CRITICS RAVE FOR MELANIE JACKSON
AND THE WILDSIDE SERIES!
“Innovative and erotic!”
—New York Times bestselling author Christine Feehan
“An alternative universe that can match Laurell K.Hamilton’s.”
—Everything Romantic
“An excellent combination of fantasy and romance!”
—Romantic Times
“Sizzling romance and ghoulish thrills at a breathtaking clip!”
—Publishers Weekly
THE MASTER
“Readers who have come to expect wonderful things from Jackson will not be disappointed. Her ability to create a complicated world is astounding with this installment, which includes heartwarming moments, suspense and mystery sprinkled with humor. An excellent read.”
—RT BOOKclub
DIVINE FIRE
“Jackson pens a sumptuous modern gothic . . . Fans of solid love stories . . . will enjoy Jackson’s tale, which readers will devour in one sitting, then wait hungrily for the next installment.”
—Booklist
“Once again, Jackson uses her truly awe-inspiring imagination to tell a story that’s fascinating from beginning to end.”
—Romantic Times
STILL LIFE
“The latest walk on the ‘Wildside’ is a wonderful romantic fantasy that adds new elements that brilliantly fit and enhance the existing Jackson mythos. . . . action-packed.”
—The Midwest Book Review
MORE PRAISE FOR MELANIE JACKSON!
THE COURIER
“The author’s imagination and untouchable worldbuilding continue to shine. . . . [An] outstanding and involved novel.”
—Romantic Times
OUTSIDERS
“Melanie Jackson is a talent to watch. She deftly combines romance with fantasy and paranormal elements to create a spellbinding adventure.”
—WritersWrite.com
TRAVELER
“Jackson often pushes the boundaries of paranormal romance, and this, the first of her Wildside series, is no exception.”
—Booklist
THE SELKIE
“Part fantasy, part dream and wholly bewitching, The Selkie . . . [blends] whimsy and folklore into a sensual tale of love and magic.”
—Romantic Times
DOMINION
“An unusual romance for those with a yen for something different.”
—Romantic Times
NIGHT VISITOR
“I recommend this as a very strong romance, with time travel, history and magic.”
—All About Romance
A PROMISE OF PASSION
Kris remembered now. There were many lifetimes tangled in his head. His friends Jack and Nyssa had done what they could, but his brain was still a mess of terrible visions he could not explain. He was old. So old. And nothing had changed. He’d told the humans how to love, but still they despaired and coveted.They hated and they envied and they killed. He didn’t feel like going on anymore. Not alone. He was almost sorry that Jack had found him. If only the goblin hunter had gotten him, he would be dead and all this horror would be behind him.
“I know your weariness, child,” a warm voice said suddenly. “But now I send glad tidings from the one who made you. For this last quest, you shall not be alone.”
Shocked, Kris opened his eyes.
“What?” he asked aloud of the nearly forgotten voice. He hadn’t heard it in centuries.
“I promise,” the voice repeated. “ You will not be alone. Look to the west, for it is from there that she will come.”
Other books by Melanie Jackson:
THE MASTER
DIVINE FIRE
STILL LIFE
THE COURIER
OUTSIDERS
TRAVELER
THE SELKIE
DOMINION
BELLE
AMARANTHA
NIGHT VISITOR
MANON
IONA
MELANIE
JACKSON
To Chris and Jan and everyone at Blends.Our conversations and coffee warmed more than my hands—it also warmed my heart.
DORCHESTER PUBLISHING
Published by
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
200 Madison Avenue
New York, NY 10016
Copyright © 2006 by Melanie Jackson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Trade ISBN: 978-1-4285-1713-4
E-book ISBN: 978-1-4285-0401-1
First Dorchester Publishing, Co., Inc. edition: March 2006
The “DP” logo is the property of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
Printed in the United States of America.
Visit us online at www.dorchesterpub.com.
IMPORTANT DATES IN FEY HISTORY
8000 BC—The Goddess sends The Green Man to Earth to make peace among the tribes.
37 BC—Mabigon becomes Queen of the Unseelie Court after killing her mother.
39 BC—King Finvarra assumes throne of the Seelie Court after his father is assassinated.
212 AD—The fey retreat underground begins.
1367 AD—Gofimbel, Dragon Slayer, becomes the first goblin king of all European hives.
1692 AD—Qasim is created.
1778–1792 AD—At the death of Gofimbel, the Goblin Wars resume.
1793 AD—The human Expulsion of goblins from Europe begins.
1805 AD—Qasim, the hobgoblin leader and master, is imprisoned by Mabigon. Nyssa is born.
1973 AD—Humans Under Ground is formed.
1991 AD—The Great Drought kills off all pure-blooded fey, including Queen Mabigon and King Finvarra.
2001 AD—Jack and Io cripple Detroit hive and reopen fey stronghold of Cadalach. (As chronicled in Traveler.)
2002 AD—Thomas and Cyra destroy the Sin City hive. (As chronicled in Outsiders.)
2003 AD—Roman and Lyris kill the goblin and master vampire, King Quede of New Orleans. (As chronicled in The Courier.)
2004 AD—Lilith and Fornix are destroyed by Abrial and Nyssa, but Qasim escapes. (As chronicled in Still Life.)
2005 AD—Nicholas Anthony and Zee Finvarra join the fey resistance. (As chronicled in The Master.)
2006 AD—Kris Kringle is found.
PROLOGUE
King Quinox looked sharply at his chosen tool. This ambitious young goblin was his son, but the lutin made him very nervous. He would not trust Anaximander with anything as important as guarding his life. However, he did trust him enough to send him on this mission.
And if Anaximander died performing it, so much the better.
“You know what to do?” Quinox asked sharply. His tongue flicked out and licked his left eye. It was a nervous habit he hadn’t been able to break.
“Yes. I will see that Niklas drinks the potion.” Anaximander had no nervous habits. In fact, as far as Quinox could tell, he had no nerves at all. Perhaps he didn’t understand what was at stake, that he was about to destroy the mind of The Goddess’s favorite fey and put an end to the unification of
the tribes of men under The Saint’s latest, most popular incarnation—Santa Claus.
“See that he does, or the second dose goes down you.” Quinox was not sentimental and he had many, many children, most of whom wouldn’t dare to try to kill him.
CHAPTER ONE
“I found him,” Abrial announced as he walked in late on dinner. It was the Cadalach Feys’ Midsummer’s Eve celebration. “Kris—I found him.”
“Kris Kringle?” Thomas Marrowbone asked, putting down his fork and looking at Jack. “The one and only true Santa Claus? He’s actually alive?” He looked back at Abrial, who nodded.
“Where is he?” Jack asked.
“Up north—where we expected. He’s been wandering the wastelands, living with the polar bears and seals. He’s suffering from total amnesia, and I’m betting it’s either a goblin drug that did it or one of Mabigon’s nastier hexes.” Abrial’s voice held distaste for the dead Unseelie queen. “I can’t seem to reach him. There’s a dense screen of voices in his head. Jack, you may have to try to contact him yourself.”
“What are you going to say? What are you going to do?” Thomas asked Jack. He couldn’t keep all awe from his voice. Kris Kringle was a legend, and not just in the human world. He was a death fey who had completely renounced his magical destiny and gone to do good works among humans. He had been—at the time of his disappearance and even after—the best ambassador of goodwill the fey ever had. Nowadays, everyone thought he was just a legend, a charming folk story. They no longer recalled that Kris Kringle, Santa Claus, the humans’ beloved Saint Nicholas, was real.
But he was very real; Abrial remembered him well. The Seelie and Unseelie Courts had watched with interest and some dismay as he slowly, carefully introduced himself to the post-pagan humans in Turkey, and later in England and America. He had wandered Europe for centuries as Saint Nicholas, doing good works among the poor, and especially among women and children.
But times changed—violently, as times so often do—and in these lands of the Industrial Revolution, Kris saw a special need for his presence. Despair was being spawned in the slums of the New World, and spirit was dying. Religion alone couldn’t hold back the inner desolation. If something wasn’t done, the land would be poisoned for fey and humans alike. The earth itself would finally die, contaminated by the greed and endless pillage.
The Great Elf, as Kris became known, understood that he could not fight the battle for human souls alone, so he’d enlisted a few carefully chosen others in his cause—enlisted them through dreams and to a specific purpose. The first had been Washington Irving. The former ambassador to England and Spain had already proven himself an able writer and advocate for the underprivileged, and one part of his imagination was already in the faerie realm. But instead of writing another terrible and dark tale like The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, or Rip Van Winkle, in Bracebridge Hall the essayist was moved to write about a feast, a place and time that fed the spirit as well as the body; and those of means had been enchanted and embraced the idea of a holiday where families gathered in love. Christmas was on its way to restoring the human spirit.
But one essay wasn’t enough. What of those not born to affluence? Their souls needed joy, too. Even more than the rich, they needed to be fed something other than despair. So Kris had gone to that champion of the poor, Charles Dickens. He knew that the pen, in the hands of the right author, was indeed mightier than the sword. But this time he required something greater than rapier wit; he needed a hammer to strike the hardened hearts of the world and make them resonate like cathedral bells. And so Kris and Charles had given the world Ebenezer Scrooge.
A Christmas Carol was popular beyond his wildest imaginings, yet Kris still had not reached everyone. He had reached the rich and touched the poor, but his favorite humans—the ones upon whom he pinned his hope of a future where all races would live in peace—had not truly been affected. Christmas remained a time for adults.
Again, he turned to a human with a special gift. That sober cleric, Clement Moore, was an unusual choice to tell a magical tale about an elf who lived at the North Pole, but Kris knew he had done well when “A Visit From St. Nicholas” appeared in print and took the world by storm. Christmas was suddenly seen as a holiday for children, and through these children, the great magic he planned could finally happen. Unbelievably, he became the most revered figure of childhood. Saint Nicholas was reincarnated—this time in a fur-trimmed suit and with a team of flying reindeer. And though the image was nothing like the reality, in the name of the cause Kris enlisted the aid of Civil War artist Thomas Nast to spread the legend of the “jolly old elf.”
Unfortunately, just when America had embraced the idea of a season of generosity and joyousness of spirit, the unthinkable happened. On his trip west to find the Nephalim, the giants whom many said were fallen angels, Kris Kringle disappeared without a trace. And without him, commercial interests— some human and some not—rushed to fill the void.
The kiddies couldn’t be disappointed, could they? the retailers asked. Best dash out and buy something for them. And what about your spouse? Your parents? Your siblings and cousins, friends and neighbors? Genuine generosity quickly became an obligation, and then it became a burden—spiritual and financial. People stopped giving with a glad heart. Many stopped giving altogether. And worst of all, the message of Peace on earth and goodwill toward all peoples became Peace on earth unless there’s profit to be had by war, and Goodwill toward only certain human men.
Humans had never recovered. For many, it was as if part of their souls froze, their hearts walled up tight against generosity and kindness, and nothing was able to unfreeze them. While they had not fallen from grace, men had fallen from joy.
Thus had passed Kris’s legacy.
He had one other distinction that everyone in the room was aware of. The Great Elf, though “elf” was an incorrect classification for a death fey, was also the first and only pureblood fey discovered to have survived the Great Drought. Which meant that he, who was most beloved of the Goddess and the Greater Power to whom She answered, was in fact far stronger than even the great fey kings and queens of old.
And he was a death fey—a very confused and possibly insane death fey, whose powers could either save or destroy civilizations . . . theirs included.
“What will I do? I’ll go and get him, of course,” Jack said at last. “I can’t very well leave my uncle living with polar bears. Besides, what if the goblins find him?”
“The lutins would love to pick his brains,” Abrial admitted.
“The goblins would like to pick his brains, all right—and not stop until they reached his teeth,” Jack answered. “I don’t know why they didn’t kill him when they had the chance.”
“Too afraid. Anyone that beloved of the Goddess . . .” Abrial suggested. “Who would risk it? Anyway, he always reincarnated. Why would this time be any different?”
“Well, damn,” Thomas said, exhaling slowly. “Have you thought about what this means—what he’ll do when he remembers who he is? Think, Jack. He’s a death fey. And he’s probably really, really pissed off.”
“I know,” Jack answered slowly. “It’s a bit daunting, I must admit. But recall that he has never chosen Death. Never. Always Kris took the side of peace and love. And our way of holding back the tide of lutin hate can’t work forever. My friends, we juggle well, but someday we will drop the ball and there will be war between the races—unless we can convince them they no longer need to fight.” He smiled a little. “Anyway, don’t you think it’s time we took Christmas from the merchants and unbelievers and gave it back to the children of the world?”
Thomas shook his head slowly, then leaned down and looked under the table.
“What are you doing?” Jack asked.
“Just having a look at the biggest balls in the world,” Thomas said, straightening.
Jack threw back his head and began to laugh. Thomas and Abrial just stared. They couldn’t see anything even remotel
y amusing about what they were about to do.
A salty taste—familiar. Blood? Yes, blood. His own . . . ? Yes. He had fallen while rushing for the cave and hit his face, scraping his cheek on the rough ice. Stupid of him to step between the two male bears when they were fighting over food, but Sitka was a friend and getting too old to take on the younger bears.
Still, it had been stupid. Blame it on the voices. His head was full of them: endless prayers in the barely remembered human tongues of English, Latin and Turkish—pathetic petitions he didn’t know how to answer. The babble made it so hard to think. His skull was so full that he wanted to drill a hole in it to let the sound out. The pressure on his bruised brain made him want to scream like the bears . . . but he had to be quiet. So, so quiet, else the beast with red eyes and foul breath would find him and eat him as well. It had been sent by . . . someone. Someone dangerous. An old, old enemy.
He could kill the beast—somewhere inside, he knew how. But that action would put him in more danger than he was in now.
Thou must not kill.
He touched his side. Blood was there, too, long streaks of hot red on the blue ice, marking his trail, which ended in a puddle. Sticky, warm. That was nice. He’d been so cold for so long. Cold since . . . But there was another blank wall in his mind. Perhaps he had always been cold. It seemed like he had. Cold, alone—except for the anguished voices in his skull.
The urge to sleep was strong. He climbed deeper into the cave, wriggling into a crevice where he hoped to be safe. Outside, he could hear the triumphant stranger tearing apart his prize. He didn’t want the new bear-thing to see him. Monster—a terrible monster—but he was so tired. He could go no farther. He was leaving his entrails behind.
He dozed briefly.
Kris.
A voice. Clearer than the rest. The words at first meant nothing, but finally he listened and began to understand. Someone named Jack was coming.
Jack . . . The name was familiar, but he couldn’t quite grab the memory any more than he could recall the name of the language this Jack used. But it didn’t matter. The voice was comforting, and it drowned out all the other noise, bringing him peace.
The Saint Page 1
