Page 30 of A Cursed Noel

She adjusts her holdaround me, and for a moment all I feel is that warmth she permeates.“Then why didn’t you aim for their hearts, Aric? You had controlover that bear’s wrist. You could have killed six with that gun andthose who charged you. If you’re this out-of-control psychopath,why did you spare the whole pack?”

Her reasoning strikes ablow, harder than anything I endured tonight.

“You’re not amurderer, Aric. You don’t live to torture.” Her eyes pool withfresh tears despite her soothing smile. “You just want your daddyback.”

“My…”

I look around, butthere’s nothing to face except the truth.

I never mourned.

Never.

Not like I should have.

No one would let me.Not my friends who shadowed me, waiting for me to become the hero Dadwas. Not my mother, who is so consumed with her own pain she barelysees me. Not Martin. Not my packmates.

I had a role to assume,after all.

God help me. I neverallowed myselfto feel every bit of my father’s passing.

But Celia allows me.She gives me the permission I was, for so long, denied.

Maybe that’s all Iever needed.

So, I oblige. And shelets me.

Celia tucks herselfinto me, reminding me she’s here and isn’t going anywhere.

She holds me. After allI’ve done, she simply holds me.

Chapter Nine

It takes some timebefore we move again. The start of more snow and the late hour ismotivation enough.

“Let’s get to yourhouse. I need to make sure you and your family are safe.”

Celia nods. She remainson edge, over me and her family, too. But then it’s like she goesinto her own little world that I’m not a part of.

I grasp her hand, thecontact pulling her back to me and away from whatever snags hold ofher.

We cross the next fewneighborhoods. These houses are new and built on top of each other,leaving what little flora remains to fight for its survival. It’snot until we cross into an older neighborhood that properties stretchlarger in size.

The homes are small andmodest. Most are brick and well-cared for in their old age. A smallfew should be condemned. They’re well-past saving, even though thescent of the humans struggling inside drift to float among thelingering snowflakes.

“Are we almostthere?” I ask.

Celia nods. “It’sthe next block over, at the end of the street and close to a smallfield. We’ll cut through the back and hopefully sneak up onwhatever might be there.”

“Sounds good.”

We jog past the remainsof another house. What’s left of the roof is covered with tarps,and plastic bags line several broken windows. The brick exterior iscracked and crumbling. Still, two old cars are parked in thedriveway, and the smell of canned chicken soup gusts through thesmall openings.

I motion with a jerk ofmy chin. “Is your house like this?” I ask.

I don’t mean it tosound like an accusation, but that’s exactly how it comes out. Idon’t want Celia to live like this. I could give her a better lifeif Mimi and the space time continuum would let me.

“Aric, these familiesnever had much to start with, and now they have even less,” sheexplains, keeping her voice soothing. “They’re not bad people.They just struggle more than most in the area.”

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