The tree was truly magnificent.
Everyone had said so, each guest who’d come through that night, doffing their furs into the arms of a waiting servant, air-kissing her cheeks in the glow of the twinkling golden lights.Davina, that tree is simply magnificent! You’ve outdone yourself this year, darling!It was true, she thought dreamily, gazing up at the coniferous wonder. Eighteen glorious feet of Fraser fir, trucked in from some far-off farm on the opposite end of the state and stood upright at the base of the wide, curving staircase, giving guests who wandered up to the second floor a view of the upper branches. The tree was strung with garland and twinkling lights that reflected on hundreds of glass and crystal ornaments, the crowning star unfurling ribbons of red velvet that cascaded down the branches like a rich waterfall of blood, slashing through the blue-green needle-tipped boughs. It was a stunning display, and shehadoutdone herself that year.
Waist-coated servers had kept the table of hot hors d’oeuvres replenished in a never-ending procession of lobster rolls and prime rib pasties and savory vegetable tarts; the champagne flutes topped with the bubbliest vintage, no guest needing to worry about an empty glass at any point during the night. All evening, the bite of cold from outside sliced through the foyer as friends and neighbors and assorted other merrymakers dropped into the Devlin’s annual Christmas open house, the fête of the season, a non-stop flow of cheeks to kiss and arms to embrace. The guests were resplendent in their holiday finery, sipping champagne and gliding around the dance floor; graceful waltzes followed by upbeat foxtrots, the tuxedoed quartet she’d hired for the evening playing without rest for hours. Yes, the fête of the season which the whole community looked forward to, and Davina Devlin did not disappoint.
The house was quiet now, the strains of the quartet long ago faded to echoes in the rafters. The holiday merrymakers had moved on to other celebrations, to their own homes to tuck expectant children into their beds and indulge in a final eggnog before retiring themselves, in anticipation of a visit from old Saint Nick. The guests had left and all through the house, not a creature stirring, a thought that made a burble of laughter make its way up her throat, nearly choking her as she pursed her painted lips, refusing to let it out. Davina stepped over the shards of glass beside the staircase, pausing to stare up in dreamy wonder at the tree, at the wide-open space that had been filled with bodies such a short time ago.
What a difference a few hours could make, she thought, coming to stand before the stately grandfather clock in the alcove behind the stairs. It was nearly midnight now, close to the witching hour. The final guests had departed more than two hours earlier, a span of time that somehow seemed too enormous to be real and like no time at all.
It would all be over soon.She’d heard tales of the creature who came to punish wrongdoers at Christmastime, with whips and chains and other horrors, and she had no doubt in her mind that tonight it would come for her. She had, after all, been rather naughty.
She wasn’t especially worried. It may have appeared to onlookers that Davina Devlin’s main strengths lie in the pedestrian folds gracious hostessing, acting as a pillar of the community, and performing the role of a perfect trophy wife, but onlookers only tended to see a very small prism of reality. They saw what she wanted them to see, for Davina Devlin’s secret superpower was the ability to control her own narrative, an enormous point of pride, if she did say so herself. Grand diversions and simple magician’s patter were usually enough to alter perceptions, and as they said, perception was reality. Tonight she would employ every trick she knew, would turn the demon visiting her to her side, convince him that she had simply been acting in self-preservation, paint herself as sympathetically as she knew how, until he too was rooting for her. She was certain she would be able to enact her particular brand of subterfuge on her last guest of the evening, her own personal guest of honor, and in the event that she wasn’t, well . . . she had always been a believer in divine retribution. If she got what was coming to her at long last, at least she’d had a good run.
She’d only just taken up her wine glass when the hour began to chime. Davina counted each reverberation from the belly of the grandfather clock as she sipped, straightening up once the clock had struck ten, crossing the foyer back to the bar before it had reached twelve. She had another glass already prepared.
Candied orange sugar on the crystal rim, a cinnamon stick and several whole cranberries already placed within. The wine had been slow-mulled since that morning and maintained throughout the evening, a hit despite the argument it had caused before the guests arrived. It was the perfect marriage of a dark, jammy red and a generous glug of Grand Marnier, simmered with whole cloves and star anise, an abundance of cinnamon sticks and cardamon pods, and only the brightest, juiciest oranges. Orange slices had been candied to place on the rims of each stout-stemmed toddy glass, and guests had enjoyed cup after cup, long into the night. The grandfather clock completed its audit of the hour, echoing through the silent house, and before its last chime faded completely, a different reverberation shook its way to where she stood.
The door knocker, a stately lion’s head, rapped with a force that rattled the windows in their casings. Davina closed her eyes and took a long, steadying breath. This was to be her finest performance, and it was showtime. There was no reason to go scurrying off to answer the door at this late hour, no sense in taking a chill from the blowing snow and wind outside. She would pour her wine and wait. It would come to her, she knew.
She was not kept idling long. A slice of icy air cut through the entry hallway and foyer, reaching her from where she stood beyond the tree, this newcomer to her holiday celebration. The creature silhouetted in the foyer entrance was a solid mass of black, huge and looming. She was able to pick out the curved horns of a ram with matching hooves and bent hocks, shaggy black fur covering the goat-like legs of her newest guest.
“Won’t you please come in?” she called to this latecomer, still welcome regardless of the hour, for it was Christmas Eve and she was nothing if not a consummate hostess.
He was draped in gray furs, strapped in leather. The toneless bells upon his straps made a flat little jingle as he stepped further into the house, the animal-like ruby glow of his eyes fixed on her firmly. Upon his back was a great basket and Davina shivered, not allowing her smile to break.
“Welcome,” she greeted with a beatific smile. “I’m so glad you’ve arrived safely, I hear the roads are a fright with this snow! Please, take off your furs and warm yourself by the fire. I hope it’s not too late for you to join me in a glass of wine,” she greeted her newest guest. “I’m afraid the food has already been put away, but if you’re hungry I can go to the kitchen and find you something. But first . . . a Christmas toast.”
The newcomer to her holiday open house surveyed the empty dance floor, the broken crystal and spill of crimson across the floor, eyed her magnificent tree. He took his time examining the scene before him, took several steps up the staircase as if to view the room from a different perspective, chuckling darkly to himself as he did so. When he turned to her at last, his smile revealed gleaming white fangs, setting his basket and furs at the base of the staircase before stepping over the shattered glass, his cloven hooves dragging through the crimson puddle upon the tiles.
“What lovely manners you have, sweetling. I’m happy to share your wine. It has indeed been a very long night.”
She laughed as he approached, a warm, engaging sound; one designed to cocoon its recipient into a feeling of cozy camaraderie, feeling herself shrink as he grew larger with every step.
“Well, manners are all we have, are they not? It’s the only thing that sets us apart from the animals.” He was broad and well-muscled, an admirable partner for this final holiday farce. “Slow-mulled with cranberries and oranges, traditional glühwein spices, and fine orange brandy. The wine is one of the best summer vintages from our cellar, and I had it mulled just for the occasion. My husband was furious that I would waste such a good cask for such a ‘silly flight of fancy,’ as he called it, but only the best for my guests and after all, itisChristmastime. What better time to celebrate with friends?”
“There is no one who can claim you do not keep the spirit of the season, Davina Devlin.” His laughter was a low scrape, colored in amusement. “And this is a very fine vintage indeed, dear heart. I believe you already know why I’m here, do you not? It pains me to admit it, but you have been a very naughty girl. It is time to face the punishment for your wicked deeds, but I do appreciate the civility. It’s quite missing in the world these days.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” she nodded seriously, laying a warm, conspiratorial hand on his wrist before sipping from her own glass. The creature brought with him the smell of the cold — of icy pines, thick with sap, and drifting snow, but there was also something warmer there . . . bright orange peel and cinnamon, reminiscent of the drink they shared. “Too many people these days simply don’t care about decorum. Gentility is sorely lacking in society.”
Another glimmer of white fangs before he took a long swallow from the glass. “And you provide it in the places it’s lacking. Opening your home to all, a generous benefactress of all the local charities. A heart overflowing with the spirit of the season . . . but that’s not why I’m here. You know that of course, don’t you, clever girl.”
It was not posed as a question. The first flutter of fear moved through her, surprised to find she was well-matched by this man-creature. She didn’t know why she thought he would arrive on her door a slobbering, uncouth beast, as artless as the easily subdued fools that surrounded her. She imagined she’d be able to offer him food and drink, show off her generosity and her festive house, perhaps regale him with a few tales of holiday mishaps, and see him on his way, warmed by the wine. She’d not been expecting this towering man-beast, as well-spoken as she. He finished the glass of wine, setting it carefully on the edge of the long banquet table, already stripped of its linens, waiting to be folded and stored by the morning cleaners until it was needed for the next soiree. She wondered, with a flare of genuine remorse at the thought, if it would ever have use again.Nothing to worry about yet — just call his bluff.
“I’m sure you’re quite eager to finish your tasks for the evening, and I hate to ask for any favors, but perhaps you’ll indulge me in a dance first? My guests danced all evening, and the music was so lovely . . . but a hostess never has a moment to stop, you know. Friends and neighbors to greet, making sure the food is kept hot, the drinks replenished, that everyone is having a good time. I never had a chance to enjoy a single dance.”
She moved to the antique phonograph cabinet as she spoke, allowing her words to set the stage direct the actions that would follow. The creature made no move to stop her as she set the needle to the edge of the record, a static crackle issuing from the old-fashioned trumpet speaker before a Christmas waltz filled the space.
“A glass of your finest spiced wine and now a dance? How can I resist such hospitality?”
She met him at the base of the steps, meeting his outstretched hand, beaming when he led her to the center of the floor. The creature’s hand dropped to her lower back, pulling her with improper closeness to his caprine form, and her heart fluttered on fairy wings.Steady, girl. You’re still in control.
“But it makes no matter what pleasures we might share, sweetling — you’ll still receive your punishment all the same.”
He was a surprisingly nimble dance partner. They spun and whirled, one melody bleeding into the next, steps never faltering. Davina leaned into the broad, densely-furred body of her partner, the events of the previous hour falling away. She had loved to dance, once, had nearly made a career of it. An international ballroom championship had once been hers before she’d become Mrs. Devlin, trading title for title, one aspiration for another. She’d never had a chance to miss the glamorous costumes, for her new wardrobe had been just as ornamental; the smiles she’d once given to judges just as false as the ones she flashed for her husband’s coterie of well-heeled society friends. The trick to ballroom dancing was keeping up the illusion of fluidity, that the movement of one’s feet had no bearing on the regal carriage they presented, and she was, after all, a master of illusion.
Shehadmissed the music. The music and the closeness, the matched heartbeat of having a partner in step with her,thathad been something she’d never been able to recapture. She was close now,soclose to getting everything she wanted. This night would be one more hurdle to clear, and then she’d be free. For the moment though, her surprisingly graceful partner and his strong arms would do.
“Do you have any requests for the evening?” His voice was nearly a purr against her neck as they glided over the tiles. “The end result will be the same, of course, but such gracious hospitality deserves a reward.”
