Holidays are Hell

Her lips curved—leave it to him to know she wasn't merely weaving—but she didn't stop. Instead she said, "Did you know another name for the cornucopia is 'the horn of plenty'? In the past people would fill it up with fruit, nuts, and seasonal vegetables, and offer it as a blessing when visiting a neighbor's home."

"Zoe—" He sang her name, turning it into a long warning.

She went on, not looking up. "But before that tradition, it was a part of the ancient harvest festivals. See, bringing in the harvest meant stripping the land bare, which left the spirit that lived amongst the crop homeless. A corn dolly—or idol as it was more popularly known—would act as spirit's receptacle for the winter, until the idol could be furrowed under again at the start of the new season."

Yet in Greek mythology it was a goat's horn, and had the power to give its possessor whatever she wished for. How convenient that it was now associated with Thanksgiving, a holiday—or holy day—that the Tulpa considered one of the best. An extremely superstitious being, he believed celebrations, like ceremonies, gave shape to days and years of mortals, making their actions nice and predictable as they clung to their rituals. He used to say it kept them in their place, and he loved it when events conformed to his expectations. He banked on it.

Of course, Zoe had already blown that expectation once—blown it like an A-bomb—so she wasn't expecting a joyous reunion. And showing up on his doorstep on Thanksgiving Day was the least expected thing she could do.

But the more she thought about it, the more she was sure it would work. Because though the design of the universe was intricate and mysterious, nothing was left to accident. Here she thought she was powerless to influence anything of import due to her mortality, but by weaving this basket herself, by imbuing her work with her intent and passionate belief, she was doing the one thing all humans had the power to do. She was turning her deepest desires into reality.

After all, wasn't that what the man who created the Tulpa had done?

So all she had to do was believe in this task just as strongly as he had. Strong enough to bend the universe to her will. And that's what she had specialized in when she was a troop member, she thought, gritting her teeth. Bending others to her will.

"Thanksgiving is an opportunity," she murmured, more to herself than the others now. "The holiday gives me an opening. The Tulpa will be fixed on gaining power from all the emotion associated with the holiday—hope, joy, thankfulness—things humans believe unerringly in. He'll never sense my true intent above all the emotional static. It's perfect."

And she fell back in to the rhythm of the weaving, visualizing it now, everything else secondary to what she wanted. "It's not perfect." Warren broke in. "It's suicide."

She didn't look up, her fingers continued their smooth slide-and-weave, and the basket began taking shape. "Chin up, Warren. At least this time you'll know for sure what happened to me."

He dropped a strong palm over her hands, stilling them. "You're not going. Hear me?"

She remained still, head bowed, voice soft. "I've always heard you, Warren."

He removed his hand quickly. "Then you'll have no problem obeying when I order you to give up your star sign. Tonight."

"I said I heard you." She did look up now, her voice cold as his. "I didn't say I listened."

And he knew that, too.

Warren's chin shot up, and the eyes that'd once followed her every move with an earthy softness were now petrified in an equally unyielding face. "See that she doesn't leave this room… even if you have to tie her down."

Zoe returned to her weaving as the door slammed behind him.

"Oh, Zoe," Phaedre said, running her hands through her rich hair on a sigh. "Your plan was to show up on the Shadow leader's doorstep on Thanksgiving Day, clothed in mortality, and bearing a gift cursed with ill intent?"

Zoe shrugged, ignoring Phaedre's use of the past tense. So it didn't sound like such a great plan when stated like that. But she would still go through with it. "I'll charm him into opening his door for me."

Because if she could get inside, get him alone for even a moment, it would work. Getting in without getting killed might be more of a problem.

Phaedre had turned her back, ostensibly fixing her hair in the dresser mirror, but Zoe knew she was studying her. "Except this time he'll be on his guard. He'll sense an attack coming a mile away. He'll be expecting it from you."

"He'll drop that guard once he sees my humanity. My vulnerability," she said the words to convince herself as much as Phaedre, flipping the straw horn on her lap, starting a new row. "Everyone is always on their guard around him—"

"Because he's the psycho kingpin of the paranormal underworld."