Once Upon A December Novels & Stories

It was December again. The second December since Aria had come to this house, and it arrived with the particular quality of the second time, which was different from the first in the way all returns were different from arrivals, warmer and more specific, the warmth of the known thing rather than the warmth of the discovered thing, both of which were their own kind of valuable.

Finally, I turned around to ask him, “Is there something you want to say to me?" Just as George was about to reply, I received a call. It was a video call from a friend of mine back in Londres. He loved to cook, and since my own culinary skills were practically non-existent, we had grown incredibly close over the past couple of years. He had absolutely zero ties to Solaria or the mafia; he was just an ordinary, regular civilian. He had video-called me specifically to show me how they were celebrating Christmas back in Londres. When the clock struck midnight over there, he said, “Merry Christmas, Annie.”

He poured a mug full, grabbed a granola bar and headed outside. Cold air hit his lungs; he pulled his coat tighter around his neck. His boots crunched on the frozen ground, and the scent of manure reached his nose. He and Carter had planned the holiday celebration for all the ranch hands. They'd chosen December twenty-second this year, right before the big rush.

They reached Tara’s car, and as soon as they got in, Tara squeezed Melody’s hand. As she got into the car, she made a silent prayer, she didn't believe in Christmas no more, but she was hoping for a Christmas miracle. The twelve days of Christmas song was blasting in the car. On the fourth day of Christmas my true love sent to me… “Cheating on a platter of gold.” How thoughtful.

December arrived and was December. The specific quality of the month — the preparations, the made-ready, the room believing in the arrival of the person before the person came. The city in its December configuration, the commercial streets with their lighting, the Calloway building lobby with its single arrangement of white branches, Margaret approving the eleven-year tradition without comment. Daniel noticed these things from his window seat on the bus on the first Monday of the month.

She continues, “As you have sworn your oath, it is until death. Words spoken in this temple abide with you. They are not to be whispered. Not to be gossiped about. You are being watched…” A shiver runs down my spine. I must say, whoever this lady is, she’s scarier than the witch of any bedtime story I’ve ever heard. “The Twelve. The sacred Twelve…” her voice is a laughter. I am surprised she doesn’t cackle. “Every decade… the morning moon bleeds. Every decade… the Twelve are chosen. And every decade… the Moon Relic cries.” Wait. Hold up. Did I just hear that right? My chest tightens, curiosity instantly activated. Forget fear, my interest is officially piqued.

Forty-three: Mia Conner Winter Solstice at The Lodge was unlike anything I had ever experienced. Aunt Rachel and I had a small Christmas together, but most of the time we didn’t do anything extravagant. This was on a whole other level. Everything was covered in snow. Although it wasn’t Christmas the Crescent family celebrated, there was still all of the trappings of Christmas. They still had a tree that was decorated with presents under it. There were stockings hanging from the fire place. All of them had the family names embroidered on them.

“You rode a motorcycle all the way here in this weather? What about the storm?” “I like to live dangerously. Getting home will not be boring. We’ll see if I need to get a room or not.” “Seems rather badly planned.” “Only your repeated calls so close to the holidays. At this rate, I’m going to miss Yule all together.” “Yule?” “Yes, the holiday that Christmas stole every tradition from. That Yule December twenty-first to January first. That Yule, we have family coming in from all over this year. Some of them we’ve never even met before. It’s kind of important.”

KIMANI The plan was simple. Spend New Year’s Eve with family. Count down to midnight. Leave immediately for our honeymoon. Clean. Organized. Efficient. Very Alaric. It was the evening of December 31st, and once again the mansion was full. The Christmas decorations were still up, lights glowing warmly against the tall windows. Music hummed softly in the background, glasses clinked occasionally, and the energy in the room was restless—the kind that builds when everyone is waiting for midnight.

Near midnight, Carmilla sent a flood of new photos—hundreds of flight records showing Mario's secret trips to see her, and more of them in bed together, intimately entangled. The most painful part was one particular date—yesterday. Our wedding anniversary. Carmilla: [Dear sister, I'm coming home tomorrow. I just can't stop missing Mario.] I laughed bitterly, saved the photos, blocked her number, and lay awake till dawn. The fortune-teller had been wrong. Mario hadn't fallen in love with someone else in the seventh year of our marriage. He had loved her long before that.