Christmas Waltz Read online

  “Of course, they might offer new information on the former extension of the ancestral abodes of certain clans. I suspect these cliff-dwellers were not a distinct people—”

  “Sit closer to the fire,” Strange told him. “That wind is like a knife.”

  “I’m boiling as it is.” Aleister smiled widely, eyes shadowy, his teeth very white in the firelight. “Do you know what this night is, Val?”

  “I know you’ll tell me, Master Sticks and Stones.”

  If Aleister fell ill, really ill, Strange would be able to do little for him. And the thought of losing Aleister was frankly unbearable. He had been fond of him for some time. He had expected that his feelings would temper, ease into a more casual affection, but if anything, they had grown more fierce, more intense. It was painful to care this much, for theirs was often a hand-to-mouth existence, and death could reach out to grab one or the other at any moment. If something—any harm—came to Aleister—

  In the frosty distance something howled. It did not sound like any animal Strange knew.

  He glanced at Aleister, who was still smiling. Perhaps he had not heard that eerie howl. “It’s the winter solstice.”

  The longest night of the year. What the fuck could be better than that?

  “Well, we’ve got the bonfire for it,” Strange said.

  “We’ve got more than that. I’ve been saving up for your present.”

  “My—” But he was speaking to empty air. Aleister hopped up, went to his pack, rifled around, and brought back a handful of…dust. He picked up one of the metal plates that Strange had scrubbed clean in the sand, and let the grains trickle through his fingers while he spoke a soft incantation.

  Strange was silent, watching. Was this fever, or was Aleister actually practicing magick? After a second or two, he realized that the dust was, in fact, crumbs. Hardtack crumbs saved carefully for days on end.

  The crumbs seemed to jump around on the plate, and then suddenly four small cakes materialized, frosted in pink, speckled with tiny silver candies. The kind of thing that had been rare even before the revolution. The kind of sweet Strange had loved as a boy. And Aleister the only person in the world who knew that.

  Aleister laughed at Strange’s expression. “They’re for you, Val. All four of them.” He was beaming his pleasure at this foolish, extravagant gift.

  Strange’s throat closed so tightly no speck of dust, let alone tea cake, could have passed his gullet. He said, “You’re a bloody madman, Grimshaw.”

  “So they tell me.”

  Aleister held the plate out to him, and Strange said, “Two for each.”

  “Oh!” Aleister hesitated.

  “Go on, then. Share and share alike.”

  Looking torn between guilt and delight, Aleister chose one of the delectable cakes. He handed the plate to Strange, who took a cake and bit into what seemed to be a cloud made of spun sugar. The sweetness was almost shocking after months of living on wild game, roots, and whatever else they could forage.

  Aleister licked frosting off his lips.

  They ate their cakes and passed Strange’s flask back and forth. Now and again their companionable silence was broken by one of those long, mournful howls that seemed to issue from behind the giant, silver moon.

  “You’re cold, whether you know it or not. Come here,” Strange said, holding up his cape, and Aleister gave him an indulgent look and scooted over into the circle of his arm. He leaned against Strange’s shoulder. His lean, hard body was a warm weight down the length of Strange’s.

  “Spring is coming,” he informed Strange, wiping the last pink stickiness from his fingers.

  And only the entire winter still to get through. But Strange did not say that. He said, “Yes. Happy Solstice.”

  “Happy Solstice, Val.”

  “Those were the best cakes I ever ate in my life,” Strange said.

  Aleister smiled and tilted his head to rest against Strange’s.

  DON’T LOOK BACK: Peter and Mike

  “When were you going to tell me?” Mike asked. He was smiling, his tone wry.

  They had reached the pie and coffee stage of their holiday meal. Parkway Grill was Mike’s favorite place to dine—plus there weren’t a lot of options on Christmas evening. Mike’s parents were visiting his sister in Connecticut. Peter didn’t have family—other than Mike. Earlier that day, they’d brunched with Roma and Jessica and thirty other people. It had been fun and festive—but Peter was loving this quiet, private dinner, just the two of them.

  “Tell you what?” Peter smiled too, but he was puzzled. Mike’s blue gaze seemed a little somber given the mood and occasion.

  “The job offer in Boston. You didn’t think we should talk it over together?”

  Peter’s eyes widened. He hadn’t realized Mike even knew about the opportunity in Boston. The museum must have phoned. “There’s nothing to tell. I’m not taking it.”

  “You’re…not.”

  “No.”

  “Why?” Mike seemed floored by this news, which was sort of, well, disconcerting.

  “Why? Because of…us.”

  Mike continued to look shocked. Not happy, not pleased. Shocked. “You’re not taking this job because of me?”

  He was starting to worry Peter. Peter said, “Us.”

  “Because you’re in a relationship with me.”

  Peter kind of wished they weren’t having this discussion in public. And he kind of wished Mike wasn’t stating these facts in such a brusque, conversational tone, because they were getting a few glances from other diners. Frankly, he hadn’t really expected to have a discussion on the subject.

  “More because it’s not easy to maintain a long-distance relationship with anyone.”

  Mike shook his head. He said flatly, “You can’t make your decision based on that.”

  “What should I base it on?”

  “This is a job you wanted. Right?”

  Peter stared, his confusion mounting. This was not the reaction he would have expected. He thought—believed—things were going well with Mike. That Mike was happy. But maybe, after four months, Mike was tired of supporting Peter, of carrying the financial load, of sharing his space. In the beginning he’d said it was no problem, no hardship, and that Peter should take his time finding the right position. And that’s what Peter had done, partly because he didn’t have a choice. The economy might be recovering, but museum curators were still not in high demand.

  “If I—if I lived in Boston, this would be the job I wanted.”

  Mike nodded like now Peter was on the right track.

  Peter said, “I didn’t realize—” He had to stop because the waitress returned to refill their coffee cups. And because he didn’t trust his voice.

  There was the usual could-she-bring-them-anything-else? Mike requested the check. The waitress departed.

  Peter got control and said quietly, “I didn’t realize you didn’t want—” He broke off because he wasn’t sure how to finish it. He was pretty sure, would have sworn, in fact, that Mike did want what they had. What they had and what they were building. But maybe only Peter thought they were building something. It wasn’t like they had discussed the future.

  Their eyes met, and Mike’s frown deepened. He opened his mouth, but the waitress was back with the check.

  Mike reached for his wallet—because who else was going to pick up the tab? Of course he had tired of being the financial default, and Peter should have realized this—been more conscious of the strain he was placing on both Mike and their relationship.

  It hurt, though.

  Peter said, “Excuse me. I’m going to get some fresh air.”

  Good luck with that. The cold night air was scented of car exhaust and the restaurant kitchen. It did not smell fresh. It did not smell like Christmas. It smelled like any winter night in any unfamiliar city. Maybe Boston smelled like this. Peter took a turn around the parking lot. Second time around Mike met him, footsteps crunching dead leaves on the
pavement.

  “You feeling all right?” Mike asked, offering Peter a peppermint.

  Peter declined the peppermint. “I feel blindsided.”

  “I can see that.” Mike peeled the paper off his peppermint. “What’s kind of funny is I was trying not to get worked up about the fact you’d decided to take that job without talking to me. And then it turns out you’re not taking the job. Also without talking to me.”

  Peter had to struggle not to say something childish like, I didn’t realize you were so desperate to get rid of me. He knew Mike didn’t want to get rid of him. At least, he thought he did. He was still hurt. Hurt that Mike could seemingly accept—calmly accept—that Peter might be leaving for Boston. That he didn’t want to stop him, didn’t want to put up a fight for what they had together. In the end he said nothing.

  Mike, watching his struggle, said awkwardly, “If I seem ungrateful or like I don’t appreciate what you’re trying to do, that’s not my intent. You did this once. Gave up your life for a relationship. And that asshole let you. You’re not doing it again. Not for me. I don’t want that. I may be an asshole, but I’m not that big of an asshole.”

  “I didn’t realize I was giving up my life,” Peter said bitterly. “I thought it was just a job.”

  “It’s not just a job. It’s your career.”

  Right. And what could be more important than that? Peter drew a deep, shaky breath and said, “I’m cold. We should get back.”

  Not we should go home because plainly Mike’s condo was not his home.

  * * * * *

  The sight of the evergreen wreath on the front door was painful.

  Peter hadn’t bought the wreath for Mike. He’d bought it for both of them. For their home.

  “Do you want a drink?” Mike unlocked the door and felt around for the light switch.

  “No. Thanks.”

  The front room smelled like apples and cinnamon. Comforting and homely, but the holiday fragrance made his stomach churn. He felt stupid for decorating Mike’s place. Mike hadn’t asked for any of that nonsense. The Christmas tree, the fake snow on windows…that was all his idea, and it had been a bad one. He was embarrassed at having presumed too much. He felt unwelcome. The sight of the presents they had opened that morning—nothing extravagant or very expensive, but everything chosen with care and affection (on both sides, he had imagined)—made him want to cry.

  However, crying on Christmas was not permissible once you were out of the single digits.

  It was only eight thirty, so he couldn’t exactly announce he wanted to go to bed. Anyway, it was going to be too weird trying to lie on that mattress next to Mike with all this between them. All this being…apparently not that much. He could invite himself over to Jessica and Roma’s place, but that wasn’t a very caring thing to do to friends who had already spent the long day hosting a holiday brunch.

  “You sure you don’t want anything?” Mike asked from the kitchen.

  “I think I’ll go for a walk,” Peter called.

  He was two houses down, staring unseeingly at a yard full of mechanical reindeer raising and lowering their lightbulb-lined heads to feast on a dead lawn, when Mike appeared beside him.

  “Even I can tell something is wrong,” Mike said. “Tell me what I did.” And the heartless bastard put his arm around Peter’s shoulders.

  Peter shook his head. Not No, I won’t tell you. More I can’t tell you—it’s too ridiculous.

  “Come on.” Mike lowered his head and kissed Peter’s cheek. His breath was warm in the cold night. “Talk to me, Peter.”

  How the hell did women manage to cry and talk at the same time? Because it was pretty much physically impossible, with your throat closed up and your sinuses flooding and your breath jerking in and out, to manage anything like a sentence. Let alone an intelligent sentence.

  What he wanted to say was so tangled up and complicated. When he’d finally got his memory back, all of his memory, it had been difficult to accept how alone he was, how lonely. He had friends, wonderful friends who made up for the fact that he did not have family. But even that was not the same as having that one special person: the lover who was both friend and partner. Not everyone needed or wanted that, but Peter did. He had hungered for it his entire life. He had wanted it so badly that for years he had put up with the palest imitation. He didn’t even know why.

  And then Mike had come along. And Peter had really thought the loneliness was over. Really thought that Mike was the guy he would spend the rest of his life with. He was convinced Mike saw it the same way. But now it turned out that once again he had got it wrong. At least in Mike’s case there was real affection and caring, but the end result was the same. He was on his own.

  Mike’s arm tightened around Peter’s shoulders. “Have you already turned the job down? Is that it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then—”

  Peter pulled away. “Until an hour ago, this was the best Christmas of my entire life. Maybe the best day of my entire life. I really did think—”

  Into that raw and unsteady pause, Mike said very quietly, “I’m not sure why me supporting your decision to take a job you really want somehow spoils that for you.”

  “I don’t want that fucking job, Mike!” Peter glared at him. “Or I didn’t. If we’re not going to be together anyway, then I don’t know. Maybe that would be the best option.”

  Mike’s head snapped back like Peter had punched him. “We’re not going to…”

  “You’re talking about job versus career, and I understand and appreciate the difference. And I understand that difference should be as important to me as it apparently is to you, but you know what I want more than anything? To be wanted. To be loved. For it to matter to someone if I stay or if I go—”

  “You are wanted,” Mike protested. “You are loved, and of course it matters if you stay or go.”

  “That’s not how it feels.”

  This time there was no pushing Mike away. He wrapped his arms around Peter—not that Peter was fighting him—and whispered, “I don’t want you to go. How could you think that? I’m trying to do the right thing, that’s all. I don’t want to be like him. All he did was take from you. I want to give to you. I want to give you whatever you need.”

  Peter pressed his face into Mike’s. “You already do. You already have. Just waking up together this morning… There will be other jobs. I’ll get another job. I promise. But I don’t want a job that’s going to put the entire country between us. It’s not worth it to me.”

  “Then it’s not worth it to me either. You think I’m worried about who pays the electric bill? I don’t care if you have a job so long as you don’t care. All I’m trying to do is show you that you’re free to make whatever decision you want.”

  “I don’t want to be that free.”

  “I was never talking about ending things! We could make it work long-distance.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Neither do I,” Mike admitted. He shook his head. “Did you really think, even for a minute, that I didn’t want you to stay? That the idea of you leaving didn’t hurt like hell?”

  “You sure didn’t show it.”

  “Didn’t I?”

  “No.”

  Mike made a thoughtful “huh” sound. He admitted finally, “Maybe I was trying to protect myself a little bit too.”

  Peter stared. “From what?”

  “From coming in second. Again.”

  “Never. I’ve told you how I feel. The only way I’m taking that job is if I’m not wanted here.”

  After a moment, Mike offered the old wolfish smile. “Let’s go home. I want to show you just how much you’re wanted…”

  Weekend Irish Coffee

  Ingredients

  1½ ounces Irish whiskey

  1½ ounces Baileys or similar

  1 teaspoon brown sugar

  6 ounces hot hazelnut coffee

  1 dollop heavy cream

  Dire
ctions

  Like anything on the internet, you’ll find plenty of arguments about how to “properly” prepare an Irish coffee.

  Basically you pour the booze in the cup, add the sugar and cream, add the coffee, stir, and taste. If it isn’t perfect, add more sugar.

  WINTER KILL: Adam and Rob

  “We could toss a coin,” Rob said. “Heads my family. Tails yours.”

  “Let’s just go to your family for Christmas.” Adam glanced at the clock and set his coffee cup in the stainless-steel sink.

  “If we do go to my family, we’ll for sure go to yours next year. We’ll trade off.”

  “Yes,” Adam said with brisk indifference. He was already on his way out the door. In that charcoal-gray suit, he looked as handsome and stylish as if he was headed for a GQ magazine shoot and not a day of chasing bad guys through the mean streets of Klamath Falls.

  Rob put down his coffee cup, following Adam down the stairs that led to the garage.

  Adam had been working out of the Bend satellite office for the past four months—which was exactly how long they had been living together.

  Rob said, “It’s probably only fair to go to your family. But I can’t deny I’m looking forward to the fun of sharing our meet-cute story with the aunts and uncles and cousins. The adorable tale of how a serial killer brought us together…”

  Adam, still in motion, threw over his shoulder, “Sure. Up to you.”

  Rob stopped midway down the stairs. Adam’s mind was clearly not on the holidays. It wasn’t on Rob at all. He hadn’t even remembered to kiss Rob good-bye. Not that it was a huge deal, but they were both conscious that they held jobs with a higher level of risk than working in, say, a hardware store.