Holidays Ablaze: Horned up for the Holidays

Chapter 1

I’m hiking along the snowy mountain, scanning for fallen trees when a tremble moves through the air, shimmying the snow from the overhead branches. It lands in soft splats around me. Ears perking, I pick up the low rumble of an engine growing louder, getting closer, but how? The road is closed. No one can get up here. A second later, a helicopter bobs over the tree line. Its spinning blades chop the air as it speeds my way, then comes to a stop. It hovers only meters away.

They’re lost. The Emberlight Resort is the next peak over on Mount BZB, a luxury destination with a five-star hotel, powdery ski slopes, a flashy casino, and most importantly, a helipad. This mountain, Mount Winter Bliss, has none of that. I’d try waving them east, but I doubt they can see me through the dense trees.

I’m about to dismiss the helicopter and its directionally challenged pilot when a person falls out the side. ?Dios mío! I gasp, my hand clamping over my mouth. Through the trees, I see the body hit the frozen lake. An ominous thud shudders across the snowy landscape. I don’t know if it’s real or imagined, but I swear I hear the crunch of bones on impact.

My next thought? I hope it’s Ryan.

Morbid, I know, and if I were a better person, I’d immediately dismiss it. But I hold on to the thought, breathing in the dark joy and sweet catharsis of imagining the man who destroyed my future falling to his death. I suck it in, then exhale and let it go.

Whoever it is, I better go see if they’re alive. The helicopter is a tiny speck on the horizon. I’m guessing they’re not coming back for their fallen passenger. I pick up the strap to my firewood-laden sled, cherry red with silver bells on its nose, and start trudging towards the lake. I’d make better time if I left it, but it’s easier to drag a sled to a person than a person to a sled, and there’s no way that person is walking away from that fall. They’ll need a doctor or a hearse, but all I have is La Roja, my trusty sled.

It’s not Ryan.

That much is obvious before I reach the edge of the frozen shore. There’s no reason it would be, but I’m mildly disappointed, nonetheless. How do I know? Ryan is not a demon (just a fucking asshole), and the man lying flat on his back is one. His pronounced horns are an ombre of burnt orange to golden-yellow, jutting out from his hairline and curving halfway back over his head.

A tender concern blooms in my chest, and it draws me across the frozen lake, solid this time of year. I imagine myself laying gentle hands on him, whispering that he’s not alone, that I’m here, and I’ll take care of him. It’s entirely misguided. These feelings have nothing to do with the man on the ice and everything to do with a childhood memory of the demon who pulled me from a fire I’d started. For reasons that are no great psychological mystery, I’ve had a soft spot for demons ever since, which is lucky for this one since there’s not another living soul around for miles. I’m all the rescue this fallen angel can hope for.

My sled and I come to a stop at his head. He’s unconscious but breathing. I’m relieved to see his chest moving and puffs of steamy air coming out of his nose. Demons are made of sturdy stuff, and a fall that might kill a frail human, say Ryan, for example, is survivable for demonkind. Looking straight down, I take in his angular features, deep-set eyes, full lips, neatly manicured eyebrows and beard. He’s adorned with small accents of glinting gold, a set of double studs over his right eyebrow and cuffs on his ears. I’d guess he’s around my age, late twenties or early thirties, with burgundy skin and hair that’s the same color but darker, almost black. This close, I can see the texture of his horns, a pattern of spiraling ridges that I imagine would feel like a seashell if I reached out and touched one. The play of his orangy-golden horns against his dark red features is stunning, and for a moment, I’m breathless. He’s possibly the most beautiful man, demon or otherwise, I’ve ever seen. Who in their right mind would leave him behind?

He groans.

“Don’t move,” I say. I have zero medical background. I know the Heimlich maneuver and that’s it, but I’m a hundred percent sure I’ve heard people on TV tell injured people not to move. Although, if he doesn’t move, I’m not sure how I’ll get him on my sled. His eyes open, and I tug down my left sleeve, wishing I’d remembered my gloves. I pull my hoodie strings to tighten the hood around my face, adjusting the left side so that more of my cheek is covered. I’m not usually self-conscious about my burns, but after the fallout with Ryan, I don’t know. I’m a little more wary than I used to be.

I’m itching to ask him about the helicopter but now doesn’t feel like the time. “Try sitting up slowly,” I say, once again sounding like well-scripted TV. Kneeling on the ice, I offer him gentle assistance by sliding one hand behind his back and holding out my other. He takes it. His fingers close over mine with a firm, warm grip that hums against my palm like a circuit connecting. “Does anything feel broken?” I ask in a steady yet concerned voice, admiring my own bedside manner. Maybe I have a calling as a nurse. I am in need of a career change. So, it’s something to think about.

I wonder if he’s a criminal. Normal people don’t get dropped out of helicopters. As his nurse, I’d be obligated to tend to this beautiful outlaw regardless, and that’s exactly what I mean to do.

“Who the fuck are you?” He jerks his hand away, breaking our connection, and his black eyes snap up to glare at me. Rude. The nurse illusion shatters, and I bristle at his question. Who the fuck am I?

“I’m Sofia Maria Moreno, and it’s my lake you just landed on. Who the fuck are you?” And now he knows that if he gets salty with me, I’m going to get salty right back.

“It’s kind of tiny for a lake,” he snorts as he looks around, gauging the distance from one edge to the other, which, to be fair, is not very far. His voice is deep and grumbly. “Not exactly a prized feature worth bragging about.” Again, very rude, and I have to clamp my mouth shut to avoid snapping at him. In my kitchen, snarky attitudes were never tolerated, but I don’t run a kitchen anymore, and he doesn’t work for me.

“It’s a stock pond, and it’s exactly the right size for one,” I say, crossing my arms.

“Then don’t call it a lake,” he says. And now he’s eyeing me up and down, and though I try not to, I squirm under his gaze. It must be the black eyes. They’re intense, very—penetrating. His brows pinch, and the edge of his lip curls downward into a grimace. “Mother Darkness,” he curses under his breath. “What are you wearing?”

I look down at my triple layer of flannel plaid shirts poking out from under my hoodie with my leather duster jacket over the top of it. It’s old and worn and belonged to my grandfather. Only now do I notice the demon’s clothes. He’s wearing an expensive-looking wool sweater fitted to his lean torso. His shoes look expensive, too, probably Italian leather, and his pants. Well, fuck if I know what they’re made of. I’m not a clothes horse, but that’s obviously some tailoring wizardry in the inseam that’s showing off his package.

So, he’s more like Ryan than I gave him credit for, another rich asshole. Great. Merry Christmas to me. I give him a withering look and rise to my feet.

He stands up, too, and he’s not even a full head taller than me if I don’t count his horns, which makes him short for a demon. Ha. He rubs the back of his head. But other than that, I don’t see any blood or protruding bones. I guess he’s fine.

“Are you homeless?” he asks. Looking around again, his black eyes take in the fact that there are only woods around, nothing else. At least he has the decency to sound confused and not disgusted.

“No,” I snort, but the real answer is more complicated than that. I recently gave up my apartment, and everything I own is in boxes, stashed in a cabin, but that doesn’t make me homeless. Does it? Shit, am I homeless? This property belongs to my family, which means technically, I own something like one-sixteenth of ten acres. That’s not nothing.

“I’m staying at my family’s cabin,” I say, not adding that it’s a temporary situation, just until I figure something else out. Then, out of an abundance of generosity, and I suppose the holiday spirit since it is almost Christmas, I offer the stranger my hospitality. “If you need a place to stay, the couch folds out.”

“Folds out to what?” His brows are knitted again, and the double stud piercings over his right brow rise like a question mark. Of course this Ryan-esque demon, el demonio Ryan, doesn’t know what a fold-out couch is.

“I’m offering you a place to sleep,” I say with a sigh. “But feel free to burrow into the snow at nightfall if you prefer. I’m sure you’ll be toasty warm.”

“I won’t be here at nightfall. I’m going back to my hotel at the resort.”

“Good luck with that,” I say, picking up the sled strap so that La Roja and I can be on our way.

“Wait!” He catches up to me quickly. “I need a car. Lend me yours, and I’ll return it with interest.”

“With interest?” I snort. “What does that even mean?”

“It’s an opening offer. I’m trying to strike a bargain with you,” he says, as if that should have been obvious.

“I don’t own a car,” I say. I gave it up along with the apartment and for the same reason. Because once your dreams are dead, and your future is smashed to smithereens, things like apartments and cars don’t really matter much anymore. Plus, I couldn’t afford to keep them.

“Whatever modest mode of transportation you do have access to then. Tell me what it’ll cost me to borrow it.” He pats his pockets as if taking stock of what’s on him. “My phone!” He sucks in a horrified breath and comes to an abrupt stop. I keep moving. I’ve spotted a fallen tree, and La Roja is far from full. I won’t be heading back to the cabin until she is.

“My phone! Did you see it?” He’s panicking. I hear him run back to the lake, sorry, pond, I assume to look for his phone.

I can hear his cries of dismay as he traipses in circles in the distance. I get out my ax and walk around the fallen tree. The inside is hollowed out, and a very particular shape catches my eye. Morels in winter? It’s a miracle! Although miracles do happen when one lives on an active volcano. The wild edibles I’ve foraged on the slopes of Mount Winter Bliss are mind-blowingly good. I drop to my knees and scoot and squeeze my way inside the fallen log, trying to get at the mushrooms.

“Is that where you live?” Ryan-demon is back.

“Does this look like a cabin?” I shout, my voice echoing inside the log. He doesn’t answer. “I’m collecting mushrooms,” I say as I roll my eyes. He can’t see me. So, it’s for my own benefit.

“I see,” he sounds disturbed.

“Morels! They’re a delicacy!” I don’t know why I’m bothering to explain anything to him. When I resurface with my haul, he avoids looking at me. “Did you find your phone?” I ask. I don’t bother to tell him that cell service is shit up here. His phone won’t do him any good unless he’s willing to make the two-hour hike out to Frostwing Lookout.

“No,” he answers, and his eyes flash with irritation. “May I use yours?” He asks through gritted teeth.

I hold the morels up to my nose and sniff. “There’s no cell service up here,” I say as my eyes flutter closed, and my plans for dinner start to rework themselves in my head. Earthy. I’ll have to make some tweaks to balance out the flavor. Then there’s the texture to consider. I imagine the feel of sauteed morels under my teeth, soft with a bit of chew.

“What are you doing?” Ryan-demon demands to know, but he doesn’t wait for my answer. “Look, I don’t have anything on me to offer as payment up front, but given your—circumstances, I’d say it’s in your best interest to help me get back to my hotel. You have my word. I’ll make it worth your while.”

I open my eyes and raise an eyebrow at him. “Breaking your own rules, aren’t you? I didn’t think demons dealt in maybes and vagaries.”

“Don’t believe every children’s rhyme you hear,” he says gruffly. “If my hotel hasn’t been ransacked, I can pay you in cash as soon as we get there. If it has—” His teeth grind together, “I’ll make good another way. I swear.” I note the beads of sweat on his forehead, probably from the panicked circles he just ran. But they could also be signs of desperation. He really wants to get back to his hotel.

“I do have my sister’s car,” I say, and he brightens. She lent it to me for my move up to the cabin, my retreat from the world, and its many disappointments. “But there’s only one road down the mountain, and it’s blocked. An avalanche buried it ten feet deep a few hours ago. Until the road crew clears it, there’s no way off the mountain.”

He stares at me, stunned. I offer my cabin to him again, although I don’t know why I bother. “You’re lying.” His eyes narrow. “You run some sort of earthy, wilderness, subsistence living, eco-tourism kind of place, don’t you? And you want me to rent it, that’s what this is. You’re trapping me here. For what? A rental fee and a five-star review? I’ll give you both. Just get me down the mountain today. Now!”

This demon is an idiot, I note with mild amusement and a touch of pique at his continued disdain for mountain-side living. I’m not exactly a permanent resident, but I spend a few weeks up here every year, and it’s nothing to look down your nose at. This mountain is a very special place for those with enough sense to appreciate it. I wouldn’t accuse this demon of having either, not sense nor an abundance of appreciation.

“A rental fee? Does that mean you’re in a position to pay for your stay?” I ask, and that gets a very satisfying reaction. He glowers at me. I’ve already offered to take him in twice. If he’s going to be an ass, free is off the table.

“I can’t pay now. I don’t have my wallet,” he grumbles.

“Well then, it sounds like we’ll have to work out some kind of bargain after all. I have room and board to provide, and you have nothing.” He pulls back, affronted by a statement of fact. If I were running a restaurant, he’d be on dishes. But that’s not the situation. “Chores it is. I’ll give you tasks to earn your keep, starting with this.” I hand him the ax. “I need a stack of long logs, six feet each. Start chopping. We’ll head back to the cabin when the sled is full.” I hold up my hand to show the stacked height of my expectations.

“You can’t be serious.” He sneers at the ax in his hands.

“Oh, I’m very serious, Ryan,” I say with an icy glare as my chest puffs. He thinks he can question me in my own kitchen, er, woods? “My woods, my rules. Take it or take a hike.” There’s iron in my voice, and he hates it. I can tell by the flashes in his eyes. Sparks like those flew my way every time a new pinche hotshot chef swaggered into my kitchen, dribbling their ego-swollen cojones between their legs. Hot shits always think they deserve respect they haven’t earned. But when I lock horns, I always win.

“The name is Samite.” He corrects me, but he turns and swings the ax. I smile to myself. We’ve struck a deal.