Merry Christmas Darling (Holiday Codas) Read online

  A stupid, pointless, useless argument.

  Archer was alone again, the thing he dreaded most. And not just for the holidays.

  Disconsolately, he wandered through the crowded winter garden inside the Château, investigating the chalet-style stalls of the Christmas market. There were holiday delicacies to sample, handmade toys and old-fashioned ornaments to admire, choirs to listen to. The wet grass glittered, the cobblestones were dark with rain, and the fairy lights gleamed in the bare bones of the trees, like fireflies flickering through an army of skeletons. The scents of wonderful cooking mingled in the frosty air with jovial French voices and music. Much of the music was traditional Breton and French folk songs, but Archer recognized a familiar melody: “Song for a Winter’s Night,” made popular by Sarah McLachlan during the years he’d lived in Canada. The choir sang in French, but he knew the words and they made his heart ache.

  If I could know within my heart

  That you were lonely too

  I would be happy just to hold the hands I love

  On this winter night with you

  He was homesick, that was the trouble. But he was not homesick for Canada. Nor any place he had lived in in his much-traveled life. No, he was homesick for Rake.

  Why had he said such stupid things to Rake? Why had he gone out of his way to make Rake angry? He didn’t even mean most of it. He didn’t agree with some of the aims and some of the tactics of the NATO Irregular Affairs Division, but he knew they were a necessary evil. Not even an evil, really. Nuisance? He didn’t wish any Irregulars harm. He didn’t wish anyone harm. It was just…

  Just what?

  Archer walked on through the merry crowd. The Christmas market was packed this night, and so it would continue to Christmas day. He stopped to buy a bag of roasted chestnuts and drink a cup of Christmas coffee. The strong coffee hinted at cinnamon and allspice and cloves and peppercorns, reminding him of Rake’s kisses. You wouldn’t expect a demon to taste so sweet. Sweet and smoky, that was the flavor of Rake’s kisses.

  Archer’s eyes blurred, his breath catching in his throat as he realized he might never taste Rake’s kisses again. Demons weren’t famous for their steadfast affections, after all. Wasn’t this sudden decision to go see his old comrades proof that Rake was growing bored with sharing Archer’s banishment?

  Archer sniffed miserably and walked on past laughing people in folk costumes performing traditional folk dances.

  Very pretty and festive in the lantern light. If you liked that kind of thing.

  The real festivities, for Archer at least, were outside the walls of the city. Solstice celebrations would be held up and down the coast and on the small island of Grand Bé. There would be bonfires in isolated coves and fields and the Fae would gather to drink and feast before the Procession of Light began. Archer would not attend the festivities. He was not generally welcomed by the local fée. Not because he was half-blood, but because he was a foreigner. A foreigner with an ancient Sumerian demon for a boyfriend. But even if he didn’t attend the feast and the procession, the holiday was still important to him. He had looked forward to spending his first ever Winter Solstice with Rake. It would be the first time he’d belonged to someone, that someone had belonged to him.

  But in fact, what was Winter Solstice but a celebration of the shortest day of the year? And the sooner this one — and all the rest of them without Rake — were over, the better.

  Archer stopped at another stall. It had been a busy day in the shop and he had not found time to eat. He bought galettes, a kind of buckwheat pancake, spread thickly with honey, and washed them down with two beers.

  It was starting to rain again. The crowd didn’t seem to mind, but Archer suddenly had no heart for it.

  He finished his beer and left the winter garden and the Christmas market, walking back through the narrow cobbled streets. The rain was in his eyes the whole way, blurring his vision.

  This was all his own fault for being insecure and jealous and possessive. Of course Rake had no patience for such nonsense. Even if it was typical faerie behavior. Well, the jealousy and possessiveness. The insecurity was all human.

  Archer reached the cottage he shared with Rake. He hoped against hope the door would swing open and Rake would be there.

  But no. The door was still fastened with its protective wards, and when it opened for Archer, the rooms were dark and cold. Aunt Esmeralda’s cloisonné clock sweetly chimed the hour. It was late.

  Too late.

  He stood for a moment, struggling to contain all the emotion threatening to tear out of his chest. He was not a child, and faeries, despite the cute pictures and YouTube videos, did not cry.

  He took off his scarf, his Burberry, and hung them by the door. No point in building a fire or fixing supper. He’d eaten enough at the Christmas market and no fire would warm him now. Instead he went upstairs, undressed, and climbed in the enormous bed he shared with Rake. The green glass beads were draped over the tall headboard post, and he slipped them free and looped them around his neck. They were cool against his hot face, glimmering mysteriously in the darkness and whispering comfortingly to him.

  The beads spoke of green things, of soft moss and silky grass and sparkling jade and glittering emeralds and spicy pines and splashing water and hopping frogs and rustling leaves and celadon bowls and smiling waves…

  They had done delightfully naughty things with these beads, things that made Archer blush and shiver now as the beads reminded him, reassured him that all was not lost.

  When Archer woke a few hours later the room was alight with the gentle glow of dozens of floating will-o’-the-wisps. He blinked sleepily as they drifted down around him, landing on the velvet coverlet and disappearing like pinched out candles. He sat up. He was alone, but the bedroom door was open and he could see by the way the shadows moved in the hallway that the fireplace in the living room was lit.

  Archer threw back the blankets and stumbled downstairs.

  A small feast for two had been set out before the blazing hearth. There were apple tarts and blackberries and cream, mince pie and little amber cakes that looked exactly like butter and honey cakes from his favorite bakery in Vancouver. Brown bottles of honey ale glistened in the firelight.

  “I was beginning to think I would have to jump up and down on the bed to wake you up,” Rake remarked. He sat in front of the fire wearing only a pair of scarlet Paisley silk pajama bottoms. The hard planes of his muscular chest gleamed like bronze in the golden light. His eyes were black and unfathomable.

  Archer chuckled uncertainly and wiped the sleep from his eyes. He approached the little feast hesitantly. “I didn’t think I would see you so soon.”

  “Disappointed?” Rake was smiling.

  Archer shook his head.

  “No? You weren’t looking forward to a nice, long, undisturbed night? A few days peace and quiet?”

  It was such a lovely little feast — and yes, the cakes were the very ones he used to love.

  Archer’s eyes filled with tears. Through the blur he saw Rake’s rugged features alter, grow aghast. “Archer?”

  “I thought you weren’t coming back. I thought I’d spoiled it all.”

  Rake rose and scooped him up, returning to his place by the fire and cuddling Archer against his broad chest. His eyes glowed red with emotion, his incisors showed very white as he delivered little punishing love bites over Archer’s throat and shoulders. His silken wings folded protectively, creating a little cocoon for them.

  “Not coming back! I said I was coming back!”

  “You said I would see you when I saw you.”

  “But…then you would be seeing me, right?”

  “Maybe a century from now.”

  “A century! But it’s only four days till Christmas.”

  Archer gave a watery chuckle and wiped his eyes. Tonight Rake’s kisses tasted of vanilla. “You’ve been eating cookies.”

  “Yes, I have. I brought you some. And Barry Littlec
hurch sent you those little cakes. He said they were your favorite.”

  “You saw Barry?”

  “I stopped in to say hello. He’s thinking about coming out here in the summer for a visit.”

  “Is he really?”

  “Yes. He misses you.”

  Archer sighed and rested his head on Rake’s chest listening to the boom of his eight-chambered heart. “I miss him too. Did you have a nice time at your party?”

  He felt Rake’s smile. “I did. It was nice seeing old friends. And it was nicer still coming home.”

  “I’m sorry I was so bad-tempered.”

  Rake laughed. “It was pretty frightening.” He kissed Archer and nipped his lip.

  “Ouch.” Archer touched his mouth, but there was no blood. Rake never drew blood.

  “Did you really think I wouldn’t come back?”

  Archer closed his eyes. “I thought you might not.”

  The wings folded more closely about him with a heavy rustle. Rake bent his head and said softly, “But I’ll always come back. Do you know why?”

  Archer opened his eyes. Rake’s eyes glowed warm and golden into his.

  “Because I love you.” Rake teased gently, “Better than stars or water, better than voices of winds that sing, better than any man’s fair daughter, or your green glass beads on that silver ring.” He wound the green beads around his fist and drew Archer’s face to his for another kiss. “Happy Solstice, sweeting.”

  Indian Cardamom Tea

  Ingredients

  5 cardamom pods, slightly crushed

  2 teabags

  4 tablespoons sugar

  Milk

  Directions

  Put about 7 cups water into a large pan, add the cardamom and bring to the boil.

  Once boiling, add the teabags and sugar.

  Add enough milk to turn a milky tea-color.

  Bring to the boil again and before it bubbles over, take off the heat.

  Pour through a strainer into cups.

  Buckwheat Galettes

  Ingredients

  Batter:

  2 eggs

  ¾ cup buckwheat flour

  1 cup + 1 teaspoon whole wheat flour

  ½ teaspoon salt

  1 tablespoon canola oil

  3 tablespoons salted butter

  Filling:

  Raclette cheese

  Button mushrooms sliced

  Red bell peppers sliced

  Directions

  Using a handheld mixer, whisk the eggs until foamy.

  Combine the flours and salt in a bowl. Sift the dry ingredients. Form a well in the center of the bowl. Pour in the eggs and ½ cup of water. Mix by hand for about 3-4 minutes until the batter is smooth. Do NOT over-mix. Add the oil.

  Let the crêpe batter rest for at least 2-3 hours (I let it rest overnight).

  Thin the crêpe batter with about ⅓ cup of water (up to ⅔ cup).

  Place your crêpe pan (or any flat pan) over medium heat. Grease it with a little butter using a silicone brush. Pour about ½ cup of the batter in the center of the pan. Lift the pan and then tilt and rotate it until the batter is evenly spread and forms a nice thin disk. Put it back on the stove. It should start bubbling after a few seconds. Lower the heat to low. Place a slice of raclette cheese and add a little bit of the button mushroom and red bell pepper filling. Fold the crêpe and let the cheese melt for 1-2 minutes. The traditional method is to fold the edges of the crêpes in on all 4 sides by about 2 to 3 inches; this leaves the filling exposed.

  Repeat until all the ingredients are used. Stir the crêpe batter as you go for uniform consistency.

  Yields: 18-21 crêpes.

  These can be eaten with butter and honey or jam. Or with thin slices of a favorite cheese. Or they can be filled with button mushrooms and roasted red bell peppers.

  THIS ROUGH MAGIC: Brett and Rafferty

  Rafferty told himself he didn’t expect Brett to show.

  Christmas Eve? Nah. There would be some swell Snob Hill party he was expected to attend or some wingding at the old plantation he’d feel it his duty to soldier through. And it wasn’t like Rafferty was ten years old and still believed in Santy Claus. It was a long time since he’d knelt by his cot praying for a pony or a long lost uncle. He was a big boy now and this was just another night in foggy old San Francisco. A little colder, a little darker than some — but Rafferty’d known colder and darker.

  It was well after midnight when he poured a stiff drink, his second of the evening, and turned out the lights in the front of the house. He was lying in bed reading White Fang by Jack London when he heard the faint, familiar scratching at his bedroom window.

  His heart sprang into life. He threw the book aside, unfolded from the bed, and shoved open the window. Brett stood in the alley. He grinned at Rafferty and held up a bottle of Dom Perignon.

  “I thought I heard the click click click of reindeer hooves,” Rafferty drawled.

  “Merry Christmas.” Brett handed over the champagne and climbed through the window with considerable agility, given that he was wearing evening clothes beneath a dark ulster. The ulster had a Persian lamb collar, so Rafferty had guessed right. A night on the town for young Master Sheridan.

  He shoved the window closed behind Brett, yanked the curtains shut. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  Brett gave him a level look, his eyes as green as spring. “I can leave if you’ve got other plans.”

  “Of course I don’t have plans and of course I don’t want you to leave.” Rafferty took him in his arms. Brett’s eyes were shining and happy, his flushed face cold from the bitter night air. He tasted like champagne.

  “I got away as soon as I could.”

  “You should have told me you were coming. I’d have…” What? Fixed Brett a meal? He’d have had plenty to eat and plenty to drink wherever he’d been.

  “I wasn’t sure I’d be able to make it. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

  Rafferty was touched — and embarrassed. He would have been disappointed, sure, though he’d like to think he was better at hiding his feelings. “I’m glad you made it.”

  Brett treated him to one of those rare, unguarded smiles. Six months they’d been…whatever they were, and those smiles still made Rafferty’s breath catch in his throat.

  “Did you have a nice evening?” he asked, and he genuinely hoped Brett had because there weren’t nearly enough nice evenings in Brett’s life.

  “Not particularly.” Brett reached deep into his coat pocket and pulled out a small parcel, a flat blue box with a white ribbon.

  “What’s this?” Rafferty took the box.

  Brett shrugged out of his ulster and draped it over the bed post. The first time he’d done that, Rafferty had woken during the night and, thinking someone was looming over them, nearly shot the coat. “Open it,” Brett said, and turned his attention to the champagne.

  Rafferty recognized that blue box and he wondered uneasily where the hell Brett had found the money to buy whatever was inside. Hopefully Brett and Kitty weren’t back to pawning family heirlooms.

  By the time Rafferty had fumbled open the box, Brett had uncorked the champagne and poured it into the only two clean coffee cups left in the house.

  “Hell.” Rafferty stared down at the gold pocket watch. He swallowed hard. “I got you a book.”

  Brett laughed. “Did you? What book?”

  Rafferty’s face felt hot. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but really what the hell had he been thinking? “Shakespeare’s sonnets.”

  Brett laughed again, an indulgent chuckle. He had placed his mug of champagne on the steamer trunk that served as Rafferty’s bedside table and was shedding his clothes with quick, unselfconscious grace. His skin was pale and smooth like warm marble. He said, “You’re a romantic, Neil.”

  Maybe. He was Irish. It was pretty much the same thing.

  Rafferty removed the pocket watch from the fancy box. It was a beauty. The nicest thing he’d
ever had in his life. He glanced at Brett now climbing into his bed, and mentally corrected himself. The second nicest thing he’d ever had in his life.

  “Thank you,” he said, and he wasn’t talking to Brett.

  The Orange Blossom

  Ingredients

  ¾ ounce gin

  ¾ ounce Italian / sweet vermouth

  ¾ ounce orange juice

  Directions

  Combine ingredients in a cocktail shaker, shake and strain into a cocktail glass.

  Garnish with an orange zest if desired.

  WHITE HOUSE COFFEE SOUFFLE

  by first lady Grace Coolidge

  Ingredients

  1 ⅓ cups brewed coffee

  1 tablespoon plain gelatin powder

  ⅔ cup granulated sugar

  ½ cup milk

  3 egg yolks, slightly beaten

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  3 egg whites, beaten stiff (use pasteurized egg whites)

  ½ teaspoon vanilla

  Whipped cream for garnish

  Directions

  Mix brewed coffee, gelatin powder, ⅓ cup sugar and milk.

  Heat in a double boiler, add beaten egg yolks, ⅓ cup more of sugar and salt.

  Cook until it thickens.

  Add the whites of the eggs, beaten stiff, and vanilla. Pour in gelatin mold, chill and serve with whipped cream.

  LONE STAR: Mitch and Web

  “How’s that?” Web asked.

  Mitch moaned his pleasure.

  “Yeah?” There was a smile in Web’s voice. “How about there?”