Silly girl.
“You all right?” Jon asked.
Jessica realized she had stopped crawling. She didn’t answer, afraid her voice would betray her. She needed to be strong. At the very least, look it.
With great effort, she pushed forward, lugging the great emptiness that filled her where Nicholas used to be.
Merry and Nog waited on top of the ice. Their wide feet were like snowshoes. Their gnarly toes dug into the snow.
“Careful, now,” Merry said. “Watch your step; it’s slippery outside the hole.”
The air was calm and the sun bright. Jessica was surprised how comfortable it felt. Despite the winter gear, she always felt the Arctic’s bite. But now she was somewhat toasty. Only the sting of breathing subzero air reminded her how dangerous it was.
Nog reached into the exit hole and grabbed Jon’s arm. For a little man, Nog’s hands were large, wrapping all the way around Jon’s forearm, and with surprisingly little effort, he pulled him out.
Jessica noticed the tough sheen on Jon’s cheeks. It looked thicker but resilient. She rubbed her own face, wondering if she looked like that. Are we changing?
Several yards away, more elven emerged from the ice and stood around the exit hole, helping others out. They were just as short and just as round as Merry and Nog. More holes opened and elven appeared like prairie dogs.
Jon started, “What are we waiting for?”
Merry and Nog pointed straight up.
The sky was clear, crisp and blue. Not a single blemish.
But then a dot appeared. It was darker blue, like a small bird. But then it was heading for them like a missile, becoming larger as it neared.
CRASH!
Jessica and Jon barely had time to raise their arms.
Merry and Nog didn’t flinch.
It stood on four legs.
Eight feet tall with an enormous rack of antlers. Its fur was strangely blue. It snorted and a long cloud streamed from its flared nostrils.
“What kind of… caribou… is that?” Jessica stuttered.
“Reindeer, dear,” Merry said. “He’s a reindeer.”
“Well, sort of,” Nog interrupted. “Centuries ago we dabbled in genetic manipulation and beefed up what you normally call a reindeer.” Nog stroked his long white beard. “I suppose it’s still in the genus as reindeer, but they’re a bit freaky, I suppose.”
The reindeer flicked its head faster than Nog could react, nudging him off his feet. Nog landed in a puff of snow.
“All right, all right,” Nog said. “I didn’t mean you were a freak, just you’re bigger and better and stronger. Don’t be so sensitive.”
Nog barely reached above the reindeer’s knee and stroked the fur that was changing from blue to white.
“I’ve never seen a blue animal,” Jon said.
“They camouflage,” he said. “No one can find them but us. Part of the genetic manipulation.”
More were falling from the sky, spiking into the ice next to various groups.
“And they can fly?” Jessica exclaimed.
“Not fly,” Merry said. “Leap.”
It appeared they were falling from thousands of feet. If something leaps a mile, Jessica wondered, that’s flying, in my book.
Elven gathered around reindeer.
There was a total of eight reindeer, including the one in front of Jessica and Jon. The elven carried small bags similar to Nog’s. As the reindeer pulled their legs from the ice – embedded from the impact of their thousand-foot leap – an elven reached into a bag and pulled out something red. It started off small and stretchy but got big and landed plenty solid. THUD.
They were sleighs that were red with golden rails. Each one was lashed to a reindeer and the elven piled in. When the sleigh was loaded, the reindeer crouched and – after a brief pause – shot from the ice into the sky, blending into the surrounding colors.
It was practically invisible.
“Jessica? Jon?” Nog had a smaller sleigh already prepped and ready and attached to the reindeer. “If you would like to sit on the back bench, we can depart.”
“Where?” Jessica asked.
“We have to relocate,” Merry said. “We never stay anywhere for more than two weeks.”
“Jack will find us,” Nog said.
“Sssshht.” Merry stuck her finger on his lips.
“Jack?” Jessica asked.
“Why is he after you?” Jon added. “Does he have my father?”
“No more questions, dearies,” Merry said. “All of them will be answered very soon. Please, climb on. We can’t waste any more time.”
It all felt rushed.
Are these the good guys?
They seemed like it. But, really, what choice did she have? If they stayed behind, they had nothing.
They know about Nicholas.
Jessica climbed onto the sleigh. They settled into the back while Merry and Nog did the same up front. There were reins but not like on a horse. These were just connected to the harness that was around the reindeer’s broad shoulders, only meant to steer left or right.
A group of elven was preparing the largest reindeer of the bunch. Its antlers stretched as wide as it was tall and its snout was different than the rest. While its fur was white, the muzzle was pinkish.
The nose, bright red.
The sleigh it was pulling was a big one. At least four elven helped someone into the back bench. Her hair was pure white, the braid dragging in the snow behind her. They made quite a fuss about her comfort.
“Now, hold on,” Nog said. “We’re launching after them.”
The red-nosed reindeer exploded into the sky, leaving behind a thundering crack in the ice. Snow settled in its wake.
“All right, now,” Nog called. “Let’s not dally.”
The reindeer, snorting and pawing the ice, turned his head. His eyes were black as the bottom of the ocean. He blinked, slowly.
Jon’s head suddenly felt cold on the inside.
The sky rushed past them.
C L A U S
7.
Jack slouched in an oversized chair. The desk was even bigger. He looked like a child pretending to work.
He liked things that way. He liked them big.
Jack rested his pointed chin – not pointy, but extended in an unusual fashion even for an elven – on the palm of his hand, drumming his long fingers across his cheekbone. The only hairless elven in existence stared at the only thing on the desk: a fish globe. Three silver fish floated inside.
He stared while a song ran through his head.
Siiiiii-lent night,
Siiiiii-lent night.
It wasn’t really a song. It was just two words, nothing else. For as long as he could remember, he’d sung it to himself.
It gave him comfort.
And that’s all he cared about, really.
Jack slid his hand – the flesh was light blue like a clear sky – across the pearly desktop.
He scratched a long fingernail over it (all his fingernails were purple like a bruise).
Jack curled his slender fingers around the bowl, sliding it closer. The silver fish didn’t seem to notice the blue-skinned elven with the bald head and clean face. He observed them with a cold eye.
He lowered his finger toward the bowl like it was an inkwell. The fish flickered around. There was nowhere to run.
The purple fingernail touched the water.
The heat inside the bowl, inside the fish – what little there was – was absorbed into his finger like a straw pulling water from a cup. There was a crackling sound as water turned to ice.
Jack held the bowl near his eyes, turning it around and around, observing the still life inside. It reminded him of a paperweight his mother once gave him, all round and shiny with cute little objects suspended inside.
He smashed it. Shards scattered.
The fish lay on the desk, solid as icicles. Tails curled. Eyes blank.
Jack picked one up, turned
it over and sniffed it like a connoisseur sampling the vintage. He bit the head off and minced it between his front teeth, swirling it around his tongue. He nodded.
Yes. A good year.
A short, fat elven (they were all short and fat, but this one exceptionally so) stopped just outside the doorway on the far side of the room. He stayed just outside of view. Only his shadow dared to cross the threshold.
“Entre-vu,” Jack called.
The elven slid inside, gliding all the way across the room – around furniture and games and crates and things under construction – until he stopped in front of the desk. The surface was right at eye level, leaving only the bush of black hair and his thick eyebrows for Jack to see.
“Sir–”
“I’m sorry, what?” Jack put his hand to his ear.
The thick eyebrows wedged together. “My apologies… Your Excellence.”
“Better.” Jack threw his bare feet – the color of blueberry jam – onto the desk. “You know, I got to hand it to you, Pawn, these are tasty. Reeeal tasty. You did good, for once.”
Jack studied a skinny tail fin, still frozen.
“Better than that batch of lamprey you sent down, smelled like whale farts. Where’d you get these?”
“Um, well, thank you. Those are cod. They came off the coast of Greenland. One of the self-propelled harvesters brought them back. The harvester uses saltwater to generate its own power. Very impressive.”
“Technology.” Jack laid his head back, mouth open, and dropped the tail in. He chewed like a horse. “I love it.”
“Your Excellence,” Pawn started, “we have located a warmblood. It’s a male. He’s pretty healthy, really, for being this far north. But he’s injured–”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa… stop the clock.” Jack stopped chewing. “What do you mean you found a warmblood?”
Pawn stepped back. Now his nose, fat and bulbous and bumpy, was visible in a forest of mustache whiskers.
“Only the adult male was captured. He fell into a trap.”
“Yeah, I got that. But there were three warmbloods.” Jack held up three fingers and counted them with the other hand. “Three warmbloods take away one warmblood equals two, dummy. Where are the other two?”
“Excellence, there were three.”
“I can do math and I just said that. Answer the question.”
A shuffle and another step back. “The colony–”
“The who?” Jack dropped his feet. “WHO?”
“Sorry, the rebels… they reached the other two warmbloods first.”
The throne-chair slid back.
“You’re coming in here and telling me that three warmbloods finally trekked into the Arctic and that we only got one of them?”
Jack stood.
“WE ONLY GOT ONE OF THEM, IS THAT IT?”
“The rebels, Excellence… they arrived as our scout team closed in on the warmbloods… they released an abominable snowstorm before we could capture them.”
Jack’s cheeks turned the color of a ripe plum.
The sheen of ice crystals that perpetually covered his baby-smooth face like frosty whiskers shimmered.
Pawn swallowed.
There was silence, broken by the sound of Jack’s perfectly square teeth grinding back and forth like stones.
All right. Okay.
There was nothing he could do about these IDIOTS now. What’s done is done.
Siiiiii-lent night.
Jack ran his hand over his face and scalp, wiping away a thick layer of icy fuzz. His flesh lightened up as a fresh layer of frost formed over it.
Good as new. Happy, happy.
“All right, fine.” Jack waved his hands and plopped back into his throne. “Where’s the one stupid warmblood now?”
“He’s, uh” –Pawn swallowed – “he’s in Claus’s lab.”
“I’m sorry. What?”
“You see, he was seriously injured, Excellence. Claus is the only one with the expertise and equipment to heal him.”
“But I want Claus working on other things,” Jack replied in a singsong manner, stemming the flood of irritation. He didn’t want to sing “Silent Night” in his head because if he did it too much, it didn’t work so well. Besides, his doctor said he needed to manage his emotions in a healthier way. Things like positive thoughts and other crap.
He hated his doctor.
“You want the warmblood healthy, Excellence. Otherwise, he’s not going to tolerate the subzero temperatures of the North Pole. Who knows when we’ll get another warmblood?”
“Well, I heard a little rumor there are two more warmbloods somewhere in the Arctic. Did you hear that, too? Or am I just making that up?”
“Listen, Excellence, we’re going to need Claus on this one.”
Jack tap-danced his fingers on the desk. The nails clicked out a metallic rhythm while his cheeks darkened.
The warmblood was the Find-of-the-Century and Claus got him first. He got everything first. Jack could send for the warmblood, but Pawn was right. He needed Claus to fix the human.
He needed Claus.
And that’s what he hated most.
“What’s his name?”
“Sir?”
Jack looked up. Pawn was five steps from the desk now.
Blueberry city. Jack beckoned with a finger.
Pawn shuffled over.
Jack urged him closer. Pawn took a half step. Closer, still. Until he could feel Jack’s icy breath on his bulbous nose.
“Let’s not forget,” Jack sang while his fingers danced up Pawn’s belly and through his long beard, “who we’re talking to.”
He held up a finger – a single, blue finger.
Pawn closed his eyes.
Jack touched the end of his fat nose. Crooked trails of ice crackled from the point of contact, crawling over his cheeks, beneath his beard. It was like Death’s talons latching on, piercing and stinging and squeezing. Cold nails driven deep into his brain.
Pawn’s face was numb.
His throat contracted.
The room was beginning to dim. Jack lifted his finger.
“Want to give that another shot?”
“E-e-e-x–” Pawn’s lips fluttered. “Ex-cellence.”
“Beautiful.” Jack’s breath crystallized on Pawn’s face in a frosty sheet. “Now what’s the warmblood’s name?”
“San… Santa.”
Jack sat back.
He bounced his fingers together, thinking. He watched Pawn shiver. Even an elven couldn’t take the kind of cold that Jack could dish out. Polar bears wouldn’t stand a chance. He couldn’t prove it, but Jack was willing to bet he could reach absolute zero – he could make electrons stand still, if he wanted – despite what the idiot scientists claimed impossible.
Pawn didn’t move.
Jack wanted Pawn to see him thinking. He needed him to see how thoughtful he was, that he was smart. That’s what leaders did, they thought about stuff. They planned and schemed and had things figured out. His people needed to respect him and revere him and honor him.
Fear him. That worked, too.
So Jack sat there bouncing his fingers with a serious look.
But then he got bored.
“Get out of here.” He kicked him in the belly. “Tell Claus no funny stuff, that I’m watching his fat fanny. I’m not kidding. You tell him I’ll strangle him with that dirty red coat he wears.”
Pawn shuffled toward the exit.
He was thawing out about halfway across the room, bumping into a miniature ice sculpture of Jack (he about knocked it over) before he started sliding. He couldn’t get out fast enough.
Jack was still bouncing his dumb fingers. He thought he had control of the anger.
Claus.
He brought his fist down. The desk shattered into chunks, spraying glittering ice chips to the ceiling. It was a pile of rubble.
“NEW DESK, PLEASE!”
Someone better hear that.
“AND MORE FISH!”
C L A U S
8.
Dark.
Dark. Dark.
And then a sliver of light.
It was bluish, not jolting Nicholas awake. It was soft, like a sunrise.
Nicholas wasn’t aware he was seeing anything. He was somewhere in a dreamy land of thoughts and feelings. Somewhere cold and alone.
But then a voice.
“Santa,” it said. “Santa. Santa.”
Nicholas saw a green fuzzy blob.
He blinked it into focus. It was a boy in a funny little outfit: a pointy green hat and green shoes with pointy ends that curled over the toes. And he had a long beard that touched the floor.
Not a boy.
The round little man was across the room, knocking on the wall. “Santa,” he said, his voice rising. “Santa. Santa.”
Nicholas was reclined in a chair. He felt no pain. His left leg was numb and the side of his face, too. His left eye was swollen, but he could see well enough. It helped that the room – walls glowing a deep ocean blue – was soothing.
A toilet flushed.
The little green man stepped back.
Another man, slightly taller and slightly larger, stepped out of an apparently solid wall. Even though he was bigger, he was still no taller than three feet, at best. Nicholas noticed the dim outline on the wall where he had come from, as if it was a doorway disguised as a wall.
He wore a dirty overcoat that dragged behind him. It was red and trimmed with grayish (maybe white at one time) fuzz around the collar and wrists.
The fat man grunted through his curly white beard. His dark eyes, set deep in his fat face, blinked heavily. He ignored the little green man and seemed to slide across the floor with little effort. Nicholas couldn’t tell if he was wearing skates. The fat man went to a bench that was full of unrecognizable gadgets. The entire room was cluttered with gadgets.
“Santa.” The green elf followed the fat man.
“Where…” Nicholas started, clearing his throat. “Where am I?”
Claus: The Trilogy Page 3
