Face of a Traitor: The Twisted Christmas Trilogy, #2

By Daniel Parsons

ONE BOY. TWO WORLDS. AN ANCIENT EVIL THAT WANTS THEM BOTH.

It's been a year since thirteen-year-old Toby Thornton found his long-lost family. But already cracks are appearing in his dream life. Forbidden from seeing his magical friends at The Winter Freak Show, he begins to realise how much he misses adventure. So when he gets word that the elves are in danger, that's all the excuse he needs to run away from home.

It isn't long before he discovers that things are worse than he imagined. Nicko has been kidnapped. And without the ringmaster's guidance, his elves have descended into chaos. A band of shapeshifting enemies lurk among their ranks. Monsters are on the loose. And the secretive mastermind behind it all is trying to resurrect the most frightening evil the elves have ever faced. Only Toby stands in their way.

If he fails, forget Christmas. This time, the human race will fall.

Face of a Traitor is the second book in Daniel Parsons's spellbinding Twisted Christmas Trilogy. If you like vivid magic, fearsome creatures, and a race against time, you'll love this thrilling fantasy adventure.

Pick up Face of a Traitor to discover this exciting series today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: AmWriting Ltd
• Release date: Nov 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386620150

Book preview

Chapter 1

Gryla waited for the tavern landlord to leave her room before straightening up and revealing her shark teeth. The human suspected nothing, just as she had intended. Nevertheless, lodging in official quarters before a job always made her nervous. She preferred the corners of alleyways, hunkered in a heap with her shawl thrown over her elongated body. There were fewer witnesses that way. Fewer do-gooders to link her face to the disappearing children.

Still, her instructions were clear; she had to get close to the workhouse in South London and watch over its entrance without being seen by the workers. The Broken Horse Shoe Tavern was the only place that gave her the view she needed. Anywhere else would have meant risking failure, and that wasn’t an option. Her employer didn’t give his minions an opportunity to fail twice.

If sleeping in the sickly warmth of a gas-lit room and having to eat disgusting slop humans called ‘cooked food’ meant doing a good job, then that was just what Gryla would do. After all, the reward outweighed the drawbacks.

A new Dark Age. She twisted a strand of her wiry hair around her finger as she considered returning to the dangerous playground in which she used to operate. How wonderful.

Indeed, agreed a familiar voice. The word appeared in her skull as a close whisper, more like a thought than an actual voice. No beastly gas lights. No civilisation. Just darkness. And it can happen again.

Gryla’s waxy skin became gooseflesh. Dropping to the floorboards, she pressed her forehead firmly against the grain.

‘My lord, forgive me. I didn’t sense your arrival. It’s this city. It disagrees with me.’

Calm yourself, Gryla. There’s no need to fear me.

‘Of course, master. I–’

Don’t interrupt.

‘Sorry, master.’

That’s alright. I’ll blame it on the air, this time. London is filled with the biting smog of human industry. Its makes the people arrogant, especially now, so close to Christmas.

‘Yes, my lord. Very distracting it is. Their merriment feels like maggots under my skin.’

But you won’t let them get in your way, will you?

Firm fingers rested on Gryla’s shoulder. Being a spindly woman, well over six feet tall, she cut a startling silhouette. Few people dared cross her path on the smog-laden cobbles of the city. Her master was the only person around whom she felt small. His colossal grip relaxed and she released a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

‘Of course not, my lord. Forgive me. It wasn’t my intention to undermine you.’

You are forgiven. Just don’t let their arrogance infect you. Understood?

‘Yes, my lord.’

Good.

Gryla smiled nervously. Lifting her gaze, she stood up, careful not to hit her head on a small lantern dangling from the room’s ceiling. Despite being alone, she pressed her back against the wall, her stance guarded.

‘What is your instruction, my lord?’

On the walls, the lamps flickered, their flames all pulling towards a source that originated in one corner but moved slowly towards the centre of the room. An oak chair near the wall scraped slowly across the floorboards. Creaking under the weight of an invisible load, it stopped.

There is a boy, said the disembodied voice.

‘Oh, yes?’ Gryla probed.

Barely old enough to open his eyes. His aura is one in a million. I haven’t seen one like it since…

She knew exactly what had gone unsaid.

‘I see. So, you want the child dead?’

Her mouth salivated. It had been a while since she had last eaten a newborn. Usually she took older children, devouring what she wanted from their insides and stuffing their cavities with straw. Her reputation in Scandinavia kept villagers’ children alert, and her belly full of their warm terror. But that was a long time ago now.

Recently, humans had developed these things they called ‘theories’. They blamed deaths on wasting diseases and murderers. A child-eating giantess was no longer considered a credible threat.

She would have liked to reveal herself publicly but she knew belief led to understanding. And understanding was a drain on fear. At a loss, she was relieved the day she was approached in a dream by her master and told to travel across the sea.

No. Not dead, her master said. This one is more useful to us alive, for now.

‘What is my task?’

Gryla leaned on the window sill. Outside, the night was cold and wet. Ripples of heavy rain washed down the pane, reducing visibility to a lamp-lit blur. Only the honey-coloured glow of firelight could be seen seeping from the workhouse windows across the street.

She longed to be in that freezing rain. Darkness and chilling weather were the perfect conditions for hunting. Many a lost child fell into her path that way. They never expected the kindly, crippled old woman she took as her disguise to be dangerous. They didn’t see her folded limbs or the monster behind the smile.

Those people, said her master. Gryla’s eyes were drawn to a bedraggled couple ducking between shop awnings, protecting a bundle of blankets from the storm. The deep voice kept talking. Until now, their lives have been less than fortunate. I ensured that. They’ve had to give up so much – and now they’re about to sacrifice their most prized possession.

Gryla eyed the bundle with morbid fascination.

Your mission. The parents plan to reclaim their child when their fortunes are healthier. You will ensure that doesn’t happen.

She nodded. Her shark teeth glimmered white as she licked her lips.

‘Your spies work hard,’ she commented. ‘I won’t let that work go to waste.’ Her master didn’t respond.

Hugging the bundle closer, the infant’s mother crossed the street and entered the workhouse courtyard. Her husband followed, hesitating as he crossed the threshold.

A heavy, oak door opened when they arrived at the foot of the building’s steps to the main entrance. Warm light poured onto the figures from within and a portly man with an auburn hairpiece and a waistcoat appeared in the doorway. He beckoned them in to shelter from the storm, and then they were gone.

Breathing deeply, Gryla concentrated. ‘I understand,’ she said.

Her arthritic hands straightened, expanding like sausage skins filling with meat. A silver band rose out of her ring finger. The transformation spread to the rest of her body. As she shrunk in height, her arms became plump and her rags fell away to reveal formal trousers, a waistcoat, blazer, and a crumpled, white shirt. Her posture straightened and her midriff enlarged. The withered skin under her chin inflated to bullfrog proportions and the grey hair dropped from her domed scalp, dissolving before it reached the floor. Digging pudgy fingers into her waistcoat pocket, she retrieved a folded, nut-brown wig and smoothed it onto her head.

‘I’m ready,’ she said, her voice now baritone.

Inspecting her new form in the glass, she frowned. The man’s true face was slightly more shrewish. His family might notice the slight difference but not enough to question it. Besides, it would be more than ample to fool the workhouse staff.

Good. But there’s more.

‘Yes?’

Afterwards, follow the parents. This is important. While I starve this child of love, you will prepare for his future. Just as a precaution. It could take years so you’ll have to be patient. If his destiny is as deep-rooted as I imagine, we can take no chances. He is a powerful tool, and the best tools can be stolen. Don’t let that happen.

Gryla frowned. ‘But, my lord, disguising myself in plain sight for that long is unthinkable. No changeling could do that. I could trick the family for a few hours, but years? Illusions are difficult to maintai–’

You think I don’t understand illusions?

Gryla bit her tongue. Her master’s words hit her, literally knocking off her toupee. Scrambling to pick it up, she said, ‘N-no, my lord. I didn’t mean – I would never… It’s just… I’m not as strong as you. Maintaining a disguise for that long won’t be easy, especially in the presence of a child with – as you say – such a powerful aura. If your suspicions are true, he and his family will attract other magical folk. We are sure to have competition. And if our enemy gets to this child before you can…’

I’m aware of your limits, the disembodied voice said eventually, and I’ve already prepared for the worst. Yes, our enemy might be attracted to the boy. With an aura that strong, I would be surprised if they weren’t. I’ve accounted for it. His destiny can’t be changed, but it can be predicted and used to our advantage. You will make that happen.

‘But like I said, my lord, trying to hold an illusion for that long is impossible. The competition will suspect me the moment I–’

This is not news to me, Gryla. Look in the drawer.

Gryla’s looked at the bedside cabinet. Sliding it open, she heard the tell-tale sound of round objects rolling in the base. With trepidation, she glanced inside.

‘What? I don’t understand, my lord. What are these?’

A gift.

‘What do they do?’

They come from human magic. A practice they call ‘science’. They’ll aid you.

‘Human? What can a human possibly achieve that we can’t?’

Do not underestimate the power of mankind, Gryla. My contact is a doctor. Brilliant, but completely mad. He’s dead now; his usefulness ran out. The contents of that drawer, on the other hand… Once you’ve experienced their effects, you’ll understand. We supernaturals are falling behind. If we want to survive in this new world, we need a different approach.

Gryla considered this. Glaring back at the workhouse with troubled eyes, she asked, ‘And then what, my lord?’

Revenge. We will return and, like rabbits, our old enemies will scatter. Our black plague of fear will spread through the so-called Christmas elves. Soon, the famous Nicko will be all alone and The Winter Freak Show will rue the day they pitted themselves against their prisoner-king.

Laughter cracked in Gryla’s head. Compelled to join in, she let a cackle explode from her lips and laughed until a vein puffed in her forehead.

A bolt of pain came from nowhere and struck the inside of her skull. Immediately, her mind went black, causing her knees to buckle and tremors to hammer through her body. She barely registered any of this. As quickly as it started, the deep laughter stopped.

Gryla breathed heavily for a moment as she came to and the room settled. Gaining her bearings, she used the window sill to right herself.

‘My lord?’ she asked.

He didn’t respond.

She was alone again.

The chair had moved back to the corner. Or had it always been there? Gryla wasn’t sure. Whenever her master was around, it was never easy to find where reality ended and fantasy began.

Scratching a rash on her neck, she gazed at the open drawer. Her master’s gift lay in its base. That part, at least, was real. And that meant she had work to do.

Chapter 2

Thirteen years later.

Manic screams erupted from the kitchen, quickly followed by a young boy.

Toby knew seconds before his feet reached the soft rug on the polished checkerboard tiles that he was moving too fast to survive the corner. Hitting the hallway at a sprint, he sunk his heels into the wool and threw out his arms. There was nothing to stop his momentum.

‘Whoa!’ he shouted, sailing past the foot of the stairs and crashing into a crumpled heap near the front door.

‘Quick!’ shouted his younger brother Charlie, tailing behind him. ‘Grab my hand.’ His eyes were full of blind panic, his chest rising and falling after their chaotic sprint across the garden. Toby accepted his brother’s hand and leapt to his feet, nursing an emerging lump on his head. Together, they grabbed onto the solid, cherry-wood bannister and took the stairs three at a time.

‘They’re coming!’ cried Charlie as they crested the stairs. Over the past few months, his fair hair had darkened, more closely matching the nutty brown sported by his parents and siblings. His usually pallid cheeks now flushed red, as they always did when he ran. ‘I never realised they could move so fast. They’re like ghosts, everywhere at once!’

Screeches echoed from the hallway below them. Toby’s face turned grave. ‘They’re already in the house.’

As if on cue, the brothers bolted for the first available exit. It was a spare bedroom, a place used by the Thorntons’ art-collector friends who sometimes came to stay during conventions in London. They hadn’t had a guest for months, so the room smelled dusty. Luckily, there were still loads of places to hide. With a four-poster bed, a heavy antique wardrobe, and other pieces of furniture imported from all over the world, every room in their luxury Chelsea townhouse offered cubbyholes in which to hide. Art and antique dealing was big business, and the Thorntons had entered the market at the right time.

Toby glanced at the wardrobe and flashed a worried glance at Charlie.

‘There’s not enough room for both of us.’

‘I know.’

‘We’ll have to split up.’ Toby had one foot in the wardrobe before he had finished the sentence. He didn’t want to leave his brother out in the open but, if he didn’t act fast, they’d both be discovered. Charlie would just have to find somewhere else.

But before he could even shut the doors, warm fingers wrapped around his forearm and dragged him into the open. Startled, he hit the floor shoulder-first, spilling a waterfall of old blankets with him.

‘Sorry, mate,’ yelped Charlie, stepping over him. ‘It’s dog-eat-dog in this house.’

Toby growled and lashed out but missed his brother’s ankle. Wide-eyed, he turned towards the open door. Did he have time to make it onto the landing and find another room? Unlikely. Judging by the scampering footsteps downstairs, the little beasts had followed them. They were louder than ever, yipping and squawking. Soon, they would realise he and Charlie had gone upstairs.

Thinking fast, he bundled up the blankets that had fallen on top of him and scurried under the bed. Unfolding them, he covered his body. Nearby, an Indian trunk his father had bought at an auction nestled at the foot of the bed. He pulled it closer, blocking him from sight from the stairs as a double-headed shadow sprawled across the banister.

If I can’t see them, they can’t see me, he reasoned.

In the minute or so it took his pursuers to explore the other bedrooms, Toby reined in his breathing. He was belly-down on the dusty floorboards, his nose so close to the film of dust that covered everything he had to hold his breath not to snort any in by mistake. Looking right, he glared at the wardrobe doors, burning a vengeful hole in the varnish.

I can’t believe he took my spot!

The predators still hadn’t arrived. Had they lost interest? It wasn’t impossible. There were many times over the past few months he had been cornered, sure he wouldn’t survive. Then, just when they were about to uncover him, something had called them away. He had escaped by a whisker.

He had ventured downstairs to discover the kitchen cupboards ransacked and the back door to the garden practically hanging off its hinges, but that was a small price to pay for survival. He would gladly lie to his parents and take the blame. It was better than the truth. They would only worry.

‘Psst.’

Toby frowned and waited, his ear pressed against the floor.

‘Psssst!’

There was a clunk and the wardrobe door opened ajar. A single eye appeared in the slit between the doors.

‘They gone?’ Charlie whispered.

‘Shhhh!’

‘Toby, are they gone?’

Feet scurried in the next room.

‘Toby!’

‘Shut up!’ he snarled, refusing to move his head.

There was the briefest silence then Charlie spoke again. ‘Toby! Are they gone?’

‘Ugh! Charlie, shut your mouth. They’re going to find us.’

A dead weight landed on the mattress above Toby. Stopping short, he shut his eyes and winced. In an effort to be silent, he lay in the stuffy air, listening to his own shallow breaths. Maybe they didn’t hear, he lied to himself.

Dashing his hope, a cunning, singsong voice chirped, ‘Toby, we know you’re in heeeeere! We were listening to you. Come out, come out, wherever you aaaaare.’

The slats on the bed creaked gently under the strain of the body on top of it. Toby barely had an inch of free space. Not enough to wriggle free if he needed to escape.

‘Are you in the wardrobe?’ asked the voice with a sinister, joyful quality.

‘No, don’t be silly,’ said another. ‘Course he isn’t. He’s too big! There are blankets in there.’

‘Oh yes! You’re right. But if he isn’t in the wardrobe, where could he be?’

The bed creaked and a body dropped to the floor. He gasped as a pair of beastly feet came into view. There were two of them, sturdy, with thick toes and a grey fleece of wiry fur. Hooked talons curved out of the fronds. A shadow across the wardrobe doors revealed the creature’s twisted mane and tiny, fidgeting arms. It shrieked again, causing Toby to shudder.

Why did I reply? he scolded himself. I should have just let them take Charlie and returned later to save him.

The animal’s paws loped around the room. They searched behind large paintings propped against the wall and in crevices behind the wardrobe and a chest of drawers. From where he lay, Toby could see that their movements had become less certain as the morbid game of cat and mouse continued. When he noticed one creature’s feet swivel towards the door, he exhaled.

‘Must have heard wrong,’ said the singsong voice.

A grin rose on Toby’s lips. He shifted slightly to alleviate a stiff leg. Then a firm hand grasped his calf and fear sizzled through him.

‘Oh, there you are!’ said the second voice, terrifyingly shrill. ‘I’ve found yooooooooou!’

Chapter 3

The hand tightened around his ankle and pulled his leg.

‘No!’ Toby shouted. ‘Get off me!’

It was too late. Having been discovered, he kicked to clear a path and rolled from under the bed.

‘We’ve got you!’ said one attacker.

‘Not yet,’ Toby replied. ‘First, you’ve got to catch me, Belle!’

‘Cheater! That’s not the rules!’ complained the little girl with pigtails now in front of him. She stamped her foot but the noise was cushioned by her clumpy monster-foot slippers.

Splaying her fingers, his sister roared with all the ferocity of a lion cub. Beside her, her twin Violet bounded onto the bed and adopted a similar stance.

‘Oh, no! Bad elves!’ Toby said, lacing over-acted fear into his familiar script.

The game they called freak show chase originated from a bedtime story he told his sisters, in which magical creatures roamed the city unnoticed. They loved nothing more than playing the role of the nefarious bad elves threatening to steal away their brothers.

As one, they pounced and Toby laughed, ‘Alright, alright, you caught me. Now I’d better get back to work.’ His face fell when he remembered the piles of homework his tutor had left him to complete over Christmas. ‘If Dad knew how much time I was wasting playing games, he’d have a fit.’

‘What was that about Dad?’ came a deep voice from the hallway. Toby froze. Rounding the corner, his father entered the room.

John Thornton was a tall, athletic man with the sort of presence that naturally commanded attention. He could make an ornate room look underdressed, outclassing it with a clipped hairstyle, a three-piece suit from Savile Row in Mayfair, and gleaming,