Wolfsbane and Mistletoe Page 0,72

able to totally forget the year of loneliness, or the pain he'd caused me, but what we had was worth fighting for.

Rat or not, right or wrong, I wanted this man in my life.

For Christmas.

For ever.

I blew out a breath, and said hesitantly, "I don't know, Brodie." Tension flitted across his shoulders, and for a moment, utter bleakness shone in his eyes. I let a smile touch my lips, and added, "After all, I didn't even get to finish my chocolate cake. And there's still the matter of the missing Valentine's Day and birthday presents to be resolved."

He laughed - a sound so joyous, so happy, that goose bumps ran across my skin. He wrapped an arm around my waist and hauled me close. "What if I promise to bathe you in chocolate cake for the rest of your life?"

I snuggled closer, letting the heat and scent of him flow over my skin and fill every breath. "That might be a step in the right direction."

"And give you two birthday presents for the next ten years?"

"And at Christmas and Valentine's. I'm missing those, remember."

"It's a deal," he murmured, then his lips claimed mine, and he kissed me.

It felt so good, so right. Like I was finally home, right where I belonged.

Christmas past might have been a nightmare, but Christmas present and Christmas future were suddenly looking mighty damn fine.

Chapter Ten

SA

J. A. Konrath

J. A. Konrath's short work has appeared in over fifty magazines and anthologies. He's responsible for five books in the Lieutenant Jacqueline "Jack" Daniels thriller series, the latest of which is Fuzzy Navel. He also edited the collection of hitman stories These Guns for Hire, and penned the horror novel Afraid under the name Jack Kilborn. Visit him at www.JAKonrath.com.

Robert Weston Smith walked across the snow-covered parking lot carrying a small plastic container of his poop.

Weston considered himself a healthy guy. At thirty-three years old he still had a six-pack, the result of working out three times a week. He followed a strict macrobiotic diet. He practiced yoga and tai chi. The last time he ate processed sugar was during the Reagan administration.

That's why, when odd things began appearing in his bowel movements, he became more than a little alarmed. So alarmed that he sought out his general practitioner, making an appointment after a particularly embarrassing phone call to his office secretary.

Weston entered the office building with his head down and a blush on his ears, feeling like a kid sneaking out after curfew. He used the welcome mat to stamp the snow off his feet and walked through the lobby to the doctor's office, taking a deep breath before going in. There were six people in the waiting room, four adults and a young boy, plus a nurse in pink paisley hospital scrubs who sat behind the counter.

Weston kept his head down and beelined for the nurse. The poop container was blue plastic, semiopaque, but it might as well have been a police siren, blinking and howling. Everyone in the room must have known what it was. And if they didn't at first, they sure knew after the nurse said in a loud voice, "Is that your stool sample?"

He nodded, trying to hand it to the woman. She made no effort to take it, and he couldn't really blame her. He carried it, and a clipboard, over to a seat in the waiting room. Setting his poop on a table atop an ancient copy of Good Housekeeping, he got to work filling out his insurance information. When it came time to describe the nature of his ailment, he wrote down "intestinal problems." Which was untrue - his intestines felt fine. It's what came out of his intestines that caused alarm.

"What's in the box?"

Weston looked up, staring into the big eyes of a child, perhaps five or six years old.

"It's, um, something for the doctor."

He glanced around the room, looking for someone to claim the boy. Two people had their noses stuck in magazines, one was watching a car commercial on the TV hanging from the ceiling, and the last appeared asleep. Any of them could have been his parent.

"Is it a cupcake?" the boy asked.

"Uh . . . yeah, a cupcake."

"I like cupcakes."

"You wouldn't like this one."

The boy reached for the container.

"Is it chocolate?"

Weston snatched it up and set it in his lap.

"No. It isn't chocolate."

"Show it to me."

"No."

The boy squinted at the sample. Weston considered putting it behind his back, out of the child's sight, but