Free Divine Fantasy by Melanie Jackson Page B

school. It was about the Jólasveinar or Yulemen. They were sneaky goblins who showed up around Christmas time and lingered until Twelfth Night. These are the thirteen progeny of Grýla and Leppalúöi, an Icelandic trollcouple opposed to family planning who, additionally, had a habit of eating disobedient human kids who desperately needed to get up to use the bathroom in the night even when it was against dormitory rules. The ogre kids weren’t truly evil like their parents, but they were malicious. They had names like Door Slammer, Window Peeper, Meat Hooker and, rather horribly, Doorway Sniffer. Most terrifying of all of them were the Lamp Shadow, the Smoke Gulper and the Crevice Imp, because they could be anywhere and everywhere. What house was there that didn’t have lamps or a fireplace or the odd crack or two where something wicked could hide? It made every nighttime trip to the bathroom at the end of the long, icy hall an exercise in terror.
    But that just goes to show you how even the worst things can have a silver lining, I told myself. It was excellent training for someone who might have to play hide-and-seek with zombies.
    Nevertheless, I had worked myself into a good state of pre-hysteria and heart palpitations when Ambrose reappeared from the agitated surf. I was so grateful to see him—sans zombies—that I forgot to be bothered by his nudity.
    “Did you see anything?” I called, a hand at my chest in a protective gesture that was probably a bit theatrical but still comforting. The wind tossed my words back at me, but he seemed to hear them anyway. I kept my eyes on his face. I wasn’t ready for any other distractions.
    “Not yet. But the sharks are definitely behavingoddly.” He picked up his damp shorts and shirt but didn’t put them on at once. “Hand me the rifle,” he said, and I bent to retrieve the shotgun.
    “Okay, let’s get dried off and have a bite to eat and then I’m going over to see the mangroves.”
    “W-we’re
going to see the mangroves,” I corrected. My teeth had begun to chatter either from fright or the cold. I didn’t mention the volcano. The smell was gone and the idea seemed stupid once I was no longer alone. Also, though it is anthropomorphizing, I felt that the island was grateful the wind had stopped its eerie moaning. A few birds appeared in nearby bushes and a long green lizard crawled up onto the rock where I was standing. He moved warily, as though expecting further assault. I sympathized.
    “Okay,
we’re
going to see the mangroves. But not until you’ve warmed up. I don’t mind pale women, but you look like plasterboard. Gray just isn’t your best color.” He could probably also hear my heart galloping along like a wild horse with a lame leg.
    The cold didn’t seem to bother him, but I was beginning to shake and didn’t protest when he lifted me down from my perch. His hands were still wonderfully warm as was his naked but wet body. “E-everyone’s a c-critic,” I muttered and then laughed. I had recalled Ambrose’s entry on this subject in his
Devil’s Dictionary:
Critic ,
n. A person who boasts himself hard to please because nobody tries to please him
.
    “Come on,” he said, taking my hand and pullingme close for a comforting hug. He held me close for a minute and I felt something like scar tissue rise up on his chest. It was his lightning scar, the ceraunograph imprinted on his body when he was electrocuted by the Dark Man. “Excuse the liberties, but you’ll freeze if we don’t get you warm.”
    I excused the liberties. I even welcomed them. Being in his arms was like being wrapped in an electric blanket turned up to an unsafe but toasty setting. I needed that badly.

Brandy ,
n
. A cordial composed of one part thunder-and-lightning, one part remorse, two parts bloody murder, one part death-hell-and-the-grave and four parts clarified Satan. Dose, a headful all the time. Brandy is said by Dr. Johnson to be the drink of heroes. Only a hero