by Rachel Ford
He scowled and entered the kitchen, leaving the other man and his awful contribution behind. As Krampus had predicted, it was empty at this hour. Which was a good thing, since Arath was still hunched over in the doorway, puking his guts out. No matter how good a sneak Jack might have been, that would be impossible to miss.
He saw four separate pantries, and dozens of cupboards. Jack considered for a moment, then headed for the first pantry. In as candy-obsessed a place as this, he figured he’d find the candy supplies in one of the pantries rather than the cupboards simply because of the volume the mayor and Klaus must have on hand.
The first pantry was a bust. He opened the doors on more crockery and cookware than he’d ever seen in his life. Not just all gathered together at one time, either; this was probably more than all the cookware he’d seen, ever. Pots and pans of every shape and size hung from hooks on the ceiling and walls. Rack upon rack of plate ware and mixing bowls lined the lower portion of the walls, and in the center of the room sat a huge set of shelves, all equally burdened.
Jack moved on. The next room proved only a little better. This larder was full of meats – just meats. There was nothing else here, excepting blocks of ice that glowed with an energy so magical he could feel it even from several feet away. Huge slabs of venison hung from the ceiling, and trussed up fowl lined shelves. Fish of every sort were packed into ice. Some of their scales shimmered in rainbow colors, and others were flat grays and blacks. Some still had a slimy sheen to them, and others didn’t. Some had their heads, and others had been cut into single serving filets.
Jack went to shut the door, and then he thought better of it. If he was here to cause havoc, well, how much more havoc would there be when the mayor woke to find his entire larder full of meat all spoiled? He grinned in a self-satisfied fashion, feeling rather smug for his own malicious initiative.
Then he moved on to the third larder. And this was the one he sought. Shelf upon shelf lined the walls and floor. And every available space had been packed with ingredients: flour, sugar, honey, molasses, every conceivable spice, and a seemingly endless supply of confectioner’s sugars and candy flavors and molds. And more importantly, chocolate in every variety ever known to man. He saw cocoa powder and chocolate liqueur, chocolate syrups and chocolate bars, white chocolate and dark chocolate, milk and semi-sweet. He saw chocolate candy coating, and dozens of mix-ins and toppings.
For half a moment, he was thankful he couldn’t develop diabetes by proximity to sugar, through some kind of horrid osmosis. He figured he probably wouldn’t make it out of the kitchen alive if that was the case. Then, though, he fished out the spell Krampus had given him, and his grin broadened.
It was a simple spell, consisting of a single line etched onto an enchanted parchment. There was no poetry to it, no rhyme or whimsical language. It said, “May every morsel taste like shite.”
Jack read it aloud and then, as Krampus had told him, crumpled the parchment over the chocolate. It flaked into a million tiny, shimmering pieces. And when it fell, it vanished, as if the candy had absorbed it.
He was cackling to himself at that, thinking how Klaus’s hot chocolate wouldn’t taste so good next time, when Arath’s voice sounded behind him. “Boss?”
Jack turned around, hissing out, “Shh. You’re not supposed to talk, remember?”
“I don’t feel so good, boss. I think we need to get out of here, afore I puke again.”
Chapter Six
Jack had shut the candy pantry and scurried out without incident. He figured Arath’s vomiting spree had already given away the fact that someone had been there. He’d left a trail all through the hall into the kitchen. So it wouldn’t hurt to leave the iced larder open, either. With any luck, Klaus would think it had been one of the servants, who had a little too much eggnog and decided to rob the pantry.
They’d clean the mess, throw out the spoiled meat, and think that had been the worst of it. They’d never suspect anyone had tampered with the candy pantry. Jack imagined the plump, festive fellow treating himself to a nice cup of cocoa after his labors to clean the kitchen, and snort-laughed into the night.
They were back in the sleigh now, and Krampus’s serpents had slithered off the ground and taken them back to the sky. They had three hours and forty-some minutes to go. Jack wasn’t feeling particularly worried. On the contrary, even with Arath’s upset stomach, everything had gone well.
So he surveyed both the town and his map, looking for his next victim. He spotted two homes right beside each other, on the inside of a corner. One was a Timothy C. of Marley Way, and another was Old Eben of Bowley Lane. The two roads intersected, and the homes were built on the intersection, sharing a border.
Timothy was getting a little holiday downer, but Krampus had packed away one of the magical bits of coal for Eben. He’d made a note by the old man’s name. “Take precautions. He’s been known to shoot strangers. I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”
Jack wasn’t sure he was keen on that. But, then again, these were two homes right beside each other. So he directed the sleigh over and landed on the border.
He had no trouble picking out which side belonged to whom. Timothy’s house was lit up in festive lights, and the yard had been filled with snowmen and snow angels and snow castles – all of them decked in holly and pine garlands. Jack rolled his eyes at the sight of it.
The other side, the one belonging to the old man, had an entirely different air to it. There were posted “No Trespassing” signs directed with no subtlety at all toward his neighbor’s property. But more than that, he had a barbed wire fence strung across the border, and his house sat dark as a tomb.
Jack stood there by the invisible sleigh, reconsidering the wisdom of his plan. Arath seemed to sense his doubt, because he asked, “You sure about this, boss?”
“Of course. We have a mission. No time for chickening out. But, uh, let’s start with Timothy.” It wasn’t because he was afraid of the armed man living in a darkened bunker behind barbed wire. Of course not. Still, he figured if he had to make a fast getaway from either of those properties, it probably wasn’t going to be the holiday spirit side of the border.
Of course, Timothy’s house provided its own set of challenges. The obnoxious abundance of Christmas lights meant there was almost nowhere to hide, so getting across the yard unnoticed was going to be difficult.
Jack considered his path for a long moment. But every time he thought he’d picked out a course that would provide enough shadow to avoid the attention of any nosy neighbors – or Timothy himself – he’d realize the way ended in a bright wash of light he hadn’t yet accounted for.
Finally, he decided there’d be no stealthy option here. “We’re going to have to make a run for it.”
Arath protested that he didn’t feel like running – up until Jack mentioned staying by the sleigh, and the serpents. Then, he decided he could do it after all.
“Must be a holiday miracle,” Jack said wryly of his instantaneous recovery.
Arath didn’t deign to acknowledge the response with one of his own. They just ran, through the snow and Christmas lights, over – and through – the snow angels and forts. The ranger seemed to take delight in knocking down as many snowmen or snow fortifications as he could.
Finally, they reached the house. Jack pressed himself up against the wall and peered in through a sugar glass window. The house looked to be a comfortable place, heavily decorated with holiday décor. Whether it was otherwise pleasant or not, Jack couldn’t tell. He could make out nothing whatever of the place’s character – not under the liberally applied garlands and tinsel, the popcorn strings and light strings, the endless statuary and the four – four – Christmas trees he spotted from the window alone. If the place had anything else to offer, it seemed the Christmas spirit had smothered it long ago.
Jack stood there, images of old Richard III snuffing out his nephew in the cold, dark tower creeping into his mind. Only his Richard was dressed from he
ad to toe in gaudy Christmas colors, with bells that jingled on his toes, and a great peppermint candy cane – rather than a sword – hanging at his belt.
He remained exactly where he stood, utterly transfixed, imagining the purportedly loving figure suffocating everything else that threatened its dominance. He wasn’t sure if he was watching Christmas killing everything else on this island, or Richard killing his nephews; or if Richard was actually some horrible kind of Father Christmas, and the nephews represented – well, everything non-holiday related.
He didn’t know. But he might have gone on standing there, enraptured and quite confused, had not Arath asked, “Boss? Everything okay?”
He started at the sound of the other man’s voice. “What? Oh yes. Perfectly fine.”
“Really? You looked a few eggs short of a nog there for a minute.”
Jack blinked, his senses fully returned. “What? That doesn’t even make sense.”
“If we’re going to crash this party, we better get moving,” the ranger urged.
He scoffed, saying, “We’ve still got over three hours and forty…” But he trailed off, staring at the clock. They didn’t have over three hours and forty minutes. They didn’t have over three and a half hours. They barely had three hours left. What the hell? he thought, more than a little mortified. Somehow, he’d lost forty minutes in the blink of an eye.
He known he’d had it. He’d glanced at the clock when they reached the side of the house. He’d only spent a moment thinking. Didn’t I?
The truth was, Jack couldn’t be sure. His mind had become such a strange, confused jumble of imagery that he couldn’t say for certain how long he’d been there. Maybe it had really just been the few moments it had felt.
But maybe it had been more. Maybe it had been the full missing forty-some minutes. How else would the time have vanished?
He didn’t have an answer, and he didn’t like that anymore than he liked the question. So he focused on the problem at hand: completing his mission within the reduced timeframe. “Okay, this one’s simple: we eat all the cookies these fools left out for Father Winter, spill the milk on the carpet, and get out.”
Arath grinned. “Sounds like a plan. You need me to bust the window so we can get in?”
Jack shook his head, both impressed and worried by the other man’s malevolent initiative. “No. We don’t want to wake them up. We’ll go through the back door.”
They did. Jack used his skeleton key, and hoped like hell no one was out and about at that time of night. Because the backdoor was bathed in as much light as the front.
They made their way by a kitchen that – mercifully – had approached spices and sweets in a much more measured fashion. The place still smelled of peppermint and cinnamon, but not so heavily that the air became a poisonous, cinnamon-scented fume. They passed through a dining room all decked out in holiday glamor, and then a large staircase. Jack stared, his eye twitching. The staircase balusters weren’t made of iron, or wood, or any normal thing.
They were giant striped, peppermint sticks.
“Boss? Cookies are over here.”
Jack glanced toward the sound of Arath’s voice. The ranger had gone past him, into what seemed to be the family room. It was a spacious area, full of plump, comfortable furniture – and quite a few children’s toys scattered haphazardly around the room. The milk and cookies had been set out by a huge fireplace, in which a fire still blazed away. The floor looked like hardwood, but a soft, beautiful rug of blues and reds and golds covered it.
It wouldn’t be so beautiful anymore, Jack thought with a wicked smile. He headed over to the plate. Arath was already there, cramming cookies into his face.
So much for the upset stomach. Jack took one of the sugar cookies, flicking away a crumb that had flown from the ranger’s mouth. Then he murmured in delight. They were absolutely delicious: the perfect mix of crisp cookie and sweet icing. He glanced down at the plate, half gone and covered in pieces Arath dropped.
He snatched it up, glaring at the ranger. “You go take care of the milk. I’ve got this.”
The other man protested through a mouthful of cookie. Jack couldn’t quite tell what he said, but he thought he caught a mention of fairness. “Go.”
Arath didn’t go, though. He stood there, finishing what he was chewing. Jack finished his own cookie too and took another. At that precise moment, the ranger lunged for the plate.
But Jack was too fast for that. He’d been anticipating it, based on the other man’s greedy eyes and readied posture. He jumped backward as soon as Arath jumped forward, and the ranger swung his hand through empty air.
Jack laughed. “Milk. Now.”
Arath scowled but did as he was told. And Jack stood there, happily munching away on sugar cookies, savoring each bite. He didn’t pay much attention to the ranger. He heard the sloshing of liquid. But it wasn’t until he heard a heavy thud and a, “Saint Nick’s toes!” that he glanced over.
Arath’s foot had caught on a large wooden doll sleigh. He’d gone down hard and fast, and now he was sprawled on the ground beside the toy.
Jack repressed the urge to laugh. “You okay?”
“Fine,” the ranger snapped, picking himself up off the floor and throwing a black scowl about the room. “But they’re going to learn that there’s a price to being a slob.”
“Uh, we should get going,” Jack decided. “We can’t make noise, remember?”
“Cool your cocoa, boss. I’ll be quiet as a mouse.” That said, the ranger headed for the holiday tree in the center of the room, shimmering with lights and tinsel and surrounded by gifts. The light cast Arath’s face in a rather ghoulish aspect. He seemed so delighted with his own wicked schemes that he would have been quite at home among the gargoyles and evil statuary of Krampus’s fortress.
He grabbed one of the wrapped gifts – a big box, covered in glimmering red paper. Then he grabbed another, this one silver and wrapped with an enormous bow. And he marched straight to the fireplace, chucking first one and then the other in.
Jack stared, a little impressed and a little mortified. Certainly, this was in keeping with the spirit of the mission. But to burn a kid’s Christmas presents? That seemed like…well, too much.
Arath went right back for the tree and repeated the process. Jack murmured a, “I think they will have learned their lesson by now, Arath.”
The ranger didn’t stop. He filled his arms with gifts, marching back and forth between the tree and the fireplace.
The fire had been low, an hour perhaps from being nothing but embers. Now it raged and roared, hungrily devouring all the boxes Arath fed it. Jack took a step back. The heat had gotten quite intense by now. “We really should get going,” he urged.
“One more load,” the ranger said. And he carried on, as if his leader’s complaint meant nothing whatever to him.
But finally, with his evil work concluded, he turned and grinned. “Right, boss. Let’s go spread chaos elsewhere.”
Chapter Seven
Eben’s bunker proved a little harder to get to than the welcoming house they’d just vandalized. First, they had to crawl through barbed wire – a terribly uncomfortable business, even without the ability to feel pain. Jack took quite a bit of damage, and Arath spent the entire time worrying that one of the barbs was going to “snag me sugar plums, if you get my meaning.”
He did, of course and unfortunately. Still, they survived the wire. But their ordeal wasn’t done yet. On the contrary, as soon as Jack took a step, he felt something stab into his boot. As with the wire, he didn’t feel pain. He did register the puncture, though, and feel a numbing kind of coldness run up his leg from the site of the injury.
He hauled his foot up with an effort to look at what had pierced his boot. And there was a snowflake-shaped caltrop lodged deep in the sole. “What the flurries?” he demanded. At least, that’s how it came out, thanks to the profanity filter.
At the same moment, Arath groaned. “He’s boobytrap
ped the entire yard. Look, there’s traps all under the snow.”
Jack groaned too. He remembered Krampus’s warning, etched onto the margins of his list, about the old man and his gun. He had said nothing about caltrops, though.
“Do you have an ice spell, Jack? You can turn the snow into ice, and we’ll be able to walk on top of it.”
It was a good idea, and he told Arath as much. But he didn’t have the spell. The ranger grumbled. “I can do it, then.”
Jack wondered why he’d asked in the first place if he had the spell, but he didn’t interrupt. Arath did exactly what he’d said: he cast a spell on the snow, and the shimmering flakes seemed at once to melt and then harden, until a thick, solid layer of ice coated the entire yard – hiding the vicious traps.
Jack laughed. “Brilliant. Nicely done, Arath.” Then, he lifted his leg. At least, he tried to. The ice had frozen him into place. He pulled and strained and struggled.
The ranger, meanwhile, scampered on, covering the yard in good time.
Despite his best efforts, Jack remained stuck in place. “Uh, Arath? A little help?”
The other man had almost reached the bunker by now. He turned, glanced at Jack, and snort-laughed, brushing off his request for aid. “Use a fire spell. Come on, the clock is running out.”
That was true. They’d lost another twenty minutes, thanks to the fence and Arath’s need to burn every Christmas present in Timothy’s house. So he readied a fireball, closed his eyes, and let it loose.
He felt heat swarm him, and as his health dropped, he was again grateful for the fact that he could feel no pain. Still, he took only a little damage, and his feet broke loose. He bounded up onto the ice.
But unlike Arath, who glided over the surface without difficulty, Jack slipped and slid and careened this way and that. It took him two solid minutes to cross the yard. Finally, tense and battered, he reached the ranger.
“What’s the plan, Jack?”
“Get in, leave the coal, get out.”
