Meet a new character!

Every so often, when we are generating images at OpenArt.ai, we get hilarious misfires. Sometimes, the misfires inspire ideas completely separate from the property or concept we were trying to illustrate.

The latest of these led to the idea for a brand-new character, Kenzie Cooper, and a story to introduce her to the world! (Jane Glix is the pen-name given unto us by the computer, so this and any future stories featuring the deadly Zodiac-based assassin!

Written in the Stars

The penthouse suite of the Hotel Metropol overlooked Red Square with the kind of view that cost more per night than most Russians earned in a year. Kenzie Cooper stood at the window, watching snow fall across the Kremlin's illuminated domes, calculating the precise moment a man would die. Her laptop sat open on the mahogany desk behind her, displaying two astrological charts side by side, their geometric patterns of houses and planetary aspects glowing softly in the darkened room.

On the left: Dmitri Ivanov, born March 15, 1968, at 3:47 AM in Novosibirsk. Sun in Pisces, Moon in Scorpio, Ascendant in Capricorn. A man whose natal chart spoke of ruthless ambition cloaked in emotional manipulation, of power accumulated through secrets and fear.

On the right: Her own chart, calculated for this specific moment in Moscow. Mars transiting her eighth house—the house of death and transformation. Jupiter forming a trine to her natal Pluto. The aspects were clear, undeniable. Tonight, the cosmos aligned for justice.

Kenzie had been tracking Ivanov for three months, ever since the dossier arrived through her usual channels. The file detailed his crimes with clinical precision: journalist assassinations disguised as accidents, political opponents poisoned with exotic compounds, entire villages displaced for mining operations that poisoned their water supplies. Ivanov had built his fortune on suffering, protected by a network of corrupt officials and the kind of wealth that made him untouchable through conventional means.

But Kenzie didn't operate through conventional means.

She returned to her laptop, studying the ephemeris for the evening. Ivanov would attend a private auction at the Pushkin Museum at nine o'clock—a gathering of oligarchs and international collectors bidding on looted antiquities. The event was invitation-only, security extensive but predictable. More importantly, the Moon would enter Ivanov's twelfth house at 9:47 PM, the house of hidden enemies and self-undoing. Saturn would simultaneously square his natal Mars.

The universe has a sense of timing, she thought, closing the laptop.

It hadn't always been this way—astrology was once just another curiosity, a peripheral skill she'd stumbled upon by accident. Now, it was as essential to her work as her custom-made Walther PPK.

Kenzie had discovered astrology during her first year as a professional. A target in Mumbai, a corrupt pharmaceutical executive, had kept an astrologer on retainer. While surveilling his office, she'd intercepted communications about "inauspicious timing" that caused the executive to cancel a trip. The trip would have taken him out of her reach for weeks. Instead, he'd stayed in Mumbai, and she'd completed her assignment on schedule.

Curiosity led her to study the charts herself. She approached it with the same analytical rigor she applied to ballistics, surveillance, and tactical planning. The patterns emerged quickly—not mystical prophecy, but a sophisticated timing system that mapped psychological vulnerabilities and optimal windows for action. Some might call it superstition. Kenzie called it another tool in her arsenal.

The Pushkin Museum glittered with old-world elegance, its neoclassical facade illuminated against the winter darkness. Kenzie arrived at eight-thirty, dressed in a black Valentino gown that cost more than her first car, her dark hair swept into an elegant chignon. The invitation she presented at the door was genuine, purchased from a minor aristocrat who needed cash more than culture.

Inside, the auction occupied the museum's main gallery, where priceless artifacts lined the walls in climate-controlled cases. The guests circulated with champagne flutes, their conversations a mixture of Russian, English, and French. Kenzie recognized several faces from intelligence briefings—arms dealers, money launderers, the architects of modern kleptocracy dressed in Brioni and Chanel.

Ivanov held court near a display of Scythian gold, surrounded by sycophants and bodyguards. He was shorter than his photographs suggested, with the soft features of someone who'd never missed a meal and the cold eyes of someone who'd ordered many final ones. His security detail consisted of four men, positioned at cardinal points around him, their attention focused outward on potential threats.

Kenzie studied them with professional assessment. Ex-military, probably Spetsnaz, competent but overconfident. They expected threats to come from the obvious vectors—the entrances, the crowd, the windows. They didn't expect the threat to come from the stars themselves.

She checked her watch: 9:15 PM. The auction would begin in fifteen minutes. She needed to be in position before then.

The museum's layout had been memorized weeks ago through architectural plans and reconnaissance visits. The main gallery connected to a series of smaller exhibition rooms, which in turn led to administrative offices and storage areas. Security cameras covered the public spaces, but the back corridors operated on motion sensors and periodic guard patrols. The guards changed shifts at nine-thirty, creating a seven-minute window of reduced coverage.

Kenzie moved through the crowd with practiced ease, accepting champagne she wouldn't drink, exchanging pleasantries in flawless Russian with men whose fortunes were built on blood. She positioned herself near the gallery's eastern exit, the one that led toward the administrative wing.

At 9:22, she slipped through the doorway.

The corridor beyond was dimly lit, lined with storage rooms and conservation laboratories. Kenzie moved quickly but without apparent haste, her heels clicking softly on marble floors. Anyone who saw her would assume she was looking for a restroom or taking a phone call away from the crowd.

The conservation lab was unlocked, as her research had indicated it would be. Museums prioritized protecting their collections from the public, not from threats that originated within their own walls. Inside, she found what she needed: a white lab coat hanging on a hook, a security badge clipped to its pocket, and access to the museum's environmental control systems.

Kenzie pulled on the coat and studied the control panel mounted on the wall. The museum's climate control was sophisticated, designed to maintain precise temperature and humidity levels for artifact preservation. It also controlled the ventilation system for the entire building.

She removed a small vial from her evening bag—a custom compound synthesized by a chemist in Prague who asked no questions and accepted only cryptocurrency. The substance was colorless, odorless, and would disperse through the ventilation system as an aerosol. In low concentrations, it caused mild disorientation and nausea. In the concentration she was about to introduce into the main gallery's air supply, it would trigger acute respiratory distress in anyone exposed for more than ten minutes.

Anyone except Kenzie, who'd taken the antidote an hour before arriving.

She checked her watch again: 9:31 PM. The Moon had entered Ivanov's twelfth house three minutes ago. Saturn's square to his Mars was exact.

The stars don't lie, she thought, opening the vial.

The compound dispersed into the ventilation system with a soft hiss. Kenzie sealed the empty vial in a plastic bag, tucked it back into her evening bag, and returned the lab coat to its hook. She was back in the main gallery within four minutes, her absence unnoticed in the pre-auction excitement.

The auctioneer, a distinguished man in his sixties, took his position at the podium. The first lot was a Byzantine icon, its gold leaf catching the gallery lights. Bidding opened at five hundred thousand euros.

Kenzie positioned herself near the gallery's main entrance, far from Ivanov but with a clear line of sight. She watched the crowd, counting seconds in her head. The compound would take approximately eight minutes to reach effective concentration in the gallery's air supply.

At the six-minute mark, she noticed the first signs. A woman near the front touched her throat, her face suddenly pale. A man coughed into his hand, then coughed again, harder. The auctioneer paused mid-sentence, his voice catching.

By minute seven, the gallery had descended into chaos.

People stumbled toward exits, gasping for air that seemed to have turned thick and hostile. The bodyguards surrounding Ivanov moved to protect him, but they were affected too, their movements sluggish and uncoordinated. Someone screamed. Glass shattered as a guest collapsed into a display case.

Ivanov clutched at his chest, his face turning an alarming shade of purple. His bodyguards tried to move him toward the exit, but the crowd had become a panicked mass, everyone fighting for the doors simultaneously.

Kenzie moved against the flow, her breathing steady and controlled. The antidote worked perfectly, allowing her to navigate the chaos while others struggled. She reached Ivanov just as his bodyguards lost their grip on him, their own respiratory systems failing.

She took his arm, steadying him. "Let me help," she said in Russian.

He looked at her with desperate, uncomprehending eyes, too oxygen-deprived to question or resist. She guided him away from the main exits, toward the eastern corridor she'd used earlier. Behind them, museum security and emergency responders were flooding into the gallery, trying to manage the crisis.

The corridor was empty, the chaos of the gallery muffled by thick walls and closed doors. Ivanov leaned heavily against her, his breathing labored and wet-sounding. They were alone.

She lowered him to the floor with surprising gentleness. His eyes searched her face, confused, pleading.

"The Moon entered your twelfth house tonight," Kenzie said quietly. "Hidden enemies."

Dmitri Ivanov. Born March 15, 1968, in Novosibirsk. Sun in Pisces, Moon in Scorpio. His natal chart had been fascinating to study—all that Scorpio energy in his eighth house, the house of death and other people's resources. He'd spent his life taking what belonged to others. Money, land, lives.

Saturn squared your natal Mars at exactly 9:31 PM, she thought, watching his face. Did you feel the shift?

Ivanov's fingers grasped weakly at her gown, his eyes widening with understanding and terror. She remained still, professional, her expression neutral as the compound completed its work. His struggles weakened, then ceased. His eyes remained open, staring at nothing.

All those bodyguards scanning rooftops and checking credentials, she mused, and the real threat was the woman in Valentino who knew her way around an ephemeris.

Kenzie checked his pulse, found none, and stood. She removed a small syringe from her evening bag—a second compound, this one designed to mimic the symptoms of a massive heart attack. She administered it quickly, professionally, then returned the syringe to her bag.

The medical examiners would find a man who'd died of cardiac arrest during a mass panic event. Tragic but unsurprising, given his age and the stress of the situation. The compound in the ventilation system would be traced to a faulty seal in the museum's climate control system, a terrible accident that would result in lawsuits and resignations but no criminal charges.

Kenzie straightened her gown and walked back toward the gallery, her heels clicking against the marble with measured precision. The chaos had subsided into organized emergency response. Paramedics moved between guests sprawled on benches and leaning against walls, oxygen masks pressed to pale faces. Security personnel coordinated evacuations in low, urgent voices. The grand space that had glittered with champagne and ambition an hour ago now hummed with the fluorescent efficiency of crisis management.

No one paid attention to one more well-dressed woman emerging from the corridors, her face appropriately shocked and concerned. She'd practiced this expression in mirrors across a dozen cities—the slight widening of the eyes, the hand pressed briefly to her chest, the careful way she avoided looking directly at the bodies being loaded onto gurneys.

Outside, the Moscow night had turned cold. Blue and red lights strobed across the museum's neoclassical facade. Kenzie accepted a blanket from a paramedic, wrapped it around her shoulders, and stood among the other survivors. She watched the organized chaos with the detached interest of someone observing a play she'd written herself. Every element had unfolded exactly as the charts predicted. Saturn's square to Ivanov's Mars at 9:31 PM. The panic beginning at 9:27. His death at 9:34.

Precision, she thought. The cosmos rewards precision.

A police officer approached with a tablet, taking statements. Kenzie waited her turn, mentally rehearsing her story. When he reached her, she gave her account in flawless Russian, describing the panic and her own escape through a side corridor. Yes, she'd seen others in distress—an elderly woman, a young couple, several men in tuxedos. No, she hadn't witnessed anything suspicious before the incident. She'd been admiring a Fabergé egg in the east wing when people started coughing.

The officer's eyes were tired, overwhelmed. He typed her statement with two fingers, asked for her hotel information, and moved on to the next witness. The whole interaction took twelve minutes.

They let her go within an hour.

Kenzie walked back to the Hotel Metropol rather than taking a taxi. She needed the cold air, the movement, the transition between one reality and another. Moscow at night was all golden domes and dark streets, the city's imperial past pressing against its oligarchic present. Her breath misted in the air. Her feet ached in the Louboutins, but the discomfort felt grounding, real.

She thought about Ivanov's chart as she walked. That Scorpio Moon had made him dangerous, secretive, capable of profound cruelty. But it had also made him predictable. Men with that much fixed water energy always believed they could control the depths, never realizing the depths would eventually consume them.

You were always going to drown, she thought. I just chose when and where.

The hotel lobby was warm, bright, blessedly normal. The night clerk nodded to her as she crossed to the elevators. In her suite, Kenzie stood at the window for a long moment, looking out at the city. Red Square glowed in the distance. Somewhere out there, Ivanov's body was being examined, photographed, documented. His death would make the news by morning. Business magnate dies in museum tragedy. His widow would weep for the cameras. His enemies would privately celebrate.

And Kenzie would be gone.

She turned from the window and began to pack with methodical efficiency. The evening bag with its incriminating contents would be incinerated in a private facility outside Moscow. The Valentino gown would be donated to a charity shop in Berlin. The laptop with its astrological charts would be wiped and disposed of in Prague.

Before shutting down the computer, she opened her own natal chart one final time. Mars had moved into her ninth house—the house of long journeys and foreign lands. Jupiter was approaching a conjunction with her Midheaven, the point of career and public reputation.

New opportunities, she thought. Recognition for work well done.

The encrypted message arrived as she was closing the laptop. A new assignment, this one in Singapore. A human trafficker with connections to government officials, a man whose crimes had gone unpunished for decades. The dossier included his birth data: August 3, 1972, 11:23 PM, Manila.

Kenzie opened her ephemeris and began calculating. The target's chart showed a challenging Saturn return approaching, with Pluto transiting his fourth house—the house of endings and final resting places. In six weeks, there would be a lunar eclipse in his eighth house.

Perfect, she thought.

She booked a flight to Singapore under one of her alternate identities, then spent an hour studying the target's astrological profile. Sun in Leo, Moon in Gemini, Ascendant in Aries. A man of ego and cunning, someone who believed himself untouchable. His chart showed a pattern of Jupiter protecting him from consequences, expansive luck that had kept him one step ahead of justice for years.

But Jupiter's protection was waning. The eclipse would strip away his defenses, expose his vulnerabilities. And Kenzie would be there when it did.

She'd learned long ago that justice operated on multiple levels. There were the courts and laws, systems designed by humans and corrupted by them. And then there were the older laws, the patterns written in the movements of planets and stars, the cosmic mathematics that governed rise and fall, action and consequence.

Some called it fate. Others called it superstition. Kenzie called it mathematics.

The snow had stopped falling over Red Square. The Kremlin's domes gleamed under clearing skies, and somewhere in the city, emergency services were still processing the tragedy at the Pushkin Museum. By morning, the news would report Dmitri Ivanov's death as a terrible accident, one victim among many in a mass casualty event.

No one would suspect murder. No one would trace the compound or question the timing. No one would think to cast an astrological chart for the moment of his death and see the patterns written there—the cosmic signature of justice delivered with precision and purpose.

Kenzie closed her laptop and looked out at the Moscow skyline one final time. Somewhere above the city lights, invisible in the urban glow, the planets continued their ancient dance. Mars and Saturn, Jupiter and Pluto, the Moon waxing and waning through its eternal cycle.

The stars didn't lie. They simply revealed what was already written—in the charts, in the patterns, in the inevitable mathematics of consequence.

And Kenzie Cooper knew how to read them.

She left the Hotel Metropol at dawn, another anonymous traveler departing Moscow. By the time Ivanov's associates began asking questions, she would be in Singapore, studying another chart, planning another operation, following the cosmic roadmap that had never steered her wrong.

--
Does Kenzie deserve a second appearance? Let us know, and we'll see what Jane Glix can come up with. :)

Creations of the Christmas Dragon: Caroler and Evergreen Armor of the Yule Guardian

 As Brigid the Red fell in love with winter festivals, and, ultimately Christmas, she created an increasing number of magic items that could be used either to celebrate or defend the most wonderful time of the year. Here are two of them, one which is purely her creation and one that was a group effort.

The Caroler

Weapon (longsword)

This elegant longsword appears to be forged from a single piece of ice that never melts. Delicate snowflake patterns are etched along the blade, and when swung through the air, it produces a soft, melodious chiming sound reminiscent of distant sleigh bells.

Brigid created this sword specifically for use by herself (while in human form) or favorite Lesser Beings while requiring extreme measures to defend Christmas from those who would ruin it. It remains one of her favorite creations, because it remembers every Christmas carol sung in its presence and sings

Magical Properties:

• You gain a +2 bonus to attack rolls made with this magic weapon.

• The sword deals an additional 1d6 cold damage on a successful hit.

• Winter's Hymn: As a standard action, you can cause the sword to sing a Christmas carol. For the three minutes, all creatures of your choice within 10 feet of you have resistance to fire damage and advantage on saving throws against effects that would cause the frightened condition. Once you use this property, you can't use it again until after the next sunrise.

• Frozen Mercy: When you reduce a creature to 0 hit points or less with this weapon, you can choose to freeze them in a block of ice instead of killing them. The creature is stable and encased in ice (AC 13, 20 hit points, immunity to poison and psychic damage, vulnerability to fire damage). The ice melts after 8 hours or can be broken to free the creature. This allows you to capture foes alive for questioning or redemption.

• The wielder is comfortable in cold weather and suffers no ill effects from natural cold environments.

Evergreen Armor of the Yule Guardian

Armor (breastplate, shoulder guards, arm guards)

This beautiful breastplate, with matching armguards and shoulder guards is the color of evergreen trees. It seems to glisten like fir trees on a frosty morning.

Brigid the Red created this armor and wore it into the battles after which she became known as Brigid the Christmas Dragon. She became involved with a war between druids and early Christians, standing between both sides and convincing them that they should celebrate the winter festivals together and that both Yule and Christmas were embodiments of love and community. Ultimately, it was her transformation into dragon form that forced the communities to listen to her and consider her words. During the joint festivities afterwards, the druids and the Christian magi joined together to enchant Brigid's armor, turning an item that had been strictly cosmetic into one of her most prized possessions. Moreso than any item she owns, the Evergreen Armor of the Yule Guardian reminds her of how special Christmas is.

Magical Properties:

• While wearing this armor, you have an AC of 14 + your Dexterity modifier.

• You may cast spells as if you were not wearing armor..

• Guardian's Gift: The armor has 5 charges. As an action, you can expend 1 charge to touch a creature and restore 2d8 + 2 hit points to it. Alternatively, you can expend 2 charges to cast lesser restoration on a touched creature. The armor regains 1d4 + 1 expended charges daily at dawn.

• Festive Resilience: You have advantage on saving throws against poison and disease, and you have resistance to poison damage.

• Aura of Goodwill: Friendly creatures within 10 feet of you gain a +1 bonus to saving throws against being charmed or frightened. This aura is suppressed if you are unconscious.

• The armor keeps you comfortably warm in cold environments, and small woodland creatures are instinctively drawn to you, sensing your protective nature.

From the Christmas Dragon's Hoard: The Staff of Evergreen

Unlike other items featured in this series of posts, the Staff of Evergreen was not created by Brigid the Red. Instead, it was a gift from a grateful conclave of druids that she saved from Roman troops. Although not strictly a Christmas item, it has become part of Christmas legends in small northern Irish villages and isolated communities in Morocco, because Brigid lent the staff to leaders of the communities when trouble faced them at Christmas time. (Brigid may also tinkered with an enchantment or two to make the staff more "Christmasy"...

 

THE EVERGREEN STAFF
Aura: Strong evocation and transmutation
Slot: None (held item)
Weight: 4 lbs.

This quarterstaff is carved from pine wood that remains forever fresh. Small pinecones dangle from its length on silver chains, and the scent of fresh evergreen follows its bearer. The staff is wrapped in spiraling bands of red ribbon that glow faintly in darkness.

The Evergreen Staff functions as a +2 quarterstaff and grants the bearer a +4 competency bonus to Survival skill checks in cold or winter environments. The bearer is also unaffected by temperatures as low as -50 degrees. allows use of the following spells at12th-level effectiveness. Additionally, the bearer can cause the following spell-like effects by expending the staff's charges:

* Entangle (1 charge, but manifests as animated garland and ribbon)
* Spike growth (1 charge, craggy ice and upside-down icicles spread in the direction 

        the staff is pointed)
* Plant growth (2 charges, causes evergreen trees to sprout)
* Wall of thorns (3 charges, creates a wall of holly bushes with red berries)
* Control weather (4 charges, can only create gentle snowfall)

The staff has 10 charges and regains 1d6+4 charges daily at dawn, up to the staff's maximum of 10. If the bearer expends the staff's last charge, roll d20. On a 1, the staff transforms into a normal evergreen tree sapling that must grow for one year before it can be harvested and reforged into the staff (requiring the original construction process, which is now known only to Brigid)..
Additionally, the bearer gains a +4 competence bonus on Survival checks in cold or winter environments and can survive comfortably in temperatures as low as -50°F without protection.fdsa

Creations of the Christmas Dragon: Bells of Joyous Summoning

One of the items that Brigid works one when she's grown born with everything else, is the bells of joyous summoning. It's designed to help gather companions for a celebration if the user find themselves alone of foreign lands.

Bells of Joyous Summoning

Aura: Moderate conjuration

Construction Requirements: Craft Wondrous Item, summon monster V, good hope, calm emotions, detect evil, detect good, bless

Slot: None (held item)

Weight: 1 lb.

This set of nine silver sleigh bells hangs from a leather handle adorned with holly sprigs. Each bell produces a different crystalline tone, and together they create harmonious melodies that seem to echo longer than they should. The tunes played vary depending on the angle or how fast or how hard it is shaken by the user.

As a standard action, the bearer can ring the bells in specific patterns to produce the following effects:

Carol of Companionship: Duplicates summon monster V, but the summoned creature appears wreathed in festive lights and tinsel. The creature is particularly cheerful and gains a +2 morale bonus on all rolls. This ability can be used three times per day.

Chime of Cheer: Duplicates good hope affecting all allies within 30 feet who can hear the bells. This ability can be used twice per day.

Peal of Peace: Duplicates calm emotions in a 30-foot radius. Affected creatures see visions of peaceful winter scenes and warm hearths. This ability can be used twice per day.

Ring of Revelation: Duplicates detect evil or detect good (bearer's choice) for 10 minutes. Evil creatures detected appear to have a shadowy, coal-like aura, while good creatures glow with warm candlelight. This ability can be used at will.

The bells cannot be silenced by mundane means, though silence spells work normally. If all nine bells are rung simultaneously (a full-round action), they produce a magnificent sound that can be heard up to one mile away and grants all allies within 60 feet the effects of bless for 10 minutes. This ability can be used once per day.

The Ghost and the Christmas Miracle: Fiction by Steve Miller

It's a tale of a different sort of Christmas miracle...

The Ghost and the Christmas Miracle

The snow fell in thick, wet clumps across Vancouver's east side, turning the streets into a treacherous maze of slush and ice. Billy Wei's Honda Civic fishtailed slightly as he took the corner onto East Hastings too fast, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. The dashboard clock glowed 11:47 PM—he was almost 30 minutes late.

His phone sat silent in the cup holder now, but he could still hear Amy's voice from an hour ago, raw with anger and exhaustion. "It's Christmas Eve, Billy. Christmas fucking Eve." The memory of Sophie's face—confused, sleepy, clutching that card she'd made—twisted something deep in his chest. Two years old. She'd waited up for him.

But Mitchell had called. When Mitchell Chen called, you came.

The house loomed ahead, a renovated Craftsman that looked respectable enough from the outside. Billy pulled into the circular driveway, noting the other cars already present. Tommy's Escalade. Ray's BMW. The whole crew was here, which meant this wasn't just another collection run. Mitchell had sounded tense on the phone, paranoid even. Something about the Mexicans making moves.

On Christmas Eve, Billy thought bitterly.

He killed the engine and sat for a moment, watching the snow accumulate on his windshield. Through the front windows of the house, he could see warm light spilling out, the kind of domestic glow that reminded him of his own apartment. Where Amy was probably still awake, angry and hurt. Where Sophie slept with her new stuffed reindeer.

Billy checked his Glock 19, ensuring a round was chambered, then tucked it back into his waistband beneath his jacket. Three years of this. Three years of telling himself it was temporary, that the money was worth it. Rent. Daycare. Amy's nursing school tuition. Better than construction work, he'd said. Better than breaking his back for minimum wage.

But lately, when Sophie looked at him with those wide, trusting eyes, the weight pressed down harder.

He stepped out into the cold and to Mitchell's front door. It was ever-so-slightly ajar, which struck him as odd immediately. Mitchell was paranoid about security, always had the door sedured and at least two guys posted. Billy pushed it open slowly, his hand instinctively moving toward his weapon.

The entry hall stretched before him, all polished hardwood and expensive artwork that Mitchell had probably bought to launder money. And there, sprawled across the floor near the coat closet, was Danny Cho—one of Mitchell's regular guards. Billy's breath caught. Danny wasn't moving, his body positioned awkwardly, one arm twisted beneath him.

Billy drew his Glock, the familiar weight suddenly feeling inadequate. His heart hammered against his ribs as he moved forward, keeping his back to the wall. Danny's chest rose and fell shallowly—unconscious, not dead. A small mercy, though Billy couldn't imagine what had put him down. Danny was ex-military, trained and alert. Taking him out without a sound took serious skill.

The house was too quiet. No voices, no music, none of the usual sounds of Mitchell's operation. Just the soft hum of the heating system and Billy's own ragged breathing. He moved deeper into the house, past the living room where Mitchell usually held court, toward the back offices where the real business happened.

Another body in the hallway. This time it was Ray Martinez, slumped against the wall near the bathroom. Billy checked him quickly—also unconscious, a dark bruise blooming on his temple. Professional work. Someone had moved through this house like a ghost, taking down trained men without raising an alarm.

Billy's mouth went dry. He should run. Every instinct screamed at him to turn around and get out while he still could. But he kept moving forward, drawn by a sick need to know, to understand what had happened here.

The third body stopped him cold.

Tommy Nguyen lay face-down in the hallway leading to Mitchell's office, and this time there was no mistaking it. The back of Tommy's head was a ruin of blood and bone, two neat entry wounds visible even in the dim light. The carpet beneath him was soaked dark, still spreading. Billy's stomach lurched. He'd known Tommy since high school, had been at his wedding two years ago.

A sound reached him then—a voice, choked and desperate. Mitchell's voice, coming from the office ahead. Billy crept forward, his Glock raised, every nerve ending on fire. The office door stood half-open, light spilling out into the hallway.

"Please," Mitchell was saying, his voice cracking with terror Billy had never heard from him before. "Please, I can pay you whatever they're paying. Double it. Triple it."

Billy reached the doorway and peered around the frame, and the scene before him seemed to freeze in crystalline clarity.

Mitchell Chen knelt in the center of his office, hands raised, his expensive suit rumpled and stained with sweat. Around him, scattered across the floor like broken dolls, were the rest of his inner circle. Billy recognized them all—Chen's lieutenants, his enforcers, the men who'd made his operation run. Some were clearly dead, their bodies twisted in unnatural positions. Others might have been unconscious like Danny and Ray, but Billy couldn't tell from this angle.

And standing over Mitchell, dominating the room despite her slender frame, was a woman.

She wore a long red coat that fell to her knees, unbuttoned to reveal a form-fitting black bodysuit beneath that looked more like tactical gear than fashion. Black boots, practical and silent. Her hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, revealing sharp, elegant features that might have been beautiful in other circumstances. But it was her eyes that held Billy frozen—dark and cold and utterly devoid of mercy.

In her right hand, she held a compact machine pistol, some kind of modified MP5K with a suppressor attached. The weapon was pointed directly at Mitchell's head with the steady confidence of someone who'd done this a thousand times before.

"I don't want your money," the woman said, her voice carrying a faint accent Billy couldn't quite place. Mandarin, maybe, or Cantonese. "I'm not here for negotiation."

"Then what?" Mitchell sobbed. "What do you want?"

"Justice," she said simply. "For the girls you've trafficked. For the families you destroyed. For the communities you poisoned." She tilted her head slightly, studying him like a scientist examining an insect. "Did you really that you could do what you've done and simply continue?"

"I'm just a businessman," Mitchell pleaded. "I provide a service—"

"You're a slaver and a murderer," the woman interrupted, her voice never rising above conversational level. "You sold thirteen-year-old girls from rural Bolivia. You promised them jobs and education, then locked in brothels and shot full of your product until they couldn't remember their own names."

Billy's blood ran cold. He'd heard rumors, whispers about that side of Mitchell's operation, but he'd never wanted to believe them. He'd told himself he was just doing collections, just moving product, nothing to do with the darker aspects of the business.

"That wasn't me," Mitchell said desperately. "That was the Colombians, the Russians—"

"You facilitated it. You profited from it." The woman's finger tightened on the trigger. "And now you pay for it."

The suppressed shots were barely louder than coughs—two quick pops that echoed in the sudden silence. Mitchell's body jerked twice, then crumpled forward onto the expensive Persian rug, blood pooling beneath him.

Billy gasped before he could stop himself, the sound escaping his throat like a wounded animal. The woman whirled with inhuman speed, the machine pistol tracking toward the doorway, toward him. Billy raised his own Glock, his hands shaking, and suddenly they were locked in a standoff—two armed strangers pointing weapons at each other across a room full of corpses.

For a long moment, neither moved. Billy could see her evaluating him, those cold eyes taking in every detail—his cheap jacket, his trembling hands, the way he held his weapon like someone who'd been trained but never really wanted to use it. He tried to steady his breathing, tried to remember his training, but all he could think about was Sophie's face, Amy's voice, the Christmas tree they'd decorated together last week.

"You're late," the woman said finally, her weapon never wavering. "Billy Wei, correct? Low-level collections, occasional enforcement. Three years with Chen's organization. No major crimes on your record beyond the drug distribution."

The fact that she knew his name sent ice through his veins. "Who are you?"

"Someone who came to kill Mitchell Chen and his lieutenants," she said calmly. "The others—the guards, the muscle—they just got in the way. I gave them the chance to walk away. Most didn't take it."

Billy's eyes flicked to the bodies on the floor, then back to her. "You killed them all."

"The ones who chose to fight, yes." She took a step closer, and Billy's finger tightened on his trigger. She noticed and stopped, a faint smile crossing her lips. "You're scared. Good. Fear keeps you alive. But you're also thinking about someone—I can see it in your eyes. Someone waiting for you."

"My daughter," Billy heard himself say. "And my girlfriend. It's Christmas Eve."

The woman's expression didn't change, but something flickered in those dark eyes. "Then you have a choice to make, Billy Wei. You can try to avenge your boss, and die here, on this floor, and your daughter will grow up without a father. Your girlfriend will spend Christmas morning identifying your body."

She paused, letting the words sink in.

"Or," she continued, her voice softening almost imperceptibly, "you can accept this as the Christmas miracle it is. You can lower your weapon, walk out that door, and go home to your family. You can hold your daughter and tell her you love her. You can be there for her first day of school, her graduation, her wedding. You can be the father she deserves."

Billy's hands shook harder. Mitchell was dead. Tommy was dead. The whole organization was decapitated in a single night. There would be chaos, power struggles, violence. But there would also be an opportunity—a chance to walk away, to leave this life behind before it consumed him completely.

"I came for Chen and his inner circle," the woman said. "You're not on my list, Billy. You're just a man who made bad choices trying to provide for his family. I understand that. But this is your only chance. Lower your weapon and walk away, or die here with the rest of them."

Billy thought of Sophie's card, the one Amy had mentioned. She'd made it herself, probably with crayons and construction paper, her little hands working so carefully to create something for him. He'd never even seen it. He'd chosen Mitchell's call over his daughter's gift.

Not anymore.

Billy lowered his Glock slowly, his hands still shaking. The woman watched him carefully, her weapon tracking his movements, ready to fire if he made any sudden moves. But Billy just tucked his gun back into his waistband and raised his hands.

"Smart choice," the woman said. She lowered her own weapon, though she kept it ready. "Go home, Billy Wei. Spend Christmas with your family. And when the police come asking questions, you tell them you were late, you found the bodies, you ran. You don't know anything about a woman in a red coat. Understand?"

Billy nodded, not trusting his voice.

"And Billy?" The woman's eyes hardened again. "This is your one chance to change. If I hear you've gone back to this life, if I hear you've hurt anyone, sold anything, facilitated any of the evil that Mitchell Chen represented—I'll come for you. And next time, there won't be a conversation."

"I'm done," Billy managed to say. "I swear. I'm done with all of this."

The woman studied him for another long moment, then nodded. "Then go. Before I change my mind."

Billy didn't need to be told twice. He backed out of the office, keeping his hands visible, then turned and ran. He stumbled over Ray's unconscious body, nearly fell over Danny in the entry hall, but he kept moving. The cold air hit him like a slap when he burst through the front door, snow swirling around him in the darkness.

He ran to his car, fumbled with his keys, and somehow got the engine started. His hands shook so badly he could barely grip the steering wheel, but he managed to back out of the driveway and onto the street. In his rearview mirror, he saw the house receding, warm light still glowing from the windows, no sign of the carnage within.

Billy made it two blocks before he had to pull over. His hands were shaking so violently he couldn't hold the wheel steady, and his breath came in short, sharp gasps that fogged the windshield. He put the car in park and gripped the steering wheel, trying to ground himself, but all he could see was Mitchell's face—the fear in his eyes, the way his voice had cracked when he begged. The bodies on the floor. Ray's twisted arm. The woman's cold, dark eyes as she'd aimed the gun at Billy's chest.

He pressed his palms against his eyes, but that made it worse. Behind his eyelids, he saw it all again. The blood. The stillness. How easily she'd moved through that house, how efficiently she'd ended lives. How close he'd come to being one of them.

His stomach lurched and he barely got the door open in time before he vomited into the snow. He stayed there, bent over, gasping, the cold air burning his throat. When the heaving finally stopped, he sat back, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand. The snow fell steadily, already beginning to cover what he'd left on the ground.

Billy sat there for a long time, watching the snow accumulate on his windshield, listening to the tick of the engine. Slowly, gradually, his breathing steadied. His hands stopped shaking quite so badly. He started the car again and pulled back onto the street.

The drive home felt endless and dreamlike. The streets were nearly empty, just the occasional car passing in the opposite direction, headlights blurred by falling snow. Billy drove on autopilot, his mind somewhere else entirely—replaying the woman's words, the choice she'd given him, the weight of Sophie's card in his pocket. The familiar landmarks of his neighborhood appeared and disappeared like images in a fog.

When he finally pulled into his apartment complex, he sat in the car with the engine running, staring up at his building. Third floor, second window from the left. The lights were on. Amy was still awake. He could see the faint glow of the Christmas tree through the curtains.

He turned off the engine. The sudden silence felt enormous.

Billy sat there in the dark, watching his breath fog the air, trying to figure out how to walk through that door. How to face Amy. What to say. What he could possibly say that would make her understand without telling her what he'd seen, what he'd almost become part of. His hands found the steering wheel again, gripping it like an anchor.

Finally, he got out of the car. The cold helped. The snow on his face helped. He climbed the stairs slowly, each step deliberate, and stood outside his door for a long moment with his hand on the knob. He could hear the faint sound of the television inside. Normal life. His life. The one he'd almost thrown away.

He opened the door and stepped inside.

The apartment was dark except for the glow of the Christmas tree in the corner, its colored lights casting soft shadows across the living room. Amy sat on the couch, still awake, her arms crossed. She looked up when he entered, her expression hardening.

"Billy—" she started, anger in her voice.

"I'm sorry," he said, and his voice broke. "Amy, I'm so sorry. You're right. About everything. I'm done. I'm done with Mitchell, with all of it. I'm done."

Amy's expression shifted from anger to confusion, then to something else as she really looked at him. She stood up slowly. "Billy, what happened? You look—"

"I can't explain it all right now," he said. His voice sounded strange to his own ears, hollow and distant. "But I need you to know—I'm done. I'm getting out. I'm going to find legitimate work, something clean. I'm going to be here for you and Sophie. I'm going to be the father she deserves."

Amy moved closer, studying his face in the dim light. Her anger had evaporated, replaced by concern and something that looked like fear. "Billy, you're scaring me. What happened tonight?"

"Something that should have happened a long time ago," he said quietly. "I saw... I saw what this life leads to. Where it ends. And I can't—" His voice caught. "I can't do it anymore. I won't."

She searched his eyes for a long moment. Whatever she saw there—the truth of it, the finality—made her reach for his hand. "Okay," she said softly. "Okay."

"Can I see her?" he asked. "Please? I need to see her."

Amy nodded and led him to Sophie's room. The door was already open, and Billy stepped inside quietly. His daughter lay in her toddler bed, her stuffed reindeer clutched to her chest, her face peaceful in sleep. On the nightstand beside her bed was a piece of construction paper folded in half—her card. Billy picked it up carefully and opened it.

Inside, in crayon, she'd drawn three stick figures—a tall one, a medium one, and a small one, all holding hands. Above them, in Amy's handwriting helping Sophie's attempt, were the words: "I love you Daddy. Merry Christmas."

Billy's vision blurred. He set the card down gently and leaned over to kiss Sophie's forehead, breathing in the sweet scent of her baby shampoo. She stirred slightly but didn't wake, just hugged her reindeer tighter.

"I love you too, baby girl," he whispered. "I'm here now. I'm going to be here."

Amy stood in the doorway, watching him. When he turned to her, she opened her arms, and he went to her, holding her tight. They stood there in the hallway, wrapped in each other, while Sophie slept peacefully and the Christmas tree lights twinkled in the living room.

Billy pulled back just enough to look at Amy's face. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out Sophie's card, the one he'd been carrying all night. He held it in both hands, looking down at the crayon drawing—three stick figures holding hands—and then at the Christmas tree beyond, its lights reflecting in the dark window.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, covering the city in white.

--

If you enjoyed this story, you can read more about the mysterious killer in NUELOW Games' The Ghost of Hong Kong, available at DriveThruFiction and DriveThruRPG.

Creations of the Christmas Dragon: Mistletoe Crown of Amorous Enchantment

Brigid has always felt sorry for those who love and who has that love betrayed or turned against them through deceit. Over her long life, she has created several gifts to mortals to help them avoid such romantic traps of pain. One of such items is Christmas themed, and Brigid has been known to wear one into areas that are hostile to Christmas, or to use it as part of an effort to restore a person's belief in the magic of Christmas.

Mistletoe Crown of Amorous Enchantment

Construction Requirements: Craft (Wondrous Item, charm person, break enchantment, neutralize poison, remove curse, remove disease, discern lies, sanctuary, bless, living mistletoe plants, ribbons

Aura: Moderate enchantment
CL: 10th
Slot: Head
Weight: —

This delicate circlet appears to be woven from living mistletoe vines. Small red ribbons are tied throughout, and the crown adjusts to fit any wearer's head comfortably. The mistletoe never wilts or dies.

The wearer gains the following benefits:

Aura of Affection: The wearer radiates an aura of warmth and goodwill. All Charisma-based skill checks gain a +4 competence bonus. Additionally, the wearer can cast charm person at will as a spell-like ability (DC15).

Kiss of True Love: Once per day, the wearer can bestow a kiss upon a willing creature (or be kissed by one). This kiss functions as break enchantment, neutralize poison, remove curse, or remove disease (wearer's choice). The kiss leaves a faint shimmer of golden light on the recipient's lips for 1 minute.

Romantic Revelation: Three times per day, the wearer can cast discern lies, but the spell specifically reveals the truth about romantic feelings, affections, and relationship bonds. Creatures affected by this ability see the mistletoe crown glow brightly.

Peaceful Presence: The wearer can cast sanctuary on themselves three times per day. While this effect is active, the mistletoe berries glow with soft white light.

Festive Blessing: Once per week, the wearer can conduct a marriage ceremony or commitment ritual that grants the participants a permanent +1 luck bonus on saving throws when they are within 30 feet of each other. This is a supernatural effect that can be dispelled but otherwise lasts until the bond is broken. The wearer can maintain up to 10 such bonds at a time.

The crown also grants immunity to all charm effects, as the wearer's heart is protected by the pure magic of the mistletoe.

A Tale of the Christmas Dragon

 We're counting the days till Christmas, and if you are as well, we hope our every-other-day posts will help make the time go by faster!

Today, we're bringing you a story about Brigid, The Young Lady Who Loves Christmas. (You can read another one in Gifts from the Christmas Dragon if you like this one.)

Christmas Miracles

By Steve Miller

The December wind bit through the empty streets of downtown, carrying with it the faint echo of distant carolers and the metallic scent of impending snow. She hummed "Silent Night" under her breath as she navigated the cracked sidewalks, her breath forming small clouds in the frigid air. The grocery bags in her arms were heavy—one filled with carefully selected gifts wrapped in cheerful paper covered in snowmen and reindeer, the other stuffed with ingredients for tomorrow's Christmas dinner: a small turkey, cranberries, sweet potatoes, and all the fixings that would transform her tiny apartment in the city into something that felt like home.

At five-foot-one and barely a hundred pounds soaking wet, she knew she didn't cut an imposing figure--and she was more than okay with that. Her short red hair stuck up in its usual chaotic arrangement and her face was a constellation of freckles that became even more pronounced in the cold. She wore a threadbare winter coat that had seen better days, jeans with worn knees, and boots that were more practical than fashionable. To any observer, she looked like a young woman of modest means trying to make Christmas special despite her circumstances.

The streets were eerily empty for ten o'clock on Christmas Eve. Most people were already home with their families, gathered around trees and fireplaces, exchanging gifts and making memories. Earlier, she had filled in at the diner for her friend Kerrie and worked a double shift—someone had to serve the lonely souls who came in for coffee and pie on holidays. She'd stopped at the twenty-four-hour grocery store on her way home. Tomorrow, the two kids from next door—their mom deployed overseas—would come over, and Brigid was determined to give them a Christmas worth remembering.

She switched to humming "Deck the Halls" as she turned down Maple Street, a shortcut that would shave five minutes off her walk. The streetlights here were spaced farther apart, creating pools of shadow between islands of sickly yellow light. Graffiti decorated the brick walls of closed businesses, and the occasional piece of trash skittered across the pavement, pushed by the wind.

She didn't notice the figure in the alley until he was already moving.

He emerged from the darkness between two buildings like a predator lunging from cover—a man in his thirties, lean and wiry, with a scraggly beard and eyes that darted with the nervous energy of someone riding a chemical high. In his right hand, he held a knife, the blade catching the streetlight and throwing back a wicked gleam.

"Money. Now." His voice was rough, aggressive, brooking no argument. "And the bags. Give me the fucking bags."

"It's Christmas Eve," she said, her tone almost conversational despite the tremor she couldn't quite suppress. "This isn't very Christmas-spirity of you, threatening people with knives."

The man's face twisted with rage. Before she could react, his left hand shot out and connected with her cheek in a sharp, stinging slap that made her head snap to the side. Stars exploded across her vision, and she tasted copper.

"Shut the fuck up," he snarled, stepping closer, the knife now inches from her face. "You want this in your gut? Huh? You want me to gut you like a fish right here on the street? Shut your mouth and give me what I want, or you'll get the knife next."

Her cheek burned where he'd struck her, and tears pricked at the corners of her eyes—partly from pain, partly from the shock of sudden violence, partly from the crushing disappointment that this was how her Christmas Eve was ending. With shaking hands, she held out the bag of presents.

"Here," she whispered, her voice thick. "Take them. The Spirit of Christmas will set you straight, though. You'll see."

The man snatched the bag from her hands, then grabbed her purse from her shoulder with such force that the strap broke. "I said shut up about—"

He didn't finish the sentence. Instead, with a swift arcing of his arm and hand, he drove the knife into her shoulder.

She cried out and stumbled backward, her remaining grocery bag falling to the ground as she clutched at her shoulder. Blood seeped between her fingers, soaking into her coat.

"I told you to shut up," the mugger said, his voice cold now, almost matter-of-fact. He wiped the blade on his jeans and pocketed it, then turned and walked away, carrying her purse and the bag of Christmas presents as if he'd just completed a routine transaction.

She sank to her knees on the cold sidewalk, then collapsed onto her side. Blood spread across the concrete beneath her shoulder, dark and glistening under the streetlight. The groceries from her dropped bag scattered—a can of cranberry sauce rolled into the gutter, a box of stuffing came to rest against the curb. Her body shook with sobs, her small frame convulsing with each breath.

Above her, the first snowflakes of the evening began to fall.

--

Matt Holt felt pretty good about himself as he walked swiftly away from the scene. The adrenaline was still pumping through his system, making everything seem sharper, more vivid. The knife was back in his pocket, and he had a purse—probably not much cash in it, but maybe some credit cards he could use before she reported them stolen—and a whole bag of Christmas presents.

He'd been watching the twenty-four-hour grocery store for the past few hours, waiting for the right mark. Someone alone, someone small, someone who wouldn't put up a fight. The redhead had been perfect. He'd felt a momentary pang when she'd mentioned Christmas spirit—his mother used to say stuff like that—but he'd squashed it down. Sentiment was something he'd driven from his person long ago.

The stabbing had been necessary, he told himself. She wouldn't shut up, kept talking about Christmas spirit and consequences, and he'd needed to make sure she understood the seriousness of the situation. Besides, it was just the shoulder. She'd live. Probably.

Matt turned down an alley that would take him toward his apartment, a studio in a building that should have been condemned years ago. He was already planning his next moves. First, he'd go through the purse, take any cash and cards. Then he'd open the presents. With any luck, there'd be something valuable—electronics, jewelry, something he could pawn. Whatever he couldn't sell, he'd wrap back up and give to his buddies. They'd get a kick out of that, receiving stolen Christmas presents. The irony was delicious. Somewhere overhead, he heard a strange whooshing sound, like a rush of wind or maybe the heavy beating of wings. He glanced up briefly but saw nothing except the dark sky and falling snow—probably just a bird or the wind playing tricks between the buildings.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he almost didn't notice the figure ahead of him.

She stood in the middle of the sidewalk, perhaps fifty feet away, backlit by a streetlight that created a halo effect around her silhouette. Even from this distance, Matt could make out the distinctive outline: small, slender, with short, messy hair that stuck up at odd angles.

His blood ran cold.

It couldn't be. He'd left her bleeding on the sidewalk six blocks back. There was no way she could have gotten ahead of him, not with a stab wound in her shoulder, not without him seeing her pass.

Matt's hand went to the knife in his pocket as he walked forward, his pace slowing. As he got closer, the details became clearer, and his stomach dropped. It was her. Same threadbare coat, same jeans, same boots—though the coat was dark with blood spreading from her shoulder, a wet stain that should have left her weak and trembling. But something was different. She stood perfectly still, not swaying or clutching her wounded shoulder. And there was something about the way she held herself—a confidence, a presence that hadn't been there before.

"You have one final chance," she said, her voice carrying clearly through the cold night air. There was no tremor in it now, no fear. It was calm, measured, and somehow terrible in its certainty. "One final chance before the Spirit of Christmas punishes you for your crimes."

Matt's fear transformed into rage. How dare she? How dare this little nobody threaten him? He'd already stabbed her once; clearly, she needed a more permanent lesson. He pulled the knife from his pocket and advanced on her, his lips pulling back in a snarl.

"You're going to regret you were ever born, bitch," he growled, raising the knife. "I'm going to make you wish I'd finished the job the first time."

"My name is not bitch, it's Brigid." Brigid didn't move. Didn't flinch. Didn't show any sign of fear.

Instead, she began to glow.

It started as a faint luminescence, like she'd swallowed a light bulb, a soft golden radiance that emanated from her skin. Matt stopped in his tracks, his knife hand wavering, as the glow intensified. It grew brighter and brighter, forcing him to squint, until Brigid was blazing like a star, like a bonfire, like the sun itself had descended to the street.

And then she began to change.

Her body elongated, stretched, expanded. Her arms thickened and extended, fingers fusing and lengthening into massive claws tipped with talons like curved daggers. Her legs bent backward at the knee, becoming powerful haunches covered in scales that gleamed like rubies. Her neck extended, her face pushing forward into a reptilian snout filled with teeth like ivory swords. Wings erupted from her back—vast, leathery wings that unfurled with a sound like thunder.

In the space of three heartbeats, the small, freckled young woman had transformed into a dragon.

She was magnificent and terrible, a creature of myth and legend made flesh. Her scales were the deep red of arterial blood, shot through with veins of gold that pulsed with inner fire. Her eyes—still recognizably Brigid's eyes, but now the size of dinner plates—fixed on Matt with an intelligence that was utterly inhuman and yet somehow more human than anything he'd ever encountered. They held judgment, and wrath, and a terrible, implacable justice.

Matt's knife clattered to the ground. His bladder released, warm urine running down his leg. He tried to scream, but his throat had locked up, producing only a strangled wheeze.

The dragon that had been Brigid lunged forward with a speed that belied her massive size. One enormous claw closed around Matt's torso, pinning his arms to his sides, and then she was rising, her wings beating with powerful strokes that created windstorms in the narrow street. Trash and snow swirled in the vortex of her ascent.

Matt found his voice and screamed. He screamed as the ground fell away beneath him, as the buildings shrank to the size of toys, as the city spread out below like a map. He screamed as the wind tore at his clothes and face, as the cold bit into him with teeth far sharper than any December night had a right to possess. He screamed until his throat was raw and his voice gave out.

The dragon climbed higher and higher, until the city lights below looked like a field of stars, until Matt could see the curve of the horizon, until the air grew so thin that each breath was a labor. Then, finally, she stopped, hovering in place with slow, powerful beats of her wings.

She brought Matt up to her face, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her scales, close enough to see his own terrified reflection in her enormous eyes. When she spoke, her voice was like an avalanche, like a volcano, like the wrath of nature itself given sound.

"PRAY FOR A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE."

Then she opened her claw.

Matt fell.

The scream that had died in his throat returned with renewed vigor as he plummeted toward the earth. The wind screamed past his ears, drowning out his own voice. The city rushed up to meet him, growing larger and larger, details resolving from the blur—individual buildings, streets, cars, the hard, unforgiving pavement that would be his grave.

His life didn't flash before his eyes. There was only terror, pure and absolute, and the certain knowledge that he was about to die, that his body would be found splattered across the concrete, that this was how it ended, on Christmas Eve, killed by a dragon, killed by the Spirit of Christmas itself.

The sound of rushing air seemed to grow louder in his ears. The ground was so close now. He could make out individual bricks in the building facades. Could see—

Darkness took him.

--

Matt woke to the sound of voices and the feeling of something hard and cold beneath him.

"—the third one this week. I'm telling you, these junkies are getting bolder."

"Yeah, well, this one picked the wrong night to pass out on our steps. Come on, let's get him processed."

Matt's eyes fluttered open. He was lying on stone steps, and standing over him were two police officers, their expressions a mixture of annoyance and weary resignation. Behind them, the facade of the Fifth Precinct police station rose into the night sky.

He was alive.

The realization hit him like a physical blow. He was alive. He hadn't hit the ground. Somehow, impossibly, he was alive and uninjured, lying on the steps of a police station with his stolen goods—the purse and the bag of presents—arranged neatly beside him.

"All right, buddy, up you go," one of the officers said, reaching down to haul Matt to his feet. "You can sleep it off in a cell."

Matt's mind raced. He could talk his way out of this. He was good at that. He'd spin some story about finding the purse and presents, about being a Good Samaritan trying to turn them in, and then—

He saw her.

She stood at the end of the block, illuminated by a streetlight. She was human again, small and slender in her threadbare coat, her short red hair sticking up in its chaotic arrangement. But she was holding her shoulder—the shoulder he'd stabbed—and the look on her face was one of absolute, unwavering certainty. Her eyes met his across the distance, and in them, he saw the dragon. He saw the judgment. He saw the promise of what would happen if he lied, if he tried to escape justice.

"I did it," Matt heard himself say. The words came out in a rush, tumbling over each other in his haste to confess. "The purse and the presents, I stole them. I mugged a woman on Maple Street. I stabbed her in the shoulder. And there's other stuff, other crimes. I broke into a car last week on Fifth Avenue, stole a laptop. I sold stolen phones to a guy named Eddie at the pawn shop on Broad Street. I—"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down," the second officer said, pulling out a notepad. "You're confessing to all this?"

"Yes," Matt said, unable to look away from that girl's steady gaze. "Yes, I'm confessing to everything. I want to confess. I need to confess."

The officers exchanged glances, the kind of look that said they'd seen a lot of strange things in their careers, but this was a new one. People didn't usually show up on the station steps with stolen goods and a burning desire to confess to multiple crimes.

"All right," the first officer said slowly. "Let's get you inside, make sure you know your rights, and take a full statement. This is going to be a long night."

As they led Matt into the station, he looked back one more time. She was still there, still watching. As their eyes met, she nodded once—a small, almost imperceptible gesture—and then she turned and walked away, disappearing into the falling snow.

Inside the station, as Matt sat in an interrogation room and confessed to every crime he could remember, as the officers typed up his statement with expressions of increasing disbelief, as the reality of what he'd done and what would happen to him began to sink in, he found himself thinking about his mother. About the Christmas stories she used to tell him when he was young, about Santa Claus and his list of naughty and nice, about redemption and second chances, about the magic of Christmas.

He'd thought those were just fairy tales, stories for children who still believed in magic.

He'd been wrong.

Outside, the snow fell more heavily now, blanketing the city in white, covering the bloodstain on the sidewalk where Brigid had fallen, transforming the dirty streets into something clean and new. Church bells began to ring in the distance, announcing the arrival of Christmas Day.

--

In a small apartment across town, Brigid sat on her couch, her shoulder bandaged—the wound already healing with a speed that would have astonished any doctor—and looked at the gifts she'd selected from her treasure hoard during a quick visit after dropping the mugger off at the police station: a silver music box that played lullabies and granted peaceful dreams, a kaleidoscope that showed visions of far-off lands, and a set of wooden toys carved by craftsmen centuries dead that never broke and always brought joy to their owners. They were perhaps a bit unconventional as children's presents in this age, but they had the added benefit of being enchanted. Tomorrow, the neighbor children whose mother was deployed with the Navy would come over, and they would have Christmas dinner, and it would be wonderful.

But tonight, on this Christmas Eve, justice had been served. The Spirit of Christmas had spoken, and a man who had chosen cruelty and violence had been given a Christmas miracle.

Just not the kind he'd expected.

Brigid smiled, took a sip of hot chocolate, and began to hum "Silent Night". Outside her window, the snow continued to fall, and the world turned toward Christmas morning.

It was the most wonderful time of the year.