"This is your reminder to be in bed and asleep before St. Nick shows up."
"Nick? You don't have to bring me anything."
He laughed. The warm comfort of friendship brought a faint smile to her lips. “Of course I do. I've had your present picked out for days."
"Days? Saint Nicholas has all year to get ready for the big day. And you wait until the last minute to pick out your friends’ gifts?"
"Signal's breaking up. Go to bed Gennie. And don't forget my cookies."
She propped Cal against the couch and stretched. “You know, I have half a mind to toss a dozen Oreos on a paper plate and leave them with a can of soda."
In her mind, Cal shared his amusement. He knew she wouldn't do such a thing.
Instead, she set out Nick's favourite sausage and Swiss on rye, milk, plus a dozen homemade chocolate chip cookies. Beside that, she put Nick's present. One not bought in a pre-Christmas dash.
She smiled at Cal. The gesture came out tired and wistful at the edges as she felt the emotion behind his sacrifice and his gift. “Come on big guy. Let's go to bed. Things always look better on Christmas morning."
* * * *
A light tickle breathed across her ear. Gennie shrugged, nestling deeper into the solid warmth behind her. Half-asleep, she relished the dream of Cal's arms around her.
The tickle blew across her ear again and she brushed at it, coming fully awake as she touched skin. Warm, male skin.
"Merry Christmas, Genevieve."
Gennie twisted around and froze, her mouth forming a startled O.
"Cal?” She stared, taking in every missed piece of the man she loved.
Silver-grey hair pooled in the bed around the reclining man. Sinfully blue eyes, an aristocratic nose, cleft chin, and a wide chest decorated by the double headed dragon.
Excalibur. Her Cal.
She was afraid to touch him, in case he disappeared. “How? Are you real?"
One large knuckle stroked down her cheek. An almost tickle. “Faith, love, and the mercy of one very special Christmas wish."
Gennie didn't understand. She didn't care. “Oh. Cal!” She threw herself at him, wrapping around him. She pressed kisses to his face until he captured her cheeks between his hands.
His mouth ate at hers, hungry for her kiss. Their tongues met and stroked in greeting. Pulling apart for air, Cal traced a thumb across the dampness of her cheeks. “What is this? More tears?"
"This is for real? I haven't gone insane and gotten the really good drugs, have I?"
"My sweet, beautiful Genevieve.” Cal punctuated each word with a kiss. “Show me your world. Let me give you a happily ever after.” He shifted and winced, pulling a crumpled red envelope from beneath him. “Right after I get a haircut. This is for you."
Gennie slid out a card with a happy gingerbread man on the front, simply saying, Merry Christmas. Inside, a big smiley face topped Nick's familiar scrawl.
Okay, it was a last minute present. Hope you like it anyway. Santa doesn't do refunds.
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Epilogue
"And whan sir Mordred felte that he had hys dethys wounde he threste himselff with the myght that he had upp to the burre of kyng Arthurs speare, and ryght so he smote hys fadir, kynge Arthure ... “ Mordred murmured the passage again, staring unseeing past his own aged reflection. Of all the texts recounting Mordred's scheming treachery and patricide, he rather liked the tone and pacing of Thomas Malory's version. All that shadowing captured the reader. The balance of good and evil. Very epic.
Mordred imagined the discomfort of the fool set to guard him on the other side of the mirror forced to listen to him recite the passage night after night. Behind him, the television chattered, a magical-seeming box full of the news of this time and place.
With his magic locked away, some of the years his magic had held at bay finally staked their claim in the fine lines around his eyes and a breadth of shoulder a man didn't acquire until he neared his thirties. Each day of his imprisonment his knees and back ached with the penance mortal knights took as their due. He intended for his brush with mortality to be a passing inconvenience.
The locks on the door tumbled and the electronic alarm beeped, as expected, at the same time as yesterday, and most days of his imprisonment. Without turning he waited. His smile turned into a cruel twist of his lips as he watched the reflection of Arthur's watchdogs enter on the feet of his captor. Predictably, the older ones stiffened at the rudeness.
"Damn. Enough with the poetry already.” One of the guards muttered, proving again how little control the once great king had over his men. Mordred wondered how many turns at the mirror that guard had sat through. Repetition bred boredom, and a bored guard was a relaxed guard. His smile took on more bite.
"Good afternoon, Mordred.” Arthur paused, his discomfort obvious in the set of his shoulders. “I trust you slept well."
"My liege.” Mordred turned and leaned his weight against the mirror. It wouldn't break. He'd tried that already in a rage after first waking in this room, just as he'd tried the window and the steel door. “So good of you to visit. I would bow and scrape, but...” He shrugged away the rest of what might be said, enjoying the fury simmering in Arthur's men.
Arthur waved the comment away. “We've been over this. I gave up my crown and my sword long ago. I'm a modern businessman now.” He came closer, wary in the way one would be around a dangerous animal ... or a criminal. “Mordred, you're my son. I want to help you."
Mordred tilted his head to one side, looking down his nose in a complete mimic of what he thought of as the high king's pose. “Is that what you call it? Personally, I want to kill you."
The guard broke rank again, taking a step towards Mordred. One hand rested on the belt holding the small, but powerful gun. “I call it you being a royal asshole.” The loyal idiot's face flushed red.
Mordred pinned the guard with his eyes, letting his face fill with contempt for Arthur and his loyal minions. Soon, very soon he would be free. “ ... and ryght so he smote hys fadir, kynge Arthure ... “ He laughed at the pathetic man's attempt to stare him down.
"Damn, but you're a sick bastard.” The guard turned away, revulsion etched on his face.
Mordred leaned back against the mirror, his eyes never leaving the guard's face. “Everyone needs a hobby."
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About the Author
Buffi BeCraft-Woodall writes Romantic Paranormal fantasy with a heavy dose of East Texas thrown in. Her first book was the result of a challenge. At the time Buffi was casting around, trying to come up with an idea for a book that was both marketable and fun to write. When her mother insisted that no one could write a paranormal she would be able to understand, the war was on. She wanted create a book that was easy for those uninitiated to the whole paranormal/fantasy genre to both understand and enjoy. Buffi is happy to say that her mother is now waiting anxiously for the next release.
Email: [email protected]
Buffi loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at www.total-e-bound.com.
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Conjuring Cal Page 8
