Betrayal At The North Pole (Mistletoe Mysteries Book 2)

By D. Gunn

ANYTHING BUT A WINTER WONDER LAND...
The Sinterklaas has tasked Christmas Special Investigator Steingrim Og with finding a missing spell, but he must first contend with a new assistant and aid an old friend. When mysterious explosions kill Elves regardless of race and word of treason among the Elves is revealed, Steingrim does not know whom to trust. His investigations uncover plans for an invasion by one of the Village’s deadliest nemesis: Jack Frost! If Frost and his army of snowmen invade the Christmas Village, will the Sinterklaas or any of the Elves survive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. Gunn
• Release date: Dec 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370948475

D. Gunn

D. Gunn has spent years in corporate America as a software engineer and finally decided to give writing a go. After several writing classes at the local community college, he joined a writing group that would push his ideas from short stories and twenty page class submissions to a full-blown novel. He lives in rural Maryland with his wife, Jennifer, two boys, three cats, and a dog.

Book preview

bells

PROLOGUE

Alone White Elf stepped up onto the curb in front of a drab wooden door. There was no address and only the faded paint of an identifying mark on the face of the wood indicated the establishment. He had been to this particular pub several times before, but those previous visits had always been after the proprietor had long been asleep in her bed. Here in the White District, pubs rarely stayed open until the wee hours of the morning, so he was fortunate this establishment was one of those that closed shop at a decent hour. His previous visits had been of a scouting nature and always late at night to ensure the location met the requirements given to him. This visit, however, was not afterhours. The nature of his visit was on a timetable, and he was nearing a deadline.

Glancing over his shoulder, he was happy to see a nearly empty street. A jingle of a silver bell above the door announced his presence as he entered.

The proprietor looked up from her duties at the bar and barely acknowledged him, muttering only his name. Fingal, she said. She would have taken note of him, of course, in case he decided to loiter without buying. An empty table meant less income, and an occupied table with an unpaying patron meant even less because they took up space a potential customer could be using.

He stepped to the bar, bought a pitcher of mulled wine, and brought it to a table.

As the evening progressed, White Elves rose to leave, sometimes alone, sometimes, in groups of two or three, presumably for warm beds or to greet companions still at home.

Fingal noted the time and released a long breath in an attempt to calm himself. The excitement mixed with fear caused his heart to hammer loud enough he thought the inattentive bar maid might hear. He made certain he was not the only one still in the establishment when he stood quietly and slipped to the back hallways, which housed lavatories, offices, and storerooms.

In the rear corridors, excrement mixed with stale alcohol made Fingal wrinkle his nose in disgust. Silently, he hoped some of the cleanliness of the Green and Red Elves would influence his brethren here in the White District. He passed the lavatory; placed his feet down slowly in an attempt to move as silently as possible, avoiding the creaking floorboards warped by years of water and other liquid damage, and stepped to the door of a rarely used office.

As Fingal shut the heavy, wooden door behind him, he recalled his first visit following orders to scout this particular location. His fear that night at potential discovery made him jump at every squeak, scrape, and groan of the building while he searched for a suitable site. The nearly abandoned office sent his spirits soaring, causing him nearly to forget to relock the main door behind him. That one misstep could have set back the entire operation, and he suspected he would face dire consequences if that happened.

His breath came in shallow puffs as an outward expression of the fear he felt. He looked over his shoulder to confirm, yet again, he was alone in the hallway and listened to the diminishing sounds coming from the waning commerce in the main room. Once he reassured himself this office was the one he scouted on his previous visits, he moved the latch on the door and opened it. The hinges released a barely audible creak; causing Fingal to wince at what he felt was a scream, possibly alerting everyone to his trespass.

His muscles froze, his eyes widened, and he held his breath awaiting any sign of discovery. An eternity passed without interruption. The muscles and tendons of his hand protested the wait, forming a misshapen claw around the latch.

Voices sounding farewells from the main room followed Fingal into the office and quieted completely behind the thick wood when he braced his back against it as the final patrons left the tavern for the night. The proprietor’s steps alternated between barely audible and unbelievably loud as she made her way around the main room cleaning, collecting mugs, or stepping to the back room to retrieve cleaning supplies. Overwhelming smells of peppermint overlaid the odd mixture of excrement and alcohol but did not replace it as she cleaned. Her whistling and muttering as she worked seeped in under the door with occasional shadows of her busy feet passing by the seldom-used door at Fingal’s back.

With deliberate slowness, he slid a locking bolt into place. It also clicked with imagined magnified volume beneath his shaking fingers.

For a moment, doubt wormed its way into his mind. His actions would change the world of the Elves. Nothing would be as it was. He felt insignificant in comparison to such a grand design. He felt unworthy. Yet, he was chosen for this operation. He, Fingal, the White Elf. His conviction flowed, washing away those fears.

With renewed purpose, he straightened his back, took a deep breath, and calmed his shaking hands. From one of his many pockets, he produced a nub of a candle and lit it with a spark from his fingers. Each time he placed a foot forward, he balanced on the balls of his feet in an effort to remain silent. His path led through the boxes and furniture he had pushed away from the center of the room during his earlier visits.

Etched on the cleared and cleaned floor, an intricate snowflake design lay waiting for the next step in the magic spell he’d received along with his mission. Various trinkets sat at the terminal points of the snowflake, statuettes of a running Elf, a hand fan, wind chimes, and broken locks.

From his pocket, he drew a folded parchment. While holding the candle aloft, he fumbled to open the parchment one-handed. After several failed attempts, he knelt, placing the candle on the floor, and smoothed out the parchment beside it. Shadows jerked and jumped across the paper, obscuring the diagram etched there. With one hand extended pointing at the pictograph on the floor and the other tracing the smaller design on the paper, he checked each point and line for accuracy. He stood with an ease found in the young and athletic and verified the position and content of each bauble as he circled the giant snowflake.

Next, he drew a second page, knelt again, and laid it beside the first. Runes filled this page, front and back, but in obviously newer ink, the snowflake diagram overwrote the magic symbols. The second page was much older than the first with minute tears on the edges and faded a bit with time. Carefully, he directed a shaking finger at each line of runes then compared it to a corresponding point on the floor. Once satisfied he fulfilled each directive, he picked up the pages and sat on his heels facing his preparations.

He spoke a single word and traced a sigil in the air with his shaking hands, thus activating the ritual. Concentric circles and snowflakes composed of white light swirled in a funnel above the inscription on the floor, sucking the tokens from the various points of the snowflake and spinning them up to circle the room.

Pieces of broken statuettes sliced at every exposed bit of skin. The broken locks, each one heavy metal, punched and bruised his body. Fingal fell to the side and curled inward in a vain effort to protect himself. Wind whipped and pulled at his clothes, threatening to pull him into the center of the maelstrom. Changing air pressure and a thrumming noise beat at his eardrums, eventually shattering them. The cacophony drowned out his cries of pain and fear.

The door to the office muffled the knocks and calls of the pub proprietor as she called out, trying to determine the cause of the storm brewing in her back rooms. The wind rattled the heavy, wooden door in its frame, finally shaking loose its fasteners, and pulled both the bar matron and the door into the frenzied twister. Her questions and accusations against an unknown intruder turned to cries for help.

A column of light with no apparent source shot from the snowflake inscribed on the floor, reaching all the way to the ceiling. The blinding light lasted only a second before it collapsed into a vertical disc above the center of the symbol approximately the size of a coin and rapidly increasing in size.

From his position on the ground, Fingal could barely see the disc enlarging, its center thinning to near transparency. Initially, he did not see the face peering through that magical window, but the cold, blue eyes met his, causing him to uncurl somewhat, capturing his attention. Those eyes, framed in a face of thin lips, light blue skin, and angular cheekbones, sparkled with curiosity, intelligence, and malevolence. Above the face, shocks of white hair stood at various angles, held aloft and anchored by ice crystals.

The magic building that portal decreased in intensity, lessening the wind in the room, eventually stopping the swirling vortex altogether. Inside the portal, the eyes turned from curiosity to anger. The mouth opened to an abnormal size, showing sharp, pointed teeth and a black tongue. Although the Elf’s ears could no longer hear, it was clear the blue-skinned being was screaming. Fingal’s mind oddly disconnected from the pain and fear he felt, and momentarily wondered if it was screaming in anger, or in hate.

Fingal got to his hands and knees without taking his eyes from the face in the portal. He thought the disaster was finally over. The portal clouded over, slowly obscuring the screaming face. A moment of relief flooded him, and he hung his head, letting the pain and exhaustion wash over him. The portal, now completely opaque, shrank until no visible trace of it remained, yet the magic initiated remained.

Around the room, the tokens, wooden door, and tavern owner hung motionless in the air. Her eyes were wide with fear, her hair hung to the floor, and she would have almost looked comical except for the disturbing sight of her hanging upside down, her hands grasping at anything in reach to turn her upright again. Dust particles drifted lazily from each token toward the floor. Everything was eerily quiet with only the breathing of the two Elves breaking the silence before it all exploded outward.

bells

CHAPTER 1

DAY ONE

The odor of polishing oil stung my eyes as I tenderly finished the carving. My desk front was no longer blank. It was tradition for the Christmas Special Investigators to chronicle their cases, not only in the conventional manner of journals and logs, but also to carve a representative image from their work onto the front of their desk. The scene I was finishing included the Tome of Ascension, a troika, and the fight between the Sinterklaas and the Krampus. I sat back on my heels to admire my work.

The Tome of Ascension—the book of Elven magic used in preparation for Elves to ascend from White to Green or Green to Red. The Chief of the Green Constables had stolen it at the behest of my former best friend, currently traitor to the Elves, Tutur Tifill, and attempted to cheat his way into becoming a Red Elf. That abominable book had cost Fredyl Maskun his life.

Disgraced Elves, the troikas, aided the Chief Constable in his bid to become the next Red Elf. I have yet to determine what he’d promised them and how he’d managed to get groups, that have historically never worked together, cooperating.

Elves are still talking about the fight between the Sinterklaas and the newly created Krampus. The story has changed in the retelling such that the Sinterklaas killed the Krampus or that the creature grievously wounded the man and attacked the Elves in attendance at the Ascension Ceremony.

Of course, that’s not what happened. Banished to the surface, it took up residence in the lair of the first Krampus. After that fight, Sledda Maskog became the next Red Elf.

In another lifetime when we were both Green Elves, Sledda and I were more than friends. She had moved on after I became a Red Elf. I never had, probably because I had regained some of my memories from that time. The longer she was a Red Elf, the more her memories of her previous life as a Green would fade.

During the time since Sledda became the next Red Elf, she has shown herself remarkably adept at understanding the inventions the traitor left behind. So adept, in fact, that it had become her job to inventory Tutur’s remaining experiments and half-finished projects as well as begin her own research. She moved into Tutur’s old rooms with his lab attached. It only made sense. I visited her recently and found a Christmas card direct from the North Pole naming her the Little Inventor. Tutur was the last Elf to bear that title. I was surprised the Sinterklaas still used it, considering the disgrace Tutur had brought to it.

My thoughts turned to memories of my former friend. We had laughed. We had cried. We had fought, with each other and for each other. All right, that last part was not completely true. It had been me fighting for Tutur. Elves’ bells, I had wanted to stab an Elf through the hand the last time Tutur and I were in a nog haus.

The map on my wall drew my eyes in as I unconsciously focused on Noel’s Nogs, where the near stabbing incident had occurred. Had I given that moment more thought, perhaps I would have realized what was going on with Tutur. He had explicitly laid out what he was doing, but I was more involved in my case and vehemently keeping the secrecy of Christmas Village to comprehend what he was saying.

A knock at the door shook me from my thoughts, broken memories falling away like shattered glass. I stood and pushed myself upright. All that time sitting on the floor had frozen my muscles and joints. My hands braced my lower back as I leaned backward to stretch. I swiped a clean rag from the top of the desk, wiped off my hands, and moved to the door.

Before I could welcome her, Sledda rushed in, brushing me aside, immediately breaking into some technical chatter. She did not look at me as she did so, but instead remained focused on some object in her hands. Her ruby