rafters and drops another payload on Leo’s head as he tries to dodge, arms covering his head.
Judy squeals with delight. “I love this!”
The two copters return to base immediately.
Number 3 flies up to Aidan. He doesn’t flinch but watches with amusement.
“Hold out your hands like you’re catching something,” I say.
He does. Number 3 gently drops an origami heart into his palms. He looks up to me, his face glowing with happiness. A blue flame flickers in his eyes.
“Awwwwww!” Judy says, stealing a kiss from Leo’s floured face.
Number 3 droops. She ascends back to the loft unsteadily.
“She’s broken?” Judy asks, wiping powder off of her mouth from kissing Leo.
The copter lands on her pad, which is surrounded by small plastic baggies full of mistletoe dust barely stitched closed. I pick her up and carefully pop open her panel with a screwdriver. The problem is evident. “I need to resolder a wire. It’ll only take a second.”
Carrying the copter to the garage, I throw on the light and tear into the tool kit. Should I start up the soldering iron? I don’t want to waste time. Instead, I dig into the box looking for the blue cigarette lighter. No dice. Charles must have stolen it.
Aggravated, I march back into the house and upstairs to my brother’s room. The voices of the others fade as they continue to plan and question General Aidan.
“Most likely, my father will want me alive,” Aidan says. “But he doesn’t have much personal power over me. Therefore, I suspect he will send in my siblings first to subdue me and won’t make any appearance whatsoever if they are successful. But if there’s a problem, he will enter. And it’ll be horrific.”
I lose track of Aidan’s voice as I step into Charles’ room. The faint odor of boy sweat and cigarettes dusts the air. It’s like walking into a tomb. Dark. Silent. Forbidden. Dirty clothes are strewn about the room. Guitar magazines lie in a rumpled stack. His guitar and amp are tucked into the corner like abandoned toys. Mom and Dad haven’t touched anything since Charles was arrested.
The closet stands halfway open. His leather jacket hangs inside. Mom probably hung it up and couldn’t bear to deal with anything else. I fish in the pockets for a lighter. Nothing. I flip on the light and scan the room. A morass of metalhead boy stuff. The dresser drawers sit at various degrees of openness. I start yanking them open, digging for my lighter.
I should have just started up the soldering iron. He probably used up the lighter fluid some time ago. But now the urge to snoop sinks in.
As I’m searching through the bottom dresser drawer, I see a shoebox under the bed. I yank it out and pull off the lid. A pair of brand new Nikes that he never wore. Just as I’m about to slide the box under the bed, I spot another shoebox farther under the bed.
Drug paraphernalia? Porn? More shoes?
Flattening myself on the carpet, I reach as far as I can underneath. My fingertips brush the box. I flip over on my back. Straining harder, reaching farther. My fingertips hook the lid.
At last.
I drag the heavy box out from under the bed. Whatever it is, it sure as hell ain’t shoes.
When I pry off the lid, I’m shocked to find the pistol inside. So Charles had a second gun. It must also belong to Palmer’s dad.
I feel oddly relieved. A gun. I probably pissed off Detective Bristow. No cavalry will come to our defense tonight should the encounter turn deadly and the mistletoe proves ineffective. Putting my hand in a clean sock, I lift the black gun by its wooden handle. It’s so heavy that it must be loaded. A box of brassy bullets packed in the gun’s cloth bedding is missing exactly six.
Spellbound by the sight of the weapon, I don’t hear Mom’s car enter the driveway or anything else until Michael says, “Mom!”
A car door slams outside.
Startled and shaking, I gently pack everything back in the shoebox and shove it under the bed as the front door opens.
“What the hell is going on here?” Mom yells. “Charity! What the fuck are you doing? Who made this goddamn mess?”
By the time I reach the bottom of the staircase, Mom is having a full-on rage attack. The living room furniture and carpet are covered in white flakes and talcum powder. Two lamps are knocked on the floor. Dirty plates and glasses are piled on the coffee table. SCA shields are scattered by the doorway. The stuffed polar bear “bleeds” fluffy white stuffing over the rug. Everyone withers from her as she continues on her tirade.
“How dare you kids come here and destroy my house! And who the hell are you?” She looks accusingly at Ricardo. Everyone starts speaking at once in a chorus of apologies.
“Mom, I’m sorry—”
“Mrs. Jones, I deeply apologize. We had planned to—”
“I don’t care!” she yells. “You kids should be ashamed of yourselves. Now, get the hell out of here. Not you, Charity, Aidan. You better clean this shit up. And you are both grounded. That’s it. As for the rest of you, I never want to see another one of you in my house ever again. I’m calling your parents right now. I’m letting them know how deeply disrespectful and destructive you are to other people’s homes and property.”
“Screw you!”
I’m shaking with fury. Mom is stunned. So is everyone else. But I’ve never seen her this angry before over so little. And I’ve had it.
“It’s not fair that you come home early and freak out on us just because you’re having a bad day! Guess what? I’m having a bad life! Charles’ jerk friends are torturing us at school, and all you can do is get drunk and feel sorry for yourself? Screw you and your drinking and your feeling sorry for Charles who is a total effing sociopath. I’m sick of you!
And I’m not cleaning this up until I damn well feel like it!”
Can’t. Stop. Erupting! I thought we’d have time to plan and test more in the precious few hours before nightfall. And what if, now that everyone’s in trouble, they can’t get out of the house tonight? Pretty much everyone had planned on sneaking out except Judy, who had gotten permission to spend the night. Now everyone’s parents will be on alert and Judy will probably be grounded.
“You are grounded this minute! Up here!”
“No!” I cry. “Why don’t you just get drunk and leave us alone?”
She throws a dangerous look at everyone. “Get out! All of you!”
Ricardo reaches for the shields. Michael intervenes. “Leave two,” he whispers, taking two of the four water pistols.
Everyone files out, looking like losers in World War III. Once they’re gone, Mom goes into her room and slams the door.
I’m still shaking and crying. Aidan holds me. Tears run down his face, too.
“I’m so sorry. I couldn’t take it anymore,” I say, sniffling. “What’re we going to do? I’ve never been this terrified in my life!”
“Me, too,” he whispers. “Let’s clean up. When she leaves, we’ll strategize. We can’t give up hope.”
Chapter 43
It’s 11:38 p.m.
Thunder rumbles over the crash of rain on the roof. Aidan and I pace the loft, checking and re-checking the ammunition, weapons and tactics. Aidan wears goggles, a filter mask, protective clothing, and rubber gloves to protect his skin. He looks like either a beekeeper or a scientist during an apocalyptic plague.
A fire hisses in the fireplace. The odor of charred wood comforts me, as does the idea of Aidan’s father singeing his evil butt on the flames.
“This is the most defensible position we have,” I say. “As they emerge from the fireplace, we can hit them with the cannon. If they charge up the stairs, we can nail them one by one. If they climb up the walls, we have mistletoe water. And from here you have the best view so that you can do what you do.” I falter.
“As they say, we won’t go down without a fight,” he says.
Snowed (The Bloodline of Yule Trilogy Book 1) Page 21
