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The Christmas tree was simply enormous. It was well over eight feet tall and very stylish. The whole thing was decorated in white lights and gleaming glass. There were crystal icicles, crystal snowflakes and even crystal birds that twinkled coolly.
A tree this big wouldn’t have fit inside the house of any “normal” family, but theirs was an “important” family, so they had vaulted ceilings. Warlock usually didn’t notice height of the ceilings until Christmas-time rolled around. After Thanksgiving, his parents would bring in a small crew of contractors to erect the tree. When he was little, Warlock had found the whole process very exciting.
Now, he stared at the tree and felt nothing at all.
No, not quite nothing. He felt tiny, forgotten. He’d only be noticed if he broke one of the ornaments. He’d done that once (on purpose), and it had gotten him exactly the reaction he’d expected to get from his parents. Nanny, on the other hand, had only been curious as to why he’d selected that particular little icicle. She seemed to think that he could have put more thought into his approach.
Warlock’s gaze wandered upward. The icy-looking angel balanced on top, had always made Nanny laugh. They’d called it Gabriel. Warlock wasn’t sure why. After a while, they’d begun referring to the whole tree as Gabriel. Harriet seemed proud that her tree had earned itself such a nickname. Nanny had just smirked.
Warlock wanted that smirk back.
There were tons of presents under the tree, all in matching silver wrapping paper. A bunch of them were the right size and shape to be the video games he’d asked for. He’d play the video games; of course, he would. They’d be better than the prep-school clothes his parents insisted on filling his closet with, every Christmas. That long, narrow gift-box on the left was probably a tie, something rich and conservative-looking like his father’s.
Warlock wondered if, as he got older, he was getting boring. He could almost feel himself becoming stupider, preppier and more obnoxious by the day. Maybe that’s why Nanny had left, he thought bitterly. (What else was he supposed to think when they’d left with no explanation?) He was a spoiled, boring kid in boring clothes. Maybe that’s why there was no one around to listen to him, no one left who would smirk when he said something funny.
He hunched his shoulders against the sound of his mother’s shoes, clicking their way across the hardwood floor.
“Trying to guess what your presents are?” she asked breezily as she approached. Warlock shrugged, but she wasn’t really interested in that, anyway. It had just been a conversation opener. She continued, “Now, baby. The guests are arriving soon. Are you going to be a gentleman tonight?”
“No.” He answered without looking up at her.
That put his mother on her back foot. “But-”
Then, giving out an exaggerated sigh, Warlock explained, “Don’t worry, Mom. I’m not going to embarrass you guys. I’m not even coming.”
“Oh, but…” His mother searched for something to say. “Dinner?”
“I’ve got homework.” Check-mate, Warlock thought.
“Well, in that case… Don’t stay up too late.” And she wandered away, apparently relieved not to have to worry about her son for the rest of the evening.
He was left standing there, in his huge-rich house with a huge-rich Christmas tree and no one to give a shit about him.
This was not the glorious destiny he’d been promised. It seemed that he’d missed the boat on the destiny thing.
Unless… What if he just took matters into his own hands and did something properly villainous? That might get him back on the right track. This time, he could aspire to more than one stupid little icicle. He pictured himself laughing, head thrown back, as he gloried over the shattered fragments of a toppled Christmas tree. It would smash all the silver presents. If he was lucky, it might even catch fire.
Now, m’lad... Doing harm won’t make you feel any better. You’ll feel worse in the long run, and I’d hate to see that! Let’s see, if we can’t channel your feelings into something constructive, eh?
Warlock sniffed loudly and rubbed his eyes with his sleeve. Brother Francis hadn’t just wanted Warlock to be good. He’d wanted him to be happy.
Oh, I’m not saying it’s easy, but I bet a clever young man like you can think of something creative to do, that would make you feel better.
Warlock turned on his heel and headed down to the basement.
As the guests arrived, Warlock disappeared for the rest of the evening. No one missed him as he rummaged through countless Tupperware totes. No one wondered why the Dowling’s son was skulking around outside in a storm. No one noticed the lights going on in the tool shed and the gardener’s cottage. Even when he came back inside, drenched from the rain, just to steal a little space-heater, no one looked up from their conversations.
The cottage had been vacant for months now, and not even Warlock had set foot inside it since Nanny and Brother Francis left. All the coziness, all the personal touches were gone. The bare light bulb that had once felt cheery and quaint, now seemed too bright. The place felt forgotten. His parents would think he was crazy for spending the evening out here in self-imposed austerity that bordered on squalor.
Warlock set about fixing the place up. He set the little heater to blow with all its might, but it would be a while before it could take the chill off the room. Once he’d pulled the drop cloths off the furniture, it felt a little less weird. He could almost picture Nanny draped dramatically over the tiny sofa, and Brother Francis bringing her a drink… patting Warlock on the head before taking his seat in the overstuffed armchair.
He scooted the big rubber container into the middle of the room and pulled off the lid. The dusty smell inside was immediately familiar, and Warlock was flooded with some emotion that he could only identify as Christmas. It was probably the smell of the vintage fake greenery and decaying tinsel, but it smelled good. He’d knelt right here and unpacked this box every Christmas since he could remember.
Let’s get the tree set up first! Brother Francis would have said.
Nah, angel, sparkly lights first! That’s what Warlock wants. Right, Hellspawn?
Warlock drew the long strings of multicolored lights out of the box, looking for the plug-end. He suffered a moment of hesitation as he realized that he’d never done this by himself before. But he was nearly 12 years old; plenty grown up enough to figure out some lights. There was even a step ladder beside the fridge.
It took longer than he’d expected, but eventually there was a string of lights leading up one side of the door, swooping low across the door frame, and tucked into cup hooks at the top corners of the windows. After that, Warlock hadn’t known what to do with the remaining few yards, so he’d draped the rest over the back of the sofa and let them spill onto the floor.
Brother Francis always used to test the lights first, but Warlock realized that he’d forgotten to do that. He was relieved that they worked when he plugged them in. They were rainbow-colored and sparkly, and they brought a magical glow to the whole room. Nanny would have loved them (in her understated way), and she would have been impressed that Warlock set them up himself.
With a pang, he realized that he couldn’t think of anyone who had even said “good job” to him, since they left.
Next, in the box, Warlock came across a set of gold candles that Brother Francis would light on Christmas Eve. Well, in a few days, he’d probably be forced to spend this Christmas Eve with his parents. (That was… unless he somehow managed to run away and live on his own out here… but they’d probably come looking for him and drag him back.) Anyway, he wasn’t going to miss the chance to light the candles, right now! He put them in the windowsill over the sink and lit them with the little zippo lighter Nanny had given him.
The wind picked up dramatically, lashing rain against the window. In the distance, he could hear thunder, and the cottage’s many elusive drafts made the candle flames flicker.
Shit, he didn’t like… well, Warlock amended to himself… he used to hate thunder, back when he was a little kid. He wished, for the hundredth time, that Nanny and Francis were here.
But there was nothing for it, maybe if he just stayed focused, the decorating would distract him. It seemed to be working so far.
The tree was next. Warlock pushed the inn table over to the middle of the wall and put the stand on it. As he pulled the spidery green segments out of the box, he realized that he remembered exactly how to put that little tree together. The longer pieces made up the bottom layer. Then, there was a missing branch in the second layer, so Nanny always turned that side to the wall when Brother Francis wasn’t looking. It went together, easily.
This time, Warlock remembered to test the lights, first. There was a wide selection of LED lights, all different colors, and Warlock debated long and hard before deciding on the pink ones. He reasoned that his dad had absolutely zero chance of ever coming out to the cottage, so he wouldn’t have a chance to wonder why his son had picked that color. Once the tree was thoroughly bedazzled in bright pink lights, he pulled out the first ornament and unwrapped the tissue paper.
It was a little wooden rocking horse, inscribed with the words Baby’s First Christmas, and Warlock felt himself tearing up. This was the kind of keepsake that parents usually pulled out every year to celebrate memories of their kid. Instead, Baby’s First Christmas was only every reminisced over when the paid-help got together to decorate this tiny, scraggly tree. To make matters worse, the two of them had just left all this stuff here when they went away.
Oh no. If the ornaments were gonna make him blubber like a baby, maybe he should just stick with the lights.
There was a knock at the door.
It was a dark and stormy night; not even his parents knew he was out here on his own, and someone was outside. Warlock wiped his nose on his sleeve and opened the door a crack.
“Hello?”
A dapper-looking adult in a bow tie was standing on the front step, his pale hair shone pinkish in the reflected glow from the cottage window.
“Ah. Yes. Hello, Warlock.” The man smiled a little, looking nervous.
“The Dowling’s party is over there.” He pointed across the lawns. “You’re kinda late for dinner, but they’ll be drinking and stuff for a long time, yet.”
“Oh. Thank you, but I’m… I mean, we’re not here to see your parents. It’s you we’re-”
“This is a private party!” Warlock declared and slammed the door in the man’s face.
He waited, very still behind the door, to see if the man would go away. Outside, Warlock thought he heard the man arguing with someone else whose voice he could not make out. “I did not!” The man said petulantly. “I’m not creepy. You’re creepy! Well, you do it, then!” Then, for a minute or two, the voices were too hushed to make out. Warlock contemplated using his mobile to call his parents. Would they even hear it ring? It depended on how much they’d already had to drink.
Another gentle knock on the door made Warlock jump.
“Warlock, I’m sorry to have frightened you. It’s me… uh, Brother Francis. Would you mind very much if we had a chat? And then I’ll go, if that’s what you want.”
It was an obvious lie; it had to be. Unfortunately, Warlock’s heart didn’t appear to know the difference because it leaped, ecstatic, into his throat. He opened the door again to take a second look at the man. No one else was in evidence, although the man had clearly been speaking to someone, only a moment ago. The bow-tie man was standing a respectful distance from the door, hands folded in front of him, looking very contrite. His eyes were kind, but the teeth were all wrong. Also, he didn’t appear to be wet from the rain, which continued to fall all around him.
“You don’t look like Brother Francis.”
The man tilted his head in a particular way and made a little tutting sound. “Now, young master, haven’t I taught you better than to judge people by appearances?”
And just like that, all Warlock’s doubts melted away. He released his grip the door, and his hands fell to his sides. “You came back.”
“Yes, well.” The man who was somehow Brother Francis shrugged self-consciously. “We couldn’t be sure you… wanted us to.”
“Didn’t want you to go in the first place!” Warlock blurted out.
“I know, my boy.” He said sadly. “I know.”
This wasn’t what Warlock had expected from a reunion, not that he had really expected to get a reunion at all. Only a moment ago, he had just been in tears over their Christmas ornaments, but now he didn’t know what to say. He shuffled his feet and looked down, thinking hard. Finally, he managed to mumble, “Where is she?”
Francis sighed dramatically and pitched his voice a little louder to be heard over the storm. “I’m afraid that your Nanny has a terrible, albeit understandable, fear of rejection!”
A strangled voice issued from the bushes. “Angel!”
He continued. “And I take my due share of responsibility for that, I assure you. But speaking for myself, I would be far more embarrassed to be discovered hiding in the shrubbery.”
“Hiding?” Warlock was deeply incredulous.
“No!” A man in stylish dark clothing stumbled out from behind the rhododendron and then seemed a little surprised to find himself suddenly visible. He looked around for an escape route.
“Don’t even think about transforming!” Brother Francis warned.
Warlock registered several details at once. The man had red hair like his Nanny’s, (different cut). He was wearing dark glasses, (different kind). This man sort-of gangled, but Nanny had always had perfectly prim posture. Most importantly, however, the tone of voice that Francis used to scold this man was exactly the same one he’d always used to curb Miss Ashtoreth.
“Can’t you see that young Warlock was expecting us? He's decorating up my little cottage-“
“Shack.” The man interjected, absently.
“-for Christmas. Can’t you see, dear? You’ve been missed.”’
The dark man looked at his boots and then hazarded a glance up. “Hey, kid.”
“I don’t know you.” Warlock said flatly.
“B-but-“ The man stammered, pointing, “You believed him! And he looks nothing like the great geriatric beaver that was spewing platitudes all through your childhood.” Brother Francis was grinning.
“Let me see your eyes!”
“What?”
“My Nanny Ash had special eyes. They were a secret.” Then, realizing that this might sound as though he was about to blab the secret this very moment, Warlock added, “I never. Told. Anyone.”
The man stopped his twitching and gave Warlock a fond little smile, one that quietly communicated he was impressed. Someone was proud… of Warlock.
The man came right up to the door and knelt down with a sinuous, almost boneless grace. No adults had done that for a long time. All the grownups loomed over Warlock and talked down to him, while at the same time saying that he needed to grow up and “act like a man”. Nanny had always treated him like a person who just happened to be shorter than everyone else. This man, this stranger, knelt down to put himself just below an 11-year-old’s eye level. The gesture so telling, so familiar. Suddenly, despite appearances, there really couldn’t be any doubt.
The man removed his glasses. Warlock wasn’t surprised. He was overwhelmed. He was frozen with emotion, but he wasn’t surprised.
“Um. Merry Christmas, Hellspawn.”
And that did it. Finally, the dam broke, and Warlock collapsed with a sob into those familiar arms. His Nanny held him gently, without judgement, murmuring “Shh” in that perfect way of hers. A little while later, Brother Francis came to stand over them and place a loving hand on them both.
It hadn’t taken long for them all to come inside and get settled. (Brother Francis had helped Nanny out of her coat.)
A few minutes later, Francis was heating up some cocoa on the little hot plate. Warlock hadn’t thought there was any food left in the abandoned cottage. Also, the tiny fridge wasn’t plugged in, so the carton of fresh milk would just have to be added to the evening’s long list of impossible stuff.
Nanny was sitting on the sofa, having carefully re-positioned the string of lights. She was lounging carelessly, in a posture Warlock only ever saw her use when she dropped her guard, or when it was very late at night. He noticed that she was using her shoulder to keep the Christmas lights from falling off the back of the sofa.
“So, Little Terror, did your mum and dad put up ‘ol Gabe, again this year?”
“Course.”
“Ah, I’m sorry I missed that! You know, my favorite thing about Christmas is when they stick that little Archangel way up at the top, and shove it right up-“
“Your cocoa, dear!” Francis interrupted, even though he wasn’t quite done pouring it. After a moment he brought it over to Nanny and put it in her hands.
“Sorry. It just really gets me into the Christmas spirit, you know?”
Warlock sat on the ottoman and smiled to himself over his steaming cup. They looked different, yes, but, apparently, nothing else had changed. It was like going back in time, to a time that he’d thought was over for good. As Francis took his seat in the armchair, everyone was sitting in their exact right places. He wondered if he was dreaming.
Francis took a sip of his own cocoa and then set it carefully aside. He drew a nervous breath. “Warlock. I think we need to have a chat. The reason we’ve been away…”
“We messed up.” Nanny explained, simply.
“Quite impressively.” Francis added. “And we needed to deal with the mess up and make everything okay again. But then, after that, we weren’t sure you’d want a couple of old mess-ups hanging around, anymore.”
Warlock was shaking his head vigorously.
Nanny’s expression was pinched and sad. “We thought, maybe we should get out of your hair. Let you get on with your life.”
Warlock couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “My life sucks, though! Nobody likes me, not even my parents! I’m a brat.” And then he pointed at Nanny to forestall her objection. “And not in a good way! I mean, I can’t do anything right. You’re the only ones who… but…” He trailed off. How could he explain? They were the only ones who really knew him. They were the only ones who ever cared enough to put up with him. They were the ones who kept Christmas ornaments from his childhood, like a real family.
Francis was shaking his head. “Warlock, I simply don’t agree with all that. But still, we need to apologize.”
“I don’t care that you messed up!” He exclaimed. “I mess up all the time!”
“But-“
“No!” Warlock put his own cocoa aside on the floor, too. “I don’t care! I don’t care, even if your mess up was as big as the whole world. Which, I guess, it could be. Right? I mean, for beings like you?” His companions were suddenly silent, staring, aghast. Warlock got a boost of energy from that. “I don’t even care that you’re not human. I don’t care that you’re a faery and a vampire!” He looked straight at his Nanny for the next bit, “And, look, I really don’t care how many people you’ve killed. You gotta do what you gotta do.” He rushed on. “I don’t care why you left. Even if it was to get dental work… or gender… work. Or to run off and get married. And I don’t care if faeries and vampires aren’t supposed to love each other, or kids like me. I mean, um… If kids like me aren’t supposed to be raised by immortals. I don’t care what anybody says! I. Don’t. Care.”
There was a pause, and Warlock could hear the blood rushing in his ears.
“Sounds like he doesn’t care.” Nanny clarified. And (sweet relief) the smirk was back.
“Indeed.” Francis was blinking now, a little stunned. “I must say, he’s strong willed, just like you, dear. And I’d always hoped our lad would have such conviction.”
“Clear thinker, too.” Nanny agreed. “Puzzled some stuff out for himself and formed his own opinions about it.”
“Yes. Well done, my boy!”
Warlock was trembling a little, but he was determined not to cry. Nanny leaned toward him, and with a tiny, disconnected part of his brain, Warlock noticed that Christmas lights slipped down the back of the couch and lodged behind her butt.
“There’s one other thing I DO care about,” she said. Warlock drew breath to interrupt her with another vehement “I don’t care”, but Nanny held up that one shushing finger that brooked no argument. “You got to say your piece, young man, and so does everyone else!”
“Ok. That’s fair.”
“Alright then. It’s about the whole ‘grand destiny’ thing. The thing is… I can’t actually see your destiny. It turns out that, um, vampires suck at that. Sorry.”
“The good news,” Brother Francis put in, “is that your destiny is your own.”
Nanny was serious. Very serious. She held his gaze with her special eyes. “Even though the grand destiny thing was a bit of a cock-up, I do know that you’re a clever, strong, creative kid. And that I’m going to be proud of you… whatever you become.” Warlock didn’t know how to answer that. “You got me?”
Warlock nodded. After a moment, Nanny picked Warlock’s cocoa up off the floor and put it gently back into his hands.
Brother Francis was smiling, now. “Might I add independent and industrious to that list of qualities? Look at these lights! Did you put all these up by yourself?”
“Uh huh.”
“I bet your parents don’t even know you’re out here. And you found our Christmas box, from wherever they’d shoved it away. Then, you came out here to make my old house, cozy for me, eh?”
Warlock straightened, because he was someone they could be proud of. “I was emotionally self- regulating!” He explained.
“Oh, how wonderful!” Francis said without a shred of sarcasm. “What a good idea. You know, you and your Nanny are both working hard to develop that important skill.”
Nanny made one of her weird, frustrated little sounds, but couldn’t disagree.
“But then, I got sad, again,” Warlock admitted. “When I got to the ornaments.”
Nanny glanced over at the windowsill, looking pointedly at the candles that were still burning. “That’s when you got clever and lit the candles, eh?”
“The candles?” Warlock puzzled over this for a moment. “Is that how you…?”
“We just had a feeling that someone needed us, that’s all.”
“Wow,” he breathed. “How does that work?”
Brother Francis gave him a sly wink. “It’s a faery thing.”
“Alright,” Nanny said, rolling up her cuffs. “Enough nonsense! There’s a whole box of ornaments here, and this tree isn’t going to decorate itself.”
“Right!” Warlock shouted happily.
“Look! Baby’s First Christmas.” Nanny snatched up the rocking horse. “That one’s gotta be first, right angel? Here, you put this one on. I’ll hand ‘em to you!” Brother Francis found a good spot for the first ornament, as Nanny sat down on the floor next to the box and started pawing through the tissue paper. “Where’s mine?”
“Which one, dear?”
“The little…” More paper crinkling, and Nanny dug deeper. “You know…”
While she was occupied, Warlock unwrapped a tiny Star of Bethlehem. “This one is for my Christmas play! Remember?”
“Of course, we remember!” Francis wiggled happily.
Nanny paused in her search, looking up. “You were the star! And I’ve never seen or made a better one.”
Satisfied, Warlock hung the star on the tree.
“Found it!” Nanny shouted, holding up an ornament in triumph. In her hand was a snake, coiled into a little slinky shape, wearing sunglasses. Warlock remembered when Brother Francis had given that to Nanny. “Put it in a good spot for me. Will you, angel?”
Brother Francis reached out and clasped Nanny’s hand around the little snake. Then, on sudden impulse, he leaned down and kissed her fingers.
Warlock’s eyes grew wide, as though this was the most wonderous thing he’d seen so far. The two adults gazed into each other’s eyes, until they were both blushing furiously.
Warlock couldn’t contain himself; he bounced on his heels. “Geez! Finally! Now, that’s a Christmas miracle!”