Chapter Two

C andace

Candance parked her carriage in Whitlock's forest and left the unicorns to forage. Walking into town, she strolled down the lamp-lined lane. The townspeople paused to stare at her. Candace recognized their faces from her dreams—the baker, the blacksmith, the old widow who lived in the shoe. But instead of joy, she saw weariness and melancholy weighing down their spirits.

Intent on spreading her light during the dark solstice days, Candace waved and called holiday greetings. Lips tugged into smiles and eyes lit up, if only for a moment.

She vowed not to leave until the people of Whitlock rediscovered their own inner light again. She knew with patience and care, she could nurture their dreams once more. But as she continued through town, a nagging doubt crept in. Perhaps not all dreams wished to be found.

Candace caught sight of a brooding figure through the frosted glass of a quaint coffee shop: Roderick Stone, perched on a stool with the aloofness of a shadow in a sunlit glade.

She pushed open the door, a tinkling bell announcing her arrival to an otherwise silent audience. Roderick's eyes lifted, and for a moment, the world seemed suspended between their opposing energies.

"Leave Whitlock," he commanded, his voice a low rumble that clashed with the soft jingle of holiday tunes.

"It didn't work in the dream, and it won't work now."

"Your essence doesn't belong here."

"Seems to me that joy is exactly what this place needs."

"Your kind of joy burns in a town like this."

"Only if you're scared of a little warmth. But I guess that's your thing, isn't it? Keeping everyone cold and afraid."

Roderick's frown deepened, and the shadows in the room leaned in closer. "You think you can just waltz into my town and sprinkle your sugary fantasies over everything?"

"Better than sulking over bitter coffee." Her gaze drifted to his untouched cup. "Tell me, does it taste as joyless as you look?"

"Careful, sunsidhe." He rose, towering over her menacingly.

The air crackled with unsaid promises, each breath shared pulling them closer to an unknown precipice. They were going to kiss again. If she was honest, this was the real reason why she was here.

Candace leaned forward this time, her fingertips touching his broad shoulders, and stood up on her tiptoes to press her mouth against his. Her lips parted slightly to let in his tongue to dance with hers. A tingle ran down her spine as he wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her closer. This was even better in real life than in the dream.

They kissed like they were at war, battling for dominance. Sunshine and shadow swirled around them. Candace couldn't breathe, didn't want to breathe. She just wanted to keep tasting his mouth on hers. His hard body pressed her into the counter. She was losing herself to the pleasure of his harsh caresses.

But just as their passion was reaching a point of no return, a clatter of plates shattered the moment. They pulled apart, panting, their lips swollen. Their eyes locked in a mix of desire and frustration. The café owner stared at them wide-eyed. "Sorry, folks. Butterfingers," he stammered before scurrying to clean up the mess.

Candace took a shaky step away, her cheeks flushed and heart racing. Roderick's gaze bore into her, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. The intensity between them was undeniable, but so was the chasm of their differences.

"Let's get out of here," Roderick muttered. He threw a few bills on the counter and then took her by the arm, propelling her outside.

"I don't know what came over me," Candace said, shaking free of him to press her hands to her flushed cheeks. They had been at odds for centuries; why now all of a sudden were they kissing?

"I know what you're trying to do, and it won't work," he said. "You won't seduce me away from Whitlock."

"Of all the arrogant things to say. I'll admit that I wanted to kiss you, but I don't know why. It had nothing to do with me wanting to help the town, though."

"The town doesn't need your help."

They squared off in the town center like two gunslingers.

"I want them to have Yuletide where children sleep soundly, where their dreams of sugar plums aren't shadowed by your night terrors," Candace said.

The corners of his mouth twitched downward as if the mere thought of happiness was a sour taste he couldn't spit out. "Brief moments of happiness? They're like snowflakes on a river—gone before they're even noticed."

"Then I'll make them memorable."

She watched his jaw clench.

"Memorable? And when you've had your fun, flitted back to your candied castle, what then? I'll be left with the pieces, nursing a town hung over from too much sweetness."

"Isn't it better to have tasted joy than to never have savored it at all?"

"Joy is dangerous. It makes people forget, makes them weak," he argued.

"Or perhaps it reminds them they're strong enough to dream."

"Keep dreaming, sunsidhe." Roderick's lips twisted into a wry smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Dreams are for those who don't know the cost."

"Then consider this a holiday sale," Candace quipped, unfazed. "One where dreams come at no cost at all."

"Nothing is without cost."

"Even so," she persisted, "everyone deserves a chance to believe, if only for a season."

"Let's not pretend this is about joy. You bring a sugar-coated dream, and when you leave, what then? They'll wake to emptiness, their pockets as hollow as their hearts."

She tilted her head, considering his words. "It's one season of lightness to lift spirits. Why is that so threatening to you?"

"Because joy is fleeting, fickle." He leaned closer, his breath a cool whisper against her cheek.

She trembled, wondering if they were going to kiss again. No. Not until they came to an agreement.

"And in its absence," he continued, "the darkness feels deeper. You give them this illusion of a perfect Yuletide, and it's me who's left with the pieces when it shatters."

"Or maybe," she ventured, her voice steady despite the chill in her bones, "it's that you're afraid you'll feel it too—the warmth, the hope—and you won't know what to do with it."

"Hope is a luxury I can't afford. Not here in Whitlock, where dreams are currency and nightmares reign." A sardonic chuckle escaped him, and he stepped back, shadows seeming to cling to his frame. "You think you can waltz into my town and rewrite centuries of balance between day and night, sun and moon?"

"Balance?" She arched an eyebrow. "Seems to me like your scales have been tipped toward the gloom for far too long."

"Be careful, sunsidhe." His warning was a velvet threat, silken and smooth, yet promising peril. "You don't want to start a war you can't win."

"Who said anything about starting a war?" She crossed her arms. "I'm talking about ending one that's gone on too long."

"End it?" Roderick's laugh was bitter, devoid of mirth. "You and what army of gingerbread soldiers?"

"Who needs an army?" Candace's smile was all confidence, a challenge in the curve of her lips. "When you have the power of dreams."

"Then dream wisely," he shot back, his silhouette stark against the flickering lights of the coffee shop, every inch the embodiment of the night. "Because when the last candle burns out, it's my shadow you'll find waiting in the darkness."