“I think the reason why you slept so long is because you’vebeen consuming drinks that make you tired,” he continues radiantly. “Not to worry. I’ve dumped them out.”
“Youwhat?”
“Gingerbread loaf?” he offers, snapping his fingers. A plate appears between us, floating, a slice of brown cake staring up at me. I saystaringbecause it’s got candy eyes, a red M&M for a nose, and pretzels sticking out the top to form antlers.
“What are you?” I demand, shoving the reindeer in my mouth even though I absolutely know better than to take food from strangers. Why stop making bad decisions now? “Where’d you come from? Where’d you get these pretzels?”
“I am the Holiday Spirit, but you can call me Hall. As in—”
I’m starting to remember his spiel. Or shreds of it, anyway. “Holiday.”
“Yes!” His megawatt grin is a solar flare, painful to look at. He rocks back onto his heels. “Due to an obscure typo in the Festivities Legislation, the Holiday Spirit...” I’m walking into the kitchen now, checking on the stash of sherry bottles in the cabinet. They’re gone. Hall follows, craning his head around the side of the cabinet door. “...can be conjured by playing the current Billboard Hot 100 number one hit,ifit is a holiday hit, andifit is played backwards, on vinyl.”
I replace the batteries in Eileen’s carbon monoxide detector and test it. Seems to be working.
“The Holiday Spirit is an individualized experience. ‘Holiday spirit’ means something different to every person, so the makeup of a conjured Holiday Spirit would vary from person to person. I’m only a small part of a vast and intricate substance. Think of it like... a mist that covers the world. I’m a tiny piece that broke off to come to you when you summoned. Every drop of vapor in thatmist is unique, with unique traditions, beliefs, behaviors. ButI’mthe one who most closely resembles your own personal idea of holiday spirit–ness, which is whyIheard you, and why I’m here.” He beams proudly. “I have a frenemy who holiday-spirits primarily in Canterbury, Australia, and he protests all snow- and Northern-Hemisphere-centered holiday songs.”
If there’s no gas leak, then what is the explanation for why I am seeing and hearing what I am seeing and hearing?
“Somehow,” I mutter, “I just know that Kelly Frederick is behind this.”
Hall slides narrowly past me to grab a mug—I blink and from one second to the next, the mug has filled itself with steaming hot chocolate. As he waves his hand, summoning marshmallows out of the ether, the air around us stirs, tinged faintly with peppermint.
Hall nudges the mug between my hands until I wrap my fingers around it. Coaxes me to sit down in a chair, which I don’t remember ever tying a cushion to, but there it is, festooned with snowmen. There’s a snowman hand towel draped over the oven handle, too. I scour the remainder of the kitchen, discovering new bits and bobs: A crystal bowl filled with big, round, jewel-toned ornaments. Three different wreaths, each one bigger than the last. A bread box shaped like a sleigh. Hall nods at the marshmallows bobbing in my hot chocolate. “That’ll make you feel better, I promise.”
“I can’t believe you dumped out my alcohol.” I take a sip, because what else am I supposed to do? He’s right, though—after a swallow, my head seems to be clearing, that terrible migraine a distant memory. I take two more sips, confusion dissolving like stepping into a sunny, picturesque meadow. By the time I’ve drained the mug, this all makes perfect sense! I’ve always knownMariah Carey was powerful, so her ability to summon the personification of festive cheer honestly tracks.
“I can’t believe the day’s already gone,” I sigh, checking the digital clock over my stove. “Now I’ve only got two left.”
“Two left until what?”
“Until I have to go to a thing I really do not want to go to.” I let my head fall into my hands. “I wish I had more time.”
“If that’s an explicit wish, you have to say the magic words.”
I arch a brow. “What do you mean? You could literally give me more time?”
“If you say the magic words, yes.”
“Which are?”
Hall grows cagey, magicking himself a mug of cocoa and lifting it to his lips coyly. “Can’t tell you.”
“Well,” I deadpan. “How useful.”
I think the insinuation of not being useful wounds him. “It’s a lyric,” he blurts, then gulps his cocoa. Spits it out. “That’s not hot chocolate!” He looks down into his cup, giving it a slosh. “Oh, it’s hotchalk. My bad.” To me, he adds apologetically, “I’m new at this. Sometimes I get excited and things end up... half-magicked.”
I’m still stuck on this magic-words-and-wishing thing. “A lyric to what?”
He leans an inch forward, eyes trained on me with laser focus, trying to tell me without telling me. “Oh!” I exclaim. “The song that conjured you? ‘All I Want for Christmas Is You?’ ”
He nods, gaze glittering.“Yes.”
I reach for my phone, but it’s not in my pocket. “Where’s my...?”
“Other room,” he supplies. “I’ll get it.” Then instantly, it appears on the kitchen table.
I Google the lyrics, reciting them out loud. When I complete the seventh line, he smacks the table so hard that I jolt.
