Beach Day

43: Simply Having A Wonderful Christmas Eve Eve Time

When she gets up in the morning, she tastes algae on her tongue. She tries not to think about the dreams— about flames crawling up her arms, catching on every bit of her body. She's pretty sure it has nothing to do with Priscilla.

She dresses quickly, almost silently in the dark so she can have a bit of time before they leave to go over her notes again and look for any sort of weakness on the part of the bone creature. She can't think of anything, though, other than the observed weak points in its movable joints. This isn't a Pathfinder game. She can't just Recall Knowledge and get some information from the unknown force that controls the universe. That thing hates her. Why would it want to help?

It isn't like she can test any of the black ichor from her clothes and look for weaknesses to exploit there. The only thing she can think of is that it might be weak to fire due to the fact that it's technically undead— but a necromantic construction, made intentionally or unintentionally and fueled by siphoning energy from the environment around it, is probably going to be different. She isn't even sure that the fire trick would work here. It isn't like she has the supplies and sheer scrap metal to make a flamethrower like she did in April. Her aunt didn't even pack a can of hairspray, so she can't even do it the way Drake always says she should.

Maybe she could filch one from her grandmother. She's always using it to put her hair up for all sorts of events— Thanksgiving, Christmas parties, all sorts of church events like potlucks and Sunday services. Maybe she can ask for some, get it into her greedy little hands.

Or she could just go to the store. That's also an option.

It's a problem she chews on in the car on the drive over. Cud to a cow, the issue lives between her molars.

At least the outside of the house smells like magnolias, and she can smell something sweet and fruity through the screen of the side kitchen window.

She assures herself, this is going to be fine. This is going to be great. She just has to stay away from her peepaw so she doesn't spill the beans and ruin the facadem and it'll all be fine. It'll be a normal Christmas Eve Eve, just like all the years before. She and Meemaw will bake and cut out cookies. They'll wrap presents while Bing Crosby croons over the radio in the corner of the kitchen between festive verses of scripture, sermons of Yuletide giving, and some minor War on Christmas conspiracism. Then they'll drive around town to deliver them to neighbors and congregants, and leave the rest for after dinner on Christmas Eve.

Those cookies were the closest she got to Santa as a kid. She mentioned that off-handedly to Denny one time, that Santa was strictly verboten in her household. Denny just about died of offense.

That's fine, though; Denny is one of those true Santa believers and, according to Miss Jessie, always has been. Tiff never was, but she supposes he's real insofar as he's probably some fae creature intent on dispersing treats and toys to children in return for payment through milk and baked goods or, perhaps, like the Halloween Men, a manifestation or incarnation of seasonal spirit. She isn't sure. She has never met the man. If Drew is right, she never will.

She doesn't even need to knock on the door. Aunt Esther unlocks it again and lets the rest of them in. Tiff takes off her shoes and jacket by the door and heads immediately for the kitchen— where her meemaw is and her peepaw won't be.

Meemaw Hilda is already hard at work in there, with her apron covered in flour and her hands crusted in sugar. Tiff loves the sight of it and, briefly, wishes she had the focus to do things like this. Baking. Cooking. Any of it. Aunt Esther does it all the time, when she's up to it and the work at Jaded Paradise doesn't take too much out of her. It's a scent of comfort and knowing your only real parent hasn't been kidnapped by shadows. Unfortunately, Tiff has never had the focus for it, no matter how much she loves being in the kitchen, with her aunt or with Betty's mom, sitting on the counter and talking, whisk or wooden spoon in hand. It's a type of serenity.