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I've wanted to do a Christmas in July series for a few years now but time just didn't seem to agree. I wanted to feature stories that I have recently re-read but once again, time had other plans so for my first Christmas in July series, I'm featuring 20 of my favorite Christmas set LGBT reads. I say "Christmas set" because some are not really holiday-centric but set, at least in part, during the holiday season and for me that is all it takes to be a Christmas read. Some I've had opportunity in the past to re-read or re-listen and I've included the most recent review. As always, the purchase links are current as of posting but if they no longer work for a dozen different reasons, be sure to check out the author's website/social media sites for the latest links. There are genres of all kinds here, whether you are a holiday lover or perhaps you just want to read something set in cooler weather on a long hot summer night, either way there is something for everyone here.
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Summary:
There are worse things than being stranded in a blizzard.
Artist Trevor Morrison has always appreciated the little things in life, treating each day as a gift. And with good reason: he’s been on the transplant-recipient list for too long now. When he learns just how numbered his days truly are, he resolves not to take them for granted. But he won’t be unrealistic, either—which means romantic commitments are off the table.
Marcus Roberts seems to have it all. He’s handsome, financially sound, and on the fast track to partnership at a prestigious law firm. In reality, though, his drive for success has meant no time for friends or relationships. Add in the fact that his family discarded him long ago, and he’s facing yet another holiday season alone.
When the biggest snowstorm to hit Colorado in decades leaves Marc and Trevor stranded at the same hotel, a chance encounter and a night of passion leads to more than either of them expected. Finding comfort in each other is a welcome surprise, but time is not on their side. Either they find a way to beat the odds, or they lose each other forever.
Original Review December 2015:
I don't even know where to begin. Trevor's decision whether or not to continue dialysis is not an easy choice. I have no experience with dialysis, however, I do have lots of experience with hospitals and illness being the center of one's existence and it is tiring, so I completely understand Trevor's desire for it to end on his own terms, or at least the best he can do. Marc is the quintessential workaholic but once the two meet, suddenly not everything is as cut and dry as it was hours before. Watching Marc's heart open up is breathtaking. Maybe on the surface Marc is the holiday cliche that has been done to death in Hollywood but what LC Chase gives us is so much better than your typical holiday fare. When I reached the last page, I didn't want to let this duo go which in my personal dictionary is the ultimate definition of a great read.
RATING:
There are worse things than being stranded in a blizzard.
Artist Trevor Morrison has always appreciated the little things in life, treating each day as a gift. And with good reason: he’s been on the transplant-recipient list for too long now. When he learns just how numbered his days truly are, he resolves not to take them for granted. But he won’t be unrealistic, either—which means romantic commitments are off the table.
Marcus Roberts seems to have it all. He’s handsome, financially sound, and on the fast track to partnership at a prestigious law firm. In reality, though, his drive for success has meant no time for friends or relationships. Add in the fact that his family discarded him long ago, and he’s facing yet another holiday season alone.
When the biggest snowstorm to hit Colorado in decades leaves Marc and Trevor stranded at the same hotel, a chance encounter and a night of passion leads to more than either of them expected. Finding comfort in each other is a welcome surprise, but time is not on their side. Either they find a way to beat the odds, or they lose each other forever.
I don't even know where to begin. Trevor's decision whether or not to continue dialysis is not an easy choice. I have no experience with dialysis, however, I do have lots of experience with hospitals and illness being the center of one's existence and it is tiring, so I completely understand Trevor's desire for it to end on his own terms, or at least the best he can do. Marc is the quintessential workaholic but once the two meet, suddenly not everything is as cut and dry as it was hours before. Watching Marc's heart open up is breathtaking. Maybe on the surface Marc is the holiday cliche that has been done to death in Hollywood but what LC Chase gives us is so much better than your typical holiday fare. When I reached the last page, I didn't want to let this duo go which in my personal dictionary is the ultimate definition of a great read.
RATING:
Summary:
Karl Kringle hates the modern-day Christmas. He was born to be Krampus, but the Holiday Council refuses to let him help his brother Nick—aka Santa Claus—with the Naughty List until he finds his holiday spirit. To meet that challenge, he’s turned human and dumped in a strange apartment.
Lewis Weatherby loves the holidays and always has. Not only do his parents own a pumpkin patch and tree farm, he’s also inherited a Christmas-themed shop. All he wants from Santa is the man of his dreams, and the Big Guy might’ve just delivered. Lewis’s new neighbor Karl is gorgeous, sweet, and has a fantastic sense of humor—if his jokes about being Krampus are any indication.
Soon getting home is less important to Karl than what will happen when Lewis inevitably realizes the truth behind his jokes. He’s finally starting to understand the real joy of the season—now he just has to figure out how to hold on to it.
What a lovely take on the legend of Krampus! I'm not going to say too much about Krampus Hates Christmas but I will say that it is a perfect blend of holiday, paranormal, romance, and just plain fun. I just could not put this down until I swiped the final page and I am already looking forward to re-reading this one next Christmas and for many more holiday seasons to come. As it's another new author for me, I also look forward to checking out future tales from Andi Van.
RATING:
Seeking Warmth by Brigham Vaughn
Summary:Benny Fuller is on his way to rock bottom. He’s seventeen, fresh out of juvie, homeless, and desperate to find a job. His dad’s in jail and his drug-addicted mom is in no shape to take care of his sick sister, Angel. A run-in with his ex-boyfriend, Scott Sullivan, makes Benny feel even worse. He’s a thief with no future. Scott is smart, with plans for college and a great future ahead of him. Benny knows Scott can do so much better than him. Because no matter how hard Benny tries, he can’t seem to find a job or a way to take care of Angel.
The further Benny falls, the more he needs Scott’s help. Benny will have to let go of his pride and trust Scott and the Sullivan family in order to get the Christmas miracle Benny and Angel so desperately need.
Reader Advisory: This is an older (15+) YA story with themes of homelessness, drug use and prostitution (off-page), neglect of minors, and foster care.
To say Benny Fuller is down on his luck or perhaps just completely out of luck, would be a very accurate description as to how he sees himself: fresh out of juvie and homeless makes looking for work to make a home for his little sister difficult. Will a run-in with his ex, Scott Sullivan lead to good things or will Benny steer clear of Scott believing his ex is better off without him weighing him down?
As I've mentioned before in my reviews I don't really have a "comfort zone" when it comes to my reading but to be perfectly honest I don't usually go looking for young adult stories but when I saw Brigham Vaughn had a new Christmas short novella coming out I knew it was something I wanted to read. To say I loved it would be an understatement, Seeking Warmth is brilliantly written and chock-full of what a Christmas story should have: heart. I should warn you that it is not all unicorn and rainbows for Benny, sometimes we have to fall to show the world and ourselves we can get back up.
If you are looking for a fun, squeaky clean rom-com then this really isn't for you but I wouldn't forget this story for later because Brigham Vaughn does a bang up, spot on job of tugging at your heart with Benny's story. Don't get me wrong, Seeking Warmth is not all doom-and-gloom, it's just not the fun, cutesy standard Hallmark-ish rom-com. Sometimes we need to be reminded that asking for help is not a weakness, that Christmas is about helping others and Miss Vaughn does that all while telling an amazingly heartbreaking AND heartwarming tale of determination, friendship, family, and love.
RATING:
Summary:
Christmas is coming… but Alex is running away.
Panicked by the prospect of spending Christmas with his boyfriend’s disapproving parents, Alex flees to the old houseboat in the Norfolk Broads his uncle left him. But when a freak snowstorm traps him there, Alex soon realises he’s not the only heartbroken lover haunting the shores of Halsham Broad.
Two hundred years ago, drummer boy Jack Sadler drowned skating over thin ice to meet his lover. Now, whenever the Broad freezes over, he returns and brings a curse with him.
And every night Alex spends trapped in the icebound boat, he hears the beat of a distant drum draw closer…
OMG!!!! Nothing says Christmas like a good old fashioned ghost story and Amy Rae Durreson definitely has a doozy of a one with A Distant Drum. I stumbled onto it by accident and I am so glad I did!
I won't say too much because I don't want to give anything away, this is definitely one story you have to experience yourself to fully appreciate the creepified factor. Snow and ice storms can be spooky enough(believe me I know I'm a lifelong resident of Wisconsin) but throw in a little history, doomed lovers, and you have a recipe for a very scary Merry Christmas😉 The details the author adds to the distant drums from the title, well let me just say I swear I could hear every beat, every scrape, every chill in the air.
So if you love holiday romance but are looking for something different, a little grit to your Christmas cookies than Amy Rae Durreson's A Distant Drum is right up your alley.
RATING:
Summary:
In a snowy Christmas London, a grieving Josh meets Michael and falls head over heels in love.
The antique book store, Chapter One, is nestled in a quiet square a few steps from London's St Pauls Cathedral. Since Josh's dad died, it has been boarded-up, with whitewashed windows, no new stock, and shelves empty of everything except sad memories. The place is a reminder of loss, and despite Josh being weighed down by grief, it falls on him to sell the store for his mom.
Michael is the owner of Arts Desire, the store right next to Josh. With his rainbow pride mugs and positive outlook, he is sunshine and happiness, and the complete opposite of what Josh thinks he needs in his life. Michael says everyone deserves their own Christmas miracle sometimes. All Josh has to do is believe him, and the two men could have their own happy ever after.
Original Review December 2014:
I fell in love with Josh from the first moment I turned on my Kindle with this one. Michael is ever so cute too. Loved the set up of the story and it was so perfect for a Christmas tale. My only mild disappointment with the story was not getting to hear Josh's mom give Uncle Phil a telling off but you know she did so that's okay too.
A Fortunate Blizzard by LC Chase
Chapter One
“I know this is hard, Trevor,” Dr. Wheyvan said. She gave him a tight smile, then turned to rummage through a cabinet drawer behind her desk.
Trevor took a deep breath and stared up at the human anatomy poster on the wall. How many times had he sat right here, studying that poster while waiting for Dr. Wheyvan to come into her office? Every time hoping she had good news for him. Every time leaving with an increased sense of time running out as the fringes of his optimism grew a little darker.
“We can’t give up hope yet,” she said, spinning back in her chair, a sad smile on her lined face. She held out a pamphlet. “But the reality is such that you should be prepared.”
He took it from her and sighed. Gold letters on a blue background read, Deciding to Stop Dialysis. What You Can Expect. His throat tightened and the letters began to blur. He inhaled the stale, sterile air that seemed universal to doctors’ offices and held his breath, fighting back tears that no longer had the right to run down his cheeks.
It was always going to come to this, wasn’t it? He’d already used more than his fair share of life’s allotted good luck.
Seven years he’d been on dialysis waiting for a kidney transplant. Seven years he’d been trying to keep hope alive and shiny. Seven years he’d been fighting something he could only slow down.
He nodded. “You told me from the beginning that it would be a long shot because of my blood type.”
“A long shot is still a shot,” she said.
But long shots were finite, and ready or not, he could feel his coming to an end.
“If I decide to go off dialysis . . .” He swallowed with difficulty. “How much time am I looking at?”
“It depends on several factors—age, lifestyle, ESRD complications that arise, et cetera. You’ve always taken very good care of yourself, so you may have more time than others.” She studied him for a second, and he knew he wasn’t going to like what she was about to say. “Generally anywhere from four days to, at most, two weeks.”
Four to fourteen days? His throat closed, vision narrowing in on the pamphlet in his hand, yet he couldn’t see it.
He didn’t look up. “And if I stay on it?”
“If a transplant doesn’t come through in the next six months . . . Maybe a year.”
The gut punch stole his breath, and a cold chill spread over his skin. If Dr. Wheyvan was still speaking, he couldn’t hear it over the ticktock of mortality’s stopwatch, booming like thunder in his ears.
“Trevor . . .” Her warm, comforting hand on his shoulder drew him back from the edge of panic. He forced himself to look up, focus on the compassionate eyes that told him he wasn’t alone.
Dr. Wheyvan had been with him since day one. Through all the tests, all the treatments, all the hopes and letdowns of desperately trying to find a match that would save his life. She’d be with him at the end, too.
“Nothing needs to be decided now,” she said, her voice soothing. “You’re still so young, and you’re as healthy as you can be, and medicine keeps advancing.”
“Thirty-nine is not that young. That’s pretty much midlife.”
“Since when are you a glass-half-empty kind of man?” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes, but he appreciated the gesture. Even so, he could only shake his head in response.
Dr. Wheyvan frowned. “You’ve got time, Trevor.”
“Not much,” he said, the words tight and threatening to choke him.
Her smile faded, and her eyes began to shine. He looked away. If she started crying, there was no way he’d be able to hold back his tears. This wasn’t new or unexpected, only a reality he’d been hoping would go away if he ignored it long enough. That if he prayed hard enough, his match in shining armor would appear, save his life, and he’d live happily ever after.
He snorted. Everyone else was out looking for his or her prince, and here he was searching for the prince’s kidney.
“None of us know how much time we have left—a week, a year, ten years. All we can do is make the most of what we’ve got right now,” she said quietly. “And right now, I want you to go home and enjoy the holidays with your family and friends.”
With a nod, Trevor stood and pulled her into a brief hug. “Merry Christmas,” he choked out, and then spun on his heel, exiting her office without looking back.
Five minutes later, he stood outside the doctor’s office, zipped up his jacket, and turned his face to the pale-gray Boulder skies. Light snowflakes brushed over his exposed skin like feathers, falling in a lazy dance until they came to rest, quiet and gentle, at his feet. Would this be his last winter? His last Christmas?
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about “putting his affairs in order” before he reached forty. He should be sharing his life with a handsome, charming man and thinking about settling down now that marriage equality had finally become the law of the land, not contemplating how he wanted to die.
A familiar chime drew his thoughts from the mental wishing well, and he pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Closing his eyes, he took a second to gather himself before swiping his thumb over the screen to accept the call.
“Hey, Mom,” he said, grateful he’d managed a cheerful tone. Shoving his free hand in his pocket, he turned and began walking to the parking lot, puffy clouds formed by his breath leading the way.
“Mi cariño. How did things go with your doctor today?” The subtle lift of hope in her voice poked at his heart. She’d stopped asking if they’d found a donor a couple of years before, but she couldn’t completely tamp down her unwavering hope. He’d lost track of how many times they’d held each other while she’d cried, helpless and angry that she couldn’t save her son from this. But very few people could, and of those, even fewer were willing.
“Good,” he said, hoping to blame the tightness in his voice on the cold air pricking at his skin and freezing his eyelashes. “Nothing new. Nothing that can’t wait to tell you in person.”
Nothing he wanted to voice over the phone right now—or could voice. The news was banging around inside his head in such a chaotic fashion that he couldn’t even begin to articulate it.
Her brief pause told him she was fighting the urge to demand he tell her right now. She usually pressed when she knew he—or anyone in his family, really—was holding something back, but she also knew when to let things go.
“I saw on the news that there’s a blizzard warning there,” she said instead, and he sent a silent thank-you to the universe. “They’ve already started canceling some flights into Denver. I want you to catch an earlier flight before they shut the airport down.”
“Okay, but I need to get to my treatment right now. I’ll call and check right after.” Reaching his car, he pulled the keys from his pocket, unlocked the door, and climbed inside, immediately turning over the engine and cranking the heat. “But you know we’re built for snow here. It’ll be fine.”
She huffed. “Nothing is built to withstand Mother Nature in a snit. Call me when you have your new arrival time, and we’ll see you at the airport.”
Trevor had to smile. His mom refused to take no for answer, no matter who or what dared to stand in her way. “I will.”
“Do it now, right after you hang up.”
“Yes, Mom.”
She laughed, and he surprised himself by joining in, halfhearted as it felt to him. But as long as she didn’t pick up on it, he could get through the rest of the long day ahead. He was going to have to talk to her and the rest of his family about what options he had, limited as they were, but that conversation could wait until after the holidays. Maybe if he put it off long enough, it would just go away. He could stick his head in the sand and pretend he was perfectly healthy, pretend his kidneys were miraculously getting better rather than worse. That he had years and years ahead of him, that he’d see his nieces and nephews grow up, that he’d find his soul mate . . . that he wasn’t facing the decision of dying comfortably on his own terms now, having lived a good life, or dying later, after his body deteriorated to the point that he simply existed in painful misery until his inevitable end.
“I love you, mijo,” his mom cut in to his thoughts, as if knowing he’d slipped down the path to Maudlinville.
“All we have is today,” she’d told him time and again. “Live it.”
He still had now, he reminded himself. Tomorrow he could think about how many “nows” were left.
“I love you, too. See you tonight.”
He put his phone away, grabbed his snow scraper, and got back out to clear off the windshield. Only then did he notice how much snow had accumulated during the hour of his appointment. Quarter-sized flakes were falling at a steady pace, the sky a solid off-white slate, and a good four inches of fresh powder already covered the roof of his car. If it kept up, he might not make it to the airport at all, let alone have to worry about canceled flights. Luckily, he’d already packed, so he wouldn’t have to run back home up the mountain after his treatment. At least there was one good thing about this day.
“Come on, Prince Charming,” he said aloud, his breath bursting into the air on tiny white clouds. “All I need is one of your kidneys. Just one.”
“I know this is hard, Trevor,” Dr. Wheyvan said. She gave him a tight smile, then turned to rummage through a cabinet drawer behind her desk.
Trevor took a deep breath and stared up at the human anatomy poster on the wall. How many times had he sat right here, studying that poster while waiting for Dr. Wheyvan to come into her office? Every time hoping she had good news for him. Every time leaving with an increased sense of time running out as the fringes of his optimism grew a little darker.
“We can’t give up hope yet,” she said, spinning back in her chair, a sad smile on her lined face. She held out a pamphlet. “But the reality is such that you should be prepared.”
He took it from her and sighed. Gold letters on a blue background read, Deciding to Stop Dialysis. What You Can Expect. His throat tightened and the letters began to blur. He inhaled the stale, sterile air that seemed universal to doctors’ offices and held his breath, fighting back tears that no longer had the right to run down his cheeks.
It was always going to come to this, wasn’t it? He’d already used more than his fair share of life’s allotted good luck.
Seven years he’d been on dialysis waiting for a kidney transplant. Seven years he’d been trying to keep hope alive and shiny. Seven years he’d been fighting something he could only slow down.
He nodded. “You told me from the beginning that it would be a long shot because of my blood type.”
“A long shot is still a shot,” she said.
But long shots were finite, and ready or not, he could feel his coming to an end.
“If I decide to go off dialysis . . .” He swallowed with difficulty. “How much time am I looking at?”
“It depends on several factors—age, lifestyle, ESRD complications that arise, et cetera. You’ve always taken very good care of yourself, so you may have more time than others.” She studied him for a second, and he knew he wasn’t going to like what she was about to say. “Generally anywhere from four days to, at most, two weeks.”
Four to fourteen days? His throat closed, vision narrowing in on the pamphlet in his hand, yet he couldn’t see it.
He didn’t look up. “And if I stay on it?”
“If a transplant doesn’t come through in the next six months . . . Maybe a year.”
The gut punch stole his breath, and a cold chill spread over his skin. If Dr. Wheyvan was still speaking, he couldn’t hear it over the ticktock of mortality’s stopwatch, booming like thunder in his ears.
“Trevor . . .” Her warm, comforting hand on his shoulder drew him back from the edge of panic. He forced himself to look up, focus on the compassionate eyes that told him he wasn’t alone.
Dr. Wheyvan had been with him since day one. Through all the tests, all the treatments, all the hopes and letdowns of desperately trying to find a match that would save his life. She’d be with him at the end, too.
“Nothing needs to be decided now,” she said, her voice soothing. “You’re still so young, and you’re as healthy as you can be, and medicine keeps advancing.”
“Thirty-nine is not that young. That’s pretty much midlife.”
“Since when are you a glass-half-empty kind of man?” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes, but he appreciated the gesture. Even so, he could only shake his head in response.
Dr. Wheyvan frowned. “You’ve got time, Trevor.”
“Not much,” he said, the words tight and threatening to choke him.
Her smile faded, and her eyes began to shine. He looked away. If she started crying, there was no way he’d be able to hold back his tears. This wasn’t new or unexpected, only a reality he’d been hoping would go away if he ignored it long enough. That if he prayed hard enough, his match in shining armor would appear, save his life, and he’d live happily ever after.
He snorted. Everyone else was out looking for his or her prince, and here he was searching for the prince’s kidney.
“None of us know how much time we have left—a week, a year, ten years. All we can do is make the most of what we’ve got right now,” she said quietly. “And right now, I want you to go home and enjoy the holidays with your family and friends.”
With a nod, Trevor stood and pulled her into a brief hug. “Merry Christmas,” he choked out, and then spun on his heel, exiting her office without looking back.
Five minutes later, he stood outside the doctor’s office, zipped up his jacket, and turned his face to the pale-gray Boulder skies. Light snowflakes brushed over his exposed skin like feathers, falling in a lazy dance until they came to rest, quiet and gentle, at his feet. Would this be his last winter? His last Christmas?
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about “putting his affairs in order” before he reached forty. He should be sharing his life with a handsome, charming man and thinking about settling down now that marriage equality had finally become the law of the land, not contemplating how he wanted to die.
A familiar chime drew his thoughts from the mental wishing well, and he pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Closing his eyes, he took a second to gather himself before swiping his thumb over the screen to accept the call.
“Hey, Mom,” he said, grateful he’d managed a cheerful tone. Shoving his free hand in his pocket, he turned and began walking to the parking lot, puffy clouds formed by his breath leading the way.
“Mi cariño. How did things go with your doctor today?” The subtle lift of hope in her voice poked at his heart. She’d stopped asking if they’d found a donor a couple of years before, but she couldn’t completely tamp down her unwavering hope. He’d lost track of how many times they’d held each other while she’d cried, helpless and angry that she couldn’t save her son from this. But very few people could, and of those, even fewer were willing.
“Good,” he said, hoping to blame the tightness in his voice on the cold air pricking at his skin and freezing his eyelashes. “Nothing new. Nothing that can’t wait to tell you in person.”
Nothing he wanted to voice over the phone right now—or could voice. The news was banging around inside his head in such a chaotic fashion that he couldn’t even begin to articulate it.
Her brief pause told him she was fighting the urge to demand he tell her right now. She usually pressed when she knew he—or anyone in his family, really—was holding something back, but she also knew when to let things go.
“I saw on the news that there’s a blizzard warning there,” she said instead, and he sent a silent thank-you to the universe. “They’ve already started canceling some flights into Denver. I want you to catch an earlier flight before they shut the airport down.”
“Okay, but I need to get to my treatment right now. I’ll call and check right after.” Reaching his car, he pulled the keys from his pocket, unlocked the door, and climbed inside, immediately turning over the engine and cranking the heat. “But you know we’re built for snow here. It’ll be fine.”
She huffed. “Nothing is built to withstand Mother Nature in a snit. Call me when you have your new arrival time, and we’ll see you at the airport.”
Trevor had to smile. His mom refused to take no for answer, no matter who or what dared to stand in her way. “I will.”
“Do it now, right after you hang up.”
“Yes, Mom.”
She laughed, and he surprised himself by joining in, halfhearted as it felt to him. But as long as she didn’t pick up on it, he could get through the rest of the long day ahead. He was going to have to talk to her and the rest of his family about what options he had, limited as they were, but that conversation could wait until after the holidays. Maybe if he put it off long enough, it would just go away. He could stick his head in the sand and pretend he was perfectly healthy, pretend his kidneys were miraculously getting better rather than worse. That he had years and years ahead of him, that he’d see his nieces and nephews grow up, that he’d find his soul mate . . . that he wasn’t facing the decision of dying comfortably on his own terms now, having lived a good life, or dying later, after his body deteriorated to the point that he simply existed in painful misery until his inevitable end.
“I love you, mijo,” his mom cut in to his thoughts, as if knowing he’d slipped down the path to Maudlinville.
“All we have is today,” she’d told him time and again. “Live it.”
He still had now, he reminded himself. Tomorrow he could think about how many “nows” were left.
“I love you, too. See you tonight.”
He put his phone away, grabbed his snow scraper, and got back out to clear off the windshield. Only then did he notice how much snow had accumulated during the hour of his appointment. Quarter-sized flakes were falling at a steady pace, the sky a solid off-white slate, and a good four inches of fresh powder already covered the roof of his car. If it kept up, he might not make it to the airport at all, let alone have to worry about canceled flights. Luckily, he’d already packed, so he wouldn’t have to run back home up the mountain after his treatment. At least there was one good thing about this day.
“Come on, Prince Charming,” he said aloud, his breath bursting into the air on tiny white clouds. “All I need is one of your kidneys. Just one.”
Krampus Hates Christmas by Andi Van
Chapter 1
“THAT’S SUCH bullshit,” Karl snarled to his brother as they stomped out of the council’s meeting room. “The same old fucking excuses every single year.” His hooves crashed against the marble floor with a resounding boom, and the dwarfs who were escorting them had to dodge out of the way before they become a gooey mess under the force of Karl’s steps. They glared at him, but he returned the glare with one of his own, and the dwarfs paled. It was something about the horns, he guessed. Or maybe the pointy teeth. Or just the fact that he was three times their height and could turn them into tomato paste on the hard floor.
“It’s not a big deal,” Nicholas said. “I’ve done this for how many centuries?”
Karl came to a screeching halt and turned his glare to his brother. “That’s not the point,” he rumbled, poking his brother in the chest, though he was careful to do it gently, despite his anger. “You shouldn’t be doing it at all. Hell, it works perfectly for us in the few parts of Europe they let me assist with. Why shouldn’t Krampus be able to help out jolly old Saint Nicholas in the United States too?”
Nicholas let out a mournful sigh, shook his head, and turned the full force of his disappointed gaze on his brother. Karl tried not to wince, but it was hard. He hated disappointing Nick.
“You know why,” his brother said. “You hate Christmas. You need to find your holiday spirit before they’ll ever let you help me.”
“Why are they even on the council instead of you?” Karl asked, his voice growing in volume in the hope that the puffed-up idiots in the other room would hear him. “They’ve left you all the damn heavy work. With every year you’re the one with more and more responsibilities. That damn rabbit doesn’t have to judge good or bad. He just drops off eggs and candy and hops away, no matter what kind of brats are on his list. Halloween’s become a night to cause trouble and get hyped up on sugar instead of a time to celebrate the thinning of the veil. But you? Oh no, you get to judge every single child who celebrates Christmas before going out of your way to make them happy. And even when you do, half the time those ungrateful kids whine about how you didn’t give them a damn pony. At least where I get to help you, the kids are afraid if they aren’t good, I’ll take their presents away.”
Nicholas rubbed his face and then dropped his hand to his side. “We’ve been over this,” he said softly. “You’ll get your chance.”
“It’s not about me, Nick,” Karl protested, his voice booming with his anger.
“I’m going home,” his brother said. “We’re not having this discussion again.”
“Nick,” Karl growled, but he stopped when Nicholas looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Fine,” he grumbled. “Tell that diva you married that I said hello.”
Karl was pleased to see Nick’s expression soften, and his brother nodded. “I will. I’ll call you later.”
Karl nodded and waited until his brother and his escorts were out of earshot and then turned around to look at the dwarfs who were still waiting to kick him out. He gave them a toothy grin, leaned down, and roared so loudly that half of them toppled over. The other half ran for it, and there was an odor that followed them out that suggested at least one of them had soiled themself. With a snicker Karl spun around and stomped toward the exit.
KARL HAD anticipated stewing in his rage alone. Instead a short blond with a bubbly personality was sitting in his living room when he got home. “What are you doing here, Noel? Nick’s on his way home. He’s not with me.” Karl thought about it for a second and then snorted. “I’ll be lucky if he wants to be anywhere near me by the time Christmas rolls around.”
“You really need to stop pissing off your brother, babydoll,” Noel said with a sigh. “You know how stubborn he gets when he’s mad.”
With a thump Karl sat down on the other end of his couch. The springs squeaked alarmingly as his considerable bulk landed on the plush surface. One day he’d break the damn thing.
“I hate that they do this to him,” Karl said softly. “I hate it so much.”
“So do I,” Noel said, his baby face out of place with the serious expression he leveled at Karl. “But I don’t have the power to change that. You do.”
“Not if the council won’t let me,” Karl grunted, crossing his furry arms in front of his chest. “Such bullshit.”
“They have a point,” Noel said and shrugged when Karl growled at him. “It’s a major holiday. You can’t go into it hating it, even if you’re telling them to basically put you in place as the bad cop. You have to love the holiday, because you’re basically defending it.”
Karl snorted. “That’s me, the Advent Avenger. Do I get a costume too?”
“Over that fur?” Noel asked, giving him a once-over. “I don’t think so. You’d look like a sheepdog wearing a Speedo.”
“Nah,” Karl said. He grinned as his anger finally started to lose its grip. “Don’t have the ears for it, and sheepdogs don’t tend to have horns.”
“They also don’t tend to be as adorable,” Noel added, leaning closer to give him a buss on the cheek before he stood. “I’m going to make you some tea, and we’re going to talk about your need to fall in love with Christmas again.”
“Not happening,” Karl grumbled. He glared at Noel’s back as his brother-in-law made his way to the kitchen.
“Do you want the council to listen to you?” Noel called from the other room. “Because that’s the only way it’s going to happen. Maybe you should consider spending the next few months in normal society. Hang out with some everyday people instead of spending all your time holed up with Santa and his minions.”
“Why on earth would I want to do that? It’s September. I’m not spending three months with the humans. I’d scare anyone who saw me, and where the hell would I stay anyway?”
“I still own that apartment building in Santa Barbara, babydoll,” Noel said as he returned with a steaming mug. “There’s got to be a vacancy or two. We could get you set up in one of those apartments. It’s right by the sea, remember? You’d enjoy it.”
Karl grunted, held his arms out to his sides, and shook them a little to make the long strands of fur shimmy. “Right, because no one would notice that I could be an extra from Monsters, Inc.”
“I love that movie,” Noel gushed as he set the mug on the coffee table in front of Karl. “You have no idea how hard it was for me to not call you ‘Kitty’ after I saw it the first time.”
“Don’t even think about it,” Karl said firmly.
“Too late. You’re lucky I declined to take it any further than thought,” Noel countered cheerfully. “Seriously, though, you should let me set you up for a few months so you can see how humanity gets ready for the holidays. It might change your mind.”
“Yeah, because Black Friday is really going to make me think the best of humanity,” Karl snorted as he picked up the tea. “Somehow I don’t think hearing stories about people getting trampled as they do battle to secure the last ‘Throw Me In The Closet And Forget About Me The Week After Christmas’ Elmo.”
Noel burst into laughter and actually snorted as he tried to take a breath. That just set him off more, and Karl began to worry if his brother-in-law was going to pass out from lack of oxygen.
“It wasn’t that funny.”
“Oh God,” Noel wheezed. “Yes. Yes, it was. I hate those damn dolls.” He finally managed to contain his giggles and eyed Karl as he drank his tea. “Your brother was in so much trouble after he introduced that idea to the manufacturer.”
“I remember,” Karl said. “He slept on the couch for a while.”
“A week,” Noel said. “I finally gave in because I have a hell of a time sleeping without him.”
“More than I want to know,” Karl mumbled. He frowned when he had trouble making his mouth work right. “What the hell?”
Noel simply reached over, plucked the mug out of Karl’s hands, and set it on the coffee table as he continued to smile.
“You drugged me?” Karl tried to ask, though it came out sounding more like the sound a lazy cat might make when someone tried to wake it up. “What the hell, Noel?”
Noel patted Karl on the arm. “You’ll thank me for this later.”
As the room grew dark around him, Karl had his doubts about that.
WAKING WAS a painful process, especially given the sandpaper grinding merrily against Karl’s eyeballs. Or maybe his eyes were just really dry, but it was hard to tell as he clawed his way back to consciousness. When he was finally able to force his lids open, he had to blink away the tears that immediately tried to do something about the fact that someone had obviously stored his baby blues in a container of salt while he was passed out. It took a while before he could actually see anything, but when his vision cleared, he groaned loudly. He was most certainly not in his home. He was in an apartment, and he could guess who had left him there.
“Noel!”
There was no answer. Karl growled as he sat up. His fury was growing rapidly over the fact that his brother-in-law would have forced him there in the first place, but leaving him by himself was even worse. When he got his hands on the little brat….
He stopped his mental rant when he looked at said hands, blinked some more, and wondered if his eyes were still out of sorts. His hands had no fur on them. They were still large, but they were largely hairless, and his claws were now well-manicured fingernails. Biting back a crushing wave of panic, he peered down at his legs.
His beautiful hooves were gone, replaced with all-too-human feet. He wiggled his toes and just barely managed to hold back a shriek of horror. Krampus shouldn’t even have toes, let alone ones that wiggled like that. It was disturbing.
With a sense of dread, he lifted his naked, trembling hands to the top of his head and nearly wept when he confirmed that his long curved horns were missing too. At least he wasn’t bald, but what was atop his head was ordinary hair, not the long, plush fur he was used to.
He was trembling in a fetal position when he heard a phone ring. He lifted his face from where it was tucked against his knees. His gaze eventually fell on the cell phone that had been left on a table within arm’s reach.
He managed to grab hold of it, despite the quaking of his hands, and answered it. “Hello?”
The voice that responded was familiar, if far more sad than he’d ever heard it before. “I’m sorry,” Noel said softly.
“Why?” Karl asked, doing his best to hide the fact that he was being completely decimated by panic and was trying not to cry. Krampus didn’t cry, dammit. Except he wasn’t Krampus anymore, was he? “Why would you do this to me? Is this revenge because I keep failing Nick?”
“What?” Noel sounded shocked, which made the panic seizing Karl’s heart let up enough to allow him to breathe a little better. “What are you talking about?”
“You made me human,” Karl croaked. “I’m human. I’m not Krampus anymore. It’s like why diets never work on Nick because he holds the title of Santa Claus. If they did, he wouldn’t be Santa Claus.”
“Oh, babydoll,” Noel said with a long sigh. “No, you’re still Krampus, honey. It’s an illusion.”
Karl let out a short sob of relief and wiped at his eyes.
“Look,” Noel continued. “I don’t think you’ve failed Nick. I’ve never thought that, and neither has he. But I’m really worried about his mental health. The naughty list gets longer every year, and it’s really hurting him. You know how much it bothers him to have to deal with the bad kids.”
“Yeah,” Karl admitted and rubbed a hand over his face. He was surprised to discover that he still had a beard, but the hair had an awful, rough texture that made him cringe a little. He missed his fur. “I’ve been worried about the same thing.”
“Right. So I’ve set you up in one of the apartments until the evening of December 5th.”
“Krampusnacht,” Karl whispered.
“Exactly. I’m nowhere near strong enough to keep you hidden from your own celebration, even if it’s not exactly a popular holiday. I’ve left you an ID, banking information, and even a closet full of clothes that will fit your hulking body. You’ll have everything you need to be comfortable, but I’m not bringing you home until Krampusnacht. Find your holiday spirit, Karl. Please. For Nick.”
“And if I can’t?” Karl asked as the panic crept up on him again.
There was a long moment of silence before Noel answered. “You have to.”
Seeking Warmth by Brigham Vaughn
People hurried past Benny Fuller without seeing him. They were bundled up warmly against the snow, clutching their holiday shopping bags and packages. They were too intent on their destination to see the kid they pushed past. Now that the sun was going down, the crowds were beginning to thin. The wind picked up and the fat, fluffy snowflakes grew smaller and sharper. They stung his cheeks and made his hands ache. It had been early spring when he went into juvie. He’d had a hat stuffed in his old, beat up Army-style jacket but no gloves.
When the caseworker picked him up at the juvenile detention center and drove him to a foster home, she frowned at his bare hands. She said something about making sure he had a pair of gloves—and a warmer coat and boots—but she got a phone call a few minutes later and apparently forgot. He hadn’t said anything to the foster care lady about it either. So now the slushy snow soaked into his shoes as he walked and he still had no gloves or winter coat. He’d have to make do. But that was nothing new for him, was it? Benny had been doing that for a while now.
He kicked at a piece of torn, soggy cardboard on the sidewalk as he passed it. It did nothing to relieve the gnawing hunger in his stomach or the cold air that crept down the collar of his jacket and numbed his fingers.
It was satisfying though. Something to do to let out all of the frustration and fear boiling inside of him. His job search had amounted to nothing. Everything amounted to nothing. There were no opportunities for kids like him.
He’d been wandering the city for a week. Ever since he left the foster home they placed him in. It hadn’t seemed bad at first. It was clean and there were only two other kids there, both younger. But one of them was a nightmare. Benny had never seen anything like it. The boy screamed and tried to hit the little girl all the time. The foster mother did nothing to stop it. The little girl had bruises on her arms and legs from the boy and it made Benny sick to watch it happen. Within the first day Benny was there, the boy bit Benny hard enough to draw blood, but Benny was the one who got yelled at by the foster mother for provoking him. Benny hadn’t done anything but sit down next to the kid.
Benny had tried to help out, thinking maybe the woman was just overwhelmed, but she yelled at him for interfering. The day after he got there, the little girl had to go to the doctor for pinkeye. Benny was left home with the boy. It was a nightmare. After the boy screamed and hit him and acted like a little monster all day, Benny couldn’t handle it anymore. As soon as the woman got home with the girl, Benny crawled out the bedroom window and left.
He went straight to his childhood home, even though there was no one there waiting for him. He collected his car and a few belongings, but he knew he couldn’t stay or Child Protective Services would just drag him out of there and back to a foster home.
But once he left his old house, he had nowhere else to go. He had a car though, thankfully. It had sat, unused, while he was in juvie. It was still registered, thankfully, although the insurance on it had lapsed. He’d have to hope he didn’t get pulled over, or he’d be in big trouble.
With no home and no job, what else could he do now but wander? Sit in his car and feel sorry for himself? Even if he wanted to, he didn’t have any money for gas so he couldn’t do it for long. He tried to run the engine as little as possible. Just enough to keep himself from freezing to death. At least when he was up and walking, his blood was flowing.
He wasn’t warm, but at least he wasn’t dead. That was something, right?
Up ahead, a brightly-lit storefront spilled yellow light onto the snowy sidewalk. Its warmth beckoned Benny to come closer, but as he approached, he recognized the building and scowled. Sullivan’s Fine Gifts, the sign on the window read. Damn it. His wandering had taken him to the last place he should be.
Stupid. Why did I come here? He wondered. It wasn’t like he could go in and see Scott Sullivan. God, he wanted to though. Scott was the only person Benny had ever trusted. The only one who really knew him. Scott was the best thing that had ever happened to Benny. Too bad Benny was the worst thing that had ever happened to Scott.
Benny stood in front of the gift shop long enough for the snowflakes to settle on his too-thin jacket. His breath fogged the window and cold and hunger faded away as he stared into the store owned by his ex-boyfriend’s parents, mesmerized by the cheerful lights and decorations. It advertised home and family.
Warmth. Security. Love.
All the things Benny didn’t have.
When the caseworker picked him up at the juvenile detention center and drove him to a foster home, she frowned at his bare hands. She said something about making sure he had a pair of gloves—and a warmer coat and boots—but she got a phone call a few minutes later and apparently forgot. He hadn’t said anything to the foster care lady about it either. So now the slushy snow soaked into his shoes as he walked and he still had no gloves or winter coat. He’d have to make do. But that was nothing new for him, was it? Benny had been doing that for a while now.
He kicked at a piece of torn, soggy cardboard on the sidewalk as he passed it. It did nothing to relieve the gnawing hunger in his stomach or the cold air that crept down the collar of his jacket and numbed his fingers.
It was satisfying though. Something to do to let out all of the frustration and fear boiling inside of him. His job search had amounted to nothing. Everything amounted to nothing. There were no opportunities for kids like him.
He’d been wandering the city for a week. Ever since he left the foster home they placed him in. It hadn’t seemed bad at first. It was clean and there were only two other kids there, both younger. But one of them was a nightmare. Benny had never seen anything like it. The boy screamed and tried to hit the little girl all the time. The foster mother did nothing to stop it. The little girl had bruises on her arms and legs from the boy and it made Benny sick to watch it happen. Within the first day Benny was there, the boy bit Benny hard enough to draw blood, but Benny was the one who got yelled at by the foster mother for provoking him. Benny hadn’t done anything but sit down next to the kid.
Benny had tried to help out, thinking maybe the woman was just overwhelmed, but she yelled at him for interfering. The day after he got there, the little girl had to go to the doctor for pinkeye. Benny was left home with the boy. It was a nightmare. After the boy screamed and hit him and acted like a little monster all day, Benny couldn’t handle it anymore. As soon as the woman got home with the girl, Benny crawled out the bedroom window and left.
He went straight to his childhood home, even though there was no one there waiting for him. He collected his car and a few belongings, but he knew he couldn’t stay or Child Protective Services would just drag him out of there and back to a foster home.
But once he left his old house, he had nowhere else to go. He had a car though, thankfully. It had sat, unused, while he was in juvie. It was still registered, thankfully, although the insurance on it had lapsed. He’d have to hope he didn’t get pulled over, or he’d be in big trouble.
With no home and no job, what else could he do now but wander? Sit in his car and feel sorry for himself? Even if he wanted to, he didn’t have any money for gas so he couldn’t do it for long. He tried to run the engine as little as possible. Just enough to keep himself from freezing to death. At least when he was up and walking, his blood was flowing.
He wasn’t warm, but at least he wasn’t dead. That was something, right?
Up ahead, a brightly-lit storefront spilled yellow light onto the snowy sidewalk. Its warmth beckoned Benny to come closer, but as he approached, he recognized the building and scowled. Sullivan’s Fine Gifts, the sign on the window read. Damn it. His wandering had taken him to the last place he should be.
Stupid. Why did I come here? He wondered. It wasn’t like he could go in and see Scott Sullivan. God, he wanted to though. Scott was the only person Benny had ever trusted. The only one who really knew him. Scott was the best thing that had ever happened to Benny. Too bad Benny was the worst thing that had ever happened to Scott.
Benny stood in front of the gift shop long enough for the snowflakes to settle on his too-thin jacket. His breath fogged the window and cold and hunger faded away as he stared into the store owned by his ex-boyfriend’s parents, mesmerized by the cheerful lights and decorations. It advertised home and family.
Warmth. Security. Love.
All the things Benny didn’t have.
A Distant Drum by Amy Rae Durreson
1. Thursday Night
The houseboat door was stiff, the wood a little swollen with the damp and the lock hard to see in the grey winter twilight. I eventually managed to shove it open and step inside, navigating the steps down from the deck more from memory than anything else. It was cold inside, and dark, and I dropped my backpack hastily and fumbled across the well—three steps forward and a shuffle left before my knees bumped the wall, and I realised that I’d been shorter last time I came here.
The houseboat door was stiff, the wood a little swollen with the damp and the lock hard to see in the grey winter twilight. I eventually managed to shove it open and step inside, navigating the steps down from the deck more from memory than anything else. It was cold inside, and dark, and I dropped my backpack hastily and fumbled across the well—three steps forward and a shuffle left before my knees bumped the wall, and I realised that I’d been shorter last time I came here.
It still smelt the same—petrol, wood polish, and under it all the cool, faintly salty bite of the water below. Did it smell like this in summer, when the tourists came to rent it out, or was it only in winter that the old scent of the place came rising out of the woodwork? I half-expected to catch a hint of over-brewed tea, or Gabe’s roll ups.
My eyes were adjusting to the light now, and I hadn’t been far off—the mains switch was right in front of me. I reached up and flicked it on. The fridge began to hum in the galley, something groaned and stuttered in the hull, and a red light came on somewhere high on the wall of the saloon which opened from the well. I leaned back and hit the light switch by the door on the second attempt.
The saloon didn’t look the same. It was a hell of a lot cleaner than it had been when Gabe lived here, for a start. It was probably weird to feel nostalgic for overflowing ashtrays, dog-eared paperbacks, and tea-stained mugs, but I did.
Ah, fuck it, I might as well come out and admit it was Gabe I missed, the old git, and now I could spend the whole of Christmas weeping into the lining of my coat.
Partly because I wasn’t going to take said coat off until I’d got the heating going. Back when Gabe had lived here, there had been a single crappy plug-in heater which ate electricity like Gabe went through a bag of Tetley’s, but I’d signed off on the installation of a proper furnace last year, on the advice of the rental company. It would extend the season at either end, they had told me, and I’d been both too busy with work and aching from the loss of the last family member who liked me. I hadn’t wanted to deal with anything about the boat myself.
She’s got a name, numpty, Gabe grumbled in my memory. She’s a lady, and even a lad with no taste for the lasses can show her some respect.
The rental company had given her some twee name in line with their company policy—Halsham Dancer, I thought, or maybe, Halsham Dreamer. I’d never been able to keep it fixed in my head. To me she was, and would always be, Lovely Lily.
I said now, slipping back into childhood habits, “Hey, Lily, milady, help me out. Where’s your heating switch?”
The wind sighed through the reeds along the side of the creek. An owl called, long and eerie. Somewhere out in the darkness, on another boat or, more likely, in a passing car, someone had their music on loud enough that I could just hear the beat, even out here in the darkness.
I sighed and went back to get my bag. If I could get a phone signal, I could check the emails about the installation and find out where—
There was a leather folder sitting on the low bench beside my bag. Embossed letters on the front read Guest Information.
It had probably been there before. It had been dark when I’d come in, and I hadn’t been looking for it. All the same, I remembered all the stories Gabe had told me when I was a kid, and ducked my head, muttering, “Thanks, Lil.”
The switch was in the kitchen. While the boat slowly heated, I stashed the groceries I’d brought with me in the fridge—nothing but beer and service station sandwiches, in proper Gabe style—and wandered through the rest of the not-quite-familiar rooms. It was all very clean and charming, but it felt a little too sanitised to be the Lily. There was even a plaque on the wall outlining her history in an antique font—from her wherrying days on the Thames in the 1930s to her presence at Dunkirk to a mastless retirement here on the edges of Halsham Broad. Most of it was new to me, and I patted her wall fondly, feeling an odd swell of pride in the old girl. “Gabe always said you were an old trouper. Guess he was right.”
As the air warmed, I began to feel more at home. I’d never been here in the winter—even Gabe had been reluctantly dragged away to endure a family Christmas, but I’d been released to Gabe’s care every Easter and for a week every summer. I could still remember the relief of that train ride, each rattle of the tracks drawing me farther away from the boy my parents wanted me to be, until I exploded off the train at Norwich to hurl myself at Gabe and his dog—first Frodo, then Galadriel, and last of all Elrond, all of them smelly, shaggy, and of thoroughly mixed lineage, none of them allowed to visit the London-dwelling parts of the family.
It was only now that I wondered what favours Gabe had traded to get those weeks.
The darkness was different at this time of year. There was none of that lingering light that clung to a summer’s night even when the sun was down, or even the fresh vastness of a starry April night. In December, the darkness felt heavy, clustering close around her windows. I filled the kettle, put it on to boil, and then went back outside, drawn by that absolute darkness.
The air tasted so crisp and cold it stung my mouth. Looking out where I knew there was water, I could see nothing but the black depth of night. To the north, where the village of Halsham clustered around the marina, a couple of lights showed, but it was hard to tell how far away they were. Farther to the south-east, I could just see faint glimmers from the coastal village of Gorsey. The moon was the barest thin crescent, offering no light. Under my feet, the deck was already slick with frost and I couldn’t hear or feel the usual sway of the water beneath the Lily. Had the broad frozen?
The owl cried out again and I could hear that faint beat of music stripped of all its grace by distance.
I wasn’t expecting the sudden shrill of my phone, and jumped enough that I almost went skidding across the deck. I’d left it inside and rushed to get it despite the sudden clench of guilt in my gut. I should have known a hasty text message wouldn’t have been enough, and I’d been relying on the fact that I’d never known a signal at Halsham Broad before to put off what was going to be a monumental reckoning.
“Hey,” I said, closing my eyes.
“So you are alive then?” Nik snapped. “I’ve been trying to contact you for the last two hours.”
“Didn’t you get my text?”
Nik took a long breath and then let it out in one furious huff. “Yes, I got your fucking text. But for your information, needed some time—back in the New Year does not actually tell me anything useful. Like, for example, where the hell you are!”
“I’m fine.”
“Fine is not a place in England.”
“I’m sure it’s a place somewhere, though. I mean, there’s Finland and Finchley, which are both close.” I could usually get a laugh out of Nik if I babbled enough, and I didn’t want to fight. Nik wasn’t stupid. He knew why I wasn’t there.
He didn’t laugh. “Are you in Finland or Finchley?”
“No.”
He grated out, “So, where the fuck are you?”
“I’m—”
“Because you should be here, packing your bags to go to my parents for Christmas.”
“Your parents hate me.”
“Oh, for fuck’s—” He stopped himself and said, “My parents do not hate you.”
“They absolutely hate me. They think I seduced you away from being their good little heterosexual Catholic son.”
“Hate to break it to you, darling, but you were hardly my first.”
“Yeah, but I was the first one they met, right? And it was a disaster.”
“Not that much of a—”
“Disaster,” I emphasised.
Angel in a Book Shop by RJ Scott
Chapter One
I don’t often recall in detail every time I am part of a family. I remember the big events: the wars, the births, the weddings, and the deaths. That is why I am here, after all, and I write everything down as faithfully as I can. Still, time marches on so quickly and I am happy to let it pass. Until I find the man who will make me decide that time has to slow down so I can stay.
One day I will meet the person who will make me feel. He will be strong and certain and perfect for me, and I will want to ascend to become human just to be with him.
And yes, I know it is a him. I’ve always known.
* * * * *
For the longest time, Joshua Blakeman stood unmoving on the path outside the shop. People walked around him, some tutted, some brushed past like he could be pushed out of the way. Not one person stopped and asked him if he was okay. He never expected them to. He was a strange man wrapped tight in a winter coat with a beanie covering his head and a scarf obscuring his mouth, and he was blocking their way to work.
Behind him the number fifteen bus wheezed its way to a stop, and some of the people who had shoved past him now fought to get places on the bus. Josh heard no cursing or arguing; everyone found a place silently. He knew what that was like. For the past seven years, he had used his messenger bag and puffed up his five ten to intimidate and bully his way to a space in the standing-room-only spot on the Underground trains. He’d become so good at it that with judicious use of his bulky bag, he could get from Baker Street to St Paul’s in under fifteen minutes.
But that was yesterday. That was a whole lot of yesterdays. Way before his breakdown. Way before everything went to shit and he ended up here standing and staring.
This was his life now, this small rat run between the Tube and the bus at St Paul’s. No one even knew it was here, or at least no one ever stopped. There was no Starbucks, no Costa, no newspaper sellers, no history of anyone famous living in the square. There was absolutely no reason at all for a commuter to take a moment to see what was in Horus Gardens. Tourists would sometimes wander into this place, this small silent square, and sometimes, very rarely, they stayed. The green was somewhere to sit in peace before the next stage of the day. They could be going to Buckingham Palace or the Tower of London, they might have tickets for the London Eye or a cruise on the Thames. They all had purpose, and all they left here in the square was litter.
“Fuck’s sake,” someone cursed in Josh’s face as they barrelled into him. They didn’t add anything, just moved away, leaving Josh with the scent of last night’s garlic and this morning’s deodorant and aftershave.
Josh wondered how near to a breakdown that person was. Were they weeks away, hours, or had they only just sold their souls to commerce and were still fresh as a newborn?
“Sorry,” he offered, even though the person had long gone.
He didn’t move, though. He just stared at the sign in front of him, the big letters CLOSED painted in scarlet on a board covering the door, and at the swirls of white that misted the windows.
In there was everything Josh didn’t want, and everything he needed.
“Jesus Christ,” a woman snapped as she swerved to avoid him. “Bloody immigrants.” She left the scent of Chanel and the insult was a new one. Idly, he glanced down at himself. He wore a Marks and Spencer overcoat, Levi’s jeans and leather boots, and the scarf wrapped around his head was cashmere, John Lewis’s finest design. Still, he was standing here like an idiot, and that meant he was instantly labelled as whatever kind of nuisance people could think of to lay on him.
“Sorry,” another man said as he caught Josh’s knee with his briefcase. The man clearly wasn’t sorry. Josh knew that dismissive and irritable tone of voice well. He’d used it enough himself.
Finally he stepped closer, just one small move, the keys a heavy weight in his pocket. Then another step. By some miracle no one else collided with him, before finally he reached the entrance of Chapter One and the recessed door. At least in this sheltered area, the ice didn’t force itself through the wool of his coat. Here there was silence and he wasn’t going to be in everyone’s way.
He pulled the keys from his pocket and worked his way through them to find the one marked FRONT. The neat capitals in his dad’s handwriting sent a chill through his heart that wasn’t entirely due to the late October winds. Fumbling at first, he finally managed to get the key in the lock and opened the door. The jingling tone of a silver bell announced his arrival, and he had to shove hard to push an accumulation of junk mail and letters aside. Some of them looked official, but he’d already sorted the bills due online and over the phone. All of the places who dealt with the book shop had a home contact address for Josh and his mum. He could worry about the mail later.
The rush of smells hit him, the staleness of an interior that hadn’t seen daylight in nearly a year and the scent of books sitting just as the day his dad had left them. The large space was filled with bookshelves but devoid of what had given it purpose and life—his dad, Andrew Blakeman. Grief knifed Josh hard, and he stood still as the weight of it pushed him down. At least this time he wasn’t a path-block as he stood utterly still.
The last time he’d been in there, his dad was behind the counter with his dark-framed glasses and his white gloves, and he’d been working on a new acquisition, repairing a binding so the book could be sold. Josh’s fingers twitched at the thought. He’d apprenticed with his dad for a few years, until the lure of computers dragged him away. He knew leather and panels and plates, and he could finesse his way through a discussion about gilting if he wasn’t pushed too hard with questions.
A box sat in front of the counter, piled with what looked like second-hand books, a copy of Marley & Me poking out the top. His dad always had people dropping boxes of books in, and Josh had never understood why his dad hadn’t just told them to take the boxes to a charity shop.
Because any book is precious and you never know what gem or family heirloom you may find in with the Grishams and the Kings.
Ten months since his dad had died and still the words were carved into his memory like it was yesterday.
His phone sounded in his pocket, and he stripped off his gloves and pulled it out. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t keep checking the damn thing, but even after this amount of time, he still hadn’t lost the conditioning to answer. The single word, Mum, on the screen had him nearly pocketing the damn thing again, but he couldn’t do that. She would want to know.
“Hi, Mum.”
“Joshua, sweetheart, did you make it there okay?”
Josh didn’t like to remind his mum he’d managed to get into the City safely for seven exhausting years and she hadn’t worried then. That would have earned him one of those patented Mum sighs of patience and a comment on how things had changed now. That was a can of worms he did not want to open again today.
“I’ve just got inside.”
“How does everything look? Is it okay?”
Josh checked around himself. Nothing had moved from the day his dad had died. Only he and his mum had keys, and no one else had been inside. Even the notebooks were open on the desk to orders, and a small pile of local newspapers talked about the wettest December since records began. Ten months, nearly eleven, and the place was still the same.
“It’s okay,” he summarised. “Dusty.”
“Thank you for doing this,” Mum said. “I know I’ve been in to see to the heating, but I couldn’t touch the books, his books, I just…not yet.”
“It’s fine, Mum. I’ll check the pipes, sort the post, and work my way through the list.”
“And Josh, don’t forget Phil asked for a second key. If Chapter One is sold he’ll need to let in agents and prospective purchasers.”
Josh swallowed his instinctive reply. No way in hell was he talking to Phil or giving him a key to this place. Uncle Phil, his dad’s brother, had shown an inordinate interest in this small property recently under the guise of supporting his sister-in-law. He said he only wanted to help, but Josh got a bad feeling about how much Phil was hanging around. Josh’s dad had left this place to his wife, and it would be Josh selling the shop and the inventory and making a new life for his mum. Not Uncle Moneygrubbing Phil. But the minute his mum said she wanted to sell, Phil had demanded she get in proper help.
Josh will do this for me. It will be good for us all.
Now was not the time to argue with his mum. “Okay,” he said instead.
“I hope this isn’t too much for you,” she said. The words were soft, and Josh wondered if she’d even meant to say them out loud.
“Mum, I’m fine. I’ll call you, okay?” He ended the call quickly and laid his phone on the counter. The shop was dark because of the wood nailed to the window frames, and keeping the door open for light was not going to work in this cold. He flicked a switch and the overhead lights came on. The bills were still being paid on the minimal electricity, the business rates, and water. The list was endless, especially for a business that sat idle and didn’t have a balancing income.
Cold from outside rushed in on a gust of October wind, and he pushed the door shut. Finally, when he’d turned up the heating, he was able to remove his coat and hat, then go in search of a kettle. The heating had been kept on low for the entire year, with his mum popping in every so often to check all was okay. Even now he wondered why she wasn’t there organising the stock. But she seemed to think it should be him, said he could use the time to consider what he was doing next.
And what the hell was it that he was doing next anyway? He’d never work for a financial institution again, and the thought of being one of those self-employed IT guys filled him with dread.
Focus.
He had no milk but black coffee was a possibility if there was any here. His dad had kept a small kitchen and offered browsers in the shop a choice of coffee—albeit instant—or tea. The small fridge was empty, thankfully. Josh had nightmares at the thought of what all this time would have done to any food or drink left in there.
There were sachets of coffee, and he allowed the old pipes to disgorge spluttering water at the sink until the stream was settled before he filled the kettle. With a black coffee warming him from the inside, he was more able to coherently catalogue his surroundings.
The place wasn’t damp, which was good. There was stock in there that could be rescued and sold. They wouldn’t get much for it, and a lot of the books would need to go to charity, but they could maybe recoup enough to cover the heating that would be needed to see this place through another winter.
The sign from outside the second-hand book shop lay forlorn on the floor, propped up between his dad’s small displays of periodicals and Chick Lit, and Josh crouched to inspect it. ‘Chapter One’ it read in antiquey cursive writing. It was a cool name for a book shop, even Josh had to admit that. The sign was rusting and was more than likely only fit for the garbage. He traced the metal C and moved the sign a little so that it wouldn’t press too hard into any stock that could be salvageable.
Maybe they could get something for the sign. A reclamation place or something? He’d seen stranger things happen on the TV. Someone might want it for their converted barn or some other arty farty shit he wasn’t aware of. The sign was as old as the business, and that was over a hundred years of old.
The wooden floors were dull, but a run-over with stain or something and they’d look good again. Josh added that to the list of things to do when all the bookshelves were removed. Talking of which… He examined the base of the nearest shelving system, wondering if the flooring had been put in before or after the shelves were built. The whole thing nearly reached the ceiling, but it appeared to be sitting on top of the wooden flooring, thank goodness. In fact, there was a small space under each bookshelf and a strong memory hit him.
Of him as a small boy and a Top Trumps car game and losing one of the Fiat cards under one of the behemoth units. And of his dad’s comforting voice telling him that there were plenty more game cards and that Josh should take fifty pence and go buy another set more from the newsagents next door. That singular grief hit him again. His dad had been so young to die. Only sixty-four, and with so much to look forward to.
“Everything will be okay…”
Josh looked up from the floor, startled at the words, then shook his head. There was no one there, and yet again his head was fucking with him. Voices. Now he was hearing voices. Something moved in the corner of his vision, and he stood up quickly, grabbing at shelving to steady himself. Darkness brushed over him, and he closed his eyes against the start of another headache. He was used to them now, and he waited for the pain, but there was none, only heat that made his cheeks flush and his hands tremble where they gripped the shelf for support.
This is new.
He waited until he was sure he could stand without support, then continued his investigation of the structure of the place. For the longest time, he leaned against the large oak door that led to next shop. When he was little, probably around the same time as the Top Trumps incident, he used to imagine the door led to Narnia, or somewhere else with just as many exciting adventures. As an adult he knew it was permanently locked but led to the shop on the other side. Whoever owned next door had likely bricked over it all by now, and Josh wasn’t sure why his dad and granddad had left the door this side in place. He traced some gouges in the wood. Old and worn and smooth, they formed initials and patterns that could be four hundred years old, dating back to when this row of houses and shops was first constructed in the higgledy-piggledy roads of an older London.
So much history in those marks.
Josh crossed to the cash desk and the seat behind it. Always best to find somewhere to sit so he didn’t end up on his back looking up at swirling lights, which was basically how he’d staged his dramatic exit from Swanage Brothers Investment Bank in the summer. Then again on the Tube. And again in the supermarket. Until finally they’d shoved him in a ward with wires and monitors and treated him to a lot of wagging fingers about his brain and work, with several added did he want to die like his dad?
Sitting there had him face to face with his dad’s last day. The notebook was more a diary, and one Josh was familiar with. In there was a small list, orders to dispatch, a phone number and the words “Jane Austen” next to them. Chapter One didn’t sell just books being published now, it had also had a healthy backlist of rare books that his dad delighted in finding and matching with new owners. One of the last conversations Josh had ever had with his dad was about a near perfect set of Jane Austen books that he’d found.
Josh made a mental note to check into that. Maybe Chapter One owed money somewhere, or books to someone. The notebook was as good a place to start. Taking the pen from next to the notebook, he turned the page and wrote a big TO DO at the top.
Cover artist by day, author by night, L.C. Chase is a hopeless romantic, free spirit, and adventure seeker who loves hitting the open road just to see where it takes her. When not writing sensual tales of men falling in love, she can be found designing romance novel covers, taking photos, drawing, horseback riding, or hiking the trails with her goofy four-legged roommate.
L.C. is a two-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Pickup Men and Pulling Leather; an EPIC eBook Awards winner for Pickup Men; runner-up for Best Gay Contemporary Romance and Best Gay Book in the 2016 Rainbow Awards for A Fortunate Blizzard; honorable mention for Best Gay Contemporary Romance in the 2015 Rainbow Awards for Pulling Leather; and Best Gay Mystery/Thriller in the 2012 Rainbow Awards for Riding with Heaven. She is also a nine-time Ariana eBook Cover Art Awards winner.
You can find L.C. on her website, lcchase.com, and subscribe to her totally sporadic, no spam newsletter works in progress, new releases, newsletter exclusives, and more.
Andi Van has never been one to follow the herd. A foul-mouthed oddball, they live their life based on the last piece of advice their grandmother gave them before passing away: “Mischief creates memories that we always remember, much more so than the everyday things of life.” They prefer cats to dogs, caramel to chocolate, and rum to just about anything.
Brigham Vaughn
Brigham Vaughn is on the adventure of a lifetime as a full-time writer. She devours books at an alarming rate and hasn’t let her short arms and long torso stop her from doing yoga. She makes a killer key lime pie, hates green peppers, and loves wine tasting tours. A collector of vintage Nancy Drew books and green glassware, she enjoys poking around in antique shops and refinishing thrift store furniture. An avid photographer, she dreams of traveling the world and she can’t wait to discover everything else life has to offer her.
Her books range from short stories to novellas. They explore gay, lesbian, and polyamorous romance in contemporary settings.
To stay up to date on her latest releases, sign up for the Coles & Vaughn Newsletter.
Amy Rae Durreson is a quiet Brit with a degree in early English literature, which she blames for her somewhat medieval approach to spelling, and at various times has been fluent in Latin, Old English, Ancient Greek, and Old Icelandic, though these days she mostly uses this knowledge to bore her students. Amy started her first novel a quarter of a century ago and has been scribbling away ever since. Despite these long years of experience, she has yet to master the arcane art of the semicolon. She was a winner in the 2017 Rainbow Awards.
Writing love stories with a happy ever after – cowboys, heroes, family, hockey, single dads, bodyguards
USA Today bestselling author RJ Scott has written over one hundred romance books. Emotional stories of complicated characters, cowboys, single dads, hockey players, millionaires, princes, bodyguards, Navy SEALs, soldiers, doctors, paramedics, firefighters, cops, and the men who get mixed up in their lives, always with a happy ever after.
She lives just outside London and spends every waking minute she isn’t with family either reading or writing. The last time she had a week’s break from writing, she didn’t like it one little bit, and she has yet to meet a box of chocolates she couldn’t defeat.
LC Chase
iTUNES / AUDIBLE / GOOGLE PLAY
INSTAGRAM / SMASHWORDS / B&N
EMAIL: authorlcchase@gmail.com
lcchasedesign@gmail.com(cover design)
Andi Van
Brigham Vaughn
SMASHWORDS / PINTEREST / SCRIBd / B&N
EMAIL: brighamvaughn@gmail.com
Amy Rae Durreson
Seeking Warmth by Brigham Vaughn
A Distant Drum by Amy Rae Durreson
Angel in a Book Shelf by RJ Scott
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KOBO / WEBSITE / SMASHWORDS
