Joy to the Worlds Read online

  JOY TO THE WORLDS

  MYSTERIOUS SPECULATIVE FICTION

  FOR THE HOLIDAYS

  MAIA CHANCE, JANINE A. SOUTHARD,

  RAVEN OAK, AND G. CLEMANS

  SEATTLE, WA

  These stories are works of fiction. Al of the characters and events portrayed in these stories are either productions of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.

  Joy to the Worlds: Mysterious Speculative Fiction for the Holidays

  Copyright © 2015 by Maia Chance, Janine A. Southard, Raven Oak, & G. Clemans.

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  For information address Grey Sun Press, PO Box 99412, Seattle, WA, 98139

  WWW.GREYSUNPRESS.COM

  “Odysseus Flax & the Krampus” and “Mr. and Mrs. Mistletoe” © 2015 Maia Chance

  “Wild Hunt” and “Death Node” © 2015 Janine A. Southard

  “Ol’ St. Nick” and “The Ringers” © 2015 Raven Oak

  “Bevel & Turn” and “Escape from Old Yorktown” © 2015 G. Clemans

  Cover Design: Andrea Orlic

  Photo of Maia Chance © Fedora of Spectrum House

  Photo of Janine A. Southard © Jeremy S. Barton

  Photo of Raven Oak © St. Photography

  Photo of G. Clemans © Samantha Seaver

  Bell Arch from Gleanings from Popular Authors Grave and Gay © 1882

  Festive Bell from Art and Song: a Series of Original Engravings. Edited by R. Bell © 1967

  Gothic Snow Globe © 2015 Raven Oak

  “Jolly Old Saint Nicholas” © 1881 Benjamin Hanby

  “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” © 1935 Arthur Warrell

  “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear” © 1849 Edmund Sears

  ISBN 978-0-9908157-7-8

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015949042

  The scanning, uploading, copying, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase authorized print or electronic editions. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials hurts everyone. Your support of the arts is appreciated.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payments for this “stripped book.”

  CONTENTS

  * * *

  WILD HUNT JANINE A. SOUTHARD

  ESCAPE FROM YORKTOWN G. CLEMANS

  ODYSSEUS FLAX & THE KRAMPUS MAIA CHANCE

  OL’ ST. NICK RAVEN OAK

  BEVEL & TURN G. CLEMANS

  DEATH NODE JANINE A. SOUTHARD

  THE RINGERS RAVEN OAK

  MR. AND MRS. MISTLETOE MAIA CHANCE

  WILD HUNT

  BY JANINE A. SOUTHARD

  “In ‘Wild Hunt,’ Janine layers Germanic myth and a hardboiled detective’s voice to spin an astonishingly clever romp of a tale. Delinquent pixies, mistletoe like ‘milky miniature eyeballs,’ and quirky clues lead Tyson Walenstein——a preternatural sleuth in polarized sunglasses——on a hunt through a kitschy, snowbound landscape. With a little skill and a lot of tingling in his dead bones, Tyson might crack the case...unless he kills the perpetrator and eats his soul instead.” –Maia Chance

  What do you hunt, little lamb, little lamb?

  When the night darkens early

  And ghosts roam the land.

  What do you hunt?

  My dead bones rumbled, signaling a supernatural crime nearby. The miniscule vibrations were barely shivers but still evident. No long-timer in our company would bother with such a tiny tingle, but it could be my chance. I’m Tyson Wallenstein, the newest member of the Wild Hunt. Just died last year.

  So when we rode past a cottage on the snowy forest’s edge—black horses galloping in the black night, our black dogs baying and howling—I paused. The rest of the Hunt slowed with me.

  A few old ones snorted, and no Hunt dog trotted up to join my investigation. King Herla, however, said only, “Good luck, Tyson. We’ll check in with you at the next mid-night.”

  Then the rest of the Wild Hunt galloped away, leaving me alone at my crime scene. They were after larger game, on the trail of some delinquent pixies whose families had begged King Herla for his help. Of course he’d agreed. King Herla was on a crusade to make the Hunt more useful to the supernatural community. Even if those pixies were just spray-painting winter gardens or eating the life force of one little farm’s sheep, he was hunting them down and bringing them to justice.

  In the old days, the Wild Hunt had chased beautiful women and trolled disrespectful human men. So they told me. These days, we recoiled from stalking unwilling ladies or “gifting” plague-ridden carcasses to anyone who didn’t lower their eyes when we passed.

  We still have to hunt something. Changing times have meant changing prey, and now we’re the best detectives you’ll ever meet.

  At least, the others are. I’ve only been with the Hunt a year, so I’m still learning. The fact that they left me alone on this case...either King Herla believes I’m going to prove myself worthy, or none of the long-timers want to hitch their star to my blazing comet.

  I left my centuries-dead horse to stamp his black hooves alongside the disappearing human footprints in the snow. My rumbling bones had led me to a wooden cottage, and I stepped inside a classical-Christmas party zone.

  Next to an antique sideboard bearing a sticky punch bowl, an old-fashioned Yule log crackled in the brick fire- place. The oaky smoke gave a Christmassy texture to the décor even if the place was clearly warmed with central heating. Strings of lights dripped from the ceiling highlight- ing the nutshells abandoned on the wooden floor. Pinecone wreaths adorned every single door, and red-and-white stockings hung over the fireplace.

  And the ubiquitous mistletoe? It was stuffed in a dead man’s mouth.

  The body lay on the leather couch under a nubby blanket, and I checked him out as best I could without moving him too much. Some human investigator might be along later, and I didn’t want to mess up the crime scene before a forensic scientist had a chance at it.

  If only I had my own forensic scientist! Someone who could do DNA typing or, failing that, some fingerprinting. But I was with the Wild Hunt, not some city’s police department. I didn’t have a crime lab backing me up. What I did have was a single day, so I had to get to it. No use wishing for mundane intervention that wasn’t coming.

  Other than the mistletoe weeping translucent berries onto the floor like milky miniature eyeballs, nothing on the body seemed immediately out of place. The victim’s red button-up shirt bore amber stains at the cuffs, and a naked toe peeked out from underneath the blanket’s fringe. I sniffed at the shirt’s stains and reared back with eyebrows that could’ve crinkled my brain with how far up they flew. The spots carried the sickly sweetness of black rum, but black rum was black. It was kind of a defining characteristic. That meant something serious mixed into the punch had changed its hue. But whether it was poison, tequila, or food coloring, I had no idea.

  A Hunt dog could’ve done more with the stains— smelling or licking—but it was just me on the scene. Just Tyson Wallenstein, the newest member of the Wild Hunt.

  On the table next to the body lay a tumbler half-full of potent amber liquid. Next to it a white plastic inhaler mocked the victim’s permanent inability to breathe. It certainly looked like an accident, like a boring human had died of asthma in his sleep after too much drinking and foolishly putting mistletoe in his mouth. The berries are toxic, buddy. Not that it mattered when he was already dead.

  But it couldn’t be an accident. Not with
the rumbling in my bones...not with my reputation among the Hunt at stake. If I couldn’t solve this crime, I’d be mocked at best. At worst, I’d be shunned from the investigative arm and join the subset of Hunter who could never touch the ground again without crumbling to dust.

  But if I did solve it, I might get my own hound. Clearly King Herla believed I had a chance, or else he wouldn’t have left me here while he chased the delinquent pixies.

  I knelt down to look under the table for more clues. Beside seven more old fashioned tumblers, I caught my first real clue: a burgundy leather wallet. I flipped it open—my year-dead fingerprints wouldn’t muddle any non-supernatural investigation—to reveal a driver’s license, student ID, health insurance card, three credit cards, a bus pass, and twenty-six dollars.

  The victim—a Sandy McGrath—didn’t have much cash, but he did have a number of receipts for fast food and expensive liquor. I’d never drunk forty-year Laphroaig, but I knew connoisseurs probably cared about it. The rest of the alcohol on the list, however, was Pabst and boxed wine. I had to hope that meant he’d planned to save the Scotch for himself and serve the rest to party guests.

  ...which would explain the truly staggering number of glasses and nutshells, too many for one man with any sense of cleanliness.

  I ducked back under the table to see what else I could find.

  Five empty bags of potato chips. The bags crackled as I smoothed them and stacked them to the side in order to get further back. My eyes adjusted to the dimness under the oaken tabletop where the smoky sparks from the Yule log couldn’t reach.

  Yes! They revealed my second clue, one far more promising than a wallet. A prosthetic leg. Someone at the victim’s party had left it behind, and I hoped that someone would be anxious to get it back. Though it did beg the question: what sort of person left a leg behind when aban- doning a party? Perhaps the owner and the victim had a vicious fight, and the owner had left in a hurry.

  A fight would be motive.

  I fished the leg out and wiped crumbs and dust off the waxy surface. The limb bore carvings and whorls that suggested wings rising up from the ankles. It looked more like a boot than a prosthetic at this distance and bore an avant garde high heeled shoe that I was sure matched the owner’s wardrobe. The leg’s owner—female, by the style of shoe and slenderness of calf-shape—had spent money for artistry.

  Maybe it belonged to a mythology student, one who wanted to emulate Hermes with feathered feet. A mythology student could be a killer. Our Cinderella would be steeped in crimes of passion.

  And she couldn’t have gotten far, not one-legged.

  A knock came from the door. Then a giggly shrieking, and the cabin door creaked open, washing me with sharp- cold air and yellowing dawn light. I was keenly aware of my position, crouched on the floor next to a dead body with an artistic leg-bludgeon in my hand. I straightened, knowing the damage was already done.

  But I supposed I looked no weirder than the couple at the door. My first, best, only suspect—for how many one- legged ladies would come to this cottage, fighting through the falling snow in the earliest hours of the day?—clung to a broad shouldered college boy. They both looked young to me, freshmen or sophomores on a Christmas-break party tour. Her thick black hair hung over his arm like King Herla’s horse blanket.

  My skin pricked from the chill, but my supernatural bones stayed quiet.

  The blond boy was easy with his smiles, possibly still drunk. That’d probably clear up once the couple got far enough inside to see the body hidden by the couch arm. “Hey there.” Or maybe he was sex drunk, from the rasping edge to his words. “Greg Doran. This is Kiana Mahelona.”

  “Tyson Wallenstein,” I introduced myself and stuck out a hand to shake.

  Kiana slithered to the floor and propped herself against a wall, freeing Greg to complete the introduction ritual. “Oh!” She noticed what I held in my other hand and made come-hither motions for her leg.

  As a piece of evidence, it was only good as proof she’d been there, and now I didn’t have to hunt her down. Easily I handed it over.

  She slipped her thigh into the bootlike top, and bent over to adjust some buckles. “Please don’t make any ‘pulling my leg’ jokes.” Kiana raised her head enough to roll her eyes in solidarity with me against such jokesters.

  “I would never.” I let her get back to her comfortable place before springing the question. I wanted an honest reaction, not one tainted by strange neck positions. Then: “Could you tell me how you knew the victim?”

  “What?!” She flew upright, flailing arm knocking into Greg’s shoulder. Is he her boyfriend? Hookup? “Ohmygod. Whatsisname is dead?!” Kiana tottered, quickly supported by her trusty Greg; he settled her into the crook of his arm.

  Wow. She’d left a leg here, and she didn’t even know the guy’s name. That said something about something, but I wasn’t sure what. I really could’ve used another Hunter on this, but that’s what happens when you take a case no one else wants and stake your entire afterlife on it, I guess. I went fishing; “If you’ve never met him...”

  The boy answered, thank goodness. “Oh, we’ve met him. We were partying here earlier tonight, along with a few other cottage campers. But Kiana and I...we...that is, she finally decided...” After taking an elbow in the ribs from the woman in his arms, Greg settled on, “We left early and only came back to get Kiana’s leg.”

  I hadn’t been sure the Hunt’s magic would work for me until this guy started answering my questions. By rights, he should’ve called the police and accused me of being the killer. Instead, he treated me like a law enforcement officer. “And you just left her leg here?” It still seemed weird to me.

  Greg pulled his lady-love tighter against his side. “We were in a hurry, and it wasn’t like she was using it at the time.”

  “Ohmygod,” Kiana said again, sound muffled in her palm-shield. “I wanna clean my leg and go home.”

  Her lover stroked her hair. “It’ll be okay,” he whispered, though my preternatural ears picked him up just fine. “I’ll be right here with you.”

  “Not back to my mistletoe-infested cabin. Home. ”

  The boy clutched at her. “Hey, no, it’s gonna be okay. This nice detective is going to figure out what happened, and we’re all going to be fine. Right, Detective?”

  I was more interested in the infestation. “You don’t like mistletoe?”

  The guy shrugged. “We think the proprietor’s been putting mistletoe in everyone’s cabins for us. Like, we didn’t buy any, y’know, but he’s got keys to all the cabins, so it makes sense.”

  Kiana sniffed. Her smooth cheeks had salty tear tracks, like striped sheets or tiny pixie handprints. “I’ve got a dog. It’s not safe for him to be around it. I was thinking of going home if the mistletoe didn’t go away, but then I met Greg.”

  He gazed down into her eyes and spoke in an intimate whisper, “I’m so glad you stayed. We still have another two weeks.”

  I was pretty sure he’d forgotten I was there.

  “Not if there’s a killer!”

  These college kids were way too interested in sex and alcohol to expend the energy for murder. Besides, if they were telling the truth, and the victim—Sandy—had been alive when they’d left for their nocturnal activities, then they couldn’t have killed him. And if they were lying about that, then they still had alibis. Even if those alibis were each other.

  Before poor Greg could argue his position with Kiana, I asked, “Did the deceased have any enemies?”

  Greg rolled his eyes. “The guy was the master of parties. Everyone loved him. Free beer!”

  But Kiana was more thoughtful. Slowly she said, “My cabin’s the closest one to here. That’s why Greg and I went back to my place for our hookup last night.”

  Greg frowned at the word hookup.

  “I didn’t think anything of it at the time—” Kiana bit her lip. “—but I overheard him arguing with someone yesterday. Something about keeping to
the deal. But then my dog started barking, so I didn’t get more than that. He hates loud noises. Loves playing with balls and birds but not if they’re squeaky toys, you know?”

  I thanked them for the information and shooed them off. I wasn’t sure about this mysterious deal, but I’d keep an eye out. Maybe the cottages’ owner would know who had grievances against Sandy McGrath.

  The morning sun sparkled on the snow drifts, and I fished polarized sunglasses from my saddlebags before swinging onto my midnight-maned mare. Overnight snowfall had undoubtedly closed the pass, and I’m sure we were both glad to be already dead in this brutal cold. The pair of us set off for the owner’s cabin, whose location I’d plotted on a camp map at the victim’s chalet.

  The owner, a Mr. Davies according to his name placard, wasn’t at his cabin.

  Maybe he’d run off in the night while I’d been inspecting McGrath’s cabin. Maybe the victim was a terrible tenant and the owner’d had enough of loud parties. Maybe I’d catch up with the perpetrator at the pass, capture him, judge him, kill him, and eat his soul.

  Well, more likely I’d give his soul to King Herla when the Hunt returned from finding the missing pixies. My king would accept the proof that I deserved to be a full-fledged member before he committed the final execution. Maybe I’d get a Hunt dog of my own, a deep black hound to howl my rage and share its centuries of experience.

  That all depended on finding my suspect.

  What were those pixies eating anyway? I shook my head. Well, that wasn’t my investigation, and the rest of the Hunt knew what it was doing. They’d probably traced some short-lived cows or sheep by now, their little pixie problem well in hand. I needed to do the same with my case.

  My horse and I cantered toward the other cabins, weaving between pine-scented trees and their inconvenient roots until the wooded quiet was broken by a pfft pfft pfft.