Holidays are Hell

We were outside the circle. Everyone was. It glittered like an opal; the multiple auras of the seven people gave it shifting bands of blues, greens, and golds. A flash of red and black glittered sporadically, red evidence of human suffering that made us stronger, and black for the bad we knowingly did—the choice we all had. It was breathtaking, and I stared at it, crouched in the snow, surrounded by hundreds, but feeling alone for the wonder I felt. The hair on the back of my neck pricked. I couldn't see the collective power rolling back and forth between the buildings—washing, gaining strength—but I could feel it.

My eyes went to Robbie's. They were huge. He wasn't watching the stone crucible. Mouth working, he pointed a mittened hand behind me.

I jerked from my crouch to a stand and pressed my back to the stone. The liquid in the depression was almost gone, sifting upward in a golden-sheened mist, and I held a hand to my mouth. It was person-shaped. The mist clearly had a man's shape, with wide shoulders and a masculine build. It was hunched in what looked like pain, and I had a panicked thought that maybe I was hurting my dad.

From behind us, a shout exploded from a thousand throats. I gasped, eyes jerking over my brother's head to the crowd. From the far stage, the drummer beat the edge of his set four times to signal the start of the all-night party, and the band ripped into music. People screamed in delight, and I felt dizzy. The sound battered me, and I steadied myself against the stone.

"Blame it all to the devil," a shaky, frightened voice said behind me. "It's Hell. It's Hell before she falls. Holy blame fire!"

I jerked, eyes wide and pressing deeper into the stone behind me. A man was standing between Robbie and me—a small man in the snow, barefoot with curly black hair, a small beard, wide shoulders… and absolutely nothing on him. "You're not my dad," I said, feeling my heart beat too fast.

"Well, there's one reason to sing to the angels, then, isn't it," he said, shivering violently and trying to cover himself And then a woman screamed.

Chapter 4

"Streaker!" the woman shouted, her arm thick in its parka, pointing.

Heads turned, and I panicked. There were more gasps and a lot of cheers. Robbie jumped onto the planter beside me and shrugged out of his coat.

"My God, Rachel!" he said, the scintillating glow from the set circle illuminating his shock. "It worked!"

The small man was cowering, and he jumped at a distant boom of sound. They were shooting off fireworks at the river, and the crowd responded when a mushroom of gold and red exploded, peeking from around one of the buildings. Fear was thick on him, and he stared at the sparkles, lost and utterly bewildered.

"Here. Put this on," Robbie was saying. He looked funny in just his hat, scarf, and mittens, and the man jumped, startled when Robbie draped his coat over him.

Still silent, the man turned his back on me, tucking his arms into the sleeves and closing the coat with a relieved quickness. Another firework exploded, and he looked up, mouth agape at the green glow reflected off the nearby buildings.

Robbie's expression was tight with worry. "Shit, shit, shit," he muttered, "I never should have done this. Rachel, can't you do a damned spell wrong once in a while?"

My heart dropped to my middle, and I couldn't breathe. Our bet. Damn it. This wasn't Dad. I'd done something wrong. The man hunched before me in bare feet and my brother's new coat wasn't my dad.

"I speculated hell was hot…" he said, shivering. "This is c-cold."

"It didn't work," I whispered, and he fixed his vivid blue eyes on me, looking like a startled animal. My breath caught. He was lost and afraid. Another distant boom broke our gaze as he looked to the snowy skies.

From nearby came a shrill, "Him. That's him right over there!"

Spinning, I found the woman who had screamed earlier. Security was with her, and they were both looking this way.

"It's an outrage to all decent folks!" she said loudly in a huff.

My eyes went to my brother's. Crap. Now what?

Robbie jumped off the planter. "We have to go."

The small man was scanning the crowd, a look of wonder replacing his fear. At my feet, Robbie grabbed my mom's stone crucible and jammed it in his pocket. "Sorry everyone!" he said with a forced cheerfulness. "Cousin Bob. What an ass. Did it on a dare. Ha, ha! You won, Bob. Dinner is on me."

I got off the planter, but the man—the ghost, maybe—was staring at the buildings. "This fearsome catastrophe isn't hell," he whispered, and then his attention dropped to me. "You're not a demon."

His accent sounded thick, like an old TV show, and I wondered how long this guy had been dead.

Robbie reached up and grabbed his wrist, pulling. "It's going to be hell if we don't get out of here! Come on!"