Page 1 of Her Christmas Beast
1
It’s almost 2:00 am on Christmas morning and I’m wide awake. I have no idea why I can’t sleep. I was tired enough when I went to bed. And it’s not like I’m waiting for Santa to magically appear to fill my stocking. Or for him to send one of his elves to fill my equally empty pussy. (I’m thinking of the buff, male-revue type of elf here, just to be clear.) Even my subconscious knows that’s not happening and is openly jeering at me for even briefly imagining such a thing.
I wouldn’t think that could even be arranged in New York City, let alone this small New England college town that thinks a wild night out equates to beer from a tap instead of a bottle. Although it’s kind of fun to think about in concept, anyway.
Clearly the rest of the world isn’t having a problem sleeping tonight, so this is all on me. The wide empty street outside my tiny row house is dark and still. It’s like I’m the only person alive right now. The snowflakes falling in front of the ancient streetlights ought to make a pinging sound, they’re coming down so fast and furious. But they don’t. They’re completely silent as they descend and all the other normal sounds of the city are hushed by the accumulating snow. A few flakes land on my nose and my bare toes as I stand on the small stoop. I should have put on my slippers, but at the time I decided to step out, my feet were warm and I didn’t think. My mom was always telling me to get my head out of the clouds, by which she meant math equations, and be more practical.
Sensible girls wear makeup and don’t let a man know she’s smarter than he is. ‘Don’t correct him, don’t make decisions, let him lead,’ she’d tell me with exasperation. It’s not like I didn’t understand what she was trying to say. I simply could never bring myself to do it. Something inside wouldn’t let me.
Which is partly why I’m alone on this cold, quiet Christmas morning. My parents are gone, there’s no man in my life, and my friends, the ones that have stuck with me through my bouts of radio silence, are spread out around the globe with their own families and problems to take care of. Mostly the latter is my fault for letting the gap between communications widen without even noticing that it’s happening. I love my work, and sometimes it doesn’t occur to me how much time has passed since I talked to someone, okay? The thing is, I don’t regret any of it. If beingmemeans being alone, then that’s the life I was meant to live, and I’m good with that. Except it is a bit harder on Christmas.
It makes no sense to my logical brain why being single and alone on Christmas Eve or on what the Brits call Boxing Day (otherwise known as the day after) doesn’t bother me at all. But somehow actual Christmas drives the painful part of solitude home every single year.
I shiver a little, but I haven’t had my fill of staring at the gorgeous new Waterston Tower yet, so I stay where I am. It’s the most beautiful building I’ve ever seen. And while I can see the tippy top with the star on it from my bedroom, it requires standing on the left side of my porch at a thirty-five degree angle to see all of it in the narrow gap between buildings across the street. There’s something about it that fills my soul. This will sound crazy, but I feel like someone’s hugging me close every time I see it, particularly at night.
When they first started construction, I was immediately intrigued because nothing except the interior support beamsmet at right angles. Now that it’s finished, everything visible is smooth sensuous curves that still manage to come together into a practical building. I could tell immediately that the architect was an engineering genius and a rare unicorn that could extend the practical math into pure art.
I confess I almost immediately became something of a fangirl of William Zver’s work. When I looked him up online, every building he’d done was more beautiful than the last. I can’t wait to find out what he does next, but it’s the Tower that I can gaze at every night from my own home.
Naturally I tried to find a picture of Zver. I’m so curious to see the face, and study the eyes, of a man who can design so passionately, but there are none to be found. ‘Reclusive genius’ is the much touted phrase. Supposedly he doesn’t even visit the site, leaving that to his assistants, but I don’t believe it. Perhaps nobody sees him do it, but it’s impossible to create something that’s so perfectly situated in its surroundings without having been to the place.
They turned the building lights on for the first time last night. I know — because I’ve been following the project like an obsessed stalker — that Zver used revolutionary new technology that embeds LED lights within the flexible solar panels that make up the skin of the building. It’s almost like the structure is a living plant, soaking up the sunlight by day and self-powering all the energy it needs to thrive at night. They were careful not to emit too much light pollution too, so the evening display is more twinkling than brash strobes. But the LEDs mean they can tune the colors however they want, so last night it was all traditional shades of red and green. Tonight it’s my favorite blend of pinks with touches of gold. I really should go in and go back to bed, but it’s just so pretty!
The sudden movement of a large shadow farther down the street jerks my attention away and I instinctively draw backfurther into the recesses of my tiny porch. A sensible woman would go inside and slam the deadbolts. But as I said earlier, I’ve never been all that practical. The shadow is attached to a hulking beast of a man walking steadily down the opposite side of the street, heading in my direction. I hold my breath so as not to draw attention to myself, which is silly really, because how could he possibly hear me breathing?
The man is huge and yet somehow manages to move smoothly without a sound over the snow-covered concrete sidewalk, eating up the distance between us. His shoulders are level, but there’s a barely perceptible hitch to his gait, as if he’s had skeletal problems in the past. Something nags at my memory, but I can’t pin it down. He’s carrying a camera, a serious SLR type, and my breath whooshes out with relief. People intent on nefarious deeds don’t usually bog themselves down with camera equipment. Although now that I think about it, that doesn’t make sense because the worst kinds of serial killers on TV have reams of photographs. I shiver slightly at the thought of being dragged back to his lair never to be seen again.
The man turns his massive head my way, his steely gaze seeming to find mine instantly. I press back against the siding, trying to disappear. He can’t possibly see me here in the dark without a light and yet still I hesitate. He stops in his tracks and turns towards me, staying on his side of the street.
“You okay, over there? Not locked out?” he calls softly in a deep baritone. My breath hitches. That sense of familiarity pressing on my temples. I know that voice. Why can’t I place him? He could hardly be mistaken for anyone else. Thankfully I’ve never met any serial killers so that’s something of a relief.
“Miss?” he rumbles out again and I jump.
“How did you know I’m a woman?” I ask suspiciously.
His lips quirk in amusement and I gasp in shock, recognizing the odd shape it gives his mouth. I think the odds of him beinga serial killer are higher than turning out to be the man I want him to be. “Billy?” His name emerges from my lips plaintively, my heart on edge.
Even from across the street, I can see his eyes widen in shock. “Angel? Is that you?”
I fly down the steps. Or I try to. I kinda forgot I’m not wearing any shoes and my feet aren’t too happy about stepping directly on snow. It’s bitingly cold and slippery too. Billy flies across the empty road and swoops me up like a swooning maiden, dropping his camera absently somewhere in the snow. I stare into those eerily familiar eyes I haven’t seen in twenty years. And didn’t really expect to ever again, despite all my efforts to locate him.
“Come on. Inside with you, young lady.” He bends down so I can turn the knob and then we’re inside my cozy little house. It’s not much wider than Billy really, and he sort of swivels his head as if searching for a safe place to land. My little house isn’t much but it’s comfortable and I’ve filled it with rich colors and soft textures. That doesn’t leave a whole lot of space for normal-sized people to maneuver.
“You can put me down now. But you’re staying, understand? I want to know how you’ve been.Whereyou’ve been. And how to find you in the future. Imissedyou.” It all comes out in whoosh like he’s going to disappear like a mirage. I touch the sleeve of his coat, just to make sure he’s really here.
He blinks at me slowly in the low light of the table lamp before a slow smile spreads across his hewn-granite face. “Angel. You haven’t changed. But you live here alone? Where’s your family?” He still has the very whisper of a Russian accent and I find it charming.
“Uh… What family? You didn’t think I would still be living with my parents at my age, did you? And they’re gone now, anyway.”
“No. I’m sorry to hear that, though. No, I meant your husband, kids. That family.”
I shake my head at him in disbelief. Where has he been getting his information? Clearly nobody close to me. “Never been married, never had a serious relationship, and definitely no kids.”
Billy gives me a strange glance, like he can’t quite believe me. “That can’t be right.”
* * *
He sets me down carefully, and I scurry over to the faded teal couch to find my fluffy slippers. When I scuff them onto my feet and turn, he’s still standing in the same spot, studying the small ground floor of my place. “Where’s your tree, Angel?” His eyes are narrowed and his low, gravelly voice makes it sound like a threat.