Chapter Nine - Shadow Boxer

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                                                                The Nutcracker Bleeds 

                                                                       Chapter Nine:

                                                                       Shadowboxer 

                                                                                  1 

                In the quiet of the night just before Christmas, there was much going on within the Ellington house, though no onlookers would have seen it.  

                Outside, new snow was falling, putting a fresh blanket on the ground for the new day coming.  The stockings were hung by the chimney, warmed by the fire beneath.  Those flames, by way of the shafts, heated the tiny toes upstairs.  The most precious boys and girls were tucked snuggly into their soft beds, dreaming of a recital where sugar-plum fairies danced ballet.   

                Beneath the large tree in the hall, a man placed his gifts.  He was neither chubby nor rosy cheeked, but slim and pale with age.  A blind eye was covered by a patch, and he knelt with the aid of a carefully-carved wooden cane.  Still, he placed the gifts with love, for he understood the true sprit of Christmas. 

                From hidden places, tiny eyes watched him with vicious intent. 

                For t’was the night before Christmas, and all through that house, many things were stirring – especially the mice.  

                                                                                   2 

                “Is your name Armand?” 

                Those words echoed back through his mind.  It was not the young woman who had said them that he was thinking of, but only the words themselves.  Similar words had been offered to him by the Lady Sovereign, asking what she should call him.  It had taken him a moment to recall, but he’d finally remembered the sound of it from somewhere in his past. 

                Armand. 

                He hardly thought of himself by any name anymore – at least nothing comprehendible to the English tongue.  He avoided placing a title on himself when he could, but he supposed one must be called something.  How long had it been since someone had said that name?  

                Armand. 

                He didn’t dare speak it himself now.  But somehow, hearing it being said by someone else nearly made him feel again.  Just nearly. 

                He stopped in the dark shaft when a sound reached his alert ears.  Something was moving around in the blanketing shadows ahead of him.  Being so close to the Lady’s territory, he imagined it was only a soldier on patrol or some scout moving about, but he wanted to be prepared.  

                He moved the fingers beneath the wooden sleeve that resembled a white cuff.  They pressed down toward the needles that were strapped to his leg, brushed against them… 

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