A Ketchmas Carol

Stave One

Toni was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. He had killed her himself, although, having been assassinated himself shortly thereafter, there was no way to know if her body had been properly disposed of.

Still, Toni was dead as a doornail. This must be perfectly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story that I will now relate.

Arthur Ketch was happy that Toni Bevell was dead: he had never particularly liked her anyway, although she had been good in bed. But out of bed, their two cold, hardened personalities were like ice upon more ice, scraping against each other and leaving scars and divots in each other. They worked together for many years as part of the Men of Letters, UK Chapter, but only grudgingly.

And so, Ketch was alive, and Toni was dead. But oh, Ketch was hard and sharp as flint from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret and self-contained, and solitary as a man addicted to garlic and phobic of brushing his teeth. The cold within him froze his features, stiffened his gait, and clipped his even colder words.

External heat and cold had little influence on Ketch. No warmth could warm, nor wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than him, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty.

No one ever stopped him in the street to ask, "Ketch, how are you? When will you come to see me?" No shapeshifter asked for his mercy, no werewolf bothered to put up a fight. No person, monster, angel or demon ever asked the way to the home of Arthur Ketch. But what did Ketch care? It was as if wanted it, to move among the world, warning them all to keep their distance and leave him be.

Once upon a time - on Christmas Eve of all the days – Ketch sat in his London home – the house which had once belonged to Lady Toni Bevell before her "untimely" demise. He had spent the entire day going through lore books, looking for ways to track an archangel who most assuredly did not wish to be tracked, much less sent back to the horrific apocalyptic world from which he had come. The weather outside was biting and cold, but he could still hear people outside in the street laughing and singing as they walked by. He had to resist the urge to go to the window and yell at them to be quiet, as they were interrupting his train of thought.

The poor housekeeper who worked at the home, and had for most of her life, was doing her best to look after her new employer, in as far as he would allow it. He would not allow her to light a fire in the study, or turn up the heating, or bring him a cup of hot cocoa. If at any point Anna Cratchit dared to interrupt to offer food, or suggest that he get some rest, he would bark at her to mind her own damned business, and slam the study door in her face.

But then, in walked Oliver Ketch, a distant cousin of Arthur's, and one of the few to survive the previous year's "restructuring" of the Men of Letters, UK Chapter. "How are you this fine day, Arthur?" asked Oliver cheerfully. "A Merry Christmas to you!"

"I'd be better if people didn't feel the need to barge into my home and wish me greetings for a holiday that I have little to no concern with," Arthur replied drily.

"No concern? Don't be ridiculous, Arthur! Besides, I only stopped by to ask you to come and have dinner with my family and I tomorrow night. Unless, of course, you already have plans for Christmas dinner elsewhere."

Arthur rolled his eyes at Oliver. "And where, do pray tell, where would I be going for Christmas dinner? I do not have time or interest in friendships, and you, to my undying regret, are my only remaining family. But no," he added before Oliver could speak, "I do not have plans for Christmas dinner, nor do I intend to have plans. I will be working, as I would on any other day."

"Don't be like that, Arthur," Oliver said, laughing off his cousin's ill humour. "Come and join us. You know how much Felicity enjoys your company."