From: br1035@ix.netcom.com Date: Wed, 8 Apr 1998 12:54:10 -0500 (CDT) Subject: Miracle On Queen Street This attachment is a story written by Patt Elmore and myself. Bons br1035@ix.netcom.com Disclaimer: Forever Knight and its characters were created by Parriott, et al., and are owned and copyrighted by Sony/Tristar. This disclaimer is not to be tagged in a Metro Police Evidence Packet, we don't care what excuse Nick gives you. Monsieur Louis Cabon, Madame Kiki, Biff the Buff Slave Boy, Sergeant Pulte and Dirk belong to Patt or Bonnie. The following RL people appear in this story with permission: Annie Raper, Cousin Jules, Laura (and her son John-Travis), Tracy Sue, Cousin Mids, Cousin Jesse, Cousin Tser, Jade (a.k.a. Mrs. Leaf! Woohoo!), DragonHaven Sallie, Debbie C., Kate, Caren, MacCousin Heather, Charl, Annette, Libby Singleton, 'Lady' Jayne, Kusine Kaninchen, Kissing Cousin Susan Nix, Susan Pierce, and John Rutledge (or, as Bonnie likes to call him: 'My Dad'). Thanks to Cousin Jules and Annie for beta reading. There are some references here to other NA stories, including 'Better Than Chocolate,' 'August Heat' and some War 8 fiction. Interested in learning more about the Roma? Visit the Patrin website at http://www.geocities.com/Paris/5121/history.htm ************************************************************************** Miracle on Queen Street A Nunkies Anonymous Holiday Adventure by Bonnie Rutledge and Patt Elmore The snow came down in pillows and in sheets, quilts, but not comforters, a veritable white sale of frozen precipitation. It piled in the doorways and mushed in the gutters in globs of icy powder. The power lines were laden in a brand new coat of ice, making fireplaces a necessity and workers from the electric companies rich on overtime. No sooner would the plows and salt serve their purpose than the roads would clog once more. Shoveling driveways became a full-time occupation. Yes, Toronto was literally drowning in snow, sleet and ice. People spoke of not seeing a storm its equal in a lifetime of Decembers. Driving was for the foolhardy, and flying was for the supernatural. Some citizens rejoiced, such as small schoolchildren who'd already escaped reading, writing and arithmetic for a week. Others, those stranded and incapacitated by the potent sway Mother Nature was demonstrating over the elements, had more insidious thoughts toward this winter wonderland. It was damn inconvenient. *************************************************************************** "What are you doing!?!" Bonnie exclaimed in horror as she spotted something suspiciously red and jolly clutched within Patt's grasp. Jules looked on with an air of disapproval. "Patt, you know that just isn't possible." "If I'm going to be stuck here for Christmas, then I'm going to *have* Christmas!" Patt's tone was adamant as she stared at Jules and Bonnie. "I'm hundreds of miles from my kith and kin, being held a virtual prisoner by a sadistic addiction, not to mention the weather. That doesn't mean that I have to give up everything which means something to me over the holidays." The High Priestess shook her head sadly. "I hate the prospect of having to confine you, Patt," Jules eyes narrowed, "especially considering how I just went through an ordeal of confinement myself." Patt swayed nervously under Jules' scrutinizing glare. "But, these are the facts: Christmas is a religious holiday and, therefore, has the potential of causing LaCroix extreme discomfort. There will be *no* Christmas in this Shrine. There will be no further discussion of the matter." With a regal sweep of her body, Jules turned and left the small anteroom. Patt stood, silent, still holding the garland which she'd been intending to hang. After a moment, the older addict noticed that the Scribe was still standing nearby. "How come you're not hoofing it after the High Priestess?" Patt said bitterly, commencing to roll the garland strand back around her hand. "You don't *do* Christmas either." "True," Bonnie shrugged. "The fervor of commercialism associated with the whole thing does tend to put me off some. No, it puts me off *a lot.* And, Jules has a point - Christmas and Nunkies aren't exactly compatible, are they?" "In some ways, yes," Patt muttered. "And, if there was any way I could take my seasonal slavering from this place, I would, but we have a snow and ice storm raging outside, the airport is shut down and, even if I could find transportation out of Toronto, I think I'm still under house arrest, especially since Jules blames me for her sojourn with the Italian police." "Yea," Bons snickered, "she *is* pretty hot about that one. You do have a penchant for pulling some interesting stunts, Elmore." Bonnie grew serious once again. "Do yourself a favor, Patt. Don't stir up the Shrine with this one, okay? Put a little tree in your sleeping chamber, if you must. Sing a carol or two while taking a Sacred Cold Shower. Just don't make a big deal out of the season." Patt watched as the tiny redhead left the room, then looked down at the silver and red rope twisted around her fist. "Always trying to tell me what to do, to quell my spirit," she muttered. "But not this time. Damn the consequences . . . I'm having Christmas!" Whistling 'Jingle Bells' softly, Patt began weaving the garland around the bust of Nunkies. ************************************************************************** "What are you doing?" Jules demanded as Bonnie slipped into the lengthy store line, the rug-rats nipping at their heels. She frowned as a tiny tyke in front of them juicily popped a sucker out of his mouth, causing a small dollop of toddler-slobber to land perilously close to her all-weather-but-stylish boots. Unable to resist, Jules surreptitiously swiped the child's face clean with a wet nap, then smiled innocently at the boy's parental units as he squealed. (Small children have allergic reactions to cleanliness, you know.) "This is just to prove a point, Jules," Bonnie insisted. "I can't enter this lion's den of commercialism and not confront Santa." "There is no Santa, Bons." Jules crossed her arms impatiently and tapped her foot. "It's a man in costume representing a fantasy of the masses, not to mention the god, Saturn, having a fashion crisis. You know that as well as I do." "Exactly. It's a totally irresponsible fantasy inflicted on the psyches of the very individuals least likely to discern reality from wishful thinking. Consider: we're Nunkies Addicts. Understanding the borderline between fantasy and the real world is our stock in trade. Children haven't our maturity -" Bonnie paused as Jules made a choking sound. "Okay, children don't have the life experience we do. They are ruthlessly encouraged to believe in Saint Nicholas through popular culture and the media. He's an inescapable symbol. Yeah, people will naively say Santa Claus represents the spirit of giving, but look!" Bonnie gestured with both arms to the scene surrounding them. "*This* is what Santa Claus truly represents!" Jules ruefully eyed the heaving throng of the young, middle-aged and elderly. Every face, no matter how unlined or wrinkled, appeared to be wanting something, whether it was another candy cane, a Valium, or a nap. "Taking," she mused. "Everyone here expects something. They want toys or love and happiness, and they're bartering for it with their behavior and credit cards." Bonnie tsked. "It's awful. All these hopes, dreams and expectations hanging on fuzzy red dolls and video games. Then there are the adults: jewelry and golf clubs, appliances and electronics. Everyone's compulsive about buying a happy-ever-after that will probably only have a lifespan of a day, if they're lucky. Where does it end?" "The worst thing is," Jules agreed, "these people are only going into hock to try and live up to everyone else's expectations. What about those families who don't have that luxury? There are so many children, so many unfortunates, who are lucky if they have food and a roof over their heads on any given day, much less some tribute from Santa Claus on the twenty-fifth. What are these little ones supposed to believe when society tells them St. Nick rewards the worthy with prizes, and they fall through the cracks? It's just not right." "Exactly, Jules. That's why *we're* here." "I thought we were here to get clothing suitable for another ice age. You need sensible shoes, remember?" "Bleh." Bonnie wrinkled her nose. "How do I know I won't like hypothermia until I've tried it?" Jules rolled her eyes. "You *are* here for winter clothing, and I need some new leather gloves. So I'm curious... We've established that we mutually disapprove of the commercialism inherent to this holiday season. We need warm, fuzzy, practical - yet fashionable - things. What on earth are we doing in this line?" "Like I said: we're going to confront Santa Claus, and reveal him to be the false hope that he is." "Oh, dear. This is going to be embarrassing, isn't it? I'm warning you up front, Bonnie, if I get arrested because of any stunts you pull, I will be *very* put out." "No sweat, Jules. All that I require of you is to ask Santa for something that you really, really want badly. It doesn't even have to be for yourself. Hell, it doesn't even have to follow the laws of fanfic and physics (which are not mutually inclusive)! I'll do the same thing. Then, when our earnest wishes are crushed into the dirt and snow with all the other unprivileged, CERK can publicize the intrinsic horror of the whole manufactured tradition! The more people don't *do* Christmas, the happier they'll be!" "I was with you up until the part involving publicity and CERK. Have you gone INSANE!?!? I work there! I'm going to bandy *zip* about the holidays at the office in front of *HIM*!" Jules tried to tug Bonnie out of line. "Let's get you a cappuccino. Caffeine depravation must be doing odd things to your brain." "No way! Juuu-wuuuulllzzz!!!" Bonnie gave the addict's name several extra syllables, and her voice was suspiciously close to a whine. "LaCroix made you a Vice President of the station! What's the point of having all that power if you aren't going to abuse it?! If you expose the hypocrisy of holiday propaganda, causing a few simple souls to completely re-evaluate the manner in which they live their lives... Dammit! Nunkies will be impressed!" Jules' hazel eyes narrowed. "You really don't think he would mind?" "Of course he won't mind. That's what he does on Nightwatch every evening! Anyways, he'll be even more impressed if you don't care whether he minds!" "Uh-huh..." Jules patted the other addict on the shoulder. "With an argument like that, how can you call yourself a true Cousin?!" "Easy. Cousins will say anything when LaCroix's not around to hear it. That's part of our charm." "Next? Miss?" Bonnie and Jules looked up from their wicked chuckles to see one of Santa's helpers urging them closer. Bonnie skipped up the steps, around the pseudo-reindeer, then plopped herself in the pudgy old guy's lap. "What's shakin', Santee?" she cooed in a jaunty tone, poking the man in his stomach padding. "Besides your jelly belly." "Ahem. Santa is doing jolly, young lady!" The bearded man peered closely at the perky redhead. "You are young, aren't you?" "Old enough to know better, but too young to care," Bonnie assured him. "Ah, well, in that case, what can Santa get for you this year?" "Rhode Island." "I beg your pardon?" "I want Rhode Island for Christmas," Bonnie repeated. "Stick the deed or constitution or whatever necessary rights of ownership states have under the back door of the Jeweled Peach, okay?" Santa gave a nervous chuckle. "That's a mighty big order for such a little girl, don't you think? How about a nice computer instead?" "But I picked a smaller state just to make it easier for you. It's not as if I asked for Ontario!" Bonnie exclaimed innocently. Her eyes darkened as she slipped a look toward the surrounding parents and children to see who could hear, then her voice increased to an easily audible shout. "What?! ARE YOU SAYING SANTA CAN'T GET ME WHAT I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS?!?!" Jules' mortified groan punctuated this statement. "Ahem. Now, now," the big man in red said soothingly as he patted Bonnie's hand. "Santa would *never* say that!" "I bet you wouldn't," Bons muttered under her breath. "The thing is, young lady," Santa reasoned smugly, "to get such a mighty gift for Christmas, you would have had to have been a very good girl this past year. Have you been a very good girl?" "It's interesting you should mention goodness, Santee. I'm rather interested in the ethical standards you're placing on the youth of today. Would you be of the mind that goodness is relative, a means to an end as in the philosophy of Immanuel Kant, or do you believe goodness exists as an entity in of itself, like Plato? Hey!" Halfway through this speech, Santa Claus gestured to two of his helpers with an index finger slicing across his throat. They picked Bonnie bodily off of the jolly one's lap. As they escorted her to the other side of the North Pole, she kicked her legs wildly in a hyperactive moonwalk above the floor. "Hey! I'm not through with you yet, Santa! Don't you want to know *why* I want Rhode Island? Help! Saint Nicholas is oppressing me!" Three husky elves handed her a candy cane and booted her off of the stage. Jules, meanwhile, was left to endure being next in line and trying to maintain some semblance of dignity. Santa wasn't helping. He gave her a good once over, then lasciviously patted his lap. Reminding herself it was for the good of the cause, Jules reluctantly complied, seating herself primly across the stranger's knees. Santa chuckled with pleasure. "Aren't you a little old to be visiting with St. Nicholas?" he asked, then added suggestively. "Actually, you look just the right age: legal. You know, Santa's a well traveled man. I could show you the world on a sleigh, sweet stockings." He twirled his white beard jauntily. "Indeed." Jules expertly raise her eyebrows while delivering her answer in a deliciously dismissive tone, some of her own best Cousinly skills. "Don't let your cheeks get too rosy, Mr. Claus. You're not nearly old enough for *me.*" Jules' voice was as icy as the trees outdoors. "Let's make this quick: all I want for the holidays is a 'Forever Knight' movie. This request isn't just for me, mind you, it's for the thousands, millions, of people who have seen and appreciated the show. We deserve more! Tell me...have you seen 'Forever Knight,' Santa?" "Why, yes. I liked that episode that talked about showing our true selves by getting naked. Sounds like fun, eh?" Santa waggled his eyebrows at Jules. "Tell *me,* sweet stockings, are you naughty or nice?" Jules pulled a stack of red rectangles out of her coat and stood as she gave him The Look. "Neither. I'm finished. Here are some Kickstart the Knight flyers. At the very least, could you have your helpers pass these out to the parents and drop a letter or two in the mail yourself? It's so little to give, and what you'd get back is immeasurable!" Santa eyed the flyers with interest, then looked up hopefully at Jules. "How about your phone number?" She strolled across the North Pole, turned down the elves' offer of a candy cane, then called over her shoulder before descending the platform stairs to join the pouting Bonnie, "If you really were Santa, you'd have my number already." *************************************************************************** Amidst much grumbling and grandstanding, Jules and Bons left the department stores with warm leather gloves, sensible shoes, and other new woolly layers. They trudged to the subway, then through the snow and ice for the final block along Queen Street before they reached the Jeweled Peach. The five-star restaurant had been almost deserted of customers for several nights now, with only a few citizens willing to battle through the foul weather for a gourmet meal. Louis Cabon had approached Jules recently, complaining of being overstocked, but Jules had assured the restaurant's maitre 'd that the foodstuffs would not go to waste. Both addicts were wringing their gloved hands in anticipation of enjoying one of those elegant repasts in the peace and quiet of the Shrine, without the specter of the season spoiling their digestion or relaxation. What Jules and Bonnie found, as they wandered from the Peach's private dining room to the main chamber of the Shrine to Nunkies, was anything but quiet or relaxing. The sound of James Brown singing 'Santa Claus, Go Straight to the Ghetto' was tooting over the sound system. There were garlands from fir trees entwined with ruby and silver cording lacing the Nunkies tapestries. Each of the seven Lucius busts designating the stations of the Shrine sported a Santa hat tilted jauntily to one side. Patt was overseeing Jayne and Charl as they worked on adding greenery to the center altar, her prized Mountie hat garnished with a healthy sprig of mistletoe. Both Jules and Bonnie's mouths dropped open in stunned disbelief. Their arms went limp, sending their packages to the floor in a series of thuds. They were at a loss for words. The dropping packages immediately attracted the attention of the currently residing animals, who could not resist sniffing the new boxes and crawling into the crinkly bags. Jules' dogs, Watson and Devo, inspected her pile, while Patt's pups, Fred and Barney, checked out Bonnie's purchases. The dogs' enjoyment soon ended as the cats arrived. It was a veritable pride. Libby's Sunshine, Marie's Barnaby and Dache were on the premises, and Bons had brought along Vivian, Sabu, Eastway, Emily, Kitty Nunkies and Mariah after suffering intense cat withdrawal during her past visits to Toronto. When cats collide with cats, dogs collide with dogs, and cats collide with dogs...noise happens. The resulting cacophony of snarls, hisses, barks and general rude behavior snapped the anti-holiday addicts out of their stupor. Bons and Jules finally took note of the branching brown gear attached to one of the cat's heads. Bons let out an unholy squeal. "All right! Whoever put antlers on Kitty Nunkies is getting decked!...And I'm not talking about boughs of holly!" Charl and Jayne exchanged the looks of elves considering thoughts of a career change. "Patt?" Jayne asked sweetly. "You said to tell you when we heard the sound of all hell breaking loose...was that it?" "Should we run for cover?" Charl added, her instinct for survival kicking in. Patt tried to appear merry in the face of opposition, but it wasn't easy. Looking at Jules and Bonnie, she realized that vampires weren't the only ones who could get their eyes to glow red when they were *really* worked up. She had sudden visions of being trussed up like a Christmas goose and roasted. Patt gulped, then attempted appearing nonchalant as she sipped from her green bottle of beer festooned with a cheery red bow. "What? You think the antlers were too much?" ************************************************************************** End O' Part One "AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Charl eyed the High Priestess thoughtfully as Jules screamed. As the shouted fury continued to echo off the Shrine walls, the addict winced and commented, "I think Jules is handling it pretty well - what do you think, Jayne?" Jayne shrugged. "No one's dead yet. That's always a good sign." "Maybe we ought to slip into the Video Room and join Debbie and Laura, just in case," Charl suggested. "Good idea! Debbie should be finishing up her sixth viewing of 'Holiday Inn' about now." "Only forty-four more showings to go!" Charl and Jayne slinked out of sight, visions of Bing Crosby singing in their heads, leaving Patt to face the firing squad alone. Jules glared at Patt, annoyance radiating from her every pore. "I thought I made it perfectly clear that there was to be *no* holiday decorating in the Shrine!" "Well, that's fine and dandy!" Patt argued. "It's always what you two want, and faa phooey on the rest of us. What the High Priestess dictates and the Scribe scribbles: no wreaths, no red and green trimmings, no lights and reindeer. Well, I have news for you two Scrooges: I think it's rotten... ROTTEN, I tell you! I have needs! I have traditions! I feel lost and astray! Every fiber of my being wants to make like Kris Kringle, and you're telling me to stomp on my true nature! How do you think that makes me feel!?" the Third Cousin roared. Across the room, a shivering Fred, hiding behind an equally shivering Barney, began to bark furiously. Jules and Bons blinked at each other. They were Cousins. They usually encouraged people to give into their true natures. Jules fought back a momentary sympathy, insisting, "I said there would be no discussion on this subject - why are we discussing it? Take every speck of this garnish off the Shrine walls before Nunkies drops by unannounced and sees it! How do you think Christmas decorations are going to make LaCroix feel?" Patt pondered that thought. No doubt LaCroix would be irritated, maybe angry enough to wring her neck. Christmas was good, but life was even better. The Third Cousin's shoulders slumped in disappointment as she morosely began to rewind the greenery and cording wrapped around the Shrine altar. "Okay...but I hate it." Jules picked her bags and boxes off the tile floor. "I appreciate your cooperation, Patt, and your respect for Nunkies' non-traditions. You had better remind the other addicts: any more making merry, and somebody will earn grout duty! Come, Watson! Devo!" The Jack Russell Terrier and the Wonder Whippet sprang to attention as Jules walked out of the Shrine. "I'll be in the Wardrobe room putting away my purchases. When I come back down, I expect every speck of glitter to be gone!" "Ho Ho, Highness," Patt muttered as she watched the Priestess walk away. As Watson pranced by Fred, the Min Pin uttered a low growl. Bons sat Kitty Nunkies down on the Shrine altar and began to work on unfastening the antlers from his head. His cobbly British shorthair body assumed a dignified posture and his blue eyes flashed indignantly. Kitty Nunkies opened his mouth slightly, showing a thick set of fangs as he sighed a silent meow. Bonnie glanced accusingly at Patt as she slipped the faux horns off the feline's Siamese-marked head. "Look at him, Patt! He's so affronted! Poor Kitty Nunkies!" she crooned, brushing the cat's fawn colored fur. He lifted his chin proudly, then decided to groom one of his pale paws. Bons rubbed him between the ears for good measure, then handed the Third Cousin her antlers back. "I can't believe you put those on him. I can't believe he *let* you put those on him!" "Well, he did draw blood. Repeatedly," Patt admitted reluctantly. "Who'd have thunk with a name like 'Kitty Nunkies,' the cat would have so much attitude?" "What I don't understand is why you had to pick my cat. If you had to put an animal in a silly costume, why not make it Fred?" "His head was too big." Patt released a sad whimper as she began to collect the Santa hats from each bust. Bonnie didn't want to be remotely sympathetic to the Third Cousin's plight, but a tug of compassion came anyway. "You know, Patt, we haven't forbidden you from your festivities entirely. We just don't want you doing them here. Jules and I may believe these activities are a waste of energy and have the potential for emotional trauma, but that doesn't mean we would stop you from celebrating elsewhere in the city. Why don't I call around the hotels and see if I can book a place for you guys to swamp with Season's Greetings while you finish clearing out the garlands?" Patt brightened a little at this prospect. "You'd do that?" "Sure," Bonnie shrugged. "I don't want everyone moping around, acting like they belong with the Knighties or something, BUT I certainly won't endure Christmas junk in my face twenty-four hours a day! If a hotel suite will work, bring me the phone!" Patt completed the cleaning-up task, then wandered to the Video room as the NA Scribe occupied herself on the telephone. There were almost a dozen addicts aggregated among the sofas and squooshy chairs, watching Laura's copy of 'The Nightmare Before Christmas.' KC, Mids, Jesse and Tracy Sue sat on the floor making ornaments. Debbie, Laura, Kusine and Charl had their eyes glued to the screen, while Tser tried to instruct her burro, Lavalianna, to not nicker during the movie. Sallie had stretched out, taking up an entire couch for a dragon-worthy nap. Annette, Susan, Jayne and Libby conferenced in the corner over a stack of sheet music. The Third Cousin cleared her throat. "Guys? We need to have a meeting." The Ratpacker stood up proudly. "Rightee, then! Aye's called Libratsie, and Aye'm not an - " "Not an NA meeting, Libby," Patt interrupted. "This is a Christmas conference, namely to inform you that Jules and Bons are insisting on no festivities in the Shrine." There were sounds of protest, exclamations and disappointed groans. "They can't do that!" Jesse argued. "It's not fair!" Mids agreed. "Besides," KC added in a naughty tone as she rubbed her palms together in greedy anticipation, "we outnumber 'em! Who want's a mutiny!?" Tracy Sue cackled as a swarm of hands rose into the air. "Majority rules! Let's string the party poopers up! Tornadoes can't stop me from celebrating Christmas! Winter storms can't stop me from celebrating Christmas! What makes Jules and Bonnie think they can stop me from celebrating Christmas?!" "Wait a second," Patt announced calmly over the grumbles, "before you put together the lynch mob, let me be the voice of reason." Everyone shut up. Patt, the voice of reason? This had to be heard. "Jules insists that LaCroix will be unhappy if he sees our decorations hanging all over his busts and tapestries. She may have a point. As a compromise, Bonnie is getting us some hotel space as we speak, so that everyone can still get their jollies." "Tootin' right, we're gettin' our jollies off," Libby inserted. "I want my shiny, pretty, blinkey lights!" "And you'll have them," Patt assured the Ratpacker, "just not here." Everyone agreed that they could live with these events. They would have preferred to have their festivities within the luxury accommodations of the Shrine, but Christmas at a hotel was better than no Christmas at all. Their eyes all turned expectantly toward Bons as she joined them in the Video room. The NA Scribe's smile was slightly guilty as she said, "Hi, guys! I just finished going through the hotel listings, and I'm afraid I have bad news. All the vacancies are filled with people trapped in town like us because of the winter storm. Basically, there's no room in the inns for you guys. You'll just have to hold back your Christmas urges until next year. Sorry," she offered half-heartedly, then gestured out the door. "I'm going to go join Jules in putting my shopping away in the Wardrobe room." Bonnie pointed toward the ornament supplies at Tracy Sue, Mids, KC, and Jesse's feet. "Clean up that mess, will you?" Patt watched as Bonnie waltzed out of the room, leaving her with the disappointed expressions of the crowd. "Oh, crap!" ************************************************************************** Yes, it was freezing cold outside, but not nearly as cold as the reception Patt had encountered after Jules and Bonnie had demanded no festive mood within the Shrine. The mature addict's intentions had been good, but following the encounter with the High Priestess and the Scribe, Patt was witness to an aftermath of somberness which encompassed this place of usual, joyful high spirits. Finding there was no room in the inn and hearing Bons' and Jules' dismissive attitude toward their holiday needs seemed to quash everyone's humor. That is, except for Sallie's. She had woken from her dragon nap, unabashed to find there would be no festivities in the Shrine, then left to catch up with the Scribe, the other addicts staring traitorously at her back. Upon learning of the ultimate fate of their holiday plans, all of the remaining addicts had filed from the video room, one by one, leaving Patt alone within the cold confines of the celluloid world. Even Jack Skellington seemed to be pointing an accusing, boney finger at the Third Cousin. Jules, Bonnie and Sallie couldn't seem to grasp that going without seasonal traditions could really bother the other addicts. No, those three had dressed for dinner in their finest, then wandered over to the Peach for a feast, uncaring of the devastation they'd wreaked on the Shrine populace. Patt shook her head, wondering how anyone could enjoy Moet & Chandon while so much gloom hung in the air. The older addict walked through the halls, where she found weather-bound residents in various states of vegetation. She located young Mids, staring wistfully out an anteroom window, counting snowflakes and sighing "Greg" under her breath as Barnaby slept in her lap. Laura was waiting by the telephone, obviously hoping for a call from the States, and toying with a skein of white yarn. Jayne and Charl were in the Sacred Game Room, threatening to 'crown' each other over a game of checkers. Annette was in her room, door locked. This made Patt very unhappy. As the mature addict continued to stroll through the Shrine, other signs of discontent became obvious. The usually irrepressible duo of Tracy Sue and KC were sitting quietly in front of a television set, watching 'Father Figure' and weeping, rather than snickering in MST3000-like form. This caused Patt to quicken her step in alarm. She almost collided with Kusine, who was exiting the Sacred Sauna, her pale skin looking rather grayish and wrinkled, a sign that she'd steamed a bit too long. Kusine noted Patt's scrutiny and shrugged - 'nothing else to do.' Susan was in the Wardrobe room, removing every holiday-inspired accessory that she'd added to the heavy chiffon toga and silver breastplate of her Not-So-Vestal-Virgin uniform. She tossed aside an ivy cutting with a pout, then glanced up, showing Patt a heartbroken expression. The Third Cousin then found Tser, Libby and Jesse loitering sadly in the Laboratory/Kitchen. They gazed wistfully at a recipe for cheese straws, sighing in unison. But, the icing on the cake was Debbie's mournful air when Patt encountered her in one of the Shrine's anterooms. The addict, also known as Fleurette, was staring up at the tapestry of Nunkies, not in the usual delight and droolishness, but with tear-filled eyes and such intense longing that Patt felt unsteady. "Debbie," Patt approached the addict and laid a tentative hand on her shoulder. "What's wrong?" "I hate Christmas," Debbie said softly. "And I hate that I hate it." "Okay . . ." Patt put on her social worker hat and went to work. "Care to elaborate?" "Christmas has always been one of my favorite times of year," Debbie said, after a moment of silent encouragement from Patt. "Now that I'm stuck here, and we've been forbidden to celebrate it, I hate that it's Christmas." A strange coldness, icier than the winds outside, crept through Patt. "Hate Christmas...hate Christmas. No... this won't work, dudette." The Third Cousin's tone grew in pitch, alarming Debbie. "I can't believe that even LaCroix would want his children to hate Christmas!" "You know, this is all Jules' and Bonnie's doing. LaCroix hasn't said anything about us not being able to celebrate, has he?" Patt was unable to keep her voice to a non-earsplitting octave. "Why should we go without fun?!" The shrillness commanded attention, and several of the aforementioned addicts began homing in on the signal. "When it comes down to the nitty-gritty, I don't see why celebrating Christmas would offend Nunkies." Fleurette seemed embarrassed. "The religious aspect." Patt nodded. "Okay, I'll give Jules that point, but a lot of the Christmas thing is a celebration of friends and family. Heck, even in LC's mortal times, the Romans celebrated the Saturnalia - Jules wrote an excellent documentary about that last year! The Romans were the ones who changed the 'birthdate' to their own holiday date, so they could keep continuity with their own celebration. Some scholars have put the actual 'birthdate' in early January or even later, in Spring." "So, technically, you're saying that the date we usually celebrate Christmas is not the actual religious-based holiday, but one manufactured by the ancient Romans, right?" Charl asked shrewdly. Patt nodded. "So," Jayne added, a grin spreading across her face, "if we choose to celebrate a traditional Christmas, we're really celebrating a Roman holiday, right?" "Uhhhhh . . ." Patt looked at the others with an uncertain feeling. "And, being the party animal that he is, Nunkies would approve of such a celebration - especially one that commemorates family. After all, Nunkies is big into family," Laura's voice was excited as she uttered these words, while Mids nodded enthusiastically. "Uhhhh . . . ." "I SMELL TINSEL!" KC shrieked, darting from the room, with a glowing Tracy Sue in hot pursuit. "Uhhhh . . ." "We can put the garlands back up, and I know we have some lights leftover from the Conversion Ceremony," Laura said. "Come on, Kusine, help me go get it from the attic. Mids, you check in the kitchen..." "Laboratory," a chorus of voices corrected her. "Whatever," Laura gave them all a menacing look, then smiled brilliantly. "Mids, check and see if you can find some cranberries, popcorn and other foodstuffs which we can use for decorating. I also have some of my own stuff in my room," Laura winked, "which will give this decorating scheme a decidedly Nunkies-like flavor." A manic look appeared in Tser's eye. "Libby? Jesse? Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" "Cheese straws!" The trio exclaimed, racing after Mids toward the Kitchen/Laboratory. The addicts spilled out of the room, leaving Patt alone. The mature addict looked around, feeling a little out of sorts. Somehow, she knew, something had been started, again, which she would ultimately be blamed for. But, what had been started was good. The air felt fresher, the sky looked brighter, the temperature seemed less chilly. It was the resurgence of cheer and goodwill. Patt began to redeck the halls, picturing Jules and Bonnie feasting on their lobster crepes and vichyssoise, unaware that forces were at work which not even the threat of grout duty could arrest. Patt began to whistle 'Chestnuts' as she continued her intricate weaving of leaves and tinfoil about the Shrine columns. Annette ran back into the chamber, carrying new lights and extra sprigs of mistletoe. "We're really going to do *it*? No matter what Jules and Bonnie say?" Annette questioned, her eyes alight. Patt nodded and threw the other addict a box of star-shaped ornaments. Annette grinned and began hanging them, attaching one skillfully and fashionably to the Nunkies bust's left earlobe. "Yes, indeedy," Patt reiterated. "We are going to *have* a Shrine Christmas." *************************************************************************** Bonnie, Jules, and Sallie did enjoy their meal. Monsieur Cabon hovered, since, other than a couple from Montreal forced to extend their vacation and a pair of Japanese businessmen, they were the restaurant's only guests. They lingered over their dessert, a version of chocolate tiramisu that the Peach's chef had recently concocted, as their conversation turned from French cabaret chanteuses to the other addicts. "What do you think they're doing right now, Jules?" Bonnie wondered aloud. The High Priestess lifted one shoulder clad in gold sequins with a small shrug. "Feeling a bit sorry for themselves, I suppose. They'll be upset for a day or so, but once they realize that they still have the company of friends to enjoy, they'll snap right out their pity party and be running around the Shrine having Sacred Cold Water Balloon fights before you know it. Their need for celebration will pass, Bons." The Scribe nodded, taking a sip from her cafe Frangelico. "You're right, Jules. Once they let go of their Christmas bonds, all will be well. We'll just have to put up with the last faint embers of their seasonality, remaining patient as they mourn their lost holiday." "I just don't see how they could enjoy it," Sallie stated. "Christmas is one thing if I was actually with my family. The Dragon must confess: I would celebrate if I was at home. But here? Stranded so far away? It is too depressing to consider. Give me a warm lair and more tiramisu, and the Dragon will be content." Jules lifted another forkful of her dessert, giving a moan of pleasure at the luscious bite. "If only the others were as sensible as you, Sallie. Just think," she said after swallowing, "they could be here now, enjoying this incredibly sinful dish of chocolate paradise instead of moping away in their rooms. Those addicts are only hurting themselves with their foolish quest for Christmas." "It's a good thing we don't have that burden," Bonnie agreed, then licked a last fleck of cocoa whipped cream off her fork. "We are soooooo lucky!" "And," Jules added, turning over her utensil and allowing a waiter to pull back her chair as she stood, "we have maintained the sanctity of the Shrine. Just think, we'll have a safe haven away from the holiday festivities outside!" "Exactly, Jules!" Bonnie agreed as the trio strolled through the private dining room toward the Shrine's entrance. "We are soooooo lucky!" As they stepped into the Shrine, the addicts felt a wave of dizziness. Instead of softly glowing marble walls, they saw ribbons and evergreens. There were twinkling lights, silvery ornaments dangling from the bottom of each tapestry, and every available surface sported a holiday mug filled to the brim with candy canes. Annette and Jayne were balanced on stepladders, stringing mistletoe and more lights from the ceiling as they sang along with the music blasting overhead, an unlikely rendition of 'Jingle Bells' that involved chirping frogs. Libby was adding fragments of tinsel to the existing decorations. Since Ratsie-types liked the glitter of gold, however, there was more tinsel draped off Libby, herself, than the greenery. "Ugh," Jules said. "I'm having this terrible feeling of deja-vu." "Yah," Bonnie sighed. "I'm having deja-vu, too." Jules and Bonnie looked at each other, then back at the Shrine, then back at each other again. The High Priestess' fists clenched as her expression turned dangerous. "That's it! No more patience! Let's go to the Wardrobe room and change into something sensible-yet-fashionable!" "You're going out?" Sallie asked in a confused voice. "You aren't going to yell at them first?" "Yes, Sallie. They had their chance. Now we'll bring in the big guns: Bons and I are going to tell LaCroix." The Dragon's eyes lit in anticipation. Sallie thought. "I, of course," Sallie voiced aloud, "will follow." *************************************************************************** End O' Part Two "Why Rhode Island?" Jules asked suddenly as they waded through the snow toward the subway. "Hmmm?" Bons said distractedly. "Why did you ask Santa Claus for Rhode Island? What use do you have for an entire state?" "Bonnie asked Santa for Rhode Island?" Sallie wondered logically. "How can that be, when she doesn't *do* Christmas?" "It was to prove a point," Bonnie assured her, then gave a cheeky grin. "It's not as if I *expect* to get Rhode Island. As for why...perhaps I'm fulfilling dreams of tyranny?" The perky redhead shrugged. "No, I guess what I really want is an animal refuge. I want the land and the revenue to help abandoned creatures. So many die every year, just because they're unwanted. My family likes to remind me that I can't save every orphaned animal in the world. If I had a state at my beck and call, maybe it would be a start." Bonnie smirked sheepishly. "I know, it's a grossly sentimental concept. I ought to be ashamed of myself: a Cousin, waxing maudlin. Blah." "Is that why you referred to yourself as 'a sensitive Cousin' that one time?" Jules teased. "Sensitive Cousin? Isn't that a contradiction?" Sallie asked. Jules and Bonnie growled at her in irritation. "I don't believe that I'm really that sensitive," Bons admitted. "I think I'm a very frank person. The world is built of predators and prey - who am I to gloss over that? Mankind is an excellent predator, and we trod over every other species when it's convenient. I'm not saying that's wrong, I'm simply saying when we kill something, it should be for a reason: to eat, to survive, for shelter, or pleasure...but not just to throw away the extras like trash. Otherwise, it seems so empty...so pointless. Consider LaCroix..." Jules and Sallie smiled warmly. Considering LaCroix was one of their favorite pastimes. "LaCroix kills people. He's a predator." Bons kicked at a bank of snow with her sensible boots for emphasis. "He's a vampire!" She spun around, laughing, her arms spread wide. "So why don't I have a problem with that?" "Why don't you have a problem with that?" Jules demanded. She was beginning to wonder why she didn't have a problem herself. There was that Raleigh incident... "Because LaCroix *does* kill for a reason." Bonnie stopped walking, deciding she wanted to sit in the snow. There was a drift blocking one doorway that rose past her waist. With childish enthusiasm, Bons dove in. Her knit cap fell off as she wiggled to her back, leaving her auburn hair to spread in stark contrast to the pale snow. "You know: He kills out of hunger, revenge, to protect himself and the Community, to prove a point to that other guy..." Bonnie wiped the snowflakes away from her face before looking up at the standing addicts with naughty grin. "He kills out of lust, passion and desire..." The Scribe chuckled as she observed the others' eyes glaze over due to their active imaginations. Bons grabbed handfuls of snow as she continued to speak, compressing them into a tight ball. "But LaCroix doesn't kill humans just because of overpopulation. Remember what he told Schanke in 'Close Call'? 'A terrible thing...to waste people.' I agree. Only I think it's a terrible thing to waste animals," She gave Dragon Sallie a respectful nod, "or reptiles, or amphibians and avians." The Scribe had second thoughts, wrinkling her nose. "Except pigeons. Pigeons freak me out." "But what about Raleigh?" Jules demanded. "I am as loyal to the General as they come, but even I had difficulties accepting LaCroix making Nick's dog into a carouche." "Yes," Sallie agreed. "That was bad of Nunkies, luring the Rottweiller to doom like that." "Yeah, that pissed me off, too, and LC's reasons for doing it weren't exactly pretty," Bonnie admitted, "but, you know...the brunt of it is, we accept Nunkies. We never said that he was perfect." "Just fascinating, intelligent, and desirable," Jules countered. "And with a voice that could melt steel," Sallie added. "Bingo!" Bons laughed as she sat up in the snow pile, but then her face sobered. "But if the man ever tried pulling a Raleigh on one of my own, I'd change affiliations." She aimed her snowball at a nearby sign, hitting it dead-on with a serious *smack!* "I have limits." "We all have limits," the High Priestess agreed. "Don't you think you should limit your exposure to the cold?" Jules lent the Scribe a hand, pulling Bonnie to her feet. Bons wiped the snow from her legs and rear with annoyance, then pulled her cap back down over her newly cold and damp hair. "It doesn't snow much in the South," Bonnie commented ruefully. "Now that I've transformed my tush into an iceberg, I recall why this is a good thing." "Maybe we should hurry to the subway, so you can thaw," Jules suggested worriedly. Sallie, looking at the street behind them, released an exclamation. "Look! A drunk St. Nick is trying to jaywalk!" Jules and Bonnie moved to either side of the Dragon, their gazes following her pointing finger. There was a man in a red suit with white fur trim and black boots, carrying a voluminous black sack and weaving unsteadily on his feet. While the snow and ice had decimated the normal traffic on Queen, there were still a few stubborn souls who attempted driving, along with the city transit buses and trams. A pickled fat guy making merry in the middle of the road could easily cause an automotive disaster. Jules sighed. "I suppose it would be wrong to just leave him be." "Yah," Bonnie agreed. "Even Santa doesn't deserve to be roadkill." "Let's help him across the street," Sallie concluded. The three addicts approached the jolly old soul, all three assuming polite and considerate demeanors. Jules cleared her throat and tapped the man on one red shoulder. "Excuse us, but we were wondering if you needed assistance crossing the - " Santa Claus turned around, holding a .45 automatic which he aimed directly at the High Priestess' stomach. His eyes lacked any twinkle as he ordered in a rough voice, "Hand over your money and jewelry slowly, or I'll shoot." The robber slung the sack off of his shoulder, dropping it to the icy pavement. He yanked the bag open with his free hand, then gestured toward the addicts with greedy fingers. Bonnie and Jules did as he asked, both handing him their purses, watches and jewelry with cautious movements. The man in red dumped the items in his sack, then pointed impatiently at Sallie. "You, too. Give me your valuables!" Sallie didn't move, causing him to shout, "Hurry it up before my finger slips on the trigger!" Sallie was frozen with horror at the suggestion. "Dragons don't give up valuables. We *horde.*" "Sallie," Jules commanded stiffly, "as your High Priestess, waiting for a bullet to perforate my organs, I order you to give Santa your wallet!" The Dragon reluctantly pulled out her billfold, then paused for one more try before letting her money go. "It might only be a flesh wound, you know." "SAL-LIE!!!" "Okay." The Dragon handed Santa the leather pouch. "Happy, now?" The robber cinched his sack closed and motioned at the three addicts with the automatic. "Put your hands behind your heads, eh, and lay face-down on the sidewalk. Quickly!" Jules grimaced at the sludgy ice covering the pavement, then down at her stylish faux-fur coat. "I am very unhappy about this," she hissed. "Tell me about it," Bons echoed as she felt her new ski jacket grow dingier. "I still say you could've taken the flesh wound," Sallie muttered. "Now, I want to hear you count to twenty-five...slowly, eh," Santa-with-a-gun instructed. The addicts complied, chanting unmerrily as the robber made his escape on a John Deere snow plow. "One...bah humbug...Two...bah humbug...Three...bah humbug..." **************************************************************************** "Eh, wot a crew o' strings, that," Screed said, patting his chest with pride as he inspected his abode. Every square inch was covered by tiny clear bulbs, the wires linking them together attached to his stone walls by a judicious amount of duct tape. "All old Screed needs now is a bit o' juice to make 'em spark the blinky-linky!" The carouche wandered over to his circuit breaker and prepared to turn his electricity back on, thereby empowering all the bulbs into shiny, pretty beacons. Screed flicked the main switch and stood back to admire his work coming to life. There was a lingering moment of darkness, then a humming sound began to grow in the depths of the carouche's dim chamber. There was light. It wasn't a dainty twinkling of light, as though the bulbs were a subtle decorative afterthought. No, this was an eye-popping spectacle of brilliance, guaranteed to leave a lasting impression. Bright and shiny, there was no doubt that Ratsie-types would enjoy decorating their surroundings with lights and find Screed's place a mindboggling example. In fact, it was a blinding example. Screed's vision, more accustomed to candles, or, at the very brightest, the overhead fluorescents at the swap meet, was overwhelmed. "Cor' blimey!" he exclaimed, squeezing his eyes painfully shut and covering his head with sweatered arms. His pupils continued to sting long after he'd closed his eyes. "Aye outdid meself!" Screed suddenly realized that it wasn't simply his eyes that were burning. He sniffed the air, comprehending with growing dismay that his carouche skin was smoking! He'd conjured up something that had properties somewhere between sunlight and a roaring fire in his living room! Screed lunged toward the circuit breaker, but the light overpowered him. He was afraid for his safety, so he ducked through floor grate, cursing as he went. *************************************************************************** "Buggery Bloody Hum Bah!" Vachon glanced up from his evening chore: replacing all of his old candles with brand new beeswax stock he'd gotten for a song at Bugby's Wax And Textile Emporium. The Spaniard usually kept a low profile, but he still knew people. Javier studied his carouche friend's scorch marks curiously while he set down a stack of creamy-colored candles. "Buenos noches, Screed. You look...overheated. Did you have an accident playing with tin foil and a microwave again?" "No, an' it wuddn't tha' firecrackeries, either," the carouche said in an annoyed voice. "I lighted me estab-leash-ment all festive-like with the junior watts, an' blew meself out o' me own squat. Tha' home's nawt safe fer vampire 'abitation 'til the power goes dodo." "So, you want me to help you turn it off?" Vachon inquired. "Wot? Yew speak Spanish 'er somethin'?" The dark-haired vampire gave Screed The Look. "Right, right," the carouche sighed. "Yew know what Aye'm hablo-in', mate: our sort crashes at my place, an' we burn. Got it? This is a mortals-only type o' so-loo-shun. Is Baby Jane free to flick a switch?" Vachon shook his head. "No. From what I gather, Trace is under house arrest with her dad and uncles over the holidays. We won't see one blonde hair until New Year's." "Dast an' Blam! Aye thought fer sure Janes could 'andle the brights." Screed had a pensive moment. "Wot about that toasty doctor wench wot savvys Defect-ta-tive Knight?" Javier's expression was unenthusiastic. "You'd have to ask him." "Good an' lotta 'elp that is," The carouche said dejectedly. "Tell you what, Screed. You can hang out here until the power company turns you off, or you get a mortal to help." "Aye can?" Vachon shrugged, then clapped him on the shoulder. "Sure. Why not? You let me crash at your place the last time I had trouble with the Inca: consider it returning the favor." "Well, that's a mate!" The Rat-Man rubbed his hands together, inspecting his surroundings greedily. "Yew know, this place could use a string er tew o' -" "Uh-uh, Screed," the Spaniard interrupted as he handed the carouche a handful of tapered wax cylinders. "No decorations...just *candles.*" *************************************************************************** "Can I help you ladies?" Officer Pulte asked the trio of addicts. "Can you?" Jules inquired harshly. "I only ask because a total of six uniformed men have asked us that same question since we arrived here two hours ago, and each time we've answered, they've said it wasn't their department. They also all promised they would be right back with someone who was in that department. Well, guess what? They disappeared, and we are still waiting. So I ask you," Jules eyed the name on the officer's badge, "Sergeant Pulte...*Can* you help us?" "Uh..." "Ack! Jules! That Other Guy is here!" Bons exclaimed, elbowing the High Priestess in the ribs, then pointing in the direction of a familiar tousled blonde head. "Why would we want to see him?" Sallie turned up her nose at the prospect. "He doesn't appreciate Nunkies nearly enough. Besides, he does homicide. If Jules had let the evil Santa shoot her like I wanted, maybe *then* we could've used him." "Which makes it an attempted homicide," Jules said coldly, unappreciative that Sallie had brought the subject up again. The High Priestess didn't do birthdays, she didn't do Christmas, and she didn't *do* gunshot wounds. Period. "You want to see Detective Knight?" Pulte said with some relief. He didn't recognize Jules or Bonnie, though he'd been on the Shrine premises the August before when Metro Police had finally tracked the infamous art thieves, Deon and Miss Prentiss, to their door. The sergeant's lack of memory was all Nick's doing: the Detective hadn't wanted word of his unfortunate Marmite bath to get back to Schanke or Captain Reese. That might have proven embarrassing. No, of course, the reason was moot. The addicts, likewise, had avoided the topic as well, not to spare Nick any humiliation, but to spare LaCroix an unpleasant reminder. In exchange for this discretion, Nick had relaxed on his attempts to find any reason to arrest the Nunkies Addicts (he still carried a slight grudge over the scratch one of Bonnie's non-sensible shoes had inflicted upon the Caddy's hood). Officer Pulte had turned away and was approaching Detective Knight before any of the addicts could have second thoughts. "You know he doesn't trust us, Bons," Jules said ruefully. "Nick probably won't even believe us if we tell him we were mugged by Santa Claus. He'll just assume we're making trouble." "Isn't that what we usually *are* doing?" Sallie commented. "Okay, so Nick will be suspicious," Bonnie reasoned. "If we act really pitiful and sorry for ourselves..." "Which we are," Jules interjected. "Ditto," the Dragon agreed. "...it will pull on the guy's guilt strings," Bonnie concluded. "He'll angst himself into helping us!" The addicts watched as Officer Pulte crossed the bullpen and caught Nick's attention. They saw the sergeant speak to the detective confidentially, then motion in their direction. The blonde vampire's expectant gaze followed the officer's pointing finger to the three addicts, who all assumed properly victimized demeanors. Nick's face fell as he recognized Jules and Bonnie. They had caused him, and his Cadillac, no end of trouble in the past. No doubt the other woman with them was bad news, as well. He thanked the Officer stiffly for bringing the addicts to his attention, then he reluctantly strolled their way. Knight looked each addict critically in the eye before asking, "It's broadcast time. Shouldn't you ladies be somewhere drooling over the Nightcrawler?" "We should," Jules concurred in a taut voice. "The criminal element of Toronto, however, has delayed our plans." "You mean to say you three actually know a criminal when you see one?" Nick said sarcastically. "You could have fooled me." "I told you we shouldn't talk to him," Jules whispered harshly in Bonnie's ear. "This is getting us nowhere." Bonnie was preparing to reply, when Sallie broke out in a sudden traumatized ranting, "We were robbed! Robbed! Robbed! Robbed! He held Jules at gunpoint and made ME give up my valuables!!!! My gold! What's a Dragon supposed to do without their gold? Hmmmm? The Horror! The Horror!" Sallie ended her speech with a tormented dragonesque groan. Nick frowned in concern. "She was robbed?" "We were all robbed," Bonnie corrected him. "At gunpoint," Jules said emphatically. "He threatened to shoot *me.* He intended to kill *me.* Plus, he made us get sludgy snow on our fashionable winter-wear!" "Okay, okay," Nick said, beginning to take their distress seriously. "So we're talking about an attempted homicide, assault with a deadly weapon, and three counts of robbery." "What about our ruined clothes?" Jules insisted. "He should suffer for that crime, too." "Yeah, charge him with vandalism of personal property!" Bonnie cried. "We'll discuss the details later," Nick promised. "All three of you saw the perpetrator?" The three addicts nodded, and Nick pulled out a small leather notebook. "Describe him to me." "Well, he had white hair, a moustache and beard," Bonnie began. "He was a plump man, maybe two inches shorter than you, and he wore a red suit." Nick paused in his shorthand. "A red suit?" "Yeah," Bons continued, "with white fur trim, a big black belt with a silver buckle, and black boots. Oh, and he had a matching cap." "Oh, give it up, Bons," Jules said with an exasperated sigh, then turned to stare defensively at Nick. "You want to know who mugged us? It was a man in a Santa Claus costume, all right? Our descriptions are not exactly going to provide a bounty of klews! Bonnie is right about his height, though, and he had a Canadian accent." "Right," Bonnie said," He said 'eh' a couple times. Oh - and he had gorgeous brown eyes." Jules glared hotly at the Scribe. "I can't believe you were checking out Santa at the same time he was threatening to kill me!" Bons shrugged. "It's instinctive." "Don't forget how he drove off on a John Deere snow plow," Sallie said firmly. "Do you want the license number?" Everyone turned to stare at the Dragon. "You got the plate number?" Bonnie exclaimed. "Jeez, Sallie!" "Why do you think I wanted to come to the police precinct? I'm not going to let Santa just *take* my valuables and not seek retribution," Sallie said dangerously. "The plate was 'DEC-025.' Ontario." Nick wrote this information down, then looked up with excitement. "Believe it or not, you may have given us a big break. You aren't the first report of armed robbery by Santa Claus that we've had this week. One of the victims wasn't as lucky as you, Jules, and ended up dead. Your adventure tonight actually coincides with one of my cases." "Well, goody," Bons said with false sweetness. "I knew that you'd be excited, Rutledge. Look," Nick said as he ushered them toward an interrogation room, "I want to get statements about the robbery from each of you. It will probably take another hour. Do you want something to drink?" "Tea, please," Jules said. "I want coffee," Bonnie followed, "but only if you send somebody on a cappuccino run." "Can do," Nick offered kindly. Their statements took closer to two hours, the process slowed because each woman had to give an individual interview, and none of the three were short on words. "Well, I hope this delay was worth it!" Jules sighed as the trio walked toward the station exit. The High Priestess suppressed a shudder. "Do you realize the thousands of activities that I would have preferred over spending the past three hours in a police station?" Sallie begged to differ. "Hey, Nick looked almost predatory after he got all of our statements. I'm certain we'll see the safe return of our valuables, and Knight will have Santa Claus in the pokey before you can say 'Ho Ho Ho'!" Madame Kiki's voice broke in on their conversation from nearby. "Who are you calling a 'Ho Ho Ho'? I prefer sexual entrepreneur, remember, dears?" Jules elegantly extended a palm and shook the woman's hand. Bonnie and she had met Madame Kiki during one of their unfortunate incarcerations (these were always misunderstandings - the addicts never *deserved* to be put in jail), and the lady of the night had proven to be a useful acquaintance. "Of course we remember, Madame Kiki. Sallie was using the word 'Ho' in the non-Biblical sense. I hope that you aren't here because of some pesky legal problem." "No, no," Madame Kiki assured them, "I was merely dropping off holiday poinsettias for the Captain and Vice squad. Giving them a poisonous plant is the least I can manage, considering all they do for me and my business in a year." "Kiki!" Bonnie said accusingly. "I thought that you had no more use for Christmas than we did!" "Well, yes, personally I'm quite ho-hum about the entire spectacle, but what can a sexual entrepreneur do? It's my busiest season!" "That's rough," Bonnie consoled. "Trust us, you're not the only one growing tired of celebrating against your will." "All of the other Nunkies Addicts have persisted in decorating the Shrine with boughs and trinkets, despite my edicts to the contrary!" Jules explained, obviously affronted. "No!" Madame Kiki appeared horrified. "But you're the High Priestess! They have to listen to you!" "Apparently not," Sallie interjected, earning a glare from Jules. "What are you going to do?" Madame Kiki asked curiously. "I *know* you're not going to just put up with their forbidden celebration!" "Of course we aren't," Jules agreed. "That's why we're visiting CERK. The other addicts may try to ignore our opinions, but LaCroix's decision on the matter will be immutable." "Oh, redrum! Jules...how are we going to get to CERK now?" Bonnie asked. "Santa stole all of our change! How are we going to ride the subway?" "Ugh," Sallie commented. "It was arduous enough walking here!" "Never fear, my friends!" Madame Kiki assured the trio. "I have a few of my Buff Slave Boys parked outside on snowmobiles. We'll give you a lift." Bonnie whispered jealously in Jules' ear as they followed Madame Kiki outside. "You know she just offered as an excuse to see the General." "Can you blame her?" *************************************************************************** End O' Part Three Was there ever a time when an addict visited the hallowed halls of CERK and didn't feel a tremor of excitement? Jules experienced it every time she opened the door numbered '78' with the station logo overhead, and she came here five, sometimes six times a week. Jules mused as they climbed the station stairs, Jules smiled secretively as the group strolled down the hallway toward his sound booth. Lacroix's chin lifted as he noticed the four women join the radio technician working in the outer section of the broadcast booth. He raised his ringed hand as he continued to speak, gesturing for them to enter. "I feel some of you tonight...you're lost and lonely, cut adrift from your family and friends, cut adrift from yourselves. In this month of forced civility and jingle bells, society calls on us to love our fellow man..." LaCroix glanced at the addicts with a twinkle in his eye as he added, "...and women. There is a call for togetherness, festive gatherings, banquets and toasts...so many *good feelings*...Why then, my children, do you feel so alone? No one understands your pain. No one cares for your needs. In a sea of carols, ribbons and ringing bells, laughing voices and warm embraces, no one loves...you. Ah, my poor children," LaCroix released a smug laugh into the microphone, "I care. I understand. I know how so many torture yourself unnecessarily. You don't *need* Christmas, gentle listeners. There is so much more..." He motioned the addicts closer. Jules and Bonnie took the available chairs, while Sallie and Madame Kiki crowded in closer to the microphone. "The Nightcrawler has some visitors. Welcome, ladies - and I use that term loosely - what brings you out on such a cold and cloudy night?" LaCroix asked smoothly. "Christmas!" Sallie blurted, then snapped her mouth shut at the Nightcrawler's immediate frown of disapproval. "Would you care to elaborate?" he prompted coldly. Sallie shook her head. This trip hadn't been her idea: she'd just wanted to observe and drool in peace. The Dragon had already lost her valuables, and from LaCroix's burgeoning frown, she was halfway toward vexing him. Sallie wanted someone else to take the hot seat and annoy the velvet-voiced one. With this logical conclusion, she did the logical thing: passed the buck. "Jules would." LaCroix turned to gaze at the High Priestess. "Indeed? You have something to say about...Christmas?" Jules leaned into the microphone, stating emphatically, "Yes. We don't *do* Christmas." "Well, isn't that refreshing?" LaCroix responded encouragingly. "Why don't you share with our eager listeners the reasons why you've forsaken the season. Share...your...wisdom..." All of the women were leaning closer toward LaCroix from where they stood or sat, staring intently at the movement of his lips as he uttered each sound. Madame Kiki was the first to snap out of her daze of lust (it was a job skill). "Well, act-ually...technically speaking, I do celebrate Christmas...but I'm only in it for the money." "You mean that you fake it," LaCroix concluded, his mouth tugging into a smile. "Uh," Madame Kiki cleared her throat, "I guess that's as true a description as any. Any...ecstasy...or exhilaration that I might demonstrate because of the holidays, well, I'm just putting out...*ahem*...I mean, I'm putting on an act." "Your festive celebrations are motivated by greed," LaCroix commented. "I dare say you are not the only reveler consumed by this reason for the season." "I'll say," Bonnie broke in. "There are three things that stand out in my mind that made me stop celebrating Christmas, and two of them, not to condemn you or anything, Kiki," Bons said, laying an apologetic hand on the Madame's arm, "have to do with greed." LaCroix's eyes lit with curiosity. "Really? Tell us more, Bonnie. Bare your soul." Jules' expression displayed her sudden alarm as she put a hand over the microphone. "Are you certain you want to get Bons started on a rant? She's short in stature, but not short on words." At this declaration, Bonnie scowled. Sallie agreed. "Yes, how much time does your show have left?" LaCroix rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, then gestured for Jules to relinquish her hold on the microphone. "Thank you," Bonnie muttered, then continued in a clearer, firmer tone. "Soul Baring - Part One: you know, my family celebrated Christmas every year when I was a child. We would do all the decorations, church services, parties, and family get-togethers, but, to me, it's all a blur. I'm certain that I went through these things more than a dozen times, yet, of all those years, I actually remember only one vividly: I was twelve. I didn't believe in Santa, but I believed in presents; the more I could get my hands on, the better. So that Christmas when I was twelve, I recall that I thought that I would *die* if I didn't get this one present. I was literally obsessed over whether that thing was under the tree, wrapped in shiny paper and bows. I don't think I slept for the entire week before the big day. I was that excited. In fact, I was so worked up, by the time Christmas morning dawned, I broke out in hives." "Oh, Bons!" Jules exclaimed sympathetically. "How awful!" "Wasn't it?" the Scribe said. "All everyone wanted to know the whole day long was 'What happened to Bonnie?' I was so humiliated." "Let me guess," LaCroix inserted, "after all the trauma, you didn't receive the gift you wanted, making you the delightful unbeliever we have today." "No, no. I got the gift. I recall that much. For the life of me, though, I can't remember anymore what it was that I wanted so badly. The present was overshadowed by the hives, you see. I had red spots from my head to my toes, just breaking out all over because of my overwhelming greed. The rash sticks in my mind, raw and obvious like some symbol in a Hawthorne novel. 'Control your greed,' it said, 'because the consequences can be ugly.' And so, that was the first step in my liberation from the Christmas spirit." Bonnie looked at the surrounding faces, ending with LaCroix. "Shall I go on?" "By all means, continue," LaCroix said. Sufficiently encouraged, Bons stopped leaning toward the microphone. Instead, she settled back comfortably in her chair, pulling the mike away from the Nightcrawler until it rested in front of herself. "Soul Baring - Part Two: it's not nearly such a fable. It's a horror story, actually. I worked through my first two holiday seasons during college in a department store. I was the sweet thing in Housewares who promised your Mother that *everyone* would love a waffle iron that year. I was the young woman in a sharp red suit with buttons like doubloons and flawless makeup who spritzed perfume on my wrist for your husband or boyfriend to smell. Repeatedly." Bonnie paused for a moment, then grinned at the Madame. "Not so different from what Kiki does...different merchandise, that's all. I was still selling holiday cheer. The problem was, I encountered thousands of people over those two Christmases and not once did I meet someone who seemed genuinely pleased to give anyone anything. The customers always spoke as if they were performing a chore or making some narrow escape from certain doom. They were just checking off their lists. It struck me as so empty, so mechanical, so pointless. The Christmas I saw there was a facade that I didn't want to be a part of anymore." "But the Christmas that department stores sell," Sallie pointed out, "that's just one layer to the whole extravaganza. What about friends? What about family? They are important this time of year. That's why I'm not doing Christmas - I can't be with my family, so why bother?" "You're right," Bonnie said thoughtfully, "I can't ignore family and friends. I suppose that brings me to Soul Baring - Part Three. Truman Capote had fruitcake weather. I had Luminaria weather. It was a town Christmas project that the youth would participate in, and, for years, my father headed it up. We would go out on the first Saturday in December. It seemed like some ungodly early hour that we had to get up and head out, and the morning always seemed colder for it. Basically, the young people would knock on the front doors of all the houses in town and ask them to line their curbs with white bags filled with sand and candles on Christmas Eve. "Sometimes my house felt like a strategic outpost, planning for some war...the War of the Luminaries. There would always be last minute emergencies: people needing supplies, streets left out in the shuffle, or someone needing the candles set up for them because they were traveling over the holidays. My father would call my brother and me in like good little soldiers to help him take care of the problems when necessary. "Then Christmas Eve would arrive, just like it did tonight, and we would set everything up. We lived next door to the fire chief, so my brother and I never had too much fun with the matches, though there were exciting flammable moments from time to time. When the night grew its darkest, my family would climb into the car, driving from neighborhood to neighborhood to examine the handiwork. "Luminaria is supposed to have some kind of holiday significance: it lights the way for the arrival of the Christ child or marks flight patterns for Santa's reindeer...something crazy like that. I don't really care now, and I didn't really care about what it was *meant* to stand for then. You see, I would be riding in the back seat, gazing out the window in the night, and suddenly my dad would slow the car to almost a standstill. As far as my eyes could see, the lights would wind along the road in glowing paths of light that appeared like a reflection of the stars in the sky. It was as if the earth and air were one, each black with scattered bursts of brightness. "It would leave me in awe. It was beautiful, the kind of beauty that can steal your breath or make you cry at the impact of it. I would just stare at the road and the sky and smile, thinking, 'My Dad did this.' I would forget the early mornings and doorbell ringing that my brother and I, and who knows how many other people put in over the month before. No, I thought of my Father, organizing the whole thing, and I really admired him for that. I still do. "So, looking at the faces here in the studio, no doubt you people out there listening to my not-so-little rant are trying to figure out what the hell Soul Baring - Part Three has to do with not celebrating Christmas. It certainly sounds lovely: a touching family moment in the midst of the season fit for a soda commercial. Well, here's my point: I grew up, my Father retired from the project, and Luminaria never seemed quite as magical when Dad wasn't in charge. The thing is, Luminaria wasn't important. It was just one little act out of thousands which my Father has done for me over the years. I love and admire him whether it's December 25th, January 12th, or May 2nd - the date is meaningless. If you love someone, why should a calendar determine when and how you show them your affection and respect? In the end, I don't believe brightly colored packages tied up in glitzy ribbons can begin to compare with a simple 'thank you' or 'I love you very much.' Don't forget to appreciate your family and your friends the rest of the year, because they just might need it more on a nameless day without bells and lights." "Well, so ends my overly grand portion of soul-baring this evening about why I choose not to celebrate Christmas. I'll be quiet now." Bons pushed the microphone back in LaCroix's direction. "We will, of course, believe that when we *don't* hear it, Bonnie," he refuted with a knowing smile while the others looked on doubtfully. Bons humph-ed, but she didn't breathe another word. "How many of you out there agree with my friends? Are you disenchanted with the holiday season? Do the festivities strike you as an empty charade? Tell the Nightcrawler how you feel. Expose yourself." LaCroix pressed a button on his control panel, saying, "You're on the air. What do you think about Christmas?" A deep, masculine voice came over the line in an assertive tone. "I prefer to avoid it, just like my daughter. For one, I'm allergic to Christmas trees." "That's an irritation with which I can sympathize," LaCroix commented. Bonnie's cheeks flushed, and she covered her face with a groan. Jules elbowed her in the ribs. "Oh my...don't tell me that's..." the High Priestess said in surprise. Bons nodded meekly. "And who would you be?" LaCroix prompted. "John Rutledge...Bonnie's father," the caller identified himself. "But he's not even in the country!" Jules hissed in Bonnie's ear. "How does he know you're here?" "One of those international band radio thingees? I don't know!" Bonnie hissed back. "He's a father *and* a Cousin. Don't you think that gives him secret powers?!?" "Ah...Bonnie's father," LaCroix continued. "You must be touched by your daughter's declarations of familial devotion. You really are quite fortunate. Not all children are so appreciative." "I realize that. I assume she's still there, listening, probably hiding her face in the background," John said, humor evident in his baritone voice. "That she is," LaCroix shared. "Do you have a message for her?" "Well, I love her, too, and I'm proud that she's my daughter, even though she usually doesn't do what's best for her. I'm sure you'll agree, Nightcrawler, that's a common parental lament." "You'll find no argument from me there, John," LaCroix agreed. "But I'm curious...surely you realized that, by calling into Nightwatch and indulging in this feast of affection with your daughter on Christmas Eve, you are doing exactly what your daughter was complaining about: appreciating loved ones during the holidays?" "Certainly! If a father can't enjoy tormenting his children, who can?" As the sound of both men chuckling rang through the studio, Bonnie stubbornly crossed her arms across her chest, mumbling, "Ha. Ha." "Oh, there's one more thing before I go..." John said, his tone full of trickery. "My daughter forgot that there is *one* holiday tradition the Rutledges still embrace. Her brain must have frozen due to all that ice in Toronto...Xmas Eve Gift, Bonnie!" Bons squealed, leaping out of her chair. "Da-ad!!! No fair! Radio conversations don't count on Xmas Eve Gift!" "Telephone calls do," her father countered. "I have to agree with John," LaCroix inserted. "It was a valid Xmas Eve Gift attack. Accept your defeat gracefully, Bonnie." "Oooo, Dad! Just wait until next year! I'll get you!" Bons threatened, shaking her fist at the telephone. "That's what you always say," John laughed, then hung up. Jules sighed as Bonnie plopped back into her seat. "Oh, Bons... For someone who started out so well championing our quest to convince people to abdicate the holidays, your finish was an absolute disaster." "But...but..." Bonnie appeared to be at a surprising loss for words. "It was my *Dad*!" she finally exclaimed, as if that logically explained everything. "Excuse me," Sallie piped in, "but would somebody mind telling me what 'Xmas Eve Gift' is?" "It's horrible, and I never win," Bonnie said with a pout. "It's a spoken game," LaCroix explained casually, "where the participants attempt to be the first ones to say 'Xmas Eve Gift' aloud to as many of their competitors as possible on, of course, Christmas Eve. Often, a great deal of trickery and strategy goes into avoiding capture. It's quite a charming game, really, except for the name," the vampire mused. "Xmas Eve Gift, Bonnie." "Ack!" "Xmas Eve Gift, Bonnie!" Sallie and Madame Kiki echoed. Bonnie slid lower in her chair, completely mortified. "You are all evil. Evil, evil, evil!" Jules patted the Scribe's hand sympathetically. "Don't worry. I won't say it, Bons." "Thank you, Jules." LaCroix leaned over the microphone with a wicked grin. "And here's our next caller, gentle listeners...What is *your* name?" "Ed." "Are you related to any of my studio guests, Ed?" the vampire queried. "I don't think so." "Then what is the nature of your call? Is there something that you loathe about the holidays that you would like to share with the rest of us?" "Uh...I just wanted to say that I agree with that 'Xmas Eve Gift' girl." A moan came from the direction of Bonnie's chair. "Greed, greed, greed. That's all you ever see anymore this time of year! You know what burns me even more?" "What's that, Ed?" LaCroix asked. "Every time you turn around, there's somebody asking you for money, and they act like you're the devil if you don't hand over your last two dollars!" "Our friend, Ed, has an excellent point, listeners. The Nightcrawler asks you, my children, how much has the spirit of the season demanded of your coffers? They are everywhere, aren't they? Vultures, circling for the opportunity to pilfer your pocketbook, gypsies and thieves who declare themselves unfortunate: they have nothing to recommend themselves other than the theme of goodwill surrounding the holidays. They crawl from the gutters and out of the shadows begging for more, growing rich, their purses fattened off the weakness of those foolhardy souls who seek absolution for a year's worth of delicious sins. They are everywhere: charming souls soliciting charity for their licensed, non-profit organizations over the telephone, at your door, and in your face. You give, don't you? Not freely. If you gave freely, you would expect nothing in return. Everyone *always* wants something in return. You want to wash away guilt by buying indulgences. You want a receipt for the tax deduction." LaCroix chuckled wickedly. "You want to be desired by someone, anyone - even the disenfranchised rabble. You *need* to feel needed, even if you have to buy your glory. Well, my children, they say a fool and his money are soon parted. How foolish are you?" Jules leaned over and whispered in Bonnie's ear. "I guess that means Nunkies isn't planning to give you Rhode Island any time soon." Sallie crouched down beside their chairs, joining them in a low voice. "That would mean Nunkies is Santa Claus. Now, wouldn't that rock your world and freak you out?" "As much fun as this soiree has been," Jules pointed out succinctly, "need I remind you that we came here on a mission?" "That's right," Madame Kiki inserted. "You're here to tattle on your addicted brethren." "High Priestesses don't tattle!" Jules said hotly, her voice rising to a normal level. "We *inform.*" Bonnie's reply was even louder. "So let's quit playing around and 'inform' LaCroix that the rest of the addicts are decking the Shrine! Patt put antlers on Kitty Nunkies! She needs to suffer some crushing defeat for that!" Suddenly, the four women realized that the Nightcrawler wasn't talking to a new caller. He was glaring at them, his temper obviously soured. "'Hark!' the angel said. 'I bring you tidings of extreme unpleasantness,'" LaCroix drawled sarcastically. He snapped off the microphone and started a track from This Mortal Coil's 'Blood' CD. "How long were you planning to dally before telling me of this outrage?" he demanded, his expression extremely annoyed. "Well, I suppose we originally planned to tell you about four and a half hours ago," Jules reasoned, "but that was before Sallie, Bonnie and I were mugged at gunpoint by someone dressed as Santa Claus. Then, Sallie insisted we report the crime to the police." "Santa took my *valuables*!" the Dragon exclaimed. "So, we visited the police precinct, and we ended up being interviewed ad nauseum by Nick," Jules continued with a frown. "That's where we ran into Kiki, and she was kind enough to offer us a lift on her snowmobiles." Jules released a sudden gasp. "Oh, my. Kiki! Your Buff Slave Boys have been waiting outside all this time!" "Damn!" Kiki cursed. "Just you wait and see, they'll tell their union on me!" The Madame rushed for the booth door. "I'd better go offer them some cocoa." "As I was saying," Jules continued, "Madame Kiki offered us a lift over here on her snowmobiles, you invited us in and asked why we were here, so I plainly stated that we don't *do* Christmas. Then you let Bonnie talk, time passed, and, now, we are here." "A-hem?! 'You let Bonnie talk, time passed?' What kind of description of events is that?" Bons complained. "Pardon the interruption, sir," the technician's voice came over the intercom from the next room, "but there's an 'Annie Raper' on line two? She threatened me with grout duty if I didn't patch her through." "It seems everyone has one of those international radio band thingees," Sallie observed. "Or maybe, because she's NunkMommy, she has secret powers." "Go ahead. Put Ann on," LaCroix instructed. Immediately, an outraged roar came over the speaker. "PATT DID *WHAT* TO KITTY NUNKIES?!?!" "Antlers, Annie," Bonnie sighed. "She put antlers on his head. Kitty Nunkies bit her, of course." LaCroix grunted in satisfaction. "DID YOU TELL HER THERE IS TO BE NO DECKING OF THE SHRINE?!?!" "Yes, Annie," Jules explained. "I was adamant, and all of the decorations and antlers were removed before we went to dinner. Apparently, however, sometime during the vichyssoise, Patt and the rest of the addicts decided our word counted for naught." "MAYBE I SHOULD COME UP THERE. I'LL GIVE THEM A FEW WORDS AND KNOTS UPSIDE THE -" "No need to trouble yourself, Ann," LaCroix inserted. "I will take care of this problem personally. If the addicts won't listen to me, they won't listen to anyone." The addicts in the studio gulped. Nunkies' pronouncement sounded more like a threat than logic. "In that case," Annie said, her temper finally soothed, "I have nothing more to worry about. Have fun making them listen, Lucien." "Laura will probably take pictures," Jules said knowingly, steadfastly ignoring Annie's use of LaCroix's given name and how he didn't seem to mind. LaCroix picked up the phone receiver and murmured something into the phone for Annie's-ears-only, while the addicts strained jealously to eavesdrop. After a few minutes, the vampire hung up, then demanded for the technician in the other room to tell him, "Who is the caller on line three?" "I don't know, sir. It must have just come in." LaCroix put the call on speaker, saying impatiently, "I am the Nightcrawler. Who are you?" The caller ignored the question, rasping a statement over the line, instead. "You should not say such things." "And which 'things' would that be?" LaCroix said dismissively. "We give in kind what we receive," the caller's voice grated. "And eternity is too short for nonsense," LaCroix replied, decisively cutting off the line. He stood, then ushered the addicts out of the studio before him. "I'm assuming you will use Madame Kiki's services for transportation back to the Shrine. I will travel more directly...by air." **************************************************************************** Patt was not prone to panic. She was a mature addict, and maturity entailed a certain calmness of disposition. She did not wring her hands with worry or succumb to fits of agitation. It was somewhat surprising, then, to the Third Cousin when she found herself wringing her hands with increasing frequency as the hours passed. She'd expected Jules and Bonnie to storm into the Shrine some time ago, verbally massacring the addicts for their current decorative frenzy. The dinner hour had come and gone, however, with no sign of a furious High Priestess or Scribe. After a while, Patt had gone in search of Monsieur Cabon. Sure enough, Jules, Bonnie and Sallie had finished their repast and gone out into the snowy night more than an hour earlier. That made Patt experience an instantaneous fit of nervousness. Yelling was one thing; silence was ominous. As time passed and the Shrine began to sparkle with lights and hum with the sound of 'I'll Be Home For Christmas,' the Third Cousin began to pause worriedly more and more often and start at each foreign sound with greater anxiety. The other addicts bustled about her, merrily enterprising, but Patt was struck still because of her concern. Yes, the mature addict was panicking. Her imagination was running overtime, picturing just what Jules and Bons would do to all of the addicts, with Patt branded the ringleader, of course, when they finally returned. She envisioned Jules' frowning brow as the High Priestess sneered at the greenery, before launching a scathing tirade. Patt anticipated Bonnie taking the time to sample the cheese straws and cookies Tser had prepared, then ripping all the tinsel from the walls. She visualized Sallie in the background, snickering knowingly at the entire scene. None of these unpleasant images caused Patt to quake in terror, however. It was the sight of LaCroix, real and dangerous, standing under the dangling beer bottle which finally caused Patt's ultimate moment of panic. At the time she'd wrapped the malt container in mistletoe and suspended it over the doorway by a piece of silver string, the idea had seemed extremely cute. Patt had been very pleased with the way the green glass of this particular beer brand caught the light, giving it a festive internal glow. But now, with the *ornament* hanging directly over Nunkies' head, Patt wasn't as convinced of the merit of this idea as she'd been a short time ago, while caught up in the throes of decorating fervor. In fact, a hanging beer bottle dressed in parasitic weed seemed to be the ultimate in folly. LaCroix noted Patt's color draining and followed her gaze. He glanced upward, saw the hovering bottle and returned his eyes to the addict. "Requesting a *kiss*, Ms. Elmore?" LaCroix said smoothly, his voice dripping with threat. "Perhaps, in this case, I might oblige." Patt took a step backwards. As she did, her foot came down hard on Kitty Nunkies' tail. The fawn cat snarled in fury, spitting and scratching, his claws attaching to offending ankles. Patt yowled and began her descent to the floor. LaCroix looked at the cat approvingly. "I could not have handled the situation better myself," he noted. The cat leapt away as the Third Cousin crashed to the tile. Kitty Nunkies took shelter under LaCroix's feet, but didn't remain there long. The tall vampire scooped up the snowshoe and, holding it in the crook of his arm, began stroking the feline's soft fur. Jules, Bonnie, Sallie, Madame Kiki, and a veritable posse of Buff Slave Boys burst into the Shrine at that moment, their eyes greedily drinking in the scene. Jules gaped in horror at the amount of festive decorations covering the chamber. Sallie smiled wickedly at Patt's unease. Madame Kiki checked her Slave Boys for chapped lips. Bons saw LaCroix rubbing one of her cats between the ears, and both Kitty Nunkies and she began to purr in unison. "These *decorations*," LaCroix looked back up at the beer bottle with obvious distaste, "will be removed - NOW. No further discussion will be entertained." Still holding Kitty Nunkies, LaCroix turned and left the room. Jules sniffed in vindication and followed him quickly. Bonnie made a sweeping gesture with her hand and said, "You heard him - get cracking. They *all* go - pronto." Then, the Scribe tilted her head upward, made a snorting sound, and stalked from the room. "You really shouldn't have even tried," Sallie said with an air of wisdom, then wandered off to the Video room to curl up for another dragon- worthy nap. Patt, still on the floor, felt something tickling her ankle. She looked down to find Fred, licking a trickle of blood from her ankle. "Et tu, Pupie?" Patt said tersely, pulling her foot from the dog. Fred just twitched his nubby little tail and looked at her earnestly. Patt sighed. "Guess better you than him, Pupcake. Come on...let's get this stuff down and out of here before the General comes back and pillages us." Laura had been reaching to take down some garland, but at Patt's words she paused. "Did you say - pillage...?" the addict's voice was hopeful. *************************************************************************** "That went well," Jules commented as she poured herself a portion of dry sherry and LaCroix some of his private stock that the addicts kept on hand 'just in case.' "It could not have gone otherwise," LaCroix stated firmly. He ceased to stroke the cat at his side in order to accept the glass proffered by Jules' elegant fingers. Kitty Nunkies sat stoically on the settee, occupying the prized spot next to LaCroix. Jules and Bonnie eyed the area covetously, but the Scribe looked away first. It was her cat, after all, and she was well aware what Kitty Nunkies would do if she tried to relocate him without some measure of cooperation. Jules was a bit more stubborn. She stared into the cat's blue eyes, her gaze telling the feline to 'MOVE.' Kitty Nunkies returned her stare with hypnotic intensity. 'Try and make me,' the cat's expression seemed to say. Jules finally sighed and took a seat at the other end of the settee, cat flesh acting as a barrier between her and the vampire. It took the High Priestess only a moment to hit upon a possible way to get LaCroix alone. She cleared her throat, then assumed a concerned expression. "My, Bonnie, Kitty Nunkies appears *very* hungry. You should take him to the Laboratory/Kitchen and give him some Crunchy Food Beast." Bons, who had a tendency to sit on the floor even when chairs were available(that is, unless chairs with LaCroix in them were available), scooted across the rug. She looked up at the cat, inspecting Kitty Nunkies intently, then shook her head. "No, he usually looks like that. It's an 'I rule' kind of thing he does. When he's hungry, that's when he turns on the charm, not the disdain." "For a cat," LaCroix observed smugly, "this animal certainly demonstrates an advanced personality development." "What's in a name?" Bonnie trilled flirtatiously. Jules stifled her groan with a sip of sherry. Suddenly, a melodic gong rang over the Shrine, coming from the direction of the Laboratory/Kitchen, the tune suspiciously similar to the chorus of a holiday standard. Jules choked as she swallowed, and LaCroix's brows drew together thunderously. "*What* was that?" the vampire demanded. His commanding tone had Bonnie hopping to her feet. "Why don't I go kill somebody?...I mean, I'll go check it out?" "Why don't you do that, Bons?" Jules echoed, content with the prospect of finally having LaCroix all to herself. Jules mused. As Bonnie slipped from the intimate parlor, a black blur zoomed in the door. The kitten paused in front of the sofa, blinked her orange eyes up at Kitty Nunkies, then flung her small, slinky form with abandon at the older cat. Finding himself suddenly saddled with an attentive whirling dervish, Kitty Nunkies stood, then calmly bounced off the settee, the kitten still clinging to his back. "Is that typical behavior?" LaCroix inquired curiously. Feline barrier removed, Jules edged her body across the settee. "Of course," Jules explained. "That's Mariah. She's a Kitty Nunkies Addict." "Ah." Jules was leaning in closer, preparing to say something intriguing and seductive, when, all at once, LaCroix moved out of her reach and toward the door. "Bonnie means well, but my presence in the Laboratory/Kitchen will certainly be more effective," the vampire announced before leaving. Jules sighed in exasperation as she rose to her feet. She paused to glance where Mariah continued to tug at Kitty Nunkies and advised the silky black cat. "Keep trying, little one. Eventually, you'll get him." Jules took one more sip from her sherry before setting it down, then moved to follow LaCroix. *************************************************************************** End Of Part Four From the silence of her room, Patt could hear the sounds outside her window. It seemed that, despite the snow and ill weather, the bulk of Toronto was caught up in holiday bliss. Carolers were caroling, store loud speakers were pumping out music and happy shoppers, clad in their bulkiest clothing, were scurrying about, laden with packages for loved ones. Patt mused. The Third Cousin's eyes were slightly moist as she watched a tall man stoop to tie a child's unlaced boot. But, LaCroix had come, LaCroix had seen and LaCroix had put his black shod foot down - quite forcefully. Patt's finger's unconsciously sought her throat and massaged the carotid slightly. Christmas had definitely been forbidden. Patt thought, leaving the window with a sigh. Patt walked over and picked up her Mountie hat, the sprig of mistletoe still poking from the band. With a longing escape of air, she caressed the brim and thought of Biff, stuck in Arizona on a rock hunt. Another wave of self-pity ensnared the mature addict as she thought of Jules and Bonnie downstairs, sharing wine and whatever, with himself in the bleak, now barren, parlor. They were in LaCroix's good graces and, once again, Patt was on the skewering end of the proverbial stake. The Third Cousin's thoughts were shattered by the sudden glaring gong of the kitchen entry doorbell - a gong which had been reprogrammed to announce visitors with the tinny opening strains of 'Partridge in a Pear Tree.' Patt paled, knowing that the Christmas tune would further irritate Nunkies. Then, with a sudden drop in her blood pressure, Patt ashened further, realizing what the gong probably announced. A blaring shriek from the kitchen/lab confirmed her suspicions. "WHAT IS *THAT* DOING HERE?" Jesse asked indignantly, pointing at the fifteen foot evergreen hoisted onto the shoulders of the two delivery men outside the door. "Being delivered," the front man replied wanly. He looked down at the scrap of paper in his hand, "to a Ms. Patricia Elmore." He squinted back at Jesse. "You her?" "Absolutely not," the young Cousin was affronted. "I would never condone the killing of an innocent tree, much less allow such an indignity to be brought into my presence. Sap and sticker needles - YUCK!!" "Then I suggest you find Ms. Elmore," the man said, bullying his way into the Shrine as other addicts burst into the room. "Cause one way or another, I have a fee to collect." "Patt ordered a 'live' tree?" Susan was incredulous. "Kewl," Charl said. "I love the smell of fresh evergreen." "Then burn a scented candle," Susan countered. "Killing a tree to satisfy a need to decorate is stupid." "What's the difference in having a Christmas tree and having cut flowers?" Patt said quietly, as she entered the room. "I don't hear any of you complaining when you receive the traditional white roses on your birthdays." "Yea . . . but they don't cut down the whole bush when they pluck the blooms," Jesse protested. "You have to kill the whole tree to have a 'real tree.' It's such a stupid waste when artificial trees are just as pretty and much more flame retardant." "Not to mention, easier on the allergies," Susan added, swiping a finger under her nose. "It's not like I went and damaged the rain forest, or something," Patt glowered at the assembled addicts. "This was a tree grown on a tree farm specifically designated to be cut as a *Christmas* tree. It was already *cut* when I bought it. If I hadn't purchased it, someone else would have." "Couldn't you have purchased a potted variety?" Debbie offered. "Then we could have enjoyed the tree and planted it in the Spring. That's how we do it back home...real tree and a chance to replenish the earth's forests and oxygen. It's one of our traditions." "That's real nice, lady, but let's get back to talking about purchases," the heavy man carrying the front end of the fir announced. "That will be $186.99 - not including the tip." "Uhhhh, okay," Patt grinned meekly at the man. "The Santa-Land man told me that you accepted plastic." Patt began rummaging through the pockets of her fleece wear. "Visa, okay?" "Make sure she uses the platinum, Greg," a familiar voice announced from the back boughs of the conifer. "It still had an impressive limit when I returned it." "Dirk?" Patt grinned as she identified the man emerging from the branches. "DIRK??!!" Bonnie sneered/moaned as she burst through the swinging doors into the kitchen. "What are you doing here with that murdered piece of wood??!" "Making a living, Daisy girl," Dirk replied, propping the tree trunk on the floor. "Deep snow makes cabbing a no-go. What do you care, anyway, Red? You blew me off, remember? Cost me a darn good retainer as the driver for this little group, if I recall correctly." "Blew you off?!!" Bonnie said indignantly. "As I recall, it was you..." The Scribe decided not to finish a statement of her version of the story. After all, why proclaim to the gathered addicts that you'd been stood up? Especially with LaCroix and Jules now entering the room. "Oh, Sugar Plums," Patt muttered, stepping back into the alcove between the refrigerator and the freezer. "And fairies," LaCroix smiled viciously toward the beer-less addict, his vampire hearing once more catching Patt's betrayal. "Would you care to explain the evergreen? You know that I do not approve of non-furniture lumber in any way, shape or form." "Yule Log, coming through," Cousin Heather announced cheerfully as she burst through the doorway, her arms laden with a massive hunk of timber with a fat red candle ensconced in a knot near the center. "I've already sprinkled it with cider, so now all the wood needs is fire. Where should I put it?" Patt looked at LaCroix, who was staring at the Yule Log with revulsion, obviously imagining it in an ignited state. Heather glanced up from the wood resting in her arms, saw the vampire, then her expression filled with alarm. "Eek! No one said Nunkies would be here! I'm so sorry!" The tartan-ed Cousin confided in a low voice in Patt's ear, "Celts used to bring a Yule Log into the house to invite the sun-god to purify the place." Patt felt herself blanching again. This night was definitely not one that was promoting her mental and physical well-being. "And you thought that was a *good* idea?" she hissed at Heather. "Remember how we were going to stick to Saturnalia-based stuff?" "Well, it's pretty! I'm a MacIntyre! It's part of my cultural heritage, and, like I said, I didn't know Nunkies was actually going to come here! I mean...Whoa!...This log must seem like a giant, flaming cross to him!" The vampire caught the Third Cousin, then Heather, in a death trance stare. "Lose the log." "Done." Heather scooted briskly outside with the offensive chunk of tree, then Patt fled out the back door immediately after, brandishing her wallet and shooing the delivery men in front of her. Outside, the cold air smacked Patt across the face and brought her back to relative consciousness. "So, what about the tree?" the hefty foreman persisted, not particularly happy to be out in the elements again. "Stick it, for all I care," Patt muttered, handing the man her credit card. "Take it to the town square and donate it to the Queen. Send it to the Picker factory and make toothpicks out of it. Hollow it out and use it to send a Viking to Valhalla. I really don't give a sh..." "'Scuse, us, won't you guys?" Dirk clasped Patt's elbow and steered the unhappy addict away from the other mumbling workers. "Okay, girlfriend, what's the problem?" Dirk questioned as he guided Patt into the sheltering overhang of an alley doorway. "Holiday stress?" "Sheesh, if only we had a Holiday to be stressed about," Patt's voice was almost tearful. She looked up at Dirk, unable to clear the moisture from her eyes. "They've banned Christmas." "Doing the Hum Bug Rhumba, huhh?" Dirk looked toward the now closed Shrine kitchen entrance. "Figures. Fickle females, those addicts." Patt alerted amid her sobs. She'd always been curious about why Dirk had disappeared from the Shrine's company, and now an answer seemed to be imminent. "Whatcha mean, Dirk?" The tall, dark-haired hunk shrugged. "You know, like Bonnie Rutledge, there. Fickle. She gives you the green light, then slams the brakes without warning. No phone call, no card, no nothing. Just a terse message on the e- mail saying sayonara, so long, get lost." "I can't believe that!" Patt was truly shocked. "You and Bons seemed so...compatible. You sure couldn't prove a mismatch based on my charge bill." "Well, believe it," Dirk affirmed with a terse nod. "I got locked into a Union negotiation meeting, trying to avoid a strike like this one that has crippled the Canadian mail system, and the next thing I know I get this cyber-message stating 'Your services are no longer required.'" "Damn, that doesn't sound like Bons," Patt said. "Not nearly wordy enough. That sounds more like..." Patt's eyes widened as a shocking thought entered her brain. Luckily, the shock thickened her tongue, disabling speech. Dirk looked at Patt pointedly. "Sounds like...?" Patt coughed and blinked up at the cabbie. "Sounds like Bons made a mistake to me, giving a great guy like you the heave-ho." "Ho, ho," Dirk echoed. "So how goes your courtship with the Buff fellow?" "Biff?" Patt's expression fell slightly. "We're cool, and cooling off, I'm afraid. He's really into rocking, and I'm still confined to the city limits of Toronto, except on very special occasions. He's in Tempe right now, sifting warm sand and looking for agate." Dirk and Patt sighed in unison. "Life sucks," Dirk offered. "So does unlife," Patt replied. They sighed again. Then, Patt shivered. "You're getting cold out here without a jacket," Dirk said, shrugging off his dark blue peacoat and placing it across the mature addict's shoulders. Patt smiled up gratefully. "Come on, lady, let's get you back inside where it's warm." Patt looked uncertainly toward the Shrine's back door. "I don't think it would be so warm in there for me right now, Dirk. Or, more precisely, it might be too warm." Dirk nodded in understanding. "Any friends in town you can stay with?" "Only in there," Patt indicated to the Shrine with a nod. "And, I've been told that the hotels, motels and B&B's have no vacancies. Not even in fanfic." "Bummer," Dirk commented. "Guess you'll have to settle for rooming with me for the night." Patt's mood immediately brightened as Dirk shouted to the other nursery personnel. "Joe, Greg, scoot over. We have a passenger." As Patt slid into the extended cab seat behind Greg and Joe, followed by Dirk, she smiled at the later and asked, "Do you do Christmas, Dirk?" *************************************************************************** The last of the trees on the truck had been delivered and the other workmen had headed to their own homes, leaving Patt and Dirk on their own. They trudged toward the cabbie's personal auto, a dark blue Bronco, equipped with chains and all the stuff needed to navigate the nasty weather now covering the city. Patt snapped her passenger-side seatbelt while Dirk climbed into the driver's seat and did the same. He sat back and looked at the mature addict. "All set?" "All set," Patt acknowledged. Though she was happy to be in Dirk's company and headed for a warm nook, something kept nagging at her, dampening what could have been a supremely happy moment. She began ticking off the cons in her head: Bonnie and Dirk - unresolved. LaCroix's present and continued irk at the Third Cousin - definitely on the front burner at the moment. Jules and Bons - their disappointment in Patt and her disappointment in them. Patt herself - running away from the problems. Patt pursed her lips in irritation. This self-analysis always peeved her, but seemed unavoidable. The phrase, 'physician, heal thyself' kept creeping into her mind. "Want me to take you back to the Peach?" Dirk offered, as though reading her thoughts. Patt looked up and smiled wanly. "Is it that obvious?" The dark-haired man grinned. "Only 'cause I know your history and where your heart is." "You're a good man, Dirk," Patt said with conviction. "I only hope Bonnie gets her act together and realizes that soon." The cabbie grinned again, but said nothing. He eased the clutch out and steered the vehicle out of the Santa Land parking lot. "Mind if we make a stop on the way back to the restaurant?" Dirk asked. Patt indicated that she had no objections, so at the next corner he turned the vehicle toward downtown. "I need to drop off a package at the Fed-Ex office - it's going to my nephew in New Brunswick. He's four and doesn't understand that Santa is regulated by the postal commission." Patt chuckled softly and sat back to enjoy the ride. It felt good to be cradled in the seat belt with an experienced driver at the wheel. Patt hated to drive -especially with the addicts. They always seemed to end up in high speed chases... "STOP!!!!" Patt sat up and shouted with sudden excitement. Dirk applied considerable force to the brakes, causing the Bronco to skid slightly as it rattled to a stop. Patt unbuckled and bolted out the door. "CAREN!!!" Patt shouted and waved her arms as she sloshed through the snow toward the train terminal. Sitting in the waiting room, her breath frosty on the window, was the other addict from Louisiana. Patt burst into the train station and Caren looked up, startled. "What are you doing HERE?" Patt was delighted to see her friend, but unhappy at the same time. Caren should have been half-way to the Pelican State by now. Caren shrugged. "I didn't make it before the sleet started. They had already closed the tracks to New York, so I missed my ride." "Damn," Patt said, dropping down to sit beside the other addict. "And you've been here all this time - eight hours? Why didn't you call someone. We'd have come got you." "I kept hoping they'd clear the rails, and I'd be able to catch a later ride," Caren said unhappily. "It hasn't really been too bad...they've been giving us unlimited free coffee." "Sheesh, don't let Bons know that," Patt admonished. "She'll be down here playing frequent choo-choo rider, just to get the free java." "What are you doing here?" Caren asked. "I thought you were confined to the Shrine for the holidays." "I was...am...long story," Patt finished as Dirk walked through the terminal door. "I kind of got myself ousted for misbehavior." The cabbie spotted the women and began walking over. "Why should Christmas be different from any other time?" Caren chided Patt playfully. She glanced toward Dirk. "I take it that Bons was kicked out with you?" "Actually," Patt said slowly, "Bons was one of the kickers." This news shocked Caren. "Bons and you aren't in on the same scheme this time?!! What's going on? What *did* you do?" "Hey!" Patt was offended. "Why do you jump to the conclusion that it was something that I did?!" Caren smiled knowingly. "Because I know you, dear," she said sweetly. "Hi, Caren," Dirk said in greeting as he walked up. "You get stuck in the snow?" The pretty Cajun addict smiled. "Yes...unfortunately. I have a house full of family in the States, and I'm stranded...and now, I have Patt." Patt sniffed and stood up. "Hey, I *can* leave, girl," the Third Cousin began moving toward the door. Caren laughed and stood, gathering her things. "Wait up, Elmore. You've talked me into it. Eight hours on a hard bench is enough. I'm ready for a warm bed and hot chocolate." The train terminal door opened, and a familiar-looking woman entered the station, blowing her nose into a tissue. "Jade?" Patt called in a curious tone, doubtful that she had truly run into another addict by chance. The woman sniffled and looked up. "Patt? Caren? Oh, this is awful!" "Thanks, Jade," Caren said wryly. "We're thrilled to see you, too." "I didn't mean it was awful to *see* you," Jade protested impatiently. "I meant that it's awful that you're both stuck in Toronto instead of Louisiana." "Yeah," Patt commiserated, "it's turned out to be pretty rotten." The Third Cousin noted the woman's small suitcase and asked, "Are you here alone?" "Don't get me started," Jade complained. "This was only supposed to be a short trip: drop in on Toronto, get the tour, then I was going to zip straight home and spend the holidays with my new hubby. Instead, I'm caught in a winter storm, my hotel kicked me out after three days because someone else had a reservation for the room, and now I've caught a cold!" Jade pulled out another tissue and blew. "Are any of the phones free? I've been calling home as much as possible." "You should come back to the Shrine with us," Caren mused. "There's plenty of room." "Plus you could charge your phone calls to NA," Patt added. "Debbie's been calling her husband while he's stationed in Italy, and at least Jules and Bonnie haven't had a problem with *that.*" A short time later, Dirk completed his business with the package delivery service and returned to find the women discussing the merits of various forms of celebrating. Caren appeared to be leaning toward the wreath-hanging side of the argument, but also understood why some of the addicts might not want to engage in such activities. Jade was non-committal, still too distraught over being stranded away from her new hubby for their first Christmas. The women continued to talk softly while Dirk began to drive toward the Shrine. "STOP!!!!" the three women shouted. Dirk slammed on the brake again, pitching to a slushy stop. "Kate!" Caren leaned out of the Bronco and yelled to a bundled addict, standing beside a bus sign. The woman looked up, smiled and mushed toward the blue car. "Hi, guys!" Kate said breathlessly as she arrived. "What are you doing out on a night like this?" "Not Christmas shopping, that's for sure," Patt grumbled. She and Caren moved over some, making room for Kate to climb in. Dirk waited until Kate was buckled in, then geared the Bronco again. "You're lucky," Kate said, "to be through with your shopping, I mean. It always seems like I have one or two items pending up until the actual exchange." "Hey," Patt replied. "Right now, I'd love to be out choosing presents for my buddies. Thing is, my buddies have said no gifts, no goodies, no yummies." "No way!" Kate exclaimed. "Whose bright idea was that?" "LaCroix's," Caren responded. "Oh." "Darnit!" Patt exclaimed suddenly. "Running into you three just proves it! We're right, and LaCroix is wrong! Wrong, wrong, wrong. We *should* be celebrating Christmas! STOP THE CAR!" Dirk's foot was already on the brake. As the vehicle halted, Patt snapped off her seatbelt and climbed out of the Bronco. "Take them to the Shrine, Dirk," Patt instructed the driver. "I just can't handle it right now...I need time alone." And, ignoring the protests of the other addicts, Patt slogged off into the frozen night. ************************************************************************** End Of Part Five LaCroix had said he intended to handle the problem at the Shrine, and Annie knew that meant he would. Yet, for some reason, her confidence in the vampire's commanding abilities didn't silence the urges that had grown in the NunkMommy since her telephone call to CERK. She *really* wanted to be in Toronto. She *needed* to be in Toronto. *Nunkies* was in Toronto. Annie was in Arkansas. Fate had a cruel sense of humor. Luckily, fate didn't have much of a say-so in fanfic. Armed with the resources at her NunkMommy disposal, Annie effortlessly chartered a plane to fly her as close to Toronto as the inclimate weather would allow. This turned out to be on the other side of Lake Ontario, in Niagara Falls on the Canadian side of the border. Annie refused to be stranded in an American tourist trap, much less Buffalo. She had standards. She paid a totally unreasonable sum for a one-horse open sleigh, and rode over the fields and along the icy QEW toward St. Catharine. Once there, Annie hired a boat. Crossing the lake was the most direct route between her present location and where she wanted to be, so she was determined to be seaworthy. With a good motor, she could be lolling in the Shrine in under an hour. Annie couldn't find any sporty, speedy models available. There didn't appear to be anyone willing to hit the water on such a cold night. Annie assumed their reluctance was because most of the boat-owners preferred to celebrate Christmas Eve rather than work. As a result, the only transport the NunkMommy could find was a thirty-foot cruiser that had seen better days. The exterior was dingy and weathered, as was the crew, but Annie thought of LaCroix and the warmth of the Shrine, and signed on for a cruise across Lake Ontario without a second's more hesitation. The boards creaked in welcome as she crossed the deck, and the engine sputtered like a choked goose as the owner warmed the boat for some action. The captain had bloodshot eyes and wore a grimy yachtsman's jacket with tattered gold braiding and a patch on one elbow. He commanded his assistant, a thin man named Pete, to escort Annie below deck and out of the bite of the icy winds. She was pleasantly surprised by the lower accommodations. The room was small, but lined with golden teak paneling that belonged to another era. The furniture was upholstered in emerald velvet, and a dainty gilt and crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. Annie pulled down the hood of her dark red wool cloak so she could get a better look. Her curly hair bounced around her face as she turned toward the shipman, her eyes shining in appreciation. "This is really quite lovely." Pete bloomed with pride. "The Cap'n an' I think so. Would you like some champagne, Miss Raper? We stocked up two months ago, planning to wine the guests on our holiday charters, but the past week's been pretty dead. You paid us enough for a dozen parties, so I figure you've bought a bottle or two, at least." "I suppose I wouldn't mind a glass." Annie's eyes came to rest on a sound system tucked away in one corner. "You have music?" "Yeah," Pete said as he popped the cork. "What would you like to hear? Christmas carols?" Annie wrinkled her nose. "I don't think so. What else do you have?" "Hmmm...Neil Diamond and some show tunes." "Do you have 'The King and I'?" Annie asked, her eyes lighting eagerly. "I think so." "Excellent." Pete set a wine stand cradling the champagne bottle beside Annie's chair and handed her a glass. She thanked him, then paused for a momentary frown as she noticed the scent of something stronger, brandy perhaps, coming off of his sweater. She pushed the twinge of concern out of her thoughts and lifted her glass of bubbly in toast to herself. Annie mused, Annie turned to watch Pete as he shuffled through the ship's collection of audio tapes and asked conversationally, "You mentioned the past week has been pretty dead for your boat service. Isn't that odd? I would have thought that with the airports and railways closed, you would have seen an increase in business. Haven't you had an influx of people like me, needing a ferry across the lake?" "Nah," Pete said dismissively. He found the desired soundtrack and popped it into the sound system. As the strains of 'Getting to Know You' spread through the chamber, Pete continued to speak. "Most folks around here are spooked about ice floes in the water." Annie sputtered on a mouthful of champagne. "Ice floes?" "Hey! Don't worry your pretty head about that. The Cap'n knows what he's doing - I don't care *what* everybody else says." With that unnerving comment, Pete climbed up the steps to the ship's deck, and out of sight. "Oh, dear," Annie muttered. Suddenly, she realized that Pete had had two more bottles of champagne in his hands as he went above stairs. The NunkMommy gulped worriedly. "Oh dear, dear. I have a bad feeling about this." *************************************************************************** Patt was beginning to feel the full brunt of her recent impulsiveness. As she trudged along within the warehouse section of Toronto, she discovered that sweat pants, sneakers and a one-size-does-not-fit-all pea coat weren't exactly the clothing of choice for fending off the bitter winter weather. The winds were picking up again, and the foggy night was heavy with moisture. Cold, hungry, alone, full of self-pity, Patt was prime for making foolish choices. Not counting her abrupt departure from Dirk's Bronco, her first judgment error came when she turned at the corner. She was now facing north, and the icy winds pricked at her face, leaving her eyeglasses dulled by frost. Patt squinted, unable to see into the increasing fury of the blow. She had to keep her head down, trudging slowly, using what she could makeout of the sidewalk as a guide. If she had held her hand in front of her face, she wouldn't have seen it there. And, that's why she almost tripped over him. Gasping, Patt jumped back, barely avoiding contact with the vagrant huddled against the wall. The man, grizzled but not so old, lifted his head slightly so that he could see who had almost walked over him. "Hey, lady," the words were almost perfunctory, "got some change you can spare?" "Sorry," Patt patted her pockets and said apologetically. "Left home without it." "It's okay," the man said, dropping his chin back down to his chest, his eyes almost feverishly bright. "At least you pretended to offer. Most people just pretend I'm not here." Patt moved cautiously around the man, quickening her steps slightly. Then, on impulse, she turned and looked back. He was still there, cold and silent, unmoving, frozen. Patt reached back into her pocket and retrieved her wallet. She leafed inside and found that, except for the plastic, she had $2.00. She pulled out the loonies, returned to the man and gave him the coins. "Merry Christmas," the addict murmured. "God bless you," the man replied, taking the money and stuffing it in his shirt pocket. Patt turned and continued up the street. Ahead, the fog seemed to lessen somewhat. Patt quickened her step and soon found herself standing outside a neighborhood tavern. Under normal circumstances, the mature addict would not have gone into such a place alone, but this night was far from normal. Inside, the drinking establishment was warm and dark. Patt allowed her eyes to accustom to the lighting, then made her way across the room to the bar. She took a stool and waited for the bartender to finish serving two men at the other end. "Whatallyouhave?" the barkeep asked as he walked up to the addict. "A beer, please," Patt replied. "One of those green bottle ones, if you have it." "Tap only," the man replied, already drawing the brew. "Tap it is," Patt agreed, looking around. "Nice place you have." "Manages to pay the rent," the bartender said, putting the mug down in front of Patt. As he did, he took a closer look at the woman. "Don't I know you?" Patt peered back at him. "Do you know me?" "Yea," the man insisted. "I know you. You're one of Louis' girls." "Excuse me?" Patt was genuinely confused. "Louis...ya know...Louis. Calls himself Cabon. Runs that fancy restaurant on Queen Street." "You mean Monsieur Cabon?" Patt was incredulous. "Do you know him?" "Know him," the bartender gaffed a bit. "I grew up with the little blighter. I'm his brother, Phil. Except I kept the family name intact...Camembert." "Camembert," Patt repeated, her grin growing. "Camembert...like the cheese?" The bartender didn't see the amusement. "Yea, the good old family name wasn't good enough for the fancy clientele that Louis was seeking to satisfy. Had to make some 'adjustments' to sell more Coq au Vine." "Vin," Patt corrected automatically. "Yea," the bartender's eyes narrowed just a bit, but he continued, "so off he goes to join the elite, barely remembering that he has family down here in the bottoms. While me...I struggle with drunks and bums, trying to eke out enough to feed six." "Big family," Patt commented. This caused the man to smile. "Yea...and a great one. Wouldn't change it for the world." He paused in wiping a glass. "I love my wife and kids. I have three girls and a boy. Unfortunately, the boy is having some medical problems..." Phil's voice trailed off. "Sorry," Patt said. "Doctors remain hopeful," the bartender shrugged, sitting the clean glass on a stack. "That will be a twoney, Miss. Got to pay the bills." Patt winced. Her last two dollars were stuffed into the shirt pocket of a derelict. "Do you take plastic?" she asked hopefully. Patt, sans beer, was hastily shown the door which exited into the street outsi