Kim Harrison - Holidays are Hell

But, as Warren drove her to the drop point a block away, she didn't worry about those. She was mortal, and the only monitor that would pick her up was attached to the security camera tucked high above the entrance's alcove.

On the surface of it, Warren was right. She hadn't seen the Tulpa in sixteen years, plenty of time for bitterness to crust over any soft feelings he'd once held for her, and she had no doubt his hatred had further cemented the emotion. But no sense in worrying about that now. Instead, her lips moved in an almost rhythmic chant as her fingers nimbly played over the cornucopia she'd woven.

An observer might have thought she was praying, but Zoe Archer knew too much of other worlds to put stock in any one deity, and let her whispers spiral out into the universe as affirmation instead. She had, at one time, been a fervent student of Tibetan culture and lore, studying the transitional realities called bardos , learning the self-control and discipline needed to succeed with tantric work, including hours of meditative practices, prostration, and mantra recitation. Because that's what a man named Wyatt Neelson had done, devoting fifteen years of his life to visualization in order to create a being so vivid, real, and evil that the thought form eventually morphed into reality and became the Tulpa.

It was this being's arrival on the paranormal scene that upset the valley's metaphysical balance. The Tulpa sought influence over the mortal realm—to control their thoughts and actions and dreams—and absolute dominance over the paranormal one. The agents of Light fought, of course, but they'd never faced a created adversary before, and suddenly balance became a secondary concern. Survival was all-consuming.

The Tulpa didn't age. He couldn't be killed—not even by the conduits that were so deadly to the agents on both sides of the Zodiac—and he assumed the physical form of whatever the person looking at him expected to see. It was this that most worried Zoe. God forbid he look in a mirror while standing next to her and see the demonic monstrosity that still came for her in her dreams. Then he'd know she was misleading him again and he'd skin and flay and bury her with her bones outside her body, heart still beating atop a living pile of flesh. He knew how. She'd seen him do it before.

So while weaving her cornucopia, Zoe had focused her thoughts on the way he'd once allowed himself to be vulnerable with her, turning those tender moments into a new story for herself and a new past for them both. She wove and thought, and invented and wove, until she had the minutest detail engraved upon her gray matter. She memorized this new past and then began to believe it. She believed the Tulpa was as before, that he loved her and would readily welcome her back. She believed, as before, that she loved him as well, and that she wanted nothing so much as to be in his arms once more. She created this story as she created her gift—with focus and a studied and purposeful intent—and by the time she'd finished she knew she could walk into the Tulpa's house with complete confidence.

Because there'd been one chink in the Tulpa's impenetrable paranormal armor. And Zoe Archer was it.

She was stepping from the car even before Warren had come to a full stop, and the crisp November air greeted her brightly as the morning sun hit her face. It was easy to turn nostalgic on a day like this, a holiday when one should be with family and friends, feasting and giving heartfelt thanks for this life's blessings. She hugged her homemade cornucopia tight to her chest, and its weight and scent and purpose grounded her, giving her strength to push those wistful thoughts away. Leave them for the mortals who had use for such things.

She slammed the car door and had already begun walking away when she stopped. They never said goodbye. It was considered bad form, indicating a deficit of confidence, and was usually unnecessary. But she didn't want to just walk away from Warren, not again, not without at least some solid sense of closure. So she backed up and waited until he'd lowered the driver's side window, then stared down into that face she'd loved almost as long as she'd breathed.

"There's something you should know, but I can't tell you—" She couldn't really tell him anything. Certainly not the truth. "It's about the legend. The rise of the Kairos ." The woman who was both Shadow and Light, and whose powers would forever tip the paranormal scale in favor of good or evil, whichever she chose.

Whichever, her daughter, Joanna, chose.

Zoe squinted against the light as Warren sat back, studying her as carefully as she measured her words. "The Kairos lives. She's going to rise up in under your command. Watch and listen for her. She doesn't know it yet, but she's hurtling toward her destiny even now."

Warren had fallen stock-still. He was listening, and hearing, her now. "Where, Zoe? Tell me how to find her."

She shook her head and quickly held up a hand, staving off his protest. "She's in hiding, Warren. Even from herself. You won't find her until her metamorphosis."

"Which is when?"

That head shake again. "I'm sorry, but that's all I can tell you."

She thought he'd be mad, start railing about lies and secrets, trust and duty. But he simply leaned back against the leather seat and squinted up at her in the sharp morning light. He could see it out here, she thought. The veil between worlds was wide enough on this hopeful, thankful day that her intentions were clear in the light. And clearly Light.

"I didn't say it before," he finally said, admiration and, yes, love sharpening his words. "Happy Birthday, Zoe."

She gave him a wide smile, then turned to face the long walk leading to the stark white house, up the steps that were almost silvery in the brilliant sun, where she casually rang the doorbell. When it opened, she said what she'd been thinking; her wish for Warren, a vow for the day's work, a final goodbye. "Happy Thanksgiving."

The woman who answered the door was named Lindy Maguire. She was frumpy, matronly, favoring lace collars and long skirts, and she was also the Shadow's Leonine sign on the Zodiac. Like all Leos Lindy was ruled by the sun, and like most, also ruled by the heart. She had long ago set aside personal aspirations in order to remain as close as possible to the Tulpa, so it was natural that Lindy was acting as vanguard for his home. Natural, too, that she hated Zoe.

Lindy's delicate nostrils flared as she examined Zoe, scenting out humanity as she ran her eyes skeptically over the cream slacks and overcoat, though she didn't place her until Zoe opened her mouth.

"Damn, Lindy," Zoe said, studying the woman's beehive. "Still stuck in the sixties, I see."

Recognition had barely flashed in Lindy's eyes before Zoe found herself crushed against the wall, blood welling in her mouth as she thought, I used to be that fast… but I hit harder.

"Uh-uh-uh," Zoe said, shaking her head as much as she dared. Lindy's conduit was out—Zoe hadn't seen her draw that, either—and the honed nail file was pressed against Zoe's larynx, so that breathing was no longer the best way to stay alive. Zoe shifted her eyes to the camera trained on them from above. "Don't want to ruin all his fun, do we?"

Lindy cursed under her breath then let up, but not before flicking the file just enough to draw blood. Zoe hissed at the flash of pain—it still surprised her—and Lindy's frown turned upside down.

"I must be dreaming, because every sense I own tells me the mighty Zoe Archer is a mortal." She wrinkled her nose as she said the word, like it befouled the air around her. And while she was gloating, reveling in being the first to know, and at holding her longtime foe at a distinct disadvantage Zoe discreetly shifted her weight… and plowed her fist into Lindy's already flat nose.