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“You don’t have enough room between the end of your nose and your upper lip for a square moustache. You look like Hitler trying to pass as Charlie Chaplin to escape the Red Army. Better do something before Glory and the customers see you.”

He looked at himself in the mirror. “Fuck it. It’s good enough. Nobody will show up in this storm, anyway. I just hope the greenhouse doesn’t blow down.”

We stood silently and listened to the howling of the west wind as it swept off Lake Huron, picking up moisture and turning it to snow. If the greenhouse survived its first winter, it would stand for a few more. With any luck, the ominous moaning overhead came from the pines surrounding the parking lot, and not the steel structure buckling. Or the glass cracking.

I shoved Dougal toward the door. “Tell Chico to set up in the corner opposite the refreshment table. I’ll be out as soon as Rae paints my face.”

Muttering “This should be good,” he straightened his hat and left. Rae set to work with her paints. We jumped at a single high-pitched shriek. Glory must have caught sight of Adolf Chaplin.

Twenty minutes later, it was my turn to face the Gilded Gorgon. In the atrium, Chico stood behind his tripod and aimed practice shots at the six-foot Bambi standing in the corner. The plastic abomination was surrounded by a dozen red-and-green plaster elves cavorting in a woodland scene. The woodland consisted of a set of three plastic pre-lit palm trees with painted coconuts hanging from the foliage. Très tacky. I had outdone myself and created the perfect Christmas hell.

I had my cell ready, and when Chico looked up from his camera and spotted me, I took a shot of his face.

“Holy moly, Bliss. You’re going to scare the crap out of the kids.”

Without warning, Glory came up behind me and spun me around. “What is this? Start talking. No, go change immediately!”

I reached down and tore a few small holes in my glittery tights.

It was the perfect, finishing touch to the rest of my costume: black satin skirt with uneven hem, a separate, sleeveless bustier that didn’t quite meet the waistline of the skirt, and fingerless gloves that reached my elbows. My fingernails and toenails were matte black, and Rae had painted a reptile crawling up my throat — I had wanted a dragon, but she didn’t know how to draw one. The lizard’s claws reached up over the edge of my face and Rae had used the cleft in my chin to place the creature’s red forked tongue. Heavy black eyeliner, dark red lipstick, and a few hideous creatures leering from behind my ears completed the look. Instead of jewellery, which would have sent the outfit over the top, I had hung the bayonet through the loop of a plain black leather belt. My hair was gelled and sprayed into a wild halo around my face. Black glitter drifted to the floor when I moved my head and I reminded myself not to inhale it. The best part? A set of black tattered wings moved when I pulled a black cord on the bustier.

“I’m the Black Christmas Angel,” I announced.

“You look more like the Angel of Doom! Get your clothes back on. People will be here any minute!” Glory’s eyes were tinged with pink, coordinating nicely with her blush-coloured silk palazzo pants and matching tunic. With three-inch gold pumps, she towered half a foot over me, and I was wearing four-inch black leather gladiator sandals.

“Where’s your costume?” I asked, moving to stand behind Chico. He took one look at Glory’s eyes and wrapped his arms protectively around his photography gear. Silly boy, he knew nothing of her powers or he would have abandoned his expensive equipment and run into the storm.

“I don’t have to wear a costume. I’m running this benefit and am dressed accordingly.”

“In case you haven’t looked outside lately, there’s a blizzard bearing down on us. It may be our annual storm of the century. Nobody’s going to show up.” I was standing up to her pretty well. The costume must be giving me extra courage. I waggled my wings at her.

The outside door opened and Fang walked in, followed by a gaggle of children, at least a dozen. More folk streamed in. From the beards and plaid coats the men wore, they had to hail from Dogtown. The women were smartly turned out and everyone over four feet tall carried a grocery bag of food for the needy.

Glory turned her attention from my costume to the growing puddles on the floor. What did she think was going to happen when people tracked in snow? If she was half as smart as she claimed to be, she would have taken out an insurance policy in case someone slipped and broke a leg.

Before she could chastise Fang and his family, the door opened again to admit more snow-covered guests. Within minutes, the room began to fill up. Some of them wore snowmobile gear, dropping their outerwear and helmets in a pile near the door. That brought back some memories. The Weasel had a Yamaha Viper, and I had my own Arctic Cat Crossfire. We often went on day-long excursions with other members of the country club. It had been one of the few activities with him that I enjoyed back then. Well, that and target shooting.

Glory transformed herself into the perfect hostess, greeting each person by name, showing them where to deposit their food contributions, directing them to the plant tables. Dougal — his moustache now thinned out — presided over the colourful blooms, pointing out the best specimens to weather the trip across the parking lot to their cars. After that, they weren’t his responsibility. They would all be dead by New Year’s anyway.

Chico stared fixedly up at the disco ball, revolving and glittering above his head. I poked him in the arm to focus his attention. “Get ready, Chico.”

“For what? You just told me to bring a camera and tripod.”

I captured Rae and pulled her into the huddle. “Pictures of the kiddies with Bambi here, taken by a professional photographer, are five dollars each. I’ll get a container for the money. Rae, use Glory’s clipboard.” I flipped to an empty page. “Write down email information and particulars about each kid. Chico will take the list home, download the pictures, then email the photos. Simple. Any questions?”

The plan worked well, with one tiny ripple. As Chico ran back and forth, moving Bambi to the right spot, taking some practice shots, a little girl ran up to him. Even before she whined, “Daddy, daddy!” I knew she was Chico’s daughter. The black curly hair and glasses were a dead giveaway and weren’t the problem. Unfortunately, she had inherited her mother’s red-faced scowl and Yoda ears. I’m not joking; this was the ugliest kid I’d ever seen.

Tyger stood behind her daughter and looked pointedly at my chest. “Did you get implants, Bliss? I don’t remember those.” Two older kids rubbed their snotty noses on the sleeves of their sweaters.

I adjusted my girls. “It’s all in the presentation, Tyger.” The bustier had thrown my barely Bs into va-voom Cs.

“Daddy, take my picture,” the sprite shrilled, pulling on his shirt. “Now!” After puberty, she’d give Glory a run for the Shrew of the Year title.

“Okay, Esmeralda, just hop up there beside Bambi and smile.”

“Not Bambi,” Esmeralda said, twisting her lips into an epic pout. “Her!” She pointed at me. “The witch with the wings.”

“Hey, I’m the Black Christmas Angel!”

“Please, Bliss.” Chico pleaded. His glance darted to Tyger, and a line of sweat broke out on his brow. Man, he was even more whipped than in high school.

“Oh, all right.” I stood in front of the largest fake palm tree, with Esmeralda leaning against me. When she smiled, she didn’t look so bad, except for the ears, but those can be fixed nowadays.

I’m pretty sure Esmeralda never paid her five bucks, but before I had a chance to mention it, the other two Leeds kids — twin boys as it happened — wanted a photo with the witch, too.