“Because magic does what it wants,” I tell her, something that is as obvious to me as the location of the sky. I have to remind myself that Winter’s only known about magic for three years, and only understood her own magic for a couple of months. “When it wants, how it wants. That’s just the way it is.”
Winter makes a low noise at that, as if she wants to argue but can’t quite think of what to say.
“But you haven’t answered my question,” I say. She looks at me again, and I let my eyes widen. “Hello. Wandering around in the woods like a too-stupid-to-live heroine begging to be axed right out of a horror movie?”
“It’s Christmas Eve,” she says blankly.
I count days from the solstice in my head and think,Oh, yeah.
Winter glares at me when I have no other reaction. “I need a Christmas tree, Maddox. The world might be a hellscape on a downward spiral at the best of times—”
“In fairness, that’s always been one of Medford’s selling points, no?”
She looks like she can’t decide if she wants to scowl or laugh. “That’s no reason not to decorate a goddamn evergreen tree.”
I blink and peer up at the great many evergreen trees stretching above us. “Do you really do that? Chop down an innocent tree and festoon it with trinkets?”
“Please don’t pretend that you don’t know that just because you’ve been howling with the wolves for the past week.”
“I ... am a wolf. So.”
“You grew up here. I saw you eyeing the Christmas tree in Jacksonville last week which, yes, was also chopped down and is now covered in ornaments. Welcome to the world you’ve lived in for the past quarter century.”
“Werewolves really aren’t Christmas tree–type people.” I shrug. “I think they’re pretty, sure. I like a lot of lights this time of year, but that’s not a religious thing. The only rituals I’m into involve the moon.”
Her face changes then, and she looks softer. Wistful, almost. “Gran always made sure there was some kind of Christmas situation in the house each year. No matter what state my parents were in. No matter what was going on with Augie. Even when my grandfather was sick, she decked a hall or two to mark the occasion. And, despite everything, she pulled something off the last three years, too.”
“I didn’t know she was ...” I don’t know what word to use for the old oracle.
“She liked a Christmas tree,” Winter says quietly. “It’s not a tradition that I intend to let die.”
Her voice rings out a little and echoes back from the trees. It’s late morning, and the mist is still pulling here and there beneath the sullen sky. Christmas trees don’t mean anything to me, but I understand grief. And loss.
“Let’s get you a tree, then,” I say, trying to sound festive, though when I do I’m suddenly reminded of that swirling red cloak in Jacksonville. I try not to make it obvious when I look around, certain I can feel eyes on me. “Luckily enough, this is the Pacific Northwest. One thing we still have is trees.”
Too many trees to count, in fact.
Finding the right one is not the quick and easy process I expect, however. It turns out that any old tree won’t do. Winter has very intense and specific criteria for the Christmas tree that she intends to take back into her grandmother’s house, though it is not the kind of criteria that can be shared. Or explained.
“I’ll know it when I see it,” she tells me.
It’s afternoon and edging toward dark when I finally reach over and wrench the axe out of her hands, whack down the tree she’s chosen at last, and then carry it back to the house. In fairness, Winter helps. Butto preserve her dignity, I don’t point out that I’m the one who’s carrying most of the weight.
Inside the house, the real work begins. It takes several trips down into the basement and back up the rickety old stairs to pull out every box withChristmaswritten on the side in old, spindly handwriting that I know is her grandmother’s without having to ask.
Winter makes us mugs of hot chocolate from her secret stash that she only pulls out every now and again. And only, I’m pretty sure, with me.
That’s how Ty finds us later, sitting cross-legged on the floor in the dining room in front of a bright and happy Christmas tree straight out of a holiday movie. It’s covered in lights and decorations, most of them handmade. All of them with stories that Winter has spent time telling me. First haltingly, as if she was embarrassed. Then, laughing.
I don’t tell her that this is a kind of spell work too.
“What the hell,” Ty growls when I open the door to the pissed-off-sounding knock that I knew immediately was his. He sounds grumpy, but his hand moves to find my face and his fingers track the line of my jaw. It’s a while before his gaze moves past me to take in Winter and her tree. “Where the hell did that come from?”
“We’ve been decking the halls,” I tell him, smirking. “Obviously. Thinking of making it a den thing.”
Ty doesn’t dignify that with a response. “Your fae friend was walking alone,” he says.
“Briar?” Winter asks, like we have numerous fae wandering around the property. “She does that.”
