Holidays are Hell

She was stepping from the car even before Warren had come to a full stop, and the crisp November air greeted her brightly as the morning sun hit her face. It was easy to turn nostalgic on a day like this, a holiday when one should be with family and friends, feasting and giving heartfelt thanks for this life's blessings. She hugged her homemade cornucopia tight to her chest, and its weight and scent and purpose grounded her, giving her strength to push those wistful thoughts away. Leave them for the mortals who had use for such things.

She slammed the car door and had already begun walking away when she stopped. They never said goodbye. It was considered bad form, indicating a deficit of confidence, and was usually unnecessary. But she didn't want to just walk away from Warren, not again, not without at least some solid sense of closure. So she backed up and waited until he'd lowered the driver's side window, then stared down into that face she'd loved almost as long as she'd breathed.

"There's something you should know, but I can't tell you—" She couldn't really tell him anything. Certainly not the truth. "It's about the legend. The rise of the Kairos." The woman who was both Shadow and Light, and whose powers would forever tip the paranormal scale in favor of good or evil, whichever she chose.

Whichever, her daughter, Joanna, chose.

Zoe squinted against the light as Warren sat back, studying her as carefully as she measured her words. "The Kairos lives. She's going to rise up in under your command. Watch and listen for her. She doesn't know it yet, but she's hurtling toward her destiny even now."

Warren had fallen stock-still. He was listening, and hearing, her now. "Where, Zoe? Tell me how to find her."

She shook her head and quickly held up a hand, staving off his protest. "She's in hiding, Warren. Even from herself. You won't find her until her metamorphosis."

"Which is when?"

That head shake again. "I'm sorry, but that's all I can tell you."

She thought he'd be mad, start railing about lies and secrets, trust and duty. But he simply leaned back against the leather seat and squinted up at her in the sharp morning light. He could see it out here, she thought. The veil between worlds was wide enough on this hopeful, thankful day that her intentions were clear in the light. And clearly Light.

"I didn't say it before," he finally said, admiration and, yes, love sharpening his words. "Happy Birthday, Zoe."

She gave him a wide smile, then turned to face the long walk leading to the stark white house, up the steps that were almost silvery in the brilliant sun, where she casually rang the doorbell. When it opened, she said what she'd been thinking; her wish for Warren, a vow for the day's work, a final goodbye. "Happy Thanksgiving."

The woman who answered the door was named Lindy Maguire. She was frumpy, matronly, favoring lace collars and long skirts, and she was also the Shadow's Leonine sign on the Zodiac. Like all Leos Lindy was ruled by the sun, and like most, also ruled by the heart. She had long ago set aside personal aspirations in order to remain as close as possible to the Tulpa, so it was natural that Lindy was acting as vanguard for his home. Natural, too, that she hated Zoe.

Lindy's delicate nostrils flared as she examined Zoe, scenting out humanity as she ran her eyes skeptically over the cream slacks and overcoat, though she didn't place her until Zoe opened her mouth.

"Damn, Lindy," Zoe said, studying the woman's beehive. "Still stuck in the sixties, I see."

Recognition had barely flashed in Lindy's eyes before Zoe found herself crushed against the wall, blood welling in her mouth as she thought, I used to be that fast… but I hit harder.

"Uh-uh-uh," Zoe said, shaking her head as much as she dared. Lindy's conduit was out—Zoe hadn't seen her draw that, either—and the honed nail file was pressed against Zoe's larynx, so that breathing was no longer the best way to stay alive. Zoe shifted her eyes to the camera trained on them from above. "Don't want to ruin all his fun, do we?"

Lindy cursed under her breath then let up, but not before flicking the file just enough to draw blood. Zoe hissed at the flash of pain—it still surprised her—and Lindy's frown turned upside down.

"I must be dreaming, because every sense I own tells me the mighty Zoe Archer is a mortal." She wrinkled her nose as she said the word, like it befouled the air around her. And while she was gloating, reveling in being the first to know, and at holding her longtime foe at a distinct disadvantage Zoe discreetly shifted her weight… and plowed her fist into Lindy's already flat nose.

She probably felt no more pain than a pinch, and the blood was only a trickle, but Lindy's eyes watered as her nose mended itself, shifting back into place with an audible crack. Zoe smirked and picked up her toppled cornucopia.

"Mortal doesn't mean pushover."

"No. It means walked-over."

"Just tell him I'm here," Zoe said curtly.