By Kim Harrison
This vacation, spend caliber time with kinfolk and enjoyed ones—living and lifeless . . .
There's no position like domestic for the horrordays—unless you would want a romantic hour of darkness stroll via a ghost-infested graveyard . . . or a haunted condominium candlelight dinner with the attractive vampire of your desires. The (black) magical season is here—and even if it is a solstice séance long past demonically improper with the incomparable Kim Harrison, a grossly misshapen Christmas with the awesome Lynsay Sands, a blood-chilling-and-spilling New Year's with the fantastic Marjorie M. Liu, or a super-powered Thanksgiving with the outstanding Vicki Pettersson, something is definite: within the capable fingers of those unheard of darkish part explorers, the vacations are going to be deliciously hellish!
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Additional resources for Holidays Are Hell
My stomach quivered as I looked over the electric-lit kitchen. Most of the mess was from me rummaging through mom's boxes of spelling supplies. The dirty mortar, graduated cylinder, plant snips, and bits of discarded plants looked good strewn around—right somehow. This was how the kitchen used to look; my mom stirring spells and dinner on the same stove, having fits when Robbie would pretend to eat out of what was clearly a spell pot. Mom had some great earth magic stuff. It was a shame she didn't use it anymore apart from helping me with my Halloween costume, her tools banished to sit beside Dad's ley line stuff in the attic.
Here," he said. " My breath slipped from me in relief. " Shoving the bag into a pocket, I exchanged a worried look with Robbie. Together we turned to the back of the bus. Pace slow, we cautiously approached the man as the city lights grew dim and the bus lights more obvious. Thankfully we were the only people on it, probably due to our destination being what was traditionally a human neighborhood, and they left the streets to us Inderlanders on the solstice. The man's eyes darted between us as Robbie and I sat down facing him.
The book said if I did it right, it would spontaneously boil when I invoked it in the red and gray stone bowl I'd found in the bottom of a box. The spirit would form from the smoke. This had to work. It had to. My stomach quivered as I looked over the electric-lit kitchen. Most of the mess was from me rummaging through mom's boxes of spelling supplies. The dirty mortar, graduated cylinder, plant snips, and bits of discarded plants looked good strewn around—right somehow. This was how the kitchen used to look; my mom stirring spells and dinner on the same stove, having fits when Robbie would pretend to eat out of what was clearly a spell pot.