Page 103 of Jingle Spells

The attic door swung open.

They all froze like teenagers caught sneaking cigarettes behind the gym. Eps stood in the doorway, arms crossed, wearing an expression that hovered somewhere between annoyance and resignation. Behind him, a fuzzy parliament of cats peered down at them with identical judgment in their mismatched eyes.

“I’ll do it,” he said flatly. “If for no other reason than to shut you people up.”

Jasper Hopkins had spent a lot of Christmas Eves alone in his office. His parents traditionally took off for a Caribbean cruise—their annual escape from both familial obligations and the New England winter. He had no siblings nearby, no significant other, and a remarkably small circle of friends, most of whom were spending the holiday with their own families. His grandmother, the only person who’d ever made Christmas feel special, had been gone for decades.

Still, he generally found the experience of working on holidays to be not only satisfactory, but actually desirable. The building took on a peaceful quality when it was empty. No phones ringing, no doors slamming . . . The companiable silence usually allowed him to sink into the meditative rhythm of proper archival work.

Tonight was different.

He sat there at his desk, surrounded by a week’s worth of paperwork: tax rolls, business licenses, birth certificates, and deed transfers, all demanding his immediate attention. But he found himself unable to focus on any of it. His eyes kept drifting to Agnes Bartlett’s portrait, searching for . . . what, exactly? Some clue to explain his missing time? A hint about that strange woman who’d appeared and disappeared?

“This is ridiculous.” He turned away from Agnes’s intense stare and clicked on the small radio tucked on his bookshelf. A Christmas carol spilled out: Bing Crosby’s velvet voice crooning about the sort of weather he most desired for the holiday. Jasper waited for his usual reflexive annoyance at holiday music to kick in, but instead found himself humming along.

What in the actual hell?

“I’m losing it,” he said aloud, the words echoing in the empty basement. “Completely losing it.”

The radio DJ announced the next song, “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” as recorded by the Carpenters. Jasper felt an unexpected lump form in his throat. The melody washed over him, achingly familiar, and for a moment he could have sworn he heard another voice, not Karen Carpenter, but someone else. Someone far less polished but just as earnest . . .

He switched the radio off, blinking away the ridiculous moisture that had gathered in his eyes.

“Get a grip, Hopkins. It’s a stupid song.”

But it wasn’t really the song. It was everything. The missing time, the strange woman, the way his colleagues looked at him with that mixture of pity and suspicion.

His eyes landed on the liquor license that had started this whole mess. J&J, Incorporated, 278 West 113th Street. As far as Jasper knew, there was no such address in the county.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Jasper grabbed his coat and keys. The paperwork could wait. What he wanted was answers.

The massive casino loomed against the darkening winter sky, its garish neon lights cutting through the twilight. Delilah stood with her sisters, and Jerusha, Aphra, and Eps at the edge of the parking lot, far enough from the entrance to avoid drawing attention but close enough to see the steady stream of tourists and gamblers making their way in and out of the revolving doors.

Eps looked more solid than he had in the attic, perhaps due to being outdoors or perhaps due to Luna’s magical assistance. But he retained that unsettling translucence that marked him as not quite real. A small tabby cat curled around his ankles, one of several feline creations that had insisted on following him out of the attic.

Jerusha had spread the parchment across the hood of Nate’s truck, tracing the symbols as she muttered translations under her breath. The others huddled around to hear whatever wisdom the aged witch might offer.

“This incantation is complex,” Jerusha said, “but manageable. Agnes Bartlett was a meticulous record-keeper. Every step is clearly outlined.”

“But can we do it?” Luna asked, eyes scanning the unfamiliar script. “This spell moved a barn, which is cool, but we’re trying to move an entire high-rise.”

“Actually, size isn’t our primary challenge,” Jerusha replied. “It’s the people. Moving living beings requires significantly more power and precision than inanimate objects.”

Scarlett frowned. “There must be hundreds of people in there.”

“At least,” Jerusha confirmed grimly.

“So where are we sending them?” Aphra asked, voicing the question they’d all been avoiding. “We need a destination.”

Yet another argument broke out, with suggestions ranging from “the bottom of the ocean” (Scarlett) to “the Kalahari Desert” (Luna) to “Macao, because who’ll notice” (Aphra).

Delilah was still wrestling with the ethics of what they were about to do. She pulled Eps aside. “You don’t have to do this, you know. We can find another way.”

Eps’s semi-transparent features arranged themselves into an expression remarkably like Zahir’s when he was being patient with a particularly difficult customer. “No, you can’t. And that’s okay.”

“It’s not, though. We’re asking you to⁠—”

“To serve the purpose I was created for,” he interrupted. “Look, when Scarlett tried to unmake me the last time, she was just doing it to clean up a mistake she’d made. But this?” He gestured toward the casino. “This is worth it.”