A Curious Christmas Carol Read online

  “Throw me in the shed if you want,” she said. “Banish me from the Wheelers, even. But you can’t make me sorry for what I’ve done. I did what I had to. I have no regrets. This way, Rook will have to help us.”

  “In case anyone hasn’t noticed,” I said, “it’ll be Christmas eve soon, and I’ve got places to be. Carols to sing. Gifts to wrap. You know, important Christmas stuff. So if someone wouldn’t mind untying me….”

  I tugged at the cords around my wrists. Not that it did any good. Finally, Prodigal must’ve figured things out.

  “You kidnapped the Ragman’s Rook?” He glanced at the two Wheelers who held me. “Nosebleed? Primo? You were part of this too?”

  The boy standing at my left shrugged. His brown hair hung down around his eyes, so it was pretty much impossible to tell what he was thinking. But the boy at my right sighed. His face was full of scars, and his front tooth was chipped. Like maybe of all the Wheelers, he crashed the most.

  “Dragon was going to go alone,” he said. “Primo and me, we didn’t want anything bad to happen to her.”

  “It’s not their fault,” Dragon said, “so don’t blame them. It was my idea. I did this. I kidnapped the Rook.”

  Prodigal balled his hands into fists. “The Life Miser will be furious! This could start a Collector’s war! What were you thinking!”

  “Someone had to care enough to do the right thing!” Dragon lifted her chin. “And if you aren’t willing to do what it takes, then fine! I am!”

  “The Rook has nothing to do with this!”

  “He can help us!”

  “Uh, not with his hands tied, he can’t,” I said.

  Everyone ignored me.

  “Are you saying I don’t care?” Prodigal leaned forward. “About my own brother?”

  The look in his eyes made everyone step back—even me. On that kill-before-Christmas list, Dragon’s name just skipped about five slots ahead of mine.

  Blue Sky motioned for calm. “Prodigal, I know this seems like a mess, but maybe we can fix it. We all want what’s best for Spider. We can each agree on that at least, right?”

  I looked around. Where was Spider, anyway? I’d never seen Prodigal without his daredevil baby brother tagging along by his side.

  “The rumors say Rook found the Silver Cross,” Dragon added. “He can use its magic to help us.”

  Prodigal faced me. “Are the rumors true?”

  Honestly, I should’ve been expecting something like this to happen. Find a super powerful, forbidden Collectible, and sooner or later, people are going to want a piece of it for themselves.

  I exhaled a breath. “I’m not supposed to talk about—”

  “Are they true? Yes or no!”

  For a moment, the only sound in the room was that muffled wheezing. I frowned. Nothing here made much sense. What could matter so much that the Wheelers would risk crossing Prodigal? And Prodigal—what could put him on edge like this?

  I gazed at the mattress. The pile of blankets. Listened to the wheezing.

  A small cough.

  And Spider missing.

  Oh, no.

  At last, I understood who was ill in that bed.

  “It’s true,” I said. “I found the Silver Cross.”

  Prodigal drew in a breath, and his eyes shone. Made me sorry to disappoint him.

  “But the Silver Cross’s magic can’t heal anyone now,” I continued. “I returned it to the Artisans. They put it in the Vault. I don’t even know where it is or how to get it back.”

  As quickly as the light had brightened Prodigal’s eyes, it flickered out again. He gritted his teeth, then turned back to the mattress.

  “You’ve wasted your time, Dragon,” he said. “Let him go. And if the Ragman declares war on us for this, it’s your fault. Remember that.”

  “No,” Dragon said. “We can make this work. We could force Rook to go find it again. We could—”

  “Dragon, please,” Blue Sky said. “Don’t make this any harder.”

  Nosebleed untied me and muttered, “Sorry, Rook. Don’t kill us, okay?”

  I massaged my wrists while Prodigal eased down onto the mattress once more, that dark look still in his eyes. Dragon, glaring at me, punched the wall so hard she was lucky she didn’t break the bones in her hand. Maybe she did.

  Seemed like the Wheelers were having a worse Christmas than I was.

  “Let me take a look at Spider,” I said. “Maybe I can help him without the Silver Cross.”

  Prodigal’s jaw tightened, so Blue Sky reached out to touch his shoulder. Their eyes met for a few seconds, and after that, he nodded at me. Then I approached the mattress and lifted the blankets to see better.

  “Oh, Spider,” I said.

  Spider lay there shaking, his teeth chattering. His face glistened with so much sweat that his brown curls lay flat against his forehead. He turned his face to the left side of the pillow, then the right. Probably the fever was making him restless.

  “Anyone have a thermometer?” I asked.

  “We could go steal one for you,” Nosebleed said. “I’ll go right now if you want.”

  I shook my head. Still, I didn’t need a thermometer to know Spider’s fever was way too high. When I looked back down at his face, his eyes were open.

  “Hi, Spider,” I said. “You ready for Santa to visit?”

  Which was a pretty dumb thing to say, but I couldn’t let Spider know how worried I was getting.

  Or Prodigal, for that matter.

  “Rook,” Spider said, his breaths shallow, “there’s no…Santa. Hasn’t anyone…told you that…yet?”

  Then he coughed. I pressed my fingers against his neck to feel his pulse—too fast. And the wheezing never stopped.

  “Does your chest hurt?” I asked. “Maybe when you cough or take a deep breath?”

  “It hurts…all the time.”

  “Have you coughed up any blood?”

  “A little.”

  No, no, no. This wasn’t just some head cold Spider had caught. In the pit of my stomach, I felt a kind of plunge. But everyone else in the room looked hopeful, like I really would be able to make him well. Like tomorrow morning, Spider would wake up with only a few sniffles and then open his Christmas presents.

  How could I possibly tell them he might not wake up at all?

  “Can you help him?” Prodigal asked.

  I adjusted the blankets around Spider’s shoulders. “We can start by applying a cold, wet cloth to his head. See if we can get his fever down. Has he been drinking any water?”

  “Not since this morning,” Blue Sky said.

  “He needs to drink more water. Much more. Right now. He’s probably already dehydrated.”

  Blue Sky left the room to get what we needed. I turned to Prodigal.

  “We need to talk privately,” I said. “It’s important.”

  Prodigal stiffened, but he ordered Dragon to take care of Spider. Then he led me outside the room and shut the door behind us. Still, I made sure to lower my voice. Just in case.

  “I think Spider might have pneumonia,” I said. “He needs a doctor. He needs to go to a hospital.”

  Man, it was a good thing Prodigal didn’t have his crazy killer toothpick right then. He’d have stabbed me with it for sure.

  “Absolutely not,” he said. “Spider stays here. With me.”

  “This is serious. He could die, Prodigal. It’s that bad.”

  “If I take him to a hospital, they’ll start asking questions about our parents. And when they find out we don’t have any…the doctors, they’ll take him. Put him in foster care. They’ll separate us. I’ll never see him again.”

  “At least he’d be alive,” I said.

  “I’m his brother! I changed his diapers! Fed him his bottle, helped him take his first steps! I’m the one who cares about him! Not some stupid doctors. What can a bunch of doctors do for him that I can’t?”

  “They can give him medicine, for a start. Antibiotics. Stuff like tha
t.”

  Prodigal squeezed his eyes shut.

  “I can’t lose him,” he said, his voice rough. “I can’t. I can’t lose him.”

  Seemed like he’d lose Spider either way.

  “Prodigal, look, I’m sorry,” I said. “If there was any other—”

  “Medicine.” Prodigal’s head jolted up. “Antibiotics. We can give him that.”

  Oh, man. Looked like he’d finally gone over the edge.

  “The Soup Cabinet,” he continued. “We could ask it to make us a special kind of soup. Antibiotic soup.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The Life Miser, he has the Soup Cabinet. And the Soup Cabinet can make any kind of soup you want. We can ask for a soup to heal Spider. Something with medicine for the ingredients.”

  “Okay, but—”

  Prodigal snapped his fingers. “Eggnog Soup!”

  Wow. He didn’t just go over the edge—he did a backwards double flip over it.

  “Eggnog soup?” I shook my head. “Prodigal, what are you talking about?”

  “Spider hates soup, but he loves eggnog. If we make him eggnog soup with medicine in it, he’d eat it. I need to see the Life Miser. Wait here!”

  He raced up the stairs that led to the Life Miser’s office, but he wasn’t there for long. And when he returned, he looked like he was the one sick with pneumonia instead of Spider.

  “The Life Miser,” he said, “he won’t give me the soup.”

  “What! Why?”

  Prodigal shook his head.

  “Didn’t you tell him how sick Spider is?” I asked.

  “Of course I did. I told him about the eggnog soup. I told him everything. But he still said no.”

  Prodigal leaned against the wall, then slowly slid down until he was sitting on the cold, cement floor. In the dark, I could hardly see his face at all.

  “But, it’s Christmas!” I said.

  “The Life Miser, he doesn’t give gifts at Christmas. He said bah humbug. Then he ordered me to get out.”

  “Bah humbug? He seriously said that?”

  Prodigal didn’t answer. I didn’t expect him to.

  “I guess I could steal the Soup Cabinet,” Prodigal said, almost to himself. “We’d lose our home. The Life Miser would kick us out for betraying him. All of us. And I hate stealing. But if it’s the only way to save Spider….”

  He stood. Like maybe he’d made up his mind. He moved towards the door, so I grabbed his arm.

  “Wait,” I said. “I can’t believe I’m doing this, but look. Maybe you don’t need to steal anything from the Life Miser. Not if I help you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll find a way to get some eggnog soup for Spider.”

  Prodigal stared at me for a long time. “You’d do that for him? Why?”

  “Spider’s your family. And family’s important, especially at Christmas.” I shrugged. “Just take care of Spider, okay? Make sure he rests.”

  I took my house key out of my pocket and slipped it into the door’s lock. When I turned the key, I felt the lock click.

  “Rook, wait,” Prodigal called. “What are you going to do?”

  I glanced at the metal staircase that led to the Life Miser’s office.

  “I’m going to give the Life Miser a Christmas he’ll never forget.”

  Decking the Packrat Halls

  Not even the Packrat House was safe from the Christmas madness. In fact, for a whole minute I stood in the hallway when I arrived, rubbing my eyes. Had I ended up at that crazy shopping center again? Why else would I see an elf leaving the Ragman’s study?

  Then I realized the elf was Deeter. And that was even weirder.

  “Deeter?” I said. “What are you wearing?”

  As far as elves go, he was dressed to impress. He wore this green, velvet jacket fastened at the hip with a red sash, which made his green tights so bright they almost dazzled. The pointed jingle boots on his feet matched the pointed jingle hat on his head, and I could’ve sworn he had elf sparkles on his cheeks.

  “This?” Deeter smoothed a wrinkle on his sleeve. “You like it?”

  “Your ears.”

  “Yeah?”

  “They’re very…pointy.”

  “Took me ten minutes to glue ’em on. Wouldn’t be right without the ears.”

  “But, why are you dressed like that?”

  “It’s my costume for the Artisans’ Christmas Party. The Ragman bought it for me.”

  “The Artisans throw a Christmas party?”

  “Every year. And everyone is invited—Artisans, Finders, Collectors. Doesn’t matter. They hold a contest at the party to see who’s wearing the best costume, and this year, I’m gonna win. The Ragman got a sugar plum fairy costume for Sweet Pea. He asked me to tell her, so she could try it on. You should try on yours, too.”

  Wait, mine?

  I shook my head. “I’m not wearing any sugar plum fairy costume.”

  “Man, do you have peanut butter for brains? You’re not going as a fairy. You get to go as Rudolph. You think my ears are amazing? You should see your nose!”

  No reindeer-game way.

  “The party’s tonight,” Deeter continued. “Can’t believe you didn’t know.”

  “The Ragman must’ve forgotten to mention it. He was too busy telling me to go find the Matryoshka Doll.”

  Not that I’d spent much time hunting for magic today. Sweet Pea’s gift was way more important.

  “The what doll?” Deeter asked.

  “Matryoshka. It’s some sort of stupid nesting doll. I have no idea why he wants it or what its magic does. Probably he just secretly wants to make my life—”

  Deeter raised his hand and sniffed the air. “You smell something?”

  Definitely, the air seemed smoky like something had burned. We followed the burnt smell to the living room, where I stopped at the entryway and glanced around.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said.

  The living room’s old, familiar mess had been transformed into a new, Christmas mess while I was away. An unfinished paper-chain garland snaked a path around the boxes and wooden crates, up and over the edge of the table, then down and around the shabby sofa. Several piles of holly were heaped next to the window, and when I entered the room, I tripped on a box of assorted silver bells. They jangled as if they were scolding me.

  From some place near the sofa came a muffled groan. Deeter gave me a nudge.

  “Well, go on,” he said. “See what it is.”

  I took a few steps closer until finally I discovered who was groaning on the sofa.

  “Sweet Pea?” I stared. “Is that you?”

  Deeter walked up beside me. “Man, you’re a mess, Pea!”

  Sweet Pea’s arms and legs were sprawled out on the sofa’s pillows, and her eyes were shut. But strangest of all, every inch of her was ghost white. Her hair. Her clothes. Even her shoes.

  “Wrong, wrong,” she said. “It all went wrong!”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  But she only groaned again and stuffed a pillow over her face.

  “Better get the Ragman,” I said. “Maybe he’ll know what to do.”

  Deeter nodded, but before he could run out of the room, Sweet Pea mumbled into the pillow.

  “What?” I leaned forward. “I can’t hear you.”

  She tried again. Sounded like berzergerzerberd.

  “Sweet, I can’t understand….” I touched her shoulder, and a fine white powder rubbed off onto my fingertips. A little like chalk dust, but softer.

  “Is this flour?” I asked.

  She waved her hand in the direction of the nearest wooden crate. Sitting on top of it was a dish with these weird burnt shapes. Looked like figures. Little men. With melted gumdrop buttons. Smeared smiling faces.

  I picked one up to examine it more closely.

  “Oh, no, Pea,” Deeter said. “You tried baking again, didn’t you?”

  “Are these g
ingerbread men?” I asked.

  I tapped the cookie against the edge of the crate a few times while Sweet Pea peaked out from underneath the pillow.

  “They aren’t that bad, right?” she said. “Tell me they aren’t that bad.”

  “Um, sure. Though I think you’re supposed to decorate them after you bake them. Not before. Just sayin’.”

  Sweet Pea groaned louder.

  “Why didn’t you use the Seven-Course Tablecloth to make your cookies?” Deeter asked. “Here. Watch. Hey, Tablecloth. I’d like a pancake gingerbread house with peanut butter and salsa frosting, please. Don’t skimp on the peppermint candy decorations, either.”

  The thing that appeared next on the table…well, it wasn’t the tablecloth’s best effort. Usually, the tablecloth could work with Deeter’s wild culinary ideas. Not this time. Deeter’s gingerbread “house” was a big, brown squishy thing that bulged and sagged beneath the thick slathering of pinkish-gray frosting. A bunch of peppermint candies dotted the top, but the surface was too gooey, so the candies slid down the dripping sides in a melted mess.

  Worst of all, the tablecloth had tried to wish us season’s greetings. On the very top of the pancake roof, written in red and green sprinkles, was a big, swirling Mervy Cherstmus.

  “What do you think?” Deeter asked.

  “Wow.” I tipped my head. “Just, wow.”

  “It’s oozing,” Sweet Pea said. “And this is exactly why I didn’t use the Seven-Course Tablecloth. I wanted to bake the cookies myself. I wanted them to be an authentic expression of Christmas.”

  Deeter smirked. “An authentic failure of Christmas, you mean.”

  She slugged him in the arm, then turned to me. “Which would you rather eat, Rook? My gingerbread cookies, made from scratch with love and Christmas cheer, or that gingerbread monstrosity? No offense, Tablecloth.”

  “He wants mine,” Deeter said, the bells on his costume jingling as he shook his head. “Ain’t no monstrosity! It’s a work of genius!”

  “No, he wants mine.”

  They both spun around and faced me.

  “Well?” Sweet Pea asked.

  “Come on,” Deeter said. “Which is it?”

  Awkward.

  Sweet Pea offered me the plate of gingerbread cookies while Deeter pointed at his gingerbread house. I glanced back and forth between them, then back and forth between the burnt cookies and the soggy house. There was only one way out of this that I could see.