Because this is a season of goodwill. And even in my stories of pain, death and despair, we can have such a thing. For Oscar and Jess and Damian and Alex alike.

Also excuse to actually build some of the story at last! Damn, this was satisfying to write.

If anyone's wondering, this takes place after the events of Chapter 6 for Damian and Alex. Including the part I haven't sent out online yet. My apologies. It's going to be quite a time for those two.

Finn, sadly, isn't in here yet. Thing is that unlike the others he really is a complete and total monster, and I couldn't find something which allowed him to show this same spirit... yet. He wishes you all the best and hopes he'll be seeing you soon. Preferably at an easily swallowable size.

Now, merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

Contains: griffon gryphon griffin fox vulpine The Taste of Terror Falcon Mouse Christmas

[size=150]Holy Night
Have a good one, all of you.[/size]

For a while, he’d left the radio turned to his favourite jazz station, but then Oscar turned it off. He brewed some coffee the way both of them preferred it: thick, black as the night outside, with at least four sugars, left the jug on the side, and sat at their small kitchen counter, rubbing the tip of his beak. His system hardly seemed to respond to caffeine, but the bitterness and the sugar helped his thrumming headache a little.

Jess had long traipsed off to bed, albeit unwillingly. Her work was intensifying, and she’d been refusing to let it get in the way of the increasing focus of her conspiracies. The strange day, the one 24-hour period they’d lost without memory or trace or understanding, had kicked something off in her. The free hours now were spent traipsing her dogeared history books, newspapers, internet archives. Anyone who asked was told it was portfolio work. It wasn’t. The mouse was building a database on her own theory.

Which was? he’d asked, watching over her shoulder as Jess dragged one pictured icon to another, linking a historical text examining the vanishing of a tight-knit group of four 19th Century sketch artists in Melchester to the recent spate of disappearances at the Mândręte Art Academy, and drawing another chain in the growing virtual web of mysteries she was connecting. The answer had been about as concrete as their memories of the unremembered day. “I don’t know. That there is something here, something which is part of this society but… but using us. For their own ends. And they can control it by their own means.”

“Right,” he’d said, unconvinced. “And you’ll be able to find them and expose them?”

“You’re unconvinced, Osc. Please don’t ask me how I know this. I hate going against rational thought. But… I can just feel it. Something is coming. I don’t know anything more, but gods help me if I’m not going to try.”

And so she’d kept on, tracing the causes of the escalating Rebel Wars across the globe from the Eastern Fringe to the seven districts torn by civil war on the plains in western Arwraki. Nothing was clear enough, nothing explained, and Jess hated explanations that wouldn’t lend themselves to her.

Christmas would be a quiet affair for them this time: the first not spent at home. A friend of Jess’ had invited them over for lunch, but aside from that the two would most likely be satisfied with each other’s company. Normally, she would have been accepting of her father’s offer to come home for the festive period, but tensions were higher than ever between Sir Lawrence Gaunt and his daughter. Two days after the day they’d lost, he’d appeared on Jess’ doorstep, more agitated than Oscar had ever seen him. The tall, thin mouse barged his way in and came across a still shellshocked and confused Jess, . A moment of silence had passed, the billionaire’s face looking to Oscar as if he was going to collapse on his daughter and start sobbing. Then, instead, he exploded at her, demanding to know where she had been and why she had not answered his calls for the past two days.

Jess had been emotionally fragile; full of distress and confusion. She had exploded right back. The shouting match had been the worst Oscar had ever heard. Sir Lawrence had stormed out half an hour later. Neither of the two had spoken to each other since.

Normally, such a rift would have healed, were it not for the suspicion placed on Lawrence by his timing. Even Oscar the sceptic couldn’t help but wonder if he knew something. Jess, for her part, had been noticeably avoiding any examinations of major pharmaceutical companies in her world-bearing examination. The falcon knew her well enough to tell the meaning of that: she was worried of what she’d find.

He realised he’d drained his mug, and considered refilling it. The caffeine had barely touched him, and sleep was still in the balance. Maybe best to let it take him, both the dreams of warfare and the other, newer ones he couldn’t quite remember. The small tree they’d bought sparkled in a corner, heavy from promises of tomorrow. Although now, it was already several hours into December the 25th. He should go.

There was a quiet knock at the door.

The falcon didn’t move an inch, but suddenly his body, muscles and senses alike, were taut and straining. He moved silently on bared, taloned feet to the door, leaning against the side and removing a small lead-weighted cosh from his jacket sleeve. He’d had a peephole installed the day the two of them moved in here, and he leaned forwards to glance into it now, still giving no sound to let any intruders know his position.

He blinked, and unbolted and opened the door.

“Good… er, evening, Sir Lawrence.”

Lawrence stood outside, the lurid glow of a streetlamp making his shadow seem to loom over his employee. He was a tall mouse, thin and sharp-edged with piercing dark blue eyes. The only appropriate word, unfortunately, was indeed “gaunt”. The same sense of wiry strength which Jess’ smaller frame hid was much more evident in this man. These days, though, he carried a cane. He’d taken his years well physically, but his age seemed more apparent in his dour demeanour

For a moment, Sir Lawrence looked at Oscar. Then he spoke quietly.

“Is she awake?”

It was Oscar’s turn now to pause. He frowned, looking at the creator and owner of the largest pharmaceutical company on Actura. Gaunt had a good four inches over Oscar’s five feet ten, so the falcon was inevitably looking up. Gaunt had the eternal fierceness in his gaze, but he looked tired. Tired and worn.

“No…” he said slowly. “Long asleep. What are you doing here?”

Sir Lawrence nodded, unsmiling. “Good. May I step inside?”

“Um… of course.” Oscar stepped aside, and the mouse stepped in. He looked around, a muscle in his jaw twitching, as the falcon shut the door to save them from the chill air. The few playful decorations passed uncommented on, the workbooks and notebooks Jess’ area of study and her new hobby might have caused a slight clench of his fists, but no comment. There was an awkward silence.

The mouse sighed, and stiffly proffered a large satchel, Oscar nearly fumbling it with surprise. Lawrence had already sent them both presents by post. Was this another? Or something more ominous? He looked up, and then down, unzipping cautiously.

The falcon lifted out a gold-and-red stocking, heavy and bulging with the weight of its contents. His breath caught in his throat, his feathers seeming to wilt.

“I think Jess is going to have a difficult year.” Sir Lawrence murmured the words softly, both hands now on his cane. He was looking out at the dark windows, full of night spangled with distant lights. “She deserves some short peace for now.”

He knew. Oscar was, in that instant, quite certain that Jess was right about her father. But he’d been muted by the gift. It had been Jess’ Christmas stocking since the age of three. This would have been the first without.

Before he could speak, Gaunt turned back, his face unreadable. “Thank you, Oscar. Merry Christmas.” He gave a nod, patted the bird on the shoulder, and turned to go.

Oscar managed to get his powers of speech back just as the old mouse reached the door. “Sir! Sir Lawrence! She’ll… she’ll think it’s from me, you know.”

Lawrence paused in the doorway, hands flexing on the hand of his cane. “I know,” he said, and strode forwards into the darkness.

***

The Williams, it was remarked jokingly, lived for Christmas. It was the time where their irresistible spirit of cheer was one with everywhere else as well. And they made an effort at it, too. There would be five generations in the house this time, with Alex’s new seven-month old nephew as well as Max, the venerable ninety-six year old great-grandfather. Jacob and Melinda, his siblings, had come - in Jake’s case, from his art course all the way over at Mândręte. Five uncles and three aunts from either side, various friends… the large, beautiful house before him should really have been groaning at the seams.

He didn’t know if he could face it.

The fox leaned numbly against a lamppost, curling his tail around his ankles. Would they be talking about him? Poor Alex, once the epitome of the brightness and vitality of this vulpine clan: struck down in the growing prime of his new life, by an unknowable depression and unseen terror. His month long “sabbatical”, when he’d vanished to go to far-away parts (such had been the cover story that had been fed to them, after all) hadn’t worked, that much was obvious. Would it be more painful to them to leave now? To make some excuse, spend the festive period with his own thoughts and miseries? Or should he go and try and enjoy it, and watch the heartbreak in their eyes of his failure. Mum just wanted him to be happy, Dad had begged him to share his burdens. He never could.

He’d been leaning here for almost an hour, knowing they were waiting, his white fur hidden in the dark of the night of Christmas Eve. His chest, and his eyes, were boiling with it all.

And then the reverie of questions was interrupted, in possibly the most effective way conceivable.

“Hello, Alex.”

The fox froze for about ten seconds, his jaw falling slack. Then he made a high-pitched whimpering noise, tried to run, and fell straight forwards onto the cold ground. The pain was lost in the explosive scrabblings, shaking paws trying to yank his curled body forwards, away, away.

Damian stilled him with a single thought. The gryphon sat calmly in the middle of the road ahead, watching with a calm amusement. His body stretched easily across both lanes. The fox tried to fight against the paralysis running through him and stopping him from screaming, and gave up. “P-please,” he mumbled. “Not now. Not… not at Christmas. You can’t!” Suddenly, he realised how selfish it had been to think of going back. This could be the last Christmas he’d see. He had to go and face his family, no matter what… but instead. This. The terror was ice and fire in his veins. “You… you utter… now, why, why, why? P-please…no...”

“Hush, little one.” The beast’s tail flicked behind him, the lights of the neighbourhood making his silky plumage gleam, but otherwise he was again completely still. He didn’t speak for a moment, letting his preything try to bite back an avalanche of sobs. Then:

“Alex, I mean it. Hush.”

The fox swallowed his screams, staring resentfully and hopelessly at his captor, who smiled thinly. “Thank you. Would you mind listening this time before you begin squirming? This is difficult enough as it is.”

“What is?” Alex mumbled, hugging his tail again. “Holding yourself back? I can’t believe you… you’d do it now. You know what this is to… to them, don’t you?”

“I think we both know that I do, little one.” Damian sighed, tapping his claws impatiently. “And that’s what I’m here about. Alex…” he hesitated, pink tongue caressing the edges of his beak. “Merry Christmas. Now, go.”

The fox blinked. “What? W-what do you m-mean? Go? G-g-go?”

“I’m not... harming you. I’m not going to this time, little one. I promise.” The gryphon smiled ruefully, and Alex noticed his claws seemed to be clenched. “As long as I occupy as much of my brain as I can with a mathematical puzzle or two to solve, I should be able to resist the temptation you present. That is why you need to stop squirming. I don’t need more of your… grrr… of your scent reaching me.”

“B-b-but…” the vulpine sat up straighter, still shaking. “Y-y-you mean… you’re… y-you’re…”

“I am letting you go.” Damian gave a long, low groan of desire. “Alex, they’re waiting for you. And we may find you don’t have another year to wait. So go, my little fox.” He stood, labouriously. “You’re alive for now.”

He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t stop it. His face seemed to ache, but slowly, quaveringly, a weak, weak smile crept onto Alex’s muzzle. “You… you mean it? You’re not going to…?”

The gryphon arched his neck in a sinuous stretch. “Christmas, my darling, is not the time for misery. And we have no more taboos between us, do we? Not after what happened in that lonely Watchtower. Enjoy it. Please, Alex. Enjoy it.”

His steps half-faltering, his legs almost paralysed with shock and hope and fear, Alex took a step away, then another, then another. He reached the gate, and turned back, seeing the dark shape of his murderer crouching, preparing to spread his wings and take flight once more. The words felt so alien, and yet they were true.

“I… th-thank you. Thank you so much.”

No reply, but the gryphon’s eye seemed to give a wink, before he burst up, and vanished into the darkness above. The stars were out tonight. For once, Alex could really, genuinely smile. He walked, shakily, towards the warmth of home… and paused. He’d forgotten.

“Um…” the gryphon could hear him. Of course he could. It didn’t matter that it was a whisper into the dark surrounding his little galaxy of life.

“Merry Christmas.”