Page 19 of Winter Reckoning
If I was going to kick his ass, I needed to level up. I went to reach for my duffel and realized I hadn’t grabbed it from the safe house. “Shit,” I muttered. Now would have been a perfect time for the scotch, but more important was the suit. Designed by the Task Force techs, it amped up my powers. Thankfully, they weren’t the first ones to do it.
I went into the spare bedroom. A futon sat against one wall with a desk on the other. I had always imagined using it as a home office, but instead I spent all my time at headquarters. For the better part of a decade, I had almost no work/life balance. Odd how that was about to change.
At the back, half-buried under a stack of old field manuals, I found a metal storage case. I pulled it out and set it on the floor. The latches were stiff as I flipped them open. Inside, folded with military precision, was my original field uniform.
Years in black leather made this almost comical. Glacial blue fabric with an ‘F’ on the chest. Before the Task Force, I had been one of the vigilantes protecting the city. After a group of us saved Vanguard from top tier villains, I was approached to join the Task Force. I had been reluctant, but I remember thinking how many more lives I could save with their resources.
My fingers ran across the fabric. A House of Ash original, the stitching had been flawless. They weaved nano fibers through the suit, increasing my ability to pull in the cold. I had thought myself unstoppable. In the before times, it wasn’t about themission or following protocol. I had been given a gift, and I used it to help those who couldn’t help themselves.
I pulled it out, ready to suit up one last time. Beneath the uniform, wrapped in newspaper, was a small wooden box once used to store cigars.
I hadn’t seen it in over a decade and had all but forgotten it existed. The hinges creaked as I opened it. Inside, I found the items I had saved from childhood. A faded photograph of my father in his patrol uniform. A commendation letter from the academy. And at the bottom, wrapped in tissue paper… a plastic sheriff’s badge?
The metal was tarnished. The words stamped across the front were still legible: Deputy Sheriff. I couldn’t remember putting it in the box. The memory eluded me, but I could swear this hadn’t been here before.
I picked it up and turned it over in my palm. When dad got promoted to detective, he had given it to me. He said while he was out saving Vanguard, he needed somebody keeping the house safe. After that, I wore it everywhere. I couldn’t quite remember what had happened, but at some point, I stopped wearing it. Why, though?
"I remember that."
I jumped, knocking the box over. He stood in the doorway, blanket wrapped around him. He moved across the room, carefully taking a seat on the futon.
I shoved everything but the suit inside the box. “You should rest.”
"In a minute." He shifted slightly, wincing as he pulled the blanket tighter. "Can I see it?"
I pulled it out of the box, pushing the rest into the closet. Sitting on the futon next to him, I handed it over. He held it carefully, running his thumb across the stamped letters.
"One Christmas Eve," he said slowly, "I got a letter without a list."
In a few short words, he had jogged my memory.
"Most children send wish lists," he continued. “Pages of them. Toys. Games. Things they saw in store windows. I read each one. But this letter was different. It came in a small envelope with careful handwriting. This little boy hadn’t included a list ofthings. Inside were this badge and a note.”
My heart seized and my jaw dropped. I recited the words as he spoke.
“You’re one of the good guys.”
He turned the badge over, examining the broken pin.
“The boy who sent it had just lost his father,” Nick said. “Patrol officer. Killed in the line of duty. The funeral was two weeks before Christmas. The boy didn't want presents. He wanted to give something instead.” Nick looked up at me. “He wanted someone to carry on his father’s legacy.”
My throat tightened.
"I kept it," Nick said quietly. "Carried it with me for years. Because no one had ever asked me to be good before. They asked for things. For magic. For proof. But that boy... he just wanted me to know I was doing something right." He paused. “I was at a low point and needed the reminder. That boy helped restore a little faith in myself.”
How did Nick know that story? It was impossible, I had sent?—
I knew exactly when I'd sent that letter. Six years old. Too young to understand what death meant but old enough to know my father wasn't coming back. My mother had tried to get me to write a wish list for Santa. I'd refused. Instead, I'd taken the piece of plastic, wrapped it in newspaper, and addressed the envelope in my best handwriting.
To: Santa Claus, North Pole
I'd left it on the windowsill on Christmas Eve, watching it with vigilance, hoping to see a gloved hand steal it. It was gone by morning. I'd assumed my mother had found it and hidden it away.
She hadn’t hidden it. It had reachedhim.
“You're...” I couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't say it out loud. It sounded foolish in my head and wouldn’t only get worse as I uttered them aloud. It was one thing to discover he was a myth, a legend as old as time. This myth? It’d break everything I knew about the world.
Nick didn't make me say it. Just watched me with those calm gray eyes.
