Oh, yes. Definitely horror movie time.
I TURN MY PHONE OFFfor the night, pour myself some of the eggnog Eirwen told me to finish off, and settle onto the floor, stretched out by the fire with a much creased copy ofGoodnight, Mr. Tom.
Tonight, and until after Boxing Day is over, I’m a houseguest in cozy solitude.
The wind picks up and sends out a howling shriek, a blast so strong that the fireplace flames gutter and then flare as the rush of an incoming snow squall passes over the top of the chimney.
The power will probably fail by morning. The phone lines might already be down, and that’s if Klaus and Eirwen even have a landline, which I’m uncertain of.
Perfect.
I lift a glass to no one. No nagging mother. No stern father. No brothers pulling my leg or giving me grief in turns about staying home alone.
Well. I’m not home.
But I’m alone and unreachable. Alone is lovely, and if I work hard enough at it—I don’t think about last Christmas at all. Besides, I have a good book, a childhood favorite that never fails to make me remember that the best family is sometimes grown without blood ties, but with community.
Even though I’m avoiding my community tonight. Pine Ridge is full of us “paranormal sorts,” and we tend to look after one another. I turned down a dozen invitations for tonight, for Christmas Eve lunch, dinner, and parties, and turned down twice as many for Christmas lunch and dinner.
My little house in Pine Ridge stands dark and quiet. Let them think I’ve left town.
Let my family think I’m in a whirl of gaiety and holiday cheer.
I’m fooling everyone and getting the Christmas gift I want this year. To be alone.
I try not to think about how different that is from what I wanted last year, when I was dizzy at the thought of finally finding my special someone.
No. This is better.
I smile and open the book with a deep, contented rumble. No one is going to bother me until I’m damn well ready for them to.
Whump!
I shut the book. Something just landed on the porch. Something heavy, like a staggering deer, but that’s not likely.
Scrape.
Scrape, sob, bang!
I toss the book down and launch myself up, something that isn’t terribly graceful to witness if you’re not used to centaur movements.
“What’s all this?” I mutter, hurrying to the front door and flinging it open.
There’s a woman on the porch. A tearful woman, cursing, sobbing, and hitting her cell phone with a bobble hat, while a gigantic flashlight flickers next to her. “Who the bloody hell are you?” I demand.
She stops, looks up in horror, and I realize that one of the things that every “monster” in society dreads has just happened.
When you take the human brain and overtax it enough, then shove the supernatural right in its figurative face, the Mist (what we paranormal types call the foggy mess that seems to keep most humans from seeing what’s right in front of them unless it suits them) seems to vanish without warning.
“Man horse.” A pointing finger accompanies an accusatory whisper, and then—she passes out.
“Marvelous. Ruddy marvelous,” I groan, hands on hips (well, where my human half meets my equine half). With a huff, I reach down, bending my front legs at the knees to grab her wrists and haul her inside. “Why couldn’t it have been a kitten? A kitten on the doorstep, that’s cozy. It’s not supposed to be some...” I stop and stare at the huddled thing in a heap.
Tears on her cheeks, face bright red from the cold, hair sweaty and stuck to her scalp and neck...
Something of the old centaur nobility kicks in, I suppose. I look out into the night, front hooves stamping in warning to anything that might have been chasing her. “Clear off!” I bellow into the night, well aware that there are no neighbors for miles, not unless Ian Fenclan’s got guests renting out one of his lodges. “Who hurt you, lass?” I mutter, then decide that I’d better treat her like I would treat any injured little thing that showed up onmy doorstep. “All right. Let’s get you sorted.” With one more glare into the darkness and another challenging stomp of my hoof, I close the door and bolt it.
“JOSH,” I MUMBLED INTOhis shoulder. “Josh. Had the weirdest, worst dream ever.”
