They raced against the creeping sunrise, dashing for the last of the houses full of worthy, sleeping children, and every time they stopped, Matthias paid close attention to what Père Noel did. He always put his mittened hand to his face, said something, and then vanished into the snowy uproar of Christmas magic at work.
Finally Matthias asked, “How do you do that? The chimney trick, that is? How do you get in and out?”
“Mattie, we don’t have time for a long discussion. We’re running a bit late as it is.”
“I’m not. I have all the time in the world.”
“Oh, all right, I’ll tell you. If I say the right words and breathe in a pinch of Christmas Cheer, I can pass through anything—I become the Spirit of Christmas itself for a few minutes. It doesn’t last very long, so I have to make my trips quickly or work the spell again.”
“Oh! So that’s what that poet-fellow meant in the ‘Night Before Christmas’! I thought he just meant you were winking at him.”
“Poet-fellow . . . Oh, you mean Clement Moore who wrote ‘A Visit From St. Nicholas.’ Yes, yes . . . ‘laying a finger aside of his nose . . .’ That’s what it was,” Saint Nick agreed.
“Ech . . . snorting cookie dust,” Matt said with a shudder. “That’s disgusting.” Though not quite as disgusting as some of the things he’d done in wolfskin, Matthias thought. Then he grinned a smug, wolf grin; it was just as he’d suspected.
“Well, the job’s not all sugar plums and Christmas cake, Mattie.”
Was it his imagination, or did the old saint seem tired and cranky? Surely Santa didn’t get grumpy. . . . He was supposed to be perpetually jolly. But it was getting pretty late and even the reindeer had given up any extra expenditure of energy. Matt had noticed they had stopped trying to bite long ago and begun to pull along willingly with him, not just to show him up or get revenge. Maybe they were starting to get used to him, after all, and that was just fine with him.
Matt shrugged and waited for the crack of the whip or the flick of the reins to signal it was time to move once again, and they took to the sky in a flurry of hooves and paws.
As they finished their rounds, the edge of the sun flared on the eastern horizon like prairie fire. Saint Nicholas turned the team sharply north and urged them to run for their lives into the polar darkness. And run they did, for they were now airborne and the nighttime terminator was as deadly as any assassin robot. If the sun touched them, they would tumble to the ground with all the aerodynamic grace of flung rocks.
They dashed for the north with their hearts in their mouths, ripping at the blue-black sky with their hooves and paws. Matthias could feel the bubbly sensation of the Christmas Cheer fading, dulling the brightness of color, stealing the extraordinary scents from his nose, and letting the chill of the perpetual winter touch him even through his thick wolfen pelt. He pulled and pulled, ran and ran, sinking toward the earth. . . .
And stumbled to the snowy ground with a thud and a tumble. The reindeer skidded to a stop behind him, tugging him to a sliding halt with the weight of their bodies. He picked himself up, shaking off the snow, and looked around. He could see the edge of Christmas House and the elves trotting across the snow to help them. He breathed a sigh of relief.
The elves clustered around them, unharnessing the team, dragging away the sleigh, helping Matthias out of the modified straps of his own harness. They led the reindeer back to their stockade and helped Santa Claus—who seemed suddenly very old and frail—toward the house. Matthias trotted after them.
“Would you like a bite to eat or a hot drink, Mattie?” the Bishop of Myrna asked as they flopped down in front of a roaring fire in his living room.
“Oh, no. I should get going.”
“Are you sure? It’s been a long, hard night—you did very good work.”
Matt scratched himself, yawned, and stretched, then stood up. “It has been a long night, but I’d rather be on my way. After you give me my present, that is.”
Saint Nicholas frowned, but he got up and left the room, returning with a piece of paper and a small bag that he offered to the werewolf. “Here it is. The bag has the recipe and a few ingredients you may have difficulty finding out of season. Make it up fresh in the morning of the day before Christmas and it should be just fine. The directions out of the North Pole’s influence are on the paper.” He looked a little wistful as he added, “I do wish you’d stay a little while, though. We might have much to talk about. . . .”
“No thanks,” Matthias replied. He took the bag and the paper and carried them off into the darkness of Christmas Day.
The next year, as Christmas Eve lengthened toward night, Matthias was lying in the snow behind a stand of fir, watching the activity in the courtyard of Christmas House. His nose was full of the scents of cinnamon and brandy, and the flavor of gingerbread and apples lingered on his tongue. Visions of magical creatures in diaphanous raiment danced and spun on colored ribbons of magic before his eyes as the elves below dragged out the sleigh and polished the harness. They wouldn’t know what hit them. . . .
Oh yes, Matthias had made his plans meticulously; he’d mixed up the Christmas Cheer and he’d retraced the route to the North Pole and now he need only wait. He knew all the old saint’s tricks, and this year, when the red-coated hypocrite came out to the stockade, Matt wouldn’t be dazzled or taken by surprise. This time he’d jump on the Bishop of Myrna and rip his throat out. Then he’d take his place in the sleigh and rampage through the Christmas Eve sky from house to house, and he wouldn’t be settling for milk and cookies. . . .
Behind him, in the gloom, a shadow formed and flickered a knife-blade grin, and dark hands checked the book where the gold-tinged name Matthias Vulfkind turned ashy black. Something horrible laughed and was cut off short. . . .
Another voice spoke from the darkness. “Black Peter, you have a lot to answer for.”
Matt jerked around, looking for Saint Nicholas, and found instead a huge white wolf. Its fur was as thick and as white as the snow and the look in its eye was both kindly and disappointed. From its jaws hung a thread of black shadow that writhed and spat red sparks of ire. The Nicholas wolf spat Black Peter onto the ground and put a paw upon the writhing shadow, then chuckled a wolfy chuckle. “Oh, Matthias . . . As a child I gave you a second life, as a wolf I gave you a second chance, but here you are again. Do you need more flying lessons?”
Matthias could only stare.
“What? Didn’t you know I’m also the patron saint of wolves? Mattie, my boy, what shall I do with you . . . ?”
Fresh Meat
Alan Gordon
Alan is the author of the Fools’ Guild Mysteries, published by St. Martin’s Minotaur Books, continuing the adventures of Theophilos, a thirteenth-century jester. Titles in the series include Thirteenth Night (now available from Crum Creek Press), Jester Leaps In, A Death in the Venetian uarter, The Widow of Jerusalem, An Antic Disposition, The Lark’s Lament, The Moneylender of Toulouse, and the upcoming The Parisian Prodigal. Alan sold his first short story to Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine in 1990. Since then, he’s had numerous mystery, fantasy, and science fiction stories in Hitchcock, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine , Asimov’s Science Fiction, and several anthologies. By day, Alan is a criminal defense attorney with the Legal Aid Society of New York, with over a hundred trials to his credit. He lives in New York City with his wife, Judy Downer, an editor, and son, Robert. He is a graduate of Swarthmore College, where he received the William Plumer Potter Award for Fiction, and the University of Chicago Law School.