Christmas Evil
By
Jeanne Thorne
1
December 24th,
From the receiver in Justiciar’s skull the boredom in Jill’s voice
came through clearly, “You have a bad feeling about everything, Amanda. You’re
being paranoid, more so than usual.”
A stiff breeze whipped strands of the heroine’s long dark locks
across her face. Justiciar brushed them aside with a grimace and brought
up her binoculars. “No, I’m pretty much as paranoid as I usually am when the
Shieldmaidens pull stunts like this.” She trained the binocs across the street,
to the steps of the Kirby Auditorium, where a throng of excited citizens had
gathered and were jockeying for the best view of the podium at the top. Any
moment now, New Rivendell’s cadre of costumed guardians would emerge to address
the crowd and bask in their unbridled adulation before embarking on a goodwill
tour of the city’s children’s hospitals and homeless shelters. It was a Christmas
Eve tradition for the heroes, a mission of hope and mercy.
Justiciar considered it foolish beyond words. Though she had been
invited to join the Shieldmaidens many times and considered their leader,
Athena, to be a friend, the Grim Guardian of the Night vehemently disapproved
of the team’s extremely high profile. Not a day went by that one or all of them
didn’t make headlines for some heroic deed or another, and they made public
appearances such as the present one with a frequency that alarmed her. Their
powers, weaknesses, and personalities were matters of public record, available
to anyone with a minimum of initiative and an aptitude for connecting the dots.
Justiciar herself had deduced the secret identities of all of them in a matter
of hours.
“They might as well be wearing bullseyes on their chests and
daring supervillains to attack them,” she sighed, scanning the crowd and
focusing on the camera crews setting up for the inevitable spot on the
“Oh, bah humbug, Amanda,” Jill scolded from her control room.
“This is a good thing for the city. It gives the people security. It gives them
hope.”
“It gives the underworld an invitation to plan crimes. They know
exactly where all the superheroes are going to be.”
The subcutaneous microtransceiver behind Justiciar’s left ear,
which enabled her to “hear” Jill’s transmissions through vibrations in her
skull – an improvement over audio, which could be heard in complete silence or
drowned out during a firefight – was amazingly sensitive. The heroine could
practically hear her assistant rolling her eyes. “Nothing is going to happen
and even if it did, the Maidens are at full strength. They could fend off a
full-scale invasion from Mars without breaking a sweat. No bad guy in his right
mind would try anything. All you’re going to catch out there is pneumonia. Back
here, on the other hand, I’ve got a roaring fire, two cups of cocoa, and Jimmy
Stewart and Donna Reed all ready to save that broken-down old
savings-and-loan.”
Justiciar had to admit that sounded tempting. “As soon as the
press conference is over, Jill. Until then, keep monitoring the police bands
and the surveillance net.”
“Just call me Bob Cratchit.”
Just then a roar rose from the assembled crowd as the huge doors
of the auditorium swung open and New Rivendell’s favorite daughters emerged.
First, as always, came the proud figure of Athena, as regal as her namesake in
the shimmering silver-mail tights that clung about her statuesque form, her
royal blue gauntlets, thigh boots, and flowing cape, and the magnificent mane
of golden hair that draped her shoulders and framed her legendary beauty. She
seemed as utterly impervious to the cold as she was to bullets and bombs,
radiating sheer power as she stepped onto the podium.
Behind her strolled the dark-haired speedster Concorde, all lean
crackling energy in her white and scarlet tights with the stylized jet-symbol
crossing her small breasts, as if she was just barely holding her supersonic
speed in check. Then came The Spark, with flame-colored mane and scandalously
daring red-and-yellow costume that barely covered her ample chest. She too
smiled in the cold, warmed from inside by the pyrokinetic energies at her
command.
In sharp contrast to The Spark’s bright visage were the cool
shades of green that covered the form of Sylph, Celtic mistress of the forces
of Nature, silver hair and eyes gleaming from beneath the cowl drawn over her
head. And bringing up the rear, floating inches above the ground as always, the
taciturn Arcana, ebony skin and waist-length black hair set off by her white
body suit and purple sash embroidered with mystical symbols representing the
sorcerous arts of which she was the world’s foremost adept. She wafted to the
podium, followed by His Honor the Mayor and a handful of his staff, who arrayed
themselves behind the heroines.
The Shieldmaidens. Even Justiciar found herself impressed by the
display of might that arrayed itself before the crowd. And my God… Athena…
She tore her eyes away and trained her binocs on the surrounding
buildings as the throng quieted to allow the Mayor to give his customary
speech. She tuned him out, having little interest in his penchant for hoary
platitudes, and searched windows and rooftops for signs of trouble. She would
have liked to recon the auditorium herself, but not even her alter-ego, heiress
Amanda Young, could have gotten past the police cordon posted there. Justiciar
could only hope the criminal element had found it an equal hindrance. It was a
rather pointless hope.
Perhaps Jill’s right, she mused. Maybe I am just
being paranoid. It would be obscenely foolish for any villains to attack the
Maidens, no matter how exposed they are here. And I owe it to Jill to take at
least one night off to spend with her, especially Christmas Eve. The crowd
applauded the Mayor’s introduction, then cheered wildly as Athena stepped
forward. Justiciar trained the binocs on the mightiest Maiden, zooming in on
her exquisite features. Her ice-blue eyes. Her full, red lips parting to speak.
I’ll go in a minute…
Suddenly
Athena’s eyes grew wide as saucers and her head snapped back. Her powerful body
galvanized as if electrified, her back arching, mouth open in a silent scream.
Behind her the four other Maidens mirrored her predicament, bodies snapping
taut and agonized as if some unseen force had shot through every nerve and
muscle. The men and women from City Hall backed away, startled and gaping.
Below, the crowd broke into screams of confusion and panic, unsure of what was
happening but terrified by the spectacle as the Maidens begin to writhe
uncontrollably, clawing at the air, helpless in the grip of the invisible force
and obviously unable to marshal their powers. At once all five collapsed like
marionettes with cut strings and lay unmoving on the dais.
Justiciar swung instantly into action, clipping the binocs to her
belt and firing her wrist-cable simultaneously, swinging her athletic body out
into space as the cable anchored to the side of the auditorium, her body arcing
across the street and over the crowd, cloak spreading like black wings. She
landed on the steps in a sprint for the dais, slipping past the uniformed cops
attempting crowd control, searching for signs of life from the fallen heroines
at the top.
Three steps from the top she caught a sudden whiff of ozone.
Reflexively she dove for the ground and drew her cloak about her as the dais
exploded in a massive fireball! Pieces of flaming wood and shards of concrete
rained down on the heroine and the screaming crowd stampeding into the street
in blind terror. Justiciar could feel the heat of the explosion even through
her fireproof cloak and curled up into a ball to minimize the target for the
falling rubble. A hunk of cement grazed her back and wood thudded on top of
her, sending stabs of pain throughout her body.
A moment later she kicked away the debris with her boots and
yanked the cloak off, squinting through the flames for signs of the
Shieldmaidens. At the very least Athena and The Spark were invulnerable to
fire. There should be something there…
Nothing. No signs of the heroines, dead or alive. Not a piece of
Sylph’s oaken staff, not a scrap of Arcana’s sash, not a link of Athena’s mail.
Justiciar looked around wildly, praying that perhaps Concorde had sped her
teammates out of harm’s way.
Nothing.
She was suddenly, painfully aware of Jill’s frantic shouting, “Are
you there, Amanda? Are you okay?! Amanda, answer me!”
“Stop yelling in my head, please. I’m here, Jill. I’m okay. Did
you see it?”
“Yes, it’s on every channel! The explosion, the whatever-it-was
that happened to the Maidens—“
“Were you recording it?” Justiciar asked urgently, stepping toward
the fiery remains of the dais with a handheld mini-scanner from her belt,
filtering out the thermal readings from the flames to search for traces of the
unique energy signature of a teleport beam. Again, nothing – the Shieldmaidens
had simply vanished into thin air.
“Yes. Disks rolling on all monitors.”
“Good,” Justiciar replied as she spun on her heel and took off at
a dead run away from the scene, away from the TV news crews. In the distance
rose the wail of approaching sirens. “Feed the disks into the computer. I want
a good enhanced look at what just happened.”
“What did happen? Are the Maidens hurt?”
“Worse than hurt, Jill,” Justiciar said grimly as she skirted the
chaos of the panicked crowd and headed for the alley where her specially
customized Harley waited. “They’re gone. The explosion was a diversion to cover
whomever snatched them, but snatched they most certainly were.”
Wincing from her new bruises, she swung her leg over the Harley’s
seat and kicked it to roaring life. “I’m on my way there, Jill. Sorry, but
Jimmy and Donna will just have to wait.”
“It’s all right. Suddenly I want something a lot stronger than
cocoa.”
Justiciar grunted in agreement as she gunned the throttle and sent
the Harley screeching out of the alley and screaming into the winter night.
2
7:12 PM. Whoever did this, however they did it, had
in one swift stroke eliminated the city’s greatest champions, laying New
Rivendell wide open like a gaping wound. As the bitter wind whipped through her
hair and cloak, Justiciar began to compile a mental list of all of the major
metahuman criminals currently at large and probably watching the attack on live
TV. At twenty, she stopped counting and urged the bike on faster, toward the
Haven, a black-and-crimson blur zig-zagging through the light Christmas Eve
traffic.
Thirty-six blocks later, she hung a sharp right at Robinson
Avenue, then a left into the alley between the towering Young Building, where
she and Jill lived on the top floor, and its neighbor. She hit a
button on the bike’s control panel and the brick alley suddenly slanted
downward, hidden hydraulics lowering to provide a ramp into the secret
sub-basement of the skyscraper named for her father. She roared down the ramp
and the passage closed behind her.
The Haven. A vast complex beneath the streets, bristling with
state-of-the-art technology and the necessary tools for a one-woman war on
crime. It had cost a bloody fortune to have the sub-basement converted to its
present use, especially in the heart of the city, in secret and without permits,
using contractors whose silence could be bought. Perhaps she could have
saved millions utilizing the caverns beneath her family’s estate, fourteen
miles outside the city limits, but that would have been impractical. Fourteen
miles is a lot of distance to cover in an emergency, and who would want to work
in a cave anyway?
Justiciar parked the bike and dismounted, walking quickly out of
the garage and down the austere hallway, past the gym and the workshop, the
infirmary and the firing range, until the steel doors at the end parted and
admitted her into the Haven’s control room.
She was greeted by a blast of thundering drums and roaring
guitars, some hardcore band butchering “Run Run Rudolph” at ear-splitting
decibels. Justiciar gritted her teeth and scowled up at the computer nest where
Jill sprawled in her swivel-chair, magenta hair bobbing furiously like a
rooster’s comb as her fingers glided over one of her four keyboards. An
earpiece, tuned to the city’s emergency bands, rested in her left ear. The girl
was dressed for work in what she called her “costume” – black bicycle shorts, a
ratty tank top with a faded red flannel shirt over it, scuffed combat boots,
arms laden with spiked leather wristbands and silver bangles that flashed in
the glow of the six monitors that surrounded her in the raised nest. Her elfin,
angular face was set in concentration as she kicked the chair around to scan
the screens, her eyes intense as the rest of her vibrated in time with the
music. It was easy to underestimate Jill Arkwright from her nineteen
years of age and her appearance, but the girl was a bonafide mathematics
prodigy who, three years before, had dropped out of MIT after picking its finest
minds clean. Intelligence agencies the world over featured her name prominently
on their “must acquire” lists for her skills in cryptography. Justiciar had
rescued her just before a Russian acquisition team could ship her, bound,
gagged, and crated, to an encryption station in Murmansk. Now she functioned as
the heroine’s Girl Friday in exchange for safe harbor, anonymity, and the
chance to play with all the latest high-tech toys.
Justiciar walked over to the stereo in one corner and stabbed the
CD player’s “stop” button, plunging the room into merciful silence. Jill’s head
whipped around. “Hey! That was Chuck Berry!”
“No, that was Sonic Death Monkey or whatever mangling Chuck
Berry, and I’m not in the mood.” Justiciar peeled the mask away from her face
and ran her gloved hands through her hair. “What have you got for me?”
Jill sighed and slumped in her chair. “Nothing. Nada. Zippo. I’ve
been converting the live TV feeds from all three stations into scannable format
and searching every inch of the area around the podium. If someone attacked the
Maidens, he, she, or it either did it long-distance or very
up-close and personal.”
Amanda climbed the stairs into the nest, her bootheels clicking on
the steel steps. “Invisible attacker, maybe?”
Jill shook her head, picking up a bag of tortilla chips from the
other chair and brushing off the seat for Amanda to sit. “Not likely.
Invisibility doesn’t fly on digital video like it did on the old stuff. The
light refraction shows up as a wavy pixel array and makes the person look like
the alien in Predator. No sign of that. Someone on the Mayor’s staff,
maybe? They were the only people anywhere near the Maidens.”
Amanda shook her head. “Doubtful. They were all long-time
staffers, people I’ve been acquainted with for years. I don’t suspect them.”
Jill glanced at her friend. “You suspect everybody.”
“True,” Amanda allowed herself a slight smile, but only for a
second. “All right, let’s see what we can see. Put the Channel 12 feed on the
big screen and roll it.”
Jill turned and tapped some keys, activating the IMAX-sized
display on the north wall of the control room. Amanda leaned back in her chair
and watched over steepled fingers as the horror of half an hour ago played out,
larger than life. Her face was impassive, but as she observed those details she
couldn’t see before – flaming debris and rubble flying into the crowd, people
being wounded, innocents dying instantly – her eyes grew cold and sharp as
knives. Whoever you are, you’ll pay for this night.
“Stop.” Amanda murmured as she watched herself searching the
remains of the podium. “Nothing here. None of the Mayor’s staff made a single
untoward move. And no indication of how the explosion happened. Run the footage
from Channel 9.”
They watched the same disaster from a different angle, and then a
third, but to no avail. Amanda glanced over at her assistant. Jill’s cheeks
were wet, tears glistening in the glow from the giant viewscreen, but otherwise
the girl made no sound, working with grim efficiency. Amanda reached over and
touched her arm. “Maybe we should take a break.”
“No,” Jill shook her head stiffly, continuing to work. “I’m still
monitoring the police bands. They’re already dispatching units to handle
multiple shootings and rioting in the streets. The word’s out that the Maidens
are out of action, and this is only the beginning. Won’t be long before the
nuts with superpowers come out to play.” She looked at Amanda. “But what really
scares the hell out of me is what else is out there. I mean way
out there. The Maidens deal with cosmic menaces… the Planet-Smasher… the
Galactic Scourge… Jeb-Del the Man-God… evil on a level we can barely conceive.
The entire planet is suddenly in deep shit, Amanda. For all we know, the
Maidens could have been zapped by flying saucers.”
Amanda squeezed the girl’s arm. “No, whoever did this is human.”
“How do you know?”
“Because that,” she pointed at the screen, “is a spectacle.
It’s a show, with fireworks and a boffo finish, meant for an audience. Cosmic
villains wouldn’t bother with something that petty. And don’t forget, any
teleportation or dimension-rifting beam gives off a residual energy signature,
and that’s the first thing I checked for. No, Jill. That was definitely for
someone’s viewing pleasure.”
“But whose? And how did the Maidens disappear like that?”
Amanda sighed. “I don’t know. They just vanished as if by—“
Suddenly Amanda sat up in her chair, eyes wide. “As if by magic.”
A warm spring evening last April. A gentle breeze lifting Athena’s
cape and stirring her golden hair as she stood on the rooftop of the Eisner
Tower, looking out over the vast sprawl of New Rivendell. Justiciar watched
her, dark eyes taking in every inch of her majestic beauty as she spoke. “It’s
beautiful up here.”
“Everything is, when you’re high enough above it,” the dark
heroine replied. “To see the true face of the city you have to get close. You
have to come down to its level.”
Athena turned to her, eyes steely and bright in the glow from
below. “And you don’t think the Shieldmaidens do.”
“No, I don’t.” Justiciar said matter-of-factly. “You wait in your
ivory clubhouse for some threat worthy of your attention to arise and amuse
yourselves in the meantime with press conferences and public relations.”
Any other hero might have bristled at that, but Athena’s calm
visage remained impassive as always, and Justiciar found herself momentarily
believing that Athena truly was the earthly incarnation of the goddess, as she
claimed. “You’re being unfair and needlessly hostile, Justiciar. You know we
fight the good fight, just as you do. The difference is that we keep our hands
clean.”
“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that we play by the rules. We obey the law. We defend
the city in a way that sets an example for the people, that makes it clear that
the greatest weapon against the deepest darkness is the purest light.” She
shook her head sadly. “I don’t want to have this debate with you, but your
methods are too violent, too heedless of public saftey, too single-minded.
You’re so focused on destroying the evil in our midst that you trample the good
to get to it. The citizens you protect are as afraid of you as they are of the
criminals you battle.”
Justiciar’s brow darkened. “Let them be afraid. They’re safer that
way. My methods may bother you, but then I don’t have the luxury of superpowers
to insulate me from reality. To do what I have to do I have no choice but to
take the fight to them, to look evil in its insane face while I fight it, and
that takes every advantage I can muster, especially fear.”
“Join us,” Athena said gently. “We can help you, and you can help
us. Together we could all become a greater force for good.”
“I work alone, Athena. No teams, no sidekicks, nobody’s ass to
watch out for but my own.”
“We’re fairly capable of watching our own asses.”
Justiciar almost laughed. “You are, Athena. You’re a
warrior, with a warrior’s skills and training. Even without the super-strength and
the invulnerability and the rest of it, you could handle yourself. The rest of
your team is a mess. They rely far too much on their powers and reveal far too
much of what they can do. Concorde is too reckless for her own good, zooming
into situations head-first without reconnaissance. Sylph is too delicate, the
Spark convinced she can handle anything with a well-placed fireball. Arcana may
be the most powerful member you have, but she could be taken out with one
punch.”
“Provided you could get near her,” Athena interjected, “which you
can’t.”
Justiciar sighed. “Someday that vanishing act of hers is going to
fail at the wrong time…”
“Roll
the Channel 12 tape again, Jill,” Amanda snapped. “This time focus on Arcana,
tight enhanced close-up.”
Jill’s fingers flew over the keyboard, cueing up the tape and
zooming in on the image of the sorceress. For a moment Arcana’s face was a dark
blob of enlarged pixels, until Jill digitally enhanced the shot and brought it
into crystal-clear focus. As the mysterious attack struck the Maidens, Arcana’s
aristocratic beauty contorted into a rictus of agony, her lips pulling back
from clenched teeth and twisting, moving, forming words with difficulty. Then
she fell and her image was obscured by the explosion. “Freeze it,” Amanda
whispered and Jill paused the playback.
“She cast a spell,” Jill breathed. “But how? None of the others
seemed to be able to do anything.”
“In a minute,” Amanda leaned forward, eyes bright. “Rewind and now
focus on the Spark’s hands.” Jill repeated the procedure and the
wallscreen showed a tight close-up of the fiery heroine’s yellow gloves. As the
Maidens fell again, Amanda touched Jill’s shoulder. “Slo-mo, second by second.”
Jill tapped a key and the events dropped to a snail’s pace. The women watched
as the Spark’s hands arced downward with her fall to the podium. Suddenly the
gloved hands erupted into flame, a ball of fire that swelled large, inch by
inch, until it exploded like an overinflated balloon and the screen filled
again with fire.
Jill blinked incredulously at the screen, slack-jawed. “Sparky
caused the explosion?”
Amanda nodded solemnly. “And Arcana made them disappear.”
“But – but how?” Jill gaped at her friend. “None of them
could control their bodies or their powers.”
“Exactly.” Amanda turned to Jill, wheels in her head visibly
turning. “Arcana is unbelievably powerful, but useless in a physical fight.
Unlike the others, she needs space to work during a battle, and so in order to
guard against the unexpected, she keeps a spell in reserve, one that can
perform simply and in a split-second.”
“That popping-out thing she does,” Jill nodded, realization
dawning in her eyes. “So when the attack came—“
“—she reflexively invoked the spell, but without her usual
control, so she took the team with her. The same with the Spark. They were
attacked and the Spark instinctively reacted with her power, only with no
control as well, hence the explosion.”
Jill’s nose crinkled in thought. “So it was some kind of
accident?”
“No, quite the opposite. What we’ve just seen is a classic
illustration of the fight-or-flight response, only with metahumans. Spark
fought, Arcana flew, both from sheer instinct and triggered by the same force
that caused the Maidens to lose control of their bodies. And I’m willing to bet
that that’s how their attacker planned it. The podium was undoubtedly rigged to
immobilize the Maidens and while Arcana spirited them away, Spark destroyed the
evidence, both against their will. Brilliant.”
Amanda stood up. “I’m heading for the Shieldhall. That’s
where Arcana’s spell would have taken them.”
Jill looked up as Amanda reapplied her mask. “They won’t be there
now. If your theory’s correct, whoever did this would be waiting for them.”
“I know,” Justiciar said over her shoulder as she took the stairs
two at a time, “but I’ve got to follow the trail. Something tells me neither
the Maidens nor the city have much time.”
3
8:45 PM. The
snow-clouds continued to gather overhead but they took on an ominous orange
glow as they reflected light from the fires now raging throughout New
Rivendell. Sirens wailed from all corners of the city, keening like banshees.
Justiciar dismounted from the
Harley and examined the service entrance leading to the Shieldhall, the
imposing antebellum mansion on New Rivendell’s East Side that served as
headquarters for the Shieldmaidens. A high brick wall surrounded the grounds,
though Justiciar knew that the bricks hid a foot-thick core of pure impervium
that would hold against a charging tank. Beyond the wall an invisible sensor
net was spread over the perimeter, primed to set off capture devices and
countermeasures at the first sign of an unauthorized approach from ground or
air. The Hall was better protected than NORAD.
So if the back gate was standing
open, why wasn’t all hell breaking loose?
Justiciar stepped closer,
pulling out a pair of close-fitting goggles and placing them over her eyes. She
swept the gate, driveway, and grounds beyond with the lenses, tuned to the
spectrum frequency of the Hall’s sensor beam array. Nothing. The Hall’s
defenses had been deactivated. She put the goggles back in their belt-pouch and
sprinted for the Hall, its windows dark except for multicolored Christmas
lights in the window of the study. Up the stairs to the porch and to the back
door, which stood ajar. Nudging it open, she entered carefully and began to
move quickly through the house. She had been here twice before on occasions
when circumstances had forced her to work with the Maidens, and twice was
enough for her to have familiarized herself with the layout of the building. A
cursory sweep of the team’s living area revealed nothing amiss. Not a stick of
the tasteful furniture out of place, not one of the many antique portraits hanging
crookedly.
She moved on to the modern heart
of the building, the area where the Maidens trained and worked, and into the
vast control room. It was as bright as the Haven was dark, bristling with
monitor screens and consoles on every wall, a polished onyx conference table in
the center surrounded by chairs marked with each of the heroines’ symbols.
Justiciar had always thought this room fairly ridiculous, less a place to work
than a place to hold meetings and bandy parliamentary procedure. But tonight
the room sent a chill down her spine.
Draped over the back of each
heroine’s chair was her costume. Athena’s mail and cape. Sylph’s green hood and
staff. Concorde’s frictionless running-suit. The Spark’s scandalous leotard.
Arcana’s white tights and purple sash. Removed and purposefully displayed like
trappers’ pelts. Our showman again, she thought with a frown, dressing
the set. But something’s missing here…
Then it struck her. Gloves.
Boots. Concorde’s mask, and Spark’s. Whomever took the Maidens undressed them
but left them half their costumes. What the hell--?
“I thought you’d never get
here.”
Justiciar whirled at the woman’s
voice behind her, instantly assuming a defensive hapkido stance. The
intruder seemed unimpressed. Tall and athletically built, she took a lazy step
forward into the control room, the overhead fluorescents gleaming against the
skintight black leather and purple accents of her bustier and panties, her
opera-length gloves and thigh-high boots, the mask that obscured everything on
her face but her feral green eyes and mocking red lips. Raven hair fell about
her shoulders in a shiny cascade.
Justiciar looked her up and down
with disdain. “What, Frederick’s of Hollywood had a sale? Look, sister, the
dimestore-dominatrix look is out.”
The intruder only smiled. “Now
is that any way to treat your hostess? You’d do well to mind your manners in a
lady’s house.” She took another step forward, hands resting on her hips, her
right touching the bullwhip coiled on her belt. “Not that it’s mine just yet,
but you can rest assured the former owners won’t be using it anymore.”
Justiciar narrowed her eyes,
ready to move at the first twitch of the woman’s whip-hand. “How’d you get in
here? And what have you done with the Shieldmaidens?”
“As for how I got into this
ostentatious little fortress, it was quite easy. The Maidens were
indiscriminate when hiring the domestic help. The maid I interrogated gave up
the access codes with only minor… persuasion.”
Justiciar made an almost
inaudible sound in the back of her throat. Inside her head, Jill replied, “I’m
on it, Amanda.” Back at the Haven, Jill would bring up a list of the
Shieldmaidens’ domestic service’s employees and cross-check it with the police
department’s current missing-persons’ list.
The intruder continued, “And as
for the Maidens themselves, they’re tucked away nice and cozy, waiting for me
to bring back the last guest on my list.” She looked at Justiciar pointedly. “Since
you weren’t so accommodating as to stage a publicity stunt like they did, I had
to draw you out and lead you to me.”
So the public attack at the
Auditorium was a show… and the intended audience was me. Justiciar
gritted her teeth, dark eyes growing fierce. “Tell me where they are, you
bitch, while you’re still able to.”
The woman smiled again. “`Bitch’
is such a harsh word, though it’s appropriate. You can call me Neuromancer.”
Then her right hand was a blur, the bullwhip uncoiling and striking like a
snake at the place Justiciar’s feet were. But Justiciar moved faster, springing
up and forward, dodging the whipcrack that resounded like a pistol shot and
arcing into a handspring that closed the distance between herself and her foe.
Inside the whip’s strike radius she grabbed Neuromancer’s leather-clad wrist
and spun, yanking the villainess’s arm up between her shoulder blades.
Neuromancer cried out in pain.
“Now,” Justiciar hissed, tugging
up on the arm. “Let’s discuss the Mai—UNNNNHHHH!” Suddenly she was in
blinding agony worse than any she had ever experienced, her lithe body
stiffening as an electric current shot through every cell. She had been
electrocuted before, but this was something entirely different and infinitely
worse, like a dentist’s drill grinding on every single nerve in her body at
once. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak. Fireworks exploded behind her eyes
as the pain ripped through her, and she could feel herself being pulled
inside-out, inch by savage inch. Though the torture seemed to last for hours,
it was mere seconds before Justiciar’s agonized form hit the marble floor hard.
The world began to iris into darkness as she lay twitching uncontrollably from
the assault.
The last words she heard were
Neuromancer’s. “I’d say the discussion is over, wouldn’t you?”
Unable to do a thing, Justiciar
gave in to merciful unconsciousness.
4
11:47 PM.
“Chestnuts
roasting on an open fire…
Jack Frost nipping at your nose…”
As the veil of
darkness began to slowly lift from Justiciar’s eyes, her first thought was I
hate that song…
Her second thought was somewhat less mundane: I’m in trouble.
The
searing agony that was the last thing she had felt had receded to a dull ache
in every muscle of her body. She tried to move her limbs to work out the kinks
and found they wouldn’t respond. She was completely unable to move.
I’m in big trouble.
Justiciar was tightly bound with white cord that wrapped around
her booted ankles and calves, and more cinching her naked thighs together.
Still more cord wrapped around her waist and above and below her exposed
breasts, binding her tightly against a metal pole. Topping the pole was a
crossbar, forming a T, over which her arms had been slung with her wrists bound
together behind her back and connected to the torso ropes. The effect was
rather like being a scarecrow hanging in place, except the tie forced her chest
forward and prominent. Justiciar still wore her mask, boots, and gloves, but
the rest of her costume was missing. She had never felt so exposed and
vulnerable in her life.
She heard Jill inside her head, the girl’s tiny, frightened voice
crashing like cannon-fire inside her aching skull. “Amanda. Can you hear me?
Respond… please…”
But there was no chance of that happening, not with the rubber
ball that had been wedged deeply between the heroine’s teeth and strapped in
place behind her head. The gag, she knew, would allow little more than
unintelligible mewing. Instead, Justiciar lifted her head slowly and took in
her surroundings as Mel Torme sang on about a turkey and some mistletoe.
The frame to which she had been bound was on some kind of platform
that was plunged into darkness. Blinking to clear her vision, Justiciar could
make out five indistinct shapes, two across from her, two to her left, and a
larger one to her right. All around she could hear voices murmuring and calling
to each other, and the scrape and shuffle of furtive activity. And as Mel
continued to croon his Yuletide platitudes, she heard something else, tiny mmpphhs
of other gagged women struggling futilely. Even with the pain in her head,
Justiciar had no problem divining who those muffled voices belonged to…
“And though
it’s been said many times, many ways…
Merry Christ-mas… toooo yoooouuuu…”
As
the last piano tinkles faded, there was a beat of silence. Then suddenly a
klieg light stabbed Justiciar’s eyes and along a far wall a bank of monitor
screens flickered to life. Bathed in the spotlight, Neuromancer stood in all
her leather-sheathed glory and shouted,
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the First -- and Last –
Shieldmaidens Christmas Special… Ever!”
From overhead, speakers began to blast canned applause, and
Justiciar realized that the villainess was facing a TV camera. My God… she’s
kidnapped us to put on a show! Her eyes scanned the bank of monitors
Neuromancer was addressing, her audience, and widened in horror.
Every screen displayed a face from New Rivendell’s nightmares. The
haggard leer of the Gravedigger. The demented grin of the mad scientist Doc
Proteus. The grimly masked features of Witch-hammer. Harpoon. The Chaos
Engineer. Dreadhawk. Lady Cyanide. And so many more. Every supervillain
currently at large and bearing a grudge against her, the Shieldmaidens, or both
was watching this psychotic charade via videoconference. Her nakedness felt
even more acute and she thanked heaven that she was still in the shadows, though
she doubted that would last for long…
The raven-haired villainess went on, relishing her performance.
“For those of you who don’t know me, I am Neuromancer, Mistress of Life and
Death and your hostess for the evening’s festivities. And what do we have in
store for you on this most magical of nights?
“Why, nothing less than the death of the Shieldmaidens and
Justiciar!” More canned applause thundered through the speakers, and
Justiciar could see the grins widening on the faces of the menagerie of evil arrayed
on the far wall.
“And so, without further ado, let us meet our very special
guests.” Neuromancer strolled across the platform, the spotlight following. As
she walked, Justiciar began counting the woman’s associates. Light operator,
cameraman, sound man, technician to operate the videoconference feed… four so
far. Her gloved hands twisted in the ropes as she tried to eke out some
slack to no avail. Her jaws ached from the ballgag.
Neuromancer stopped before the first shape and suddenly a second
spotlight shone on the dark-skinned form of Arcana. The sorceress had also been
bound to a metal T-frame, naked except for her purple boots, ropes
crisscrossing her proud body and framing her round breasts with their large
dark aureoles. Instead of a ballgag, however, several strips of white surgical
tape had been plastered over her lips, preventing even the most rudimentary of
spells. Justiciar could not see Arcana’s hands, but she would have bet the
magician’s fingers had been taped together as well. Another thing that was
different was the gleaming metal collar that encircled Arcana’s throat.
“Our first guest is that mystical gal who has proven such a
spoiler of your best-laid schemes with that voodoo that she do so well… Arcana!”
Canned applause. The sorceress glared down at her captor with fierce eyes and
squirmed in her bonds.
Neuromancer moved on to the next shape, and another spotlight
revealed Concorde, also in a metal collar, naked but for gloves, boots, and
mask, her boyish body quivering with checked velocity but held in place with
strips of rough leather. Rawhide, Justiciar observed grimly. The more
she vibrates, the tighter they’ll get. Concorde snarled around her ballgag,
“Nnnngghh! Mmmpphh!” Her muffled curses were met by a burst of canned
laughter.
Neuromancer’s head fell back in a throaty laugh. “She’s feisty,
isn’t she, folks? Meet Concorde, just the ticket for those of you who like fast
women!” More canned laughs.
Justiciar bit down hard on the ball in her mouth and continued
twisting her wrists, working for that bare centimeter of give…
Neuromancer crossed the platform. Next was Sylph, her elfin body
not tied to her frame but wrapped against it with yard upon yard of what
appeared to be PVC plastic, almost mummified in the unnatural stuff, except for
her small breasts, a silver tuft of pubic hair, and the collar. More of
the stuff was wrapped about her head, covering her mouth tightly. Her grey eyes
were huge and suffering from the torment of contact with such an artificial
material, and her whimpers were audible. Neuromancer reached up and caressed
the girl’s cheek. Sylph turned her head away with a muffled yelp.
“Poor little Sylph. It seems our nature girl is allergic to the
twenty-first century,” Neuromancer chuckled. “Not to worry, though. She won’t
be part of it much longer.”
Again, that damned laugh track. The audience on the monitors was
eating it up.
To Justiciar’s immediate left, the next spotlight revealed the
Spark. She too had been collared and mummified, but with black, shining rubber,
no doubt fireproof. The pyrokinetic heroine tossed her red hair as she
struggled, issuing a furious mew as Neuromancer reached over to caress one of
her substantial breasts. “You all know the Spark here,” Neuromancer grinned.
“Now this is what I call a real hottie!”
Justiciar couldn’t decide which she dreaded more, being next in
the spotlight or enduring more of her abductor’s horrible jokes. She continued
to work against her wrist-bonds as Neuromancer glided over to her and she was
suddenly bathed in white-hot light.
“We have a very special guest tonight. She’s not a member of the
Shieldmaidens, but no snuff party would be complete without her. Give it up for
the Dark Paladin herself... Justiciar!" As the canned applause
roared around her, Neuromancer leaned in close and slowly ran her tongue over
Justiciar’s upper lip around the gag. As she pulled away, she looked into the
heroine’s eyes and murmured, “Damn shame I have to kill you. I have a
feeling you’d be just my type.” She winked and Justiciar found herself with a
profound urge to kill Neuromancer with her bare hands.
“And last but certainly not least,” Neuromancer announced to her
audience, spinning with a flourish on her spiked heels and gesturing to the
large shape at the end of the platform, “I give you the mightiest of the
Maidens, powerful beyond comprehension, invulnerable to virtually all harm but
reduced to utter helplessness in my hands… the goddess in chains… Athena!”
The canned applause was deafening, but as the final spotlight
bathed the end of the platform, the sight was madness itself.
A Saint Andrew’s cross had been constructed of steel girders
welded and riveted together, and stretched spread-eagle across it was the
incomparable body of Athena, utterly naked but for gauntlets and boots. Her
wrists and ankles were enclosed in shackles an inch thick and pulled to their
limits. A metal collar like the other Maidens wore was snug about her throat,
but the device that stilled her mouth was a thick iron clamp fitted across her
mouth, under her jaw and around her head. Justiciar had seen one of those
devices in a book once. It was called a brank, used by medieval judges to
punish gossipy or unruly women. The idea of something so barbaric being locked
onto the proud head of Athena was nothing short of monstrous.
The usually placid eyes of Athena were filled with fury as her
perfect breasts rose and fell with her attempts to break her bonds. Neuromancer
merely smiled. “Don’t hurt yourself, dear. That’s my job.” She reached
up and gave Athena’s left breast a playful slap, then turned back to the
camera. “Now I direct your attention above Athena’s head to the big board.” A
large monitor screen above the steel structure abruptly glowed into life,
revealing a graphic outline of a Christmas stocking. “As per our arrangement, I
will now ask you ladies and gentlemen to collectively pay me the sum of one
hundred million dollars. As your donations are recorded in my private Swiss
bank account, the stocking will fill. When it is completely filled in, I will
then kill each of these six do-gooders before your very eyes!”
More canned applause, then Neuromancer signaled to her sound man
to cut it. “And how will I do it, you may ask? By using the same method that I
used to take them in the first place.” She strolled to the middle of the
semicircle of bound and gagged heroines, visibly reveling in the moment. “You
see, many of you, if not all, have tried to pit your powers and weapons against
these costumed bitches only to be defeated time and again. But I have
discovered the one weapon none of them can possibly stand against… their own
bodies!”
As in some cheesy late-night infomercial, astonished gasps erupted
from the speakers. “It’s true! Through a secret process that I shall soon
patent, I have developed the ability to take control of the electrochemical
impulses that flow through all our bodies. In short, I can control the very
nervous system itself. Just think about it. Sensations, perceptions, movement…
all of them are dependent upon signals from the brain, signals that I have
learned to manipulate in all manner of fascinating ways.”
Neuromancer turned to Sylph, squirming and mmpphhing in her
plastic bonds. She laid a leather-gloved hand against the heroine’s cheek.
Suddenly the diminutive girl stiffened and screamed into her gag: “MMMMMNNNNGGGHH!”
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she re-experienced the torment that all
of the others now knew. The rest of the captives struggled and mewed angrily
into their gags. Neuromancer pulled her hand away and Sylph collapsed against
her pole, head hanging as she sobbed.
“What
you just saw was the result of my command to Sylph’s brain to quintuple its
electrochemical output, overloading her nervous system like a ride in an
electric chair.” Canned applause. Justiciar continued to work on the cords
binding her wrists, heart pounding inside her chest, as the villainess made her
way over to Concorde, straining against the rawhide thongs cutting into her
naked flesh. Above Athena’s head, the stocking graphic had begun to fill with
red as ten million dollars flowed into Neuromancer’s coffers.
“But that was merely a mundane demonstration of how the process
works. I could do that to any human being. Metahumans, on the other hand, are
more of a challenge. Note that I have taken measures in each heroine’s
restraints to counteract her powers. That’s because I have not removed those
powers, something that many of you have tried in vain to do. Instead I have
simply blocked the Maidens’ ability to use their powers.”
The collars. Justiciar’s mind raced. The collars are
rigged to cut off the neural connection from the Maidens’ temporal lobes to the
nodes that control their powers. That’s why I don’t have one – I don’t have
powers.
Neuromancer went on. “But while those powers are still intact,
they provide most entertaining possibilities. Take our speedster here…” She ran
her gloved fingers through Concorde’s short black hair, closing them into a
fist and jerking the girl’s head back sharply as Concorde yelped into her
ballgag. “Hyperaccelerated nervous system. Impulses flow through her at ten
times the normal rate. So just suppose I was to increase the sensitivity of her
pleasure center, like so.” Suddenly Neuromancer clamped her other hand hard
against Concorde’s exposed pubic mound. The girl’s eyes went wide and wild as
she began to mmpphh frantically, her body grinding and bucking against
her captor’s intrusive hand as a sudden climax ripped through her. Then
another. And another, a mere second after the first. Then more in rapid
succession, her trim form breaking out in rivers of sweat as multiple orgasms
ravaged her body in the blink of an eye, visibly threatening to tear her apart
as she keened in agony against her gag.
Abruptly Neuromancer let her go, stepping back, as Concorde sagged
in her leather bonds, hyperventilating through her nose. On the big screen, the
stocking began to fill rapidly. Twenty million. Thirty. Forty…
The canned applause was sheer cacophony. Neuromancer took a bow to
her television audience, their faces on their monitors reflecting hideous glee
and lust. The villainess pulled herself back up and turned to face Athena, who
glared back with a promise of fiery vengeance raging in her eyes.
“And as my very special Christmas gift to you, my dear viewers,”
Neuromancer purred as she approached the shackled heroine step by step, “I’m
going to show you something you thought you’d never see. The mighty and
invulnerable Athena… in pain.”
Justiciar stifled a shout as she felt the cords on her wrists give
just the tiniest bit and prayed that centimeter or so would be enough. Her
agile mind had already extrapolated what was about to happen to Athena…
Neuromancer stood before the straining figure of the warrior,
hands on her hips, for a dramatic beat, then reached out and pinched Athena’s
left nipple between her fingers. At first nothing happened, then suddenly the
proud breasts began to heave, the powerful muscles in her arms and legs began to
cord and strain and there was a slight groan of metal as she pulled against the
girders. Her head, enclosed in the brank, began to move from side to side as
she fought to hold back a scream.
“Go ahead, o goddess,” Neuromancer smirked. “Give the
people out there in TV Land what they want. You can’t stop it. I’m increasing
the sensitivity of your body’s pain receptors exponentially. Soon a dust mote
in the air brushing against your skin will feel like a chainsaw. Scream for me,
Athena.” She gripped Athena’s nipple hard and twisted.
“NNNNNNNGGGGHHHHH!” The scream that ripped from
Athena’s throat was horrible to hear. Above her head the stocking graphic
filled to the brim and “$100,000,000” flashed in bright yellow letters over it.
Time was up.
Enough! Justiciar pushed her right wrist through the slight give in the
cords and jerked it. From the sheath inside her right glove a small blade
of sharpened impervium snicked out at a right angle, slicing through the
wrist cords like warm butter.
Mistake number one: never tie a captive so that the arms have
leverage.
As
the cords dropped away from her hands, she ran the blade, arms and shoulders
aching, along the pole, the blade cutting through cords and metal as her torso
was freed. On the audience screens, twenty supervillains simultaneously shouted
silent warnings, faces contorted in anger. A beat later, Neuromancer’s goons
began to cry out in alarm.
Mistake number two: never forget that the greatest occupational
hazard of the female superhero is getting tied up – a lot – and some of us are
prepared for it.
Neuromancer turned, releasing Athena’s breast in shock, as
Justiciar bent over and sliced through the ropes on her thighs, calves, and
ankles. The villainess’s mouth worked silently for a moment, then she sputtered
to her goons, “Get her!”
And mistake number three: nobody fucks with my sisters.
Four husky guys in dark uniforms converged on Justiciar at a run.
Naked and still wearing the ballgag, Justiciar went low with a capoeira
leg-sweep, upending the closest goon and knocking him onto his back with an
audible whouf! She rabbit-punched him in the throat with a
knuckle-strike and somersaulted over his gasping body, planting both feet into
the next one’s solar plexus, staggering him. The two other henchmen closed in
on either side and lunged. Justiciar grabbed the right goon by the hair and
leap-frogged over his back, legs splayed wide, shoving him headlong into his
partner. The two hit the floor in a tangle of arms and legs. All around them
the Maidens shouted muffled encouragements into their gags.
The heroine whirled, using the momentary breather to claw at the
buckle of her ballgag. She yanked it from between her teeth as the second goon
produced a wicked hunting knife from his belt and came at her. Grasping the
ends of the ballgag strap in either hand, she crouched and let him come on. As
the thug slashed at her, she spun to her left, trapping his knife-hand in the
strap and slamming the heel of her hand into his outstretched elbow, feeling the
joint snap and give beneath her blow. The goon howled in pain, dropping the
blade, and then just dropping as Justiciar spun again and delivered a crushing
backfist to his jaw.
Meanwhile the two remaining henchmen had untangled themselves and
were rising to their feet, hands jerking Glock 9-millimeters from beneath their
jackets. They raised the guns and fired, but the Grim Guardian was already in
motion, leaping to the right and grasping the pole to which she’d been tied.
Her momentum whipped her around the pole in an arc and the nearest goon took
both bootheels in the temple. He collapsed against his fellow and Justiciar
lunged in, shattering the last goon’s gun-wrist with a flat-hand chop and
whirling to deliver rapid-fire punches that landed like hammers to his ribs and
jaw. She grabbed his lapels and with a grunt, propelled him headfirst into the
pole. He slumped to the floor, out like a light.
Suddenly a hand clamped on the back of Justiciar’s neck and all
the heroine knew was searing pain. Neuromancer snarled through her teeth as
Justiciar cried out in agony and dropped to her knees, ravaged by the
electrochemical overload the villainess poured into her. Galvanized, unable to
move, barely able to see, Justiciar was helpless in Neuromancer’s grip.
“Bitch!” Neuromancer howled as she came around to face the tormented
heroine. Spittle collected at the corners of her mouth. “Nice try, girl. But
I’ve gotten my money, and now it’s time for you super-cunts to die. I was
planning to save you till the end, but since you tried to ruin my Christmas
special, you get to go first.”
Justiciar, seething with pain, tried to will her limbs to move,
but her body was completely short-circuited. All she could do was stare up into
the mad face of her death.
“Do you know what my favorite part of the nervous system is,
Justiciar?” Neuromancer hissed. “The autonomic system. You know, the mechanism
that keeps the heart and lungs pumping even when you sleep?” Her grin was
terrifying. “Say goodbye to yours.”
The hand on Justiciar’s throat tightened and suddenly the former
pain paled in comparison to the sledgehammer blow to her chest as she felt her
heart abruptly stop. She tried to gasp for air and nothing happened. Spots
began to dance before her eyes and there was a roaring in her ears that drowned
out the gagged shouts of the helpless Shieldmaidens. She could feel every
oxygen-starved cell in her body beginning to die.
God… Jill…Her mind snatched furiously at consciousness
as the final darkness converged. Jill… I’m so sorry… I’m so…
SKRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEE-REEEEE-REEEEE-REEEEEE!
A sheer explosion of piercing white noise suddenly cut through her
skull like a laser beam. What the hell--?
“RUN RUN
RUDOLPH! SANTA’S GOTTA MAKE IT TO TOWN!”
Without
warning, Justiciar’s right hand jerked up in a blur and clamped onto
Neuromancer’s wrist, yanking her gloved hand away, and twisted hard.
Neuromancer screamed as the bones in her wrist gave way and splintered. Air
rushed back into Justiciar’s lungs and she sprang forward, driving her left
fist into the bridge of the villainess’s nose.
“IF HE’S GOTTA
HURRY TELL’IM HE CAN TAKE THE FREEWAY DOWN!”
Neuromancer staggered back, hands flying to her face as Justiciar,
devoid of any conscious thought, lurched at her and began raining blows at her
head and arms, pummeling her savagely. Neuromancer screeched, trying to grab at
her attacker, but Justiciar knocked her unbroken arm aside and continued to
pound her, relentlessly, mercilessly, with sheer animal fury, until Neuromancer
dropped to the platform at Arcana’s feet and lay still, bloody and broken.
“RUN RUN
RUDOLPH—“
“Enough,”
she whispered hoarsely. The thundering noise inside her head stopped as
suddenly as it had appeared. “Thank you.”
“You okay, Amanda?” Jill’s voice was a frightened murmur.
“No. But I will be.” Justiciar stumbled over to the steel cross
that held Athena, who mmpphhed through the brank, eyes clouded with
worry. Justiciar raised herself up with difficulty and flicked out the
impervium blade again. With her last ounce of strength, she reared her arm back
and swung, driving the blade into the collar about Athena’s throat. As the
thing sparkled and sizzled, Athena’s arms corded and pulled with their
accustomed strength and the shackles on her wrists shattered with a crash. Her
arms came around just in time to catch and enfold the body of Justiciar, which
sagged limply in her grasp.
As Justiciar gave in again to the darkness she heard Athena
tearing the brank from her head and whispering. “Rest, dark warrior. You have
done well, my sister…”
5
7:21 AM. Amanda’s eyelids hurt as they fluttered
open. Everything hurt, in fact. But she was warm, lying in her emperor-sized
bed in the penthouse suite of the Young Building, her favorite flannel
nightgown on, a fire in the fireplace.
How did I get here? She looked around the bedroom,
confused and disoriented. “Jill--?”
Her voice was scratchy and weak, but it was enough. Jill came in,
smiling softly, and sat on the edge of the bed. “Hey.” She took Amanda’s hand.
“How do you feel?”
Amanda laced fingers with Jill and looked up at her, smiling a
little. “Like utter shit. Thanks. How did I get home?”
“Athena brought you. She flew over here with you in her arms and
landed out on the terrace. How she knew your secret identity is a mystery, but
I’m glad she did.”
Amanda started to roll that over in her mind when she suddenly
remembered. “Oh my God! The city—“ She struggled to sit up, but Jill gently
pushed her back by the shoulders. “It’s over. The rioting, the looting, all
taken care of.”
Amanda just stared at her friend. “What happened--?”
“Christmas happened,” Jill shrugged and smiled. “As soon as the
news went out about the Maidens’ disappearance and the citywide panic,
superheroes from other cities began showing up. The Challengers, the Stonewall
Squad, Liberty Force… guys from New York, Chicago, L.A., Townsville… even those
snobs up on the moon showed up to help New Rivendell out. Pretty cool, huh?
Merry Christmas.”
Amanda nodded, blinking, her mind going back to Neuromancer, the
torture of Sylph and Athena, the rape of Concorde. “And the Maidens? Any word
on them?”
Jill shook her head, her smile fading on her lips. “This is gonna
be a rough one for them to recover from. Especially Concorde. Neuromancer had
better pay in spades for this.”
“She will. If prison doesn’t do it, rest assured the bad guys who
lost a hundred million dollars to her will.” She squeezed Jill’s hand and
looked into the girl’s eyes. “You saved my life, kiddo. That was great
thinking.”
Jill shrugged again. “I just crossed my fingers and hoped that the
noise would override Neuromancer’s whammy. Fight or flight, right?”
“Right.” Amanda pressed Jill’s fingers to her lips. “Thank you.”
Jill smiled warmly. “Hey, I love you.”
“I love you too.”
They sat that way for a long moment, then Jill got up abruptly. “I
almost forgot—“ She went to one of the bay windows that overlooked the city and
drew aside the curtain. Outside the grey morning sky was filled with gentle
flurries. New Rivendell had gotten its white Christmas.
Amanda looked out from her bed as Jill crawled in beside her and
they entwined to watch the snow. “Merry Christmas, Jill.”
“Merry Christmas, Amanda.”
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