Magic & Mistletoe: 15 Paranormal Stories for the Holidays

by Aimee Easterling

  He might not have felt quite so strongly about it if he hadn’t been one of the ones who had been freed, after hundreds of years serving a vain, dreadful family who had treated him worse than their dogs.

  Quinn stood still, holding a hand over his frozen heart, willing it to calm down. Thinking of those days always hurt, although they were still fuzzy in his mind.

  “Are you okay?”

  Quinn turned, and frowned as his eyes took in the girl who’d spoken to him.

  She was no elf, so she shouldn’t have been his concern, but the state she was in didn’t sit well with him.

  She was too thin for one, and pretty dirty, too. At first glance, Quinn estimated her to be around sixteen years of age perhaps; but then, his eyes caught hers, and he changed his mind. No, this was no girl; she was a woman, although a young one. Twenty or twenty-five—he couldn’t tell, but she’d seen a lot of the world; the deep, sad amber eyes said as much. They looked too similar to his.

  “I’m very well,” he lied, forcing a smile.

  It felt strange, foreign. How long had it been since he’d smiled? He didn’t see the need to pretend near his folk. But if it comforted the girl, so be it.

  “Yourself?”

  He looked at her intently, trying to read her, and failing. How fascinating. It had been a while since a mind was closed to him. Or since he’d wanted to have a clue of what someone was thinking about, for that matter. But she intrigued him; she was the only one who had stopped to see how he was, for one. It surprised him that she’d notice his state; elves weren’t the most expressive of creatures.

  “You look a little…lost,” she added, and he just nodded again, although he knew exactly where he was.

  He just had no clue why his feet had led him there. Who could need his help in Mer? Had they really missed an elf last time they’d been there? It didn’t seem likely. Their Queen had accompanied them, and Eira, Skadie, the Winter Goddess, the Snow Queen—however you called her—wasn’t known for making mistakes.

  “Where do you need to get to? I know the city; I could point you out in the right direction.”

  Good questions. After consideration, Quinn decided that he was too exhausted to be of much use; his instincts, his powers, and his brains would function better after a few hours of rest.

  He knew one or two places where he could have stopped, but he found himself wanting to listen to the woman’s advice.

  “A hotel would be nice, I guess.”

  She bit her lips, pondering over the options, and Quinn took the few seconds to look at her perhaps a little intrusively.

  She was on the tall side, reaching his shoulders, where most human women didn’t even make it to his abs. Her hair was long and dark, a deep, rich brown. It was also dirty, greasy. The tresses down her back should have disgusted him; her scent should have assaulted his acute senses.

  Somehow, they didn’t. The musky spice was intense, but bearable. It made him feel nothing—nothing but anger.

  Why was she in that state?

  “There’s a bed and breakfast just up the street, close to the harbor, between the baker and the bank. It might not be the five-star hotels you’re used to, but they work very hard there, and you’d be served the best food. It will be nice. Homey.”

  Then, she took a step back and started walking away, leaving him baffled and little in awe. Nice and homey was exactly what he needed right now. He wondered how she’d known.

  The girl turned and tilted her head, before saying something that sounded like an order. She wasn’t giving him any choice on the matter.

  “Take care of yourself.”

  Quinn stood in the street for far too long, mesmerized. Then, he did something that would have shocked anyone who knew anything about him.

  “Saskia,” he called, in an even, low voice, and immediately, a shadow passed him. The crowd, usually so self-centered, let out a unanimous gasp, pointing and yelling.

  Quinn didn’t need to look up to know what had appeared over the darkening skies.

  “Follow her.”

  2

  Lidia woke up early as usual; sleeping in wasn’t exactly possible when you lived under a bridge.

  The fishermen normally left long before dawn and she liked to be gone by the time they arrived; they weren’t unkind exactly, but their well-meaning advice made her want to scream. Yes, she knew there were jobs to be had, particularly in Mer. She also knew there were women’s shelters where she could stay.

  She just didn’t relish the thought of being beaten up, coerced, abused, like so many vulnerable women in those places were. She would know; she’d been in the system since the age of six; these places harbored too many wolves in sheep’s clothing. Nothing had happened to her, because Lidia hadn’t been the prettiest of girls; but twelve years later, she’d grown into her own skin, and the wolves had come out to play.

  So, she’d left, a few months ago; she couldn’t tell exactly when. Time eluded her, these days. It was winter, which meant that she would turn eighteen sometime soon. People hadn’t yet removed the street lights, the colorful decorations. The Winter Fests hadn’t passed yet.

  Lidia found herself fishing. She should have asked the stranger she’d spoken to; he wouldn’t have minded giving her the date, she was sure.

  “Today,” she swore.

  Today, she’d find out the date. She had to know the minute she turned eighteen; then, she could actually apply for one of the darn jobs they all said she could get.

  She wasn’t fussy. She didn’t mind cleaning toilets, serving drunks, selling socks, as long as the pay she got paid for a roof over her head.

  The winter was colder than usual; normally, the temperature didn’t drop as low, this close to the sea; not until the Winter Fests. She wouldn’t last if the snow came early.

  “The snow won’t come early,” she vowed, willing her words to be true.

  If it did…

  She couldn’t think of it.

  Lidia fetched under her tattered blouse, and grabbed the thin wallet strapped to her neck; she didn’t know why she bothered, but every day, she checked her meager belongings.

  There was a little money, precious little. She’d calculated that she had just enough to pay for one piece of bread a day for six months when she’d left, but she had cheated a time or two, slipping a few coins to street children, splurging on a hot bun once. She’d also skipped a day here and there to preserve her funds.

  Lidia didn’t like to count how much was left, but a glance was enough to know that she had a couple of weeks, at most.

  There also was a locket there; she hadn’t sold it, although it was made of gold, and worth a good month of food. She would when she had no other choice, but…

  She closed her eyes, preventing herself from thinking of the woman who’d given it to her, so long ago she barely recalled it. What would her grandmother think of her now?

  And strangely, perhaps, there also was the most peculiar item there. She hadn’t known exactly why she’d hurriedly grabbed it from her dresser before running out as fast as she could. There had been a man on his knees, recovering from the well-placed blow she’d administered his balls when he’d asked her to attend to them. She hadn’t had the time to ponder her options.

  But at the bottom, underneath her couple of notes and the few pennies, next to the locket, Lidia had somehow taken a box of long, thick matchsticks.

  The sixth winter week—they were three days away from the Fests, according to the baker who always looked at her funny, like she was preventing herself from asking too many questions.

  Lidia was astounded. She’d been eighteen for a week now; why the heck hadn’t she asked before? She could have had a job ages ago!

  Catching a sign on the window, saying that the establishment was looking for a server, she opened her mouth, and promptly closed it again as reality hit.

  There was a reason why she hadn’t asked before… because that dream of getting a job as soon as she turned eighteen was
just that. A dream.

  Who would employ her, now? A dirty street rat without an address. She couldn’t apply for a social security number without one, either.

  Her eyes watered and her stomach turned. Dammit. What was she going to do?

  “You alright dear?” the old woman asked, and she nodded, stalking away.

  It was daylight, but she returned to her bridge, sitting down to gather her thoughts.

  That something needed to be done was a fact; but she needed a plan. There was enough money in her pouch to go in the local swimming pool, and she could get a shower there, but that wouldn’t sort out her clothing. Even if she managed to dry and clean her garb, they would still look stained, in needs of repairs.

  She could sell the locket. That was an option…perhaps her only one.

  The very thought chilled her veins more than the snowflakes that had started to fall sometime after she’d returned to her refuge.

  Looking up, Lidia had to laugh. This was the proof that the entire universe was against her. It was snowing, and she knew, without the shadow of a doubt, that she wouldn’t survive the night.

  3

  When Quinn opened his eyes, everything hurt—his neck, his limbs, his head and his bladder. Particularly his bladder.

  He knew he’d slept for far too long, and it astounded him. He never slept for more than a few hours here and there, always weary, wary, on his guard.

  Take care.

  The simple words still resonated in his mind, and for once, he had taken care of himself. He’d eaten, and taken a long, warm bath, and slept for days by the looks of it.

  He hurried to the bathroom, and was relieving his poor bladder with a contented sigh when a sharp chirp woke him up; Quinn pushed the door open, to find a large red and gold creature tapping her beak against his window.

  Saskia.

  He’d found the Phoenix in his travels; she’d been kept in a cage and forced to burn into flame and come back every night—a process infinitely painful for the legendary species. Possessing the ability to come back to life didn’t make dying any more pleasant.

  Anyone might have seen the creature was fading away, ready to give up for good; Quinn would have greatly preferred killing the lot of heathens who’d made her suffer for their entertainment, but torturing animals wasn’t actually seen as a crime in many places, so instead, he’d paid for Saskia.

  He’d tried setting her free a dozen times, but the bird always came back—when he didn’t call to her at least once a month, she generally made him pay by singing until he gave up and found her a job.

  She cooed contently when he let her in, visibly delighted to have had a mission to report to.

  “Yeah, enough prancing around. What about the girl?”

  The bird pushed her soft, feathered head to his palm and let him see.

  Ten minutes later, Quinn was cursing himself for sleeping for so long, and running out as fast as he could.

  4

  Somehow, she survived the night, and the one after—and a third, too.

  Lidia would have loved to be able to pretend that it was thanks to her mad surviving skills, but in truth, the only reason why she was still breathing was because Europa was a land infused with magic, and sometimes, apparently, wishes really did come true.

  She’d walked around as long as possible, keeping her blood pumping, but she’d known as her bones froze, that it wouldn’t be long until she couldn’t move a foot. She had blisters, and as she couldn’t feel some toes, probably some frostbite, too, although she didn’t dare look.

  What was the point?

  Lidia grabbed every dead branch she found, but in the city, there weren’t many; besides, the wood wasn’t dry enough to do any good. Still, she tried. When the thought of another step became too painful to contemplate, she sat and gathered her wood, cut a little piece of fabric from her skirt, and placed it underneath. Her shaky fingers were so cold against her skin, but she grabbed her pouch and after a few tries, managed to crack open her box of matchsticks.

  She would have cursed, if her bobbling lips would have allowed her to: the first matchstick fell on the snow, getting all wet and useless. The second lit up, but lasted only a fraction of a second. She opened the box and looked inside, trying to see properly in the dimly lit street.

  Ten. There were ten of them left.

  “Please,” she begged no one in particular.

  She knew there were fays, but no common folk ever bothered to ask for their help; they were too busy attending to princesses to care for the likes of her.

  Lidia tried again, shielding the light with her hand. She sighed in relief when it stayed, warming up her frigid fingers. She pushed it under her cone of wood, and the flame did take hold on her fabric. For all of three seconds.

  Nine to go.

  She closed her eyes, thinking about the last Fest she’d enjoyed, twelve years ago. There had been a fire there, in the middle of her grandmother’s lounge; Nana had made the best food—just thirteen different kinds of desserts. Lidia smiled, letting the memory give her the strength to try.

  Strange, how hard it was to attempt a task, when you knew you might fail.

  She lit up the fourth stick, and watched it immediately dim, because the skies had decided now was the perfect time to snow again.

  Determined, refusing to give up, she lit them up, one after the next, until there were twelve matchsticks around her skirts, half buried in the snow.

  Death would claim her that night, but she’d tried. Damn it, she’d tried. She held on to her locket, pressing it close to her chest.

  And all of a sudden, she was warm.

  She admitted it: she freaked out a little. Who wouldn’t? It felt like a cloak had fallen around her shoulders—and that would have been weird enough, but when she turned, she found herself face to face with a big-ass bird.

  Like, bigger than her. And the creature had somehow decided to wrap a wing around her.

  His blazing wing.

  “What the…”

  She pushed him away, but just then, a blast of wind blew snow right into her bones, her very soul, freezing her.

  She wised up quickly.

  “Never mind. We can totally be pals,” she told the bird, who snickered.

  “Dude, did you just laugh?”

  The bird now shook his head, and rolled his eyes.

  “Okay. I died—I’m now in a weird-ass version of heaven. Right?”

  The bird croaked something that sounded like “idiot,” and snuggled her close to its warmth.

  5

  It took him a while to find her. When he did, the girl was standing in front of a jeweler, holding something shiny in her hand.

  “This is precious to you,” he said.

  He didn’t have to read her mind to understand the situation: she wanted to sell it because she slept outside—in the fucking winter! These kinds of living conditions were good enough for the likes of him, but no woman such as her, human, elf, or anything in between, should ever have to endure such things.

  He wasn’t sexist or anything; god knew Eira, and endless other females trained for it were just as resilient as him; but it took training, conditioning. The girl before him was a precious little flower, not a hard-ass like the Snow Queen.

  She turned to him and her eyes bulged as she recognized Saskia on his shoulder.

  “She’s yours!”

  “Don’t thank me,” he replied, before she could open her mouth. “I haven’t done a thing.”

  And that was true: he’d asked Saskia to observe; the Phoenix had taken it upon herself to care for the girl.

  Quinn had never kicked himself as much as he had when he’d seen the last few nights through the bird’s eye. How stupid he’d been, for letting the girl go, when he’d known she’d been in trouble. If he hadn’t been as exhausted, he certainly wouldn’t have.

  “But she has,” the woman replied, holding her hand up, letting Saskia come to her, and caressing her feathers softly, respectfully.
“So let me thank you both.”

  This was ridiculous. Quinn narrowed his eyes, filling himself to make sense of what he saw and heard. She knew how to speak and act around a Phoenix, one of the few Beasts left in the world. Saskia was more likely to behead humans than to share her warmth with one, yet she’d helped the girl.

  This was no mere human—this was a witch, in the true sense of the term. A daughter of nature; no wonder she’d faired so poorly in the middle of a city. She belonged in the woods, mountains…

  Or in a frozen town at the tip of the highest peak of Europa, where bears, wolves, dragons, human and elves were welcomed.

  Quinn recalled the panic that had seized him a few days ago, telling him to go to the City of Mer, immediately. Telling him someone needed his help. What he hadn’t realized at the time was that he wouldn’t be saving anyone—except himself. He’d been lost, as she’d accused him of being, when they’d first met, desperate to do something meaningful, help anyone he could; anyone except himself.

  He knew that girl was the answer. A person who wouldn’t let him neglect himself.

  “What’s your name?” he asked the woman, tilting her head.

  It hit him that he should perhaps have asked her that, before deciding that he would take her home.

  “Lidia. I’m Lidia Sparrow.”

  She could have been called Gertrude, for all he cared.

  “Well, Lidia Sparrow, it seems Saskia has taken a liking to you. If you wish to accompany us, you’re very welcome to tag along.”

  She opened her mouth and closed it, just staring at him with a strange expression.

  Then, to her own surprise, it seemed, she nodded.

  6