Fizz the Season by Anna Martin
It was a little after two in the afternoon when the bell above the shop door tinkled to announce a new customer. Nathan glanced over at the door, then did a full double-take. The man currently storming up to his counter looked furious.
With me? Nathan thought to himself. He brushed his hands down the front of the canvas apron he wore over a white shirt and jeans.
“Hi,” the angry man bit out.
“Hello,” Nathan replied, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “Welcome to Southwark Cellars. How can I help?”
The angry man was wearing a black T-shirt and black jeans, and no jacket, despite the fact that it was December in London and it was absolutely freezing outside. His choice of clothes did show off his heavily tattooed arms, though, and the all-black look made his very blue eyes pop.
“Do you supply wholesale?”
Nathan considered that for a second. “Yes. Mostly. It depends on what you want.”
“My supplier just went out of business, it’s three weeks until Christmas, I am fully booked five nights a week with Christmas parties, and I have no fucking wine.”
“Ah,” Nathan said. If he were in the angry man’s position, he’d be angry too. “Four Seasons?”
If anything, mentioning Four Seasons seemed to make him even angrier.
“How do you know about Four Seasons?”
Nathan lifted a shoulder in an easy shrug. “I work in the wine business. When a major supplier goes into administration, we tend to hear about these things.”
They’d been gossiping about nothing else in the shop for the past two days, wondering if the news would affect them at all. Nathan hadn’t quite been expecting the impact to land on his doorstep quite so quickly.
“Yeah, well, I had an order of over three hundred bottles that was due to be delivered yesterday, and I only found out this morning that not only are they not being delivered today, they’re not being delivered at all.” He dragged his fingers through his hair, leaving it fashionably messy.
Nathan offered him a sympathetic smile. “I’m really sorry. I’m Nathan. Nathan Turner.”
“Grant Morris. Nice to meet you.”
Rowan by Colette Davison
1
DAMON
It takes me far too long to realise that the repetitive drone of my ringtone is not part of my dream. The scene of me, lounging on a sunbed, drenched in tropical sunshine, sipping a very fruity, very alcoholic cocktail, slowly transforms into a hazy view of my bedroom. My phone is still ringing —or ringing again; I can’t be sure. The sound cuts off. It’s dark outside, which means very little, as today’s the shortest day of the year. It could be three in the morning or eight. Who knows? I certainly don’t care. My bed is warm and cosy.
With a grunt, I roll over and squeeze my eyes shut, but I can’t find my way back into my dream. Like all ephemeral things, it’s gone, never to be experienced again. My phone rings. I grab a spare pillow and press it over my head to drown out the noise. It stops after a dozen rings and then starts again moments later. Who the fuck is trying to get hold of me at whatever time it is? I don’t need to be anywhere today.
I push the pillow aside and reach for my phone. It stops ringing. I have six missed calls from my older brother, Nigel. Before I can press to call him, he rings again. I answer, roll onto my back, put the phone on speaker, and rest it on my chest.
“What?” I demand.
“Someone’s grumpy this morning.”
I grunt a response.
“I need you to hold down the fort.”
“What fort?”
“At Elevated.”
I wipe the sleep dust from my eyes. “I’m on holiday.”
“Not anymore, you’re not. I need you to make sure everything runs smoothly. Oh, and you’ll need to go to the charity ball.”
“You’re the boss.”
“For the next few days, you are.”
I can’t be properly awake. Is this a nightmare? “Why? You’re the boss.”
“I’m going on holiday.”
“No, I’m on holiday.”
“No, you’re bumming around in your apartment, doing nothing, and going nowhere.”
Exactly. I’m on holiday.
“I’m saving you from your grumpy self by sending you into the office, to be me for a few days, while I go and enjoy a tropical Christmas.”
I sit up and check the clock. It’s seven. I realise there’s a lot of noise in the background of the call. “Where are you?”
“At the airport. I got a great last-minute deal. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”
I clench my teeth. “I do mind.”
“Aww, don’t be like that. Anyway, I’ve got to go. My flight is boarding. I know I can count on you.” He hangs up.
Well, fuck. He always does this to me. I can’t exactly say ‘no’ when he’s about to step on a plane. Well, I can, but someone’s got to be in charge. I hate this time of year, when customers suddenly realise they haven’t got a gift and place a last-minute order that they’re relying on us to get to them before Christmas, despite the chaos of the postal system at this time of year. Not to mention Nigel has the design team hard at work on packaging and advertising for the new line he wants to release in the New Year. Initially, it was February, but he decided a week ago that a New Year’s Day announcement would be better. My brother is the king of last-minute decisions and goalpost changes.
None of this was supposed to be my problem. I booked time off around Christmas to avoid the stress and festive songs on loop. Now, not only will I have to suffer the far too cheerful jingly jangly songs, but I’ll also be the one whose fault it is if anything goes wrong. Fan-fucking-tastic.
My phone beeps, telling me I have a text message.
Nigel: Don’t forget your costume!
Damon: What costume?
Nigel: For the charity ball. Have fun.
I’d reply, but there’s no point. The cabin crew will be telling everyone to turn their phones off any moment now.
I check the work calendar. The charity ball is tomorrow night in the arse end of nowhere. The costume theme is A Christmas Carol. At least I know who I’m going to dress up as. Scrooge. But where the hell am I going to get a costume at such short notice? If only I had a PA who could do that shit for me, but Nigel decided we didn’t need a PA. A driver, yes. A PA? Waste of money. Fuck Nigel.
So much for lying in this morning. I drag myself out of bed and through the shower, then make the mistake of putting the radio on to listen to the news over breakfast. I’m assaulted by ‘Last Christmas’ by Wham, which would have thrown me straight into Whamhalla if I played that game. I don’t, Nigel does, as do half the staff who work at Elevated. As a result, it’s banned from the Christmas mix that Nigel insists on playing throughout December. He jokingly refers to Elevated as a ‘safe zone’. The first thing I’m going to do when I get to the office this morning is change the damn music.
Eventually, the news does come on. First national, and then local. Train delays and rain. What a fabulous combination. Why did my brother decide to locate Elevated in central London? It would be far cheaper to have premises in the commuter belt.
My waterproof jacket keeps my top half dry on the walk to the tube station, but my trousers get splashed by passing cars whose drivers refuse to avoid the puddles near the gutters. By the time I’m on the platform, my lower legs are cold and damp, and my mood has nosedived even further. I want to go back to bed. I should have flown off to sunnier climes rather than planning a relaxing staycation. Nigel wouldn’t have been able to dump all his responsibilities on me if I were in another country. But I’m not.
The plus side of living near the start of a route is that the train isn’t too crowded to get a seat. By the time we’re nearing zone 1, it’s a very different story. We’re packed in like sardines, and I’ve given up my seat to a heavily pregnant woman. Luckily, I’m tall, so I don’t have my nose stuck in someone’s armpit.
Two tube changes later, and I’m heading towards the surface and the short walk to the redbrick building Elevated is in. It used to be a Victorian workhouse, so it has tall ceilings and huge windows. All the manufacturing is outsourced, so we only have the design, customer services, and fulfilment teams to house—oh, and stock. Nigel rented the entire first floor, a vast open-plan space he separated into zones. One end is partitioned off to house the toilets, stock room, and Nigel’s office, which will be my office while he’s away.
Impatient drivers honking their horns pack the roads. The pavements are full of people who look as thrilled as I am to be heading to work this close to Christmas. Twins pull an exhausted-looking woman along towards the tube station, while they chatter about what they hope to find in Hamley’s. Why they’re racing to a toy store that isn’t even open yet is beyond me. I pass by a man sleeping in a navy-blue sleeping bag in a doorway. He’ll get chased off by the store owner soon. I pause long enough to press a ten-pound note into his hand.
Then I’m entering the lobby and reception area, which is shared by all the businesses in the building. Abbey, the receptionist we all contribute to hiring, gives me a puzzled look.
“I thought you weren’t in until after Christmas.”
“I wasn’t supposed to be, but Nigel had other ideas.”
She arches a plucked eyebrow. “Oh, well, it’s good to see you.”
I doubt that, especially as I must have a face like a thundercloud right now.
I use the stairs, rather than the lift, and go to the first floor. Elevated’s logo—an aubergine pointing upwards—hangs above the entrance to our section of the building, leaving no doubt as to the nature of the business—sex toys.
I unlock the door and stride straight to Nigel’s office. My office. For now. I have to get my head around how many orders we need to fulfil versus how many fulfilment staff we have, given how close to Christmas it is. Once I’m sure we’re going to cope and not break any promises, I’ll need to find a costume for the charity ball. With any luck, I’ll be the only man in the whole of London who wants to dress up as Scrooge tomorrow night.
Like a Charm by Jordan Castillo Price
ROWAN
“Rowan, is that you?” Gran’s voice rang through the house, strong and clear. Most grandmas you see on TV are white-haired, kindly old ladies who play bridge and bake pies. But not her.
My Gran was an enchanter. A modern-day witch.
She bustled out from her workshop in a well-worn leather apron covered with pockets and pouches where she kept the tools of her trade close at hand. Her steel gray short-cropped hair was streaked with purple, and it stood on end where she’d run an impatient hand through it while mixing her spells. “Make a little noise next time, will you?” she chided. “If it weren’t for that creaky door….”
“I texted that I was coming.”
She cut her eyes to the phone across the room in its charger, ignored. “I know you’re proud of your talent, but you take things too far.”
Whereas Gran needed herbs and tinctures to work her magic, all I had to do was think—and my specialty was fading into the background. It’s not as useless as it might sound. I’d make a great diamond thief, for instance. Or a stellar peeping Tom. But since I was too nice to go for either of those things, I’d cultivated a sideline as an assistant exam proctor. When I wasn’t helping her inventory trinkets or ship out orders, anyhow.
Gran wasn’t wrong, though. Sometimes I did feel a little too invisible. Especially with another Yule on the horizon with no boyfriend to snuggle in front of the fire.
“Come on, then,” Gran said, “into the workshop with you. My stock won’t rotate itself.” Twice a year, I helped Gran reshuffle her groaning shelves of ingredients, perched up high on a precarious stepladder that was supposedly warded from tipping over…though I suspected she just said that, given the piece of cardboard shoved under the short leg.
It was a grueling afternoon of shifting and wobbling that ended with a cramp in my shoulder and cobwebs in my hair. But she was my Gran—and the only other one in my family with talent. So, though she was loud and outspoken where I was quiet and shy, we had a special bond, Gran and me.
Though that special bond gave her license to ask some pretty uncomfortable questions.
“Well, then. Given that hangdog look on your face and the fact that you haven’t said anything about bringing a plus-one to the Yuletide feast, I’ll take it to mean you’re still single. Some people are true introverts, and they thrive on that kind of thing. But I know how you are—too much time by yourself, getting all up in your own head—it just makes you miserable. You may be quiet, Rowan, and you may be shy. But too much alone time is doing you no favors at all!”
I sighed. “Everyone says to fake it till you make it. Maybe I could pretend to be more outgoing, but in the long run, it won’t do me much good. Believe me, I’ve tried. The minute I start acting like myself, anyone who’s attracted to the ‘fun’ me loses interest.”
“Pah! You don’t need to be fun. You’re good and kind and patient. Not to mention you have phenomenal eyelashes. You got those from me.” Gran fluttered her patently fake lashes. “By the way, you’re welcome. Now, why don’t you open your present early? Just a little something I whipped up. It might help ease you into the spirit of the season.”
I scanned her workbench, eyes stopping on the heavy box of rose quartz she bought in bulk. The stone was ubiquitous in love charms—one of her specialties. Gran hadn’t gone and crafted me a love charm, had she? She saw nothing wrong with providing that initial spark of attraction to her customers, but the idea of using magic for something like that has never sat well with me. How could I ever trust a relationship that started with magical coercion? It would feel like it was built on a lie.
“That’s okay,” I said quickly. “I can wait till Solstice—”
“Nonsense. If I gave it to you in front of the rest of the family, they’d all be jealous.” She shoved a box into my hands, then jabbed a finger at the card tucked under the ribbon. “Besides…this invitation won’t be any good to you once the party’s over.”
“Wait, what party?”
My Christmas Reindeer by Wendy Rathbone
1
FALLON
“Fallon, break’s over. We need you in the doll room.”
I looked up from my laptop, eyes blurred from my concentrated focus. “Already?”
“It’s been over half an hour.”
Mom was strict about work. We had deadlines. Things always got chaotic and rushed in the fall. Christmas was on its way. Toys needed to be finished, inventoried and packed. Santa often dropped by for unscheduled inspections. Everyone was on edge.
Elves thrived on the work. The pay was high. Elven culture was built on the great Santa Claus’s massive yearly toy order. No one knew how he paid for it all, but he gave away the toys for free. Every year he ordered more and more toys from the workshop, and every year he paid all the workers’ salaries on time along with end of the year bonuses.
Mom was the boss at home and at work. For me, it could be overwhelming at a job I didn’t love.
First of all, I wasn’t an elf. I was an adopted reindeer shifter. As an infant, I was found abandoned in a snowdrift and rescued by Mom. She loved to tell the story of how I almost froze to death until she picked me up and took me home to join my elven brothers and sisters by their warm fire. I’d cried a lot at first, she said, but soon settled in. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t an elf. I was a living being who needed love and care. Mom often made sure to remind me I was loved as much as any of her other children. Still, I always felt different, apart from the crowd.
Second, I had an aptitude for math and physics, not toymaking, and that was the path I hoped to follow.
Even though making toys wasn’t the career I wanted, I loved Mom and wanted to make her happy. But going into the family business was not the future I saw for myself.
I studied every spare chance I got. Mom knew I took online classes. She noticed everything. She would always say, “You’re my smart one, aren’t you?” But she would never discuss with me where it might lead. It was expected that I would stay at the workshop like most good elves. And as for my shifter needs? I was expected to take care of that stuff on my own, including the embarrassing fact that I couldn’t fly.
During my break today, it seemed as if no time had passed since I sat down to study yet another text on quantum theory. I glanced around the break room, reorienting myself while Mom waited on me. A fire burned in a huge hearth. I sat on an old soft couch, pillows at my back, my computer glowing. I still had half my snack left, a sugary donut covered in pink icing.
I looked up at her eager face.
“I need five more minutes.”
“We’re backed up on construction over there and it’s October. Not a lot of time left if we’re going to meet our deadlines.”
I was in the middle of scanning an amazing equation I wanted to better understand. My mind felt on the verge of something wonderful. Physics always made me feel that way. Dollmaking did not.
“Please?”
“Son, we need you. Santa needs you.”
Everything we did was for Santa. I loved that part of it. The Village was beautiful, the glacial views breathtaking. I loved living here. I loved being a part of the whole Santa-magic process. But I wanted to be more on the reindeer side of the corporation. It was a longing I couldn’t control.
I didn’t outright state it to my family because I didn’t want to hurt their feelings, but what I really wanted, as a non-flyer, was to work within the navigation department called Santa’s Sleigh.
I already had an interview set up with the head of Santa’s Sleigh, Keir. I’d never actually met him, but I’d heard he was a no-nonsense team leader who expected perfection from his flight team and ground control.
No one knew about this interview, and somehow I was going to have to make up an excuse to take time off on Friday to go. In order to land this one-on-one meeting with Keir, I’d already taken pre-tests online. I must’ve done well, because I had heard it was difficult to get an in-person interview with any upper echelon of Santa’s flight team.
Mom stood before me, hands on her hips. Her hair was pulled back revealing gracefully pointed ears. When I was little, I’d always hated my round ears, which weren’t pointed like everyone else’s. My parents told me it didn’t matter. I was one of the family.
Which was why this was so hard for me. I didn’t want to break away from the ones who’d raised and loved me. I didn’t want them to be disappointed, or to think I wasn’t grateful.
I closed my laptop, setting it aside. “Okay, Mom. I’ll be right there. You can count on me.”
As I got up to go back to work, my mind churned, trying to figure out how I would get to Friday’s interview without breaking my family’s hearts.
Season of Joy by Ellie Thomas
Shortly before closing time, Mrs. Harris entered the shop, accompanied by her numerous progeny. It was for good reason that Walter’s father referred to the junior members of the Harris family as “the holy terrors.”
If Dad had known they were coming, he would have delayed nipping out for five minutes.
Walter hid a grimace while keeping a close watch on the arrangements of piled tins, all too tempting an obstacle for small, unruly children.
The three older ones, used to being well-behaved at school, stood quietly enough by their mother as she approached the counter. To Walter’s relief, the two youngest, a boy and a girl, the rambunctious pair of twins, were not running riot but remained contained, each holding the hand of an unfamiliar man.
“I only popped in for a couple of tins of corned beef,” Mrs. Harris said chattily. “I thought I had some put by in the larder. Isn’t it strange how quickly food gets used up when you’ve another mouth to feed?” She smiled and continued, “My brother Stanley is staying with us while he recuperates.”
Walter gave a nod of acknowledgement as he selected the tins of canned meat. He was already aware of the newcomer to the tight-knit streets that comprised old Cheltenham.
Local shops were a mine of ready information. It was surprising what intimate details people revealed to shopkeepers or loudly speculated about to each other in the shop.
Mrs. Harris’ brother’s arrival from the village of Lydbrook in the Forest of Dean, her home before marriage, had inevitably caused a steady stream of gossip.
“He’s not quite right, so I’ve heard,” one lady said, tapping the side of her behatted head sententiously. Another more sympathetic soul had added, “The poor chap has had repeated bouts of pneumonia as a result of the Great War, so I believe.” A final tactless commenter declared, “You’d have thought he’d have got over that by now.”
That remark had caused Walter to grit his teeth and hold back a pithy retort.
Most civilians back in Blighty had no notion of the horrors of trench warfare, often affecting a man for the rest of his days. Walter was mostly grateful that civilians were spared those harrowing experiences, but such ignorance raised his hackles.
“There you are,” he gravely handed the tins to two of Mrs. Harris’ most responsible children.
“Can I help you with anything else?” he enquired politely, as though he wasn’t eager to see the back of the family before the twins wriggled free to wreak havoc.
“A jar of Hartley’s jam would come in handy. It’s Stanley’s favourite.”
She jerked her head towards her brother. Walter naturally glanced in the same direction. Contrary to his first assumptions, rather than clutching the twins to keep them under control, the infants seemed to be helping to hold the man upright.
He’s hardly a heavyweight, more of a bantam in boxing terms.
He wasn’t tall, perhaps a few inches shorter than Walter’s five feet eleven inches and far less robust in build. Walter could hear the slight rasp of his breath from across the shop, confirming that he must suffer with his lungs. His face was downturned, hidden by his cap.
“Strawberry or raspberry?”
Walter addressed Mrs. Harris, but her brother answered.
“Damson, if you have it.”
He looked up as he spoke. Walter blinked.
Blimey, he’s a looker.
He was fine featured, but still managed to be handsome rather than pretty. His large dark eyes were emphasised by his sallow, over-thin face and his lush mouth was accentuated by a pencil moustache. Like a home-grown Rudolph Valentino.
