Page 6 of Sugar Plum Fae

“Let’s get out of here,” Roderick muttered. He threw a few bills on the counter and then took her by the arm, propelling her outside.

“I don’t know what came over me,” Candace said, shaking free of him to press her hands to her flushed cheeks. They had been at odds for centuries; why now all of a sudden were they kissing?

“I know what you’re trying to do, and it won’t work,” he said. “You won’t seduce me away from Whitlock.”

“Of all the arrogant things to say. I’ll admit that I wanted to kiss you, but I don’t know why. It had nothing to do with me wanting to help the town, though.”

“The town doesn’t need your help.”

They squared off in the town center like two gunslingers.

"I want them to have Yuletide where children sleep soundly, where their dreams of sugar plums aren't shadowed by your night terrors," Candace said.

The corners of his mouth twitched downward as if the mere thought of happiness was a sour taste he couldn't spit out. "Brief moments of happiness? They're like snowflakes on a river—gone before they're even noticed."

"Then I'll make them memorable."

She watched his jaw clench.

"Memorable? And when you've had your fun, flitted back to your candied castle, what then? I'll be left with the pieces, nursing a town hung over from too much sweetness."

"Isn't it better to have tasted joy than to never have savored it at all?"

"Joy is dangerous. It makes people forget, makes them weak," he argued.

"Or perhaps it reminds them they're strong enough to dream."

"Keep dreaming, sunsidhe." Roderick's lips twisted into a wry smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Dreams are for those who don't know the cost."

"Then consider this a holiday sale," Candace quipped, unfazed. "One where dreams come at no cost at all."

"Nothing is without cost."

"Even so," she persisted, "everyone deserves a chance to believe, if only for a season."

"Let's not pretend this is about joy. You bring a sugar-coated dream, and when you leave, what then? They'll wake to emptiness, their pockets as hollow as their hearts."

She tilted her head, considering his words. "It's one season of lightness to lift spirits. Why is that so threatening to you?"

"Because joy is fleeting, fickle." He leaned closer, his breath a cool whisper against her cheek.

She trembled, wondering if they were going to kiss again. No. Not until they came to an agreement.

“And in its absence,” he continued, “the darkness feels deeper. You give them this illusion of a perfect Yuletide, and it's me who's left with the pieces when it shatters."

"Or maybe," she ventured, her voice steady despite the chill in her bones, "it's that you're afraid you'll feel it too—the warmth, the hope—and you won't know what to do with it."

"Hope is a luxury I can't afford. Not here in Whitlock, where dreams are currency and nightmares reign." A sardonic chuckle escaped him, and he stepped back, shadows seeming to cling to his frame. "You think you can waltz into my town and rewrite centuries of balance between day and night, sun and moon?"

"Balance?" She arched an eyebrow. "Seems to me like your scales have been tipped toward the gloom for far too long."

"Be careful, sunsidhe." His warning was a velvet threat, silken and smooth, yet promising peril. "You don't want to start a war you can't win."

"Who said anything about starting a war?" She crossed her arms. "I'm talking about ending one that's gone on too long."

"End it?" Roderick's laugh was bitter, devoid of mirth. "You and what army of gingerbread soldiers?"

"Who needs an army?" Candace's smile was all confidence, a challenge in the curve of her lips. "When you have the power of dreams."

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