Page 79 of The Nightmare Before Kissmas
I crack a laugh. “That sounds—”
“Messy? Chaotic? Extraordinarily creepy when they all dress identically and hide around the house?”
“I was going to say fantastic, but honestly, that last bit sounds downright brilliant of them.”
His smile is all fondness. “They are far too brilliant for their own good, that’s true. They love hayrides, haunted houses; they love trick-or-treating, of course. My parents have a terrible time stopping them from using our magic to create candy whenever they please.”
“Oh my god.” A huge grin tugs up my lips. “I did theexactsame thing when I was younger. Figured out how to use Christmas’s magicto make this one type of ginger-flavored chocolate I really loved, and madepilesof it. Just an insane amount of candy. I spent all night puking my guts up. Still can’t eat that type of chocolate without gagging.”
Hex’s grin mirrors mine. “One of my brothers—Salem—did that. Only it was Skittles. Think about that for a moment.”
Realization connects and I wince. “Oh no—”
“Oh yes. Rainbow vomiteverywhere. This was only a few months ago.”
“Mine was too.”
Hex snorts.
“What about you?” I have us take another step towards the gate to make it look like we’re trying to get out on the ice.
“Me?”
“Yeah. What tradition do you love most? Aside from the séances and possessions.”
Hex braces himself on the railing and me, and his face takes on a look of pure joy, a memory blossoming—but it just as quickly dissolves into sorrow, a weird, contrasting mix of happiness and grief.
I push closer to him, feeling like I can soften wherever he’s coming in to land.
“Our ofrendas,” he whispers.
“The altars in memory of the dead. Right?”
He pulls back with an appraising look. “Correct.”
“Hey, I know things. But why is that your favorite?”
Hex sucks in a breath. Holds. It’s that studious, considering look again, like he’s evaluating my merit, and I go perfectly still, letting him read me, hoping to god he finds me worthy.
“I wasn’t the original heir of Halloween,” he whispers. “I had an older sister. Raven.”
His words are instantly sobering. “What?”
“She was… amazing. Big-hearted. Funny.” He cracks a small smile. “A lot like you, honestly.”
I don’t dare speak. Couldn’t, even if I’d wanted to.
“So I like ofrendas best,” he continues, “because they let her knowwe miss her, and that she can celebrate with us. It’s what I love most about Halloween too—we create joy in what is terrifying, and Día de Muertos creates joy with what is gone.”
“And that’s enough?”
The question is out of me before I can stop it. Dragged to the forefront by the certainty in his voice, the simplicity.
Hex frowns slightly. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
I want to look away. Want to hide this cracking open, but I don’t, because in some way, I owe him this. “Whatever we help people create with these Holidays—it doesn’t stop terror. It doesn’t stop things from being gone. Like with Christmas’s joy—nothing we do prevents bad things from happening or fixes things that already happened.”
His frown smooths, his head tips. “And that is the only purpose for what we do? If we don’t prevent bad things, we shouldn’t try?”
