Chapter 4
Total Hack Job
Ijolted awake to sunlight streaming through the blinds I’d forgotten to close. Typical. The universe couldn’t even grant me the small mercy of sleeping in on Saturday. I groaned and rolled over, my hand sliding across the silky sheets. Something felt different. Wrong.
I lifted my arm into a shaft of sunlight and froze.
Where yesterday there had been a patchy, leopard-print disaster of bronze and alabaster, my skin now gleamed with uniform paleness. Not just my normal paleness. No, this was full-on Snow White territory. As if I’d never applied a spray tan or been in the sun in my entire life.
I scrambled out of bed, tripping over my duvet in my haste to reach the bathroom. The mirror confirmed that every trace of artificial color had vanished. My skin looked like fresh snow. It was absolutely terrifying.
“This is fine. Totally normal.” I leaned closer, inspecting my pores, which had always been small but were now nearly nonexistent. “Spray tans fade. Everyone knows that.”
They didn’t fade overnight. And they certainly didn’t fade evenly, leaving behind skin that looked photoshopped.
I ran my hands down my arms and over my stomach, feeling for any residue or explanation. Nothing. Just smooth skin that practically glowed in the morning light.
What in the sparkly vampire was happening? I was actually glowing. A faint, pearlescent shimmer danced across my body when I turned.
Coffee. I needed coffee before I could process whatever fresh hell this was. I stumbled out of the bathroom, avoiding any more reflective surfaces as I made my way to the kitchen, one hand braced against the wall for support.
The kitchen was flooded with morning light, making the white cabinets even brighter. I squinted, heading for the coffee maker, and froze.
On my kitchen counter sat a steaming mug.
Not my usual matte black ceramic one with the chip on the handle, but a deep red mug decorated with reindeer.
Next to it stood a tall glass of milk and a plate piled high with chocolate chip cookies that looked like they’d been plucked straight from a magazine photoshoot.
I didn’t own a mug with reindeer on it.
I didn’t make cookies last night.
I certainly didn’t set out milk like I was waiting for Santa Claus.
My hands shook as I approached the counter, half-expecting the items to vanish like a mirage. The mug even steamed, sending up lazy curls that smelled like... I leaned closer, inhaling.
Hot chocolate. Rich and dark with hints of cinnamon and vanilla.
I picked up a cookie. It was still warm, as if it had just come out of an oven I definitely hadn’t used. The chocolate chips were melty, glistening invitingly.
“Okay, Neve, think.” I set the cookie down and backed away. “Someone broke into your house to... bake cookies and make hot chocolate.”
The absurdity hit me all at once. I spun around, scanning for signs of forced entry. The doors were locked. Windows secure. My alarm hadn’t gone off. Nothing was out of place except for the bizarre breakfast spread.
I grabbed my phone from where I’d left it charging and pulled up the security app. The footage showed no midnight visitors or movement beyond the occasional shadow cast by passing headlights.
Yet here sat fresh cookies and hot chocolate.
I cautiously dipped a finger into the mug. The liquid was the perfect temperature, hot enough to comfort but not burn. Exactly how I’d like it if I drank it.
The cookies smelled like childhood. Like a memory I couldn’t quite grasp.
I picked one up again, turning it over in my hand. The rational part of my brain screamed not to eat mysterious food that had appeared in my locked house. The rest of me, the part that had spent a week talking to reindeer and growing ice powers, was curiously calm.
One bite wouldn’t kill me. Probably.
I raised the cookie to my lips and took a bite.
The taste hit me like a freight train of memories. Something familiar and safe, buried so deep I hadn’t known it existed until this moment. It tasted like... like...
“Home.” The word escaped as a whisper.
Which made no sense. Home for me had been boarding schools and dorms. Not this specific flavor that triggered a long-dormant synapse in my brain.
I dropped the cookie as if it had burned me, watching it break apart on the counter.
The hot chocolate called to me next. I resisted for approximately four seconds before grabbing the mug and taking a sip. Warmth flooded through me, but not the normal kind from a hot beverage. This warmth felt like it started somewhere deep inside my soul and radiated outward.
I set the mug down with a sharp clink and backed away.
The reindeer in the park. The ice powers. The men who disappeared from Sinclair’s. The skin that glowed. And now, magically appearing baked goods that tasted like memories I didn’t have.
I needed to get out of this house, out of Palm Springs, away from whatever curse was plaguing me. There was no way I could call the police. What would I say? The cookie bandits had left me cookies and drinks?
I paced the length of my kitchen, running through my options. Hospital? They’d think I was on drugs or that it was anxiety. Parents? They would worry. Therapist? I’d fired my last one for suggesting I find my joy.
Mia, my college roommate, was always down for a visit from me. She never questioned my hatred of Christmas, always thought my cynicism was refreshing, and lived in a sleek downtown loft that probably had zero holiday decorations.
Perfect.
I snatched my phone off the charger and fired off a text.
Me: Hey, is your couch available this weekend? It’s been a crazy week, and I need to escape. I can bring wine and zero Christmas cheer.
Mia: I have a gallery exhibition opening tonight, but yes, please come immediately! Couch is yours. The door code is 2425.
The tension in my chest eased. I pressed my palm against the cool kitchen counter to steady myself, watching as the faintest shimmer of frost appeared beneath my fingertips before quickly fading away. I pulled my hand back, pretending I hadn’t seen it. One problem at a time.
I turned back toward the counter and almost dropped my phone. The cookies, hot chocolate, and milk were gone like they had never existed. The counter was clean, empty except for my usual coffee setup waiting to be used.
I reached out, running my fingers across the cool marble surface. Not a crumb, not a drop, not a trace of evidence that anything had been there.
I didn’t want to analyze what was happening. I didn’t want to process the fact that my reality was unraveling faster than a cheap sweater. I especially didn’t want to acknowledge how much I’d enjoyed that single bite of a cookie that technically never existed.
What I wanted was normality. Distance. Perspective.
I practically sprinted to my bedroom, yanking out my overnight bag and throwing in clothes for two days.
Los Angeles was calling, where my friend would roll her eyes at my stories and convince me I was working too hard, was stressed, and needed a girls’ weekend of good food and overpriced cocktails.
I just needed to get away. Just for a weekend. Just long enough to forget.
I’d told Mia everything over a bottle of Cabernet and a platter of overpriced cheese. She’d nodded in all the right places, asked reasonable questions, and then systematically dismantled each supernatural element with frustratingly rational explanations.
The reindeer was obviously someone’s escaped exotic pet, and the disappearing men at Sinclair’s were normal guys who’d left while I wasn’t looking.
My glowing skin was probably some kind of allergic reaction to Serena’s spray tan chemicals.
And the cookies that appear and vanish? Classic sleep deprivation.
It all made perfect sense, except for the odd looks she gave me when she thought I wasn’t paying attention. They were the kind of sideways glances you give someone who you’re worried might be one cheese cube away from a spiral.
“Ready to spend the evening projecting all your unprocessed emotions onto other people’s creative work?” Mia adjusted her chunky statement necklace as we approached the glass doors of Prismatic, the gallery where she worked as a curator.
I smoothed down the front of my black dress. “Lead the way to the free therapy and alcohol.”
Mia pushed open the door, and my stomach immediately dropped to my knees. The gallery had been transformed into a winter wonderland. Not the tacky mall Santa variety. This was high-end Martha Stewart on steroids winter perfection.
Delicate crystal snowflakes hung from nearly invisible threads, catching the light and sending rainbow reflections dancing across the white walls. Silver birch branches stretched toward the ceiling, dripping with thousands of fairy lights that mimicked falling snow.
“Isn’t it horrendous?” Mia whispered, sweeping her arm dramatically. “The artists insisted on an immersive winter experience, like we’re not in Los Angeles where it’s sixty-five degrees outside. I think it’s too much and detracts from the actual art, but what do I know?”
I couldn’t respond because my lungs felt like they were filling with actual snow.
“The theme is Winter’s Memory,” Mia murmured as we moved deeper into the gallery.
“The three artists had absolutely zero restraint. I love Christmas, but even I started turning into you after the third snow-drenched installation. They went absolutely wild with the concept, but the pieces will sell for thousands. Nostalgia plus a frosty color palette? Rich people eat that up.”
We drifted past photographs of snow-covered landscapes so crisp I could practically feel my face getting frostbite. Sculptures of pine trees made with glass, metal, and resin glinted under the gallery lights. And the paintings? Every shade of sad, snowy blue you could think of.
My fingertips tingled, and I shoved them into my pockets, grateful that dress pockets were a thing.
Mia snagged two flutes of champagne from a passing server and pressed one into my hand. “You look like you need this. Already channeling your Christmas hatred?”
I took a deep swallow, barely tasting the expensive bubbles. “It’s beautiful. That’s the problem.”
“Beautiful?” Mia’s eyes widened. “Who are you, and what have you done with my holiday-hating friend?”
A memory flickered at the edge of my consciousness. Something about a night sky filled with dancing lights, my small hands reaching upward, trying to catch the colors...
“Earth to Neve.” Mia waved her hand in front of my face. “You’re doing that weird zoning-out thing.”
I blinked. “Sorry.”
“Maybe the wine from earlier hasn’t worn off.” Mia’s tone was light, but her eyes were concerned. “Let’s check out the main showpiece and make fun of it before I have to go schmooze the potential buyers.”
She led me through a doorway draped with silver organza. The room beyond was circular, painted midnight blue, with a single spotlight illuminating an enormous canvas that dominated the entire back wall.
I froze mid-step.
The painting showed a man in a red suit, but not the jolly, cartoonish Santa from greeting cards.
This version was tall and imposing, with broad shoulders and a silver beard.
His eyes were painted with startling detail, glowing just like mine had.
He stood atop a snowy mountain while the Northern Lights swirled through a sky full of stars.
This wasn’t a character or myth, but someone real.
It was my dad.
My champagne flute slipped from my fingers.
Mia grabbed it before it could shatter. “Whoa! You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I couldn’t tear my eyes from the painting. The longer I stared, the more details emerged. The subtle pattern of intricate snowflakes on his suit seemed to swirl and move if I looked at them at the right angle.
The snowflake pendant around his neck was identical to the snowflake logo for Joint International Nordic Glacial Logistics and Ecology.
My legs felt rooted to the spot, the world tilting slightly as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing.
Mia gestured toward the painting with her glass. “Another romanticized Santa. They’ve turned him into a sexy Norse god. Like, pick a lane. Is he bringing presents to children or starring in a Viking calendar featuring silver foxes?”
I wanted to defend the painting. Defend my father. Which was ridiculous since my dad wasn’t Santa. He was a researcher who studied... something about magnetic fields. And ice cores. Important, boring science stuff.
“And those eyes. So over-the-top dramatic.” Mia snickered behind her hand. “Like he’s some kind of zombie ice king.”
My cheeks burned hot while my fingertips went numb with cold. The contradiction of sensations made me dizzy, my emotions swinging between confusion and an irrational urge to place myself between Mia and the painting.
“Total hack job.” I forced the words out, each one tasting like pennies on my tongue. “Probably commissioned by the Christmas industrial complex to make everyone buy more crap.”
The lie felt like a betrayal, though I couldn’t articulate why. I’d spent my entire life avoiding Christmas, mocking the commercialism, rolling my eyes at sentimentality. This shouldn’t be different.
So why did I feel like buying the painting?
“Right?” Mia laughed, then shrugged. “He said it’s about strength wearing thin and how magic can still look powerful even when it’s burning out underneath. It hits harder than I expected.”
Burning out underneath? My heart stopped, then restarted at double speed.
A throat cleared behind us, the sound like ice cracking on a frozen lake.
I turned and found myself staring up at a man with wind-tousled brown hair and a grin that suggested he’d just outrun a natural disaster and was already looking for the next one. His fair skin had the faintest pink undertone, like someone who’d spent too long in the cold.
One of the men from the restaurant.
I stepped backward, bumping into Mia, who steadied me with a hand on my elbow.
“Sorry if I interrupted your art critique.” The man’s eyes practically twinkled with amusement. “Though I wouldn’t call the artist a hack to his face.”
Of course he was the artist. Because my life wasn’t weird enough already.