Gifted: A Holiday Anthology (2 page)

One of us has to be
, he’d thought.

“You’re too smart,” she’d grumbled as she walked away. “It’s creepy. No wonder you don’t have any friends.”

Gabriel hadn’t taken her word about Rose and custody, no more than he’d believe her if she claimed it was snowing. Every tidbit that came from Seanna’s mouth had to be verified. This one, unfortunately, had turned out to be true. Combine “unmarried woman” with “criminal record” and “nonstandard sexuality,” and, even in 1991, there was no chance Rose could get custody of him. If child services took him away, he’d never see her again. Never see Cainsville again. That wasn’t happening. He decided he could manage the situation.

Managing it meant being particularly careful around Rose, because if she had any idea how bad Seanna had gotten, she’d do something, even if it meant losing him forever. When she’d picked him up that morning, he’d been waiting outside. No need for her to discover Seanna wasn’t home. He’d showered, trimmed his hair, worn and packed his best clothes, the ones he kept especially for Rose’s place. He’d brought his homework bag, complete with two A-graded tests that he’d “accidentally” let fall out when she could see them. He’d even brought a banana to eat on the drive to Cainsville.
See, everything is fine. Not ideal—you know what she is, and there’s no hiding that— but she’s doing a perfectly adequate job of raising me.

Rose had noticed the bruise on his face, but when he said he’d made twenty-three dollars off the skirmish, she’d laughed and said as soon as the relationship no longer proved profitable, he needed to show Jay why picking on him was a very bad idea. Which he would, of course.

The mark/client departed, and Rose walked into the kitchen. Gabriel didn’t need to look up from the recipe cards to hear her enter. Walshes didn’t come in “small.” His aunt still towered over him, nearly six feet tall, with the Walshes’ usual jet-black hair, light-blue eyes and pale skin. “Black Irish,” Rose called it. Or “Gypsy,” if she was playing Rosalyn Razvan, as her business card proclaimed her. In build, like him, his aunt was, again, not small. In a novel, she’d be called sturdy, implying she was not thin, but not fat either. Solidly built. Big boned. Whatever adjective worked.

“Picked one?” she asked as she started the kettle for tea.

He handed her a card.

She sighed. “There is nothing festive about chocolate chip cookies, Gabriel.”

“You asked what I wanted. There were no restrictions placed on the choice.”

“All right, then. I’ll decorate them with—”

“No.”

“I’ll cut them into reindeers and—”

“No.”

A quirk of a smile. Year after year, the dialogue never changed. By now, it bordered on absurd. Yet it was tradition, so they stuck to their lines.

“What if I colored the dough green and red and—?”

He handed her a second card. “Sugar cookies. You may make these as well.”

Her brows lifted. “May I?”

“If you must.”

She laughed and headed for the fridge to take out the eggs and butter. “That bag on the table is for you. A gift for your mother for Christmas. One’s from you and the other’s from me. I know you never know what to give her.”

This too was tradition. He suspected Rose knew perfectly well that, without her contribution, he would buy Seanna nothing. He used to, when he was little. When she still played Santa for him. Then, one year, his gifts mysteriously went missing a week later and turned up at the pawn shop, and he went home and told Seanna he didn’t believe in Santa, and there was no need to continue the charade. So she stopped. And so did he. Yet Rose wouldn’t let him pass a holiday without a gift for his mother.

There was only a ten-year age difference between Seanna and Rose. His mother had been like a little sister to his great-aunt. An adored little sister. While it was difficult for Gabriel to put himself in the shoes of others, he made the effort with Rose. He had come to understand that, no matter how far Seanna fell, part of her was always that little girl to Rose, who still hoped Seanna could be that again. A vain hope, but Gabriel let her have it.

“How much do I owe you?” he asked.

“An afternoon’s work making cookies.”

He slid off the stool to fetch the flour.

While the cookies baked and Rose cleaned, Gabriel wandered into the parlor. There wasn’t far to wander in the tiny Victorian house. The parlor took up half the main floor space. It was like walking into the antique shop—if the shop specialized in the occult. Rose called it her collection of “old junk,” but she was proud of that junk, and for good reason. The pieces were valuable relics from the history of her craft. All the ways people had sought to peer into whatever mysteries lay beyond the everyday, whether it was reading tea leaves or communicating with spirits or catching a glimpse of invisible fae.

Gabriel took down a book on Cornish folktales and laid it on the desk, as if to read, but it was only an excuse for sitting at the desk and poking through the drawer. Getting a look at Rose’s cards and making sure she hadn’t added to the collection since he’d last been there. She hadn’t. There was the Thoth tarot and the Visconti-Sforza tarot and the Tarot of Marseilles. Her favorite—the one she used most—was a replica Victorian deck.

“Yes, a replica,” she’d say with a sigh. “Not that the clients know the difference.”

The problem was that an authentic Victorian-era tarot was difficult to find. Most from that period originated in France or Italy. A true Victorian tarot was rare, and she’d been hunting for years. Now Gabriel had found one.

He’d filched fifteen dollars from holiday shoppers last week. In Chicago, of course. He didn’t pick pockets in Cainsville. The shopkeeper had given him five dollars for helping move things up from the basement and promised another ten for work the following week. After that, Rose would finally have her cards.

After dinner, Rose had another appointment with a mark. Gabriel went gargoyle hunting. Night had fallen, but there was no need to be wary. In Cainsville, he could walk around at two in the morning, and the biggest danger he’d face would be locals popping out to see what was wrong.

He read his notebook as he walked. Again, no danger there. He could cross the road, deep in his book, and traffic would stop. Not that he did any such thing. Only a fool tempted fate.

He studied his list of gargoyles and compared it to his hand-drawn maps. While it had seemed likely that the final gargoyle was in one of the areas where he hadn’t found any, all of these areas had proven empty, and he’d developed the theory that the last gargoyle was located uncharacteristically close to another. The first would be easily spotted, and children would move on, thinking that area covered. The second would lurk above or below, visible only from a certain angle or during a certain time of day or under certain weather conditions. The solution, then, was a methodical accounting for all possibilities. Today, a light snow fell, which introduced yet another test variable.

He tramped along, snow squeaking under his shoes. A couple of kids passed by with a sled. They didn’t ask him to join them. They knew he wouldn’t. But they grinned and waved and called a hello, and he knew that if he wanted to go sledding, he could, and there was a comfort in that, a satisfaction, even if he’d never do so.

He continued on down Main Street, nodding at the adults who passed and lifting his head for a more respectful hello when the elders did. Without the notebook in his hand, they’d have stopped to talk, but they saw it and left him to his hunt.

Gabriel had investigated all the gargoyles on Main Street and had turned down Walnut, to take a closer look near the community center. There was one on the rear, there all the time, a sleeping gargoyle on the roof, its misshapen head on its folded arms.

“If you’re quiet enough, you’ll hear it snore,” said a voice behind him.

“Only if there’s enough of a wind to make the eaves groan.”

The man sighed. “Always need a prosaic explanation, don’t you, Gabriel?”

“No, but if there is one, I can’t deny it.”

“True.” The man walked beside Gabriel and peered up. “Yes, I suppose it is the eaves groaning. How dull.”

The man had a name. Gabriel didn’t know it. Had never heard it. Didn’t bother to ask it. If he was being honest, he’d admit that sometimes he forgot about the man altogether. If a few visits to Cainsville passed without seeing him, he’d spot him again and, for a moment, wonder who he was. More sleight of hand, this one in the mind, truth playing peek-a-boo with memory. It was Cainsville. Such things happened.

He looked at the man. He wasn’t old. Perhaps college aged or a little more. He had a notebook of his own, sticking from his pocket, and he was often writing in it furiously. Gabriel’s own book had been a gift from him, given for “any stories he wanted to tell.” Gabriel used it for financial calculations and homework reminders and gargoyle hunting.

“Do you want a hint?” the man said, pushing his hands into his pockets and shivering against the cold.

“No. That’s cheating.”

“You don’t cheat?” A smile played on the man’s lips.

Gabriel tilted his head, considering. “It would depend on the definition of the word. In the broadest sense, everyone does. Some more than others. But cheating to reach an achievement implies that you cannot do so otherwise. That you are not good enough. While I appreciate the offer, I am quite capable of finding the last gargoyle on my own.”

“You are indeed,” the man said. “You’re capable of doing anything you want to Gabriel. Don’t you ever forget it.”

“I know. Thank you.”

The man walked to the community center wall and leaned his back against it as he fixed Gabriel with an appraising look. “Perhaps a small hint? It’s allowed for the last gargoyle.”

“No, thank you.”

“We could bargain for it.” The man grinned. “Tit for tat. That’s fair.”

“No, thank you.”

“I hope you aren’t bothering the boy, bòcan,” a voice said from behind Gabriel. Another voice he recognized. This one a woman’s, strong and firm despite her advancing years. Ida walked around the community center, her husband Walter at her side. “You know better.”

“Old people,” the man whispered to Gabriel. “So annoying.”

“I heard that,” Ida said.

“I’d hardly bother if you couldn’t.” The man strolled to Gabriel and said, “I’ll leave you with the old folks. You’ll be back for Solstice, I hope.”

Gabriel nodded.

“Good,” the man said. “Christmas is all well and good, but around here, it’s all about the Winter Solstice. The beginning of winter. Longest night of the year.” He met Gabriel’s gaze. “A very important day . . . and an even more important night.”

“Yes, yes,” Ida said. “Get along and stop pestering the child. He’s cold and in need of cocoa.”

The man left, and Ida walked over. “You’ll come have cocoa with us, Gabriel? We’d love to hear how your history project went. We know you worked so hard on it.” She started back to Main Street as he fell in beside her. When Gabriel glanced down at his notebook, she said, “Ah, out hunting the last gargoyle. We could help with that, you know. It is permitted, with the last.”

“No, thank you.”

“Not even a hint?”

“I believe I have one already.”

She smiled, her wrinkles deepening. “Good. Now, can we drag you away from the hunt?”

“Yes.”

The cards were gone. They’d been there Tuesday, when Gabriel came to work for the shopkeeper. On Thursday, the old man had him running errands, so he hadn’t been able to check the glass box, but, when work ended and he got his ten dollars, he’d walked to the cards and found an empty display case.

“Andrew?” the shopkeeper said as Gabriel stood there, staring down.

“The cards.” Gabriel turned. “Have you moved them?”

“Someone bought them yesterday.” The old man made a face as he walked over. “You didn’t want those old things, I hope. They aren’t real, you know.”

“They weren’t authentic?” A tickle of something like relief. “The label said they were.”

“Well, yes, they were really Victorian. I don’t sell fakes, son. I meant, they can’t tell the future. Nothing can.”

Not entirely true, as Gabriel well knew. He knew better than to say that, though. “I know. They were for my aunt. She’s a collector.”

“Oh.” Genuine dismay crossed the old man’s face. “I’m sorry, Andrew. If I’d had any idea you were saving up for them . . . Never mind those. They were too expensive. I’m sure your aunt doesn’t want such an extravagant gift from you. Better to save your money for a video game. That’s what kids play these days, isn’t it? Video games?”

Yes, and Gabriel could not imagine a bigger waste of time or money.

The shopkeeper continued. “How about I find you another set? Genuine antiques, of course. I know where I can get a nineteenth-century Hungarian deck for about thirty dollars. Or an art deco pack for twenty. I’ll ask around and make a list. Would you like that?”

Gabriel wanted to say no, but that would be rude, and, despite what others thought, he did understand the basics of civility. He merely applied them sparingly. He nodded, and the old man patted his arm, not noticing Gabriel’s reflexive flinch.

“I’ll do that then,” the shopkeeper said. “And you use that extra money to buy yourself a video game.”

Disappointment swirled about Gabriel like a fog. He almost stepped in front of a speeding car on the way back to the apartment. He walked inside without his usual Seanna-check. It’d been almost a week, and he’d grown accustomed to pushing open that door into an empty apartment. When he heard the squeal of her laughter, he stopped short.

“Gabriel, baby.” Her voice reached him before she did, and he hovered in the doorway, considering backing out when she appeared.

At one time, Gabriel supposed his mother had looked more like his aunt. She wasn’t as tall, maybe five-ten, but her shirt and jeans hung off her like grown-up clothes on children’s hangers. Her face was just as thin, with sunken cheeks and eyes that seemed more gray than blue. Today, they were grayer than usual, dull with that heroin glaze. She was only twenty-eight, but she looked twice that.