by Johnny Miles
But things hadn’t ended there.
Nearly a month later, a week before Christmas, Griffin had been called by his new District Manager for a special meeting in Raleigh.
On the surface, Roscoe D. Piedmont was slick and polished, not a hair out of place, even if his skin was a tad more orange than it probably should have been. Still, he looked nothing short of refined. A gentleman. His reputation had preceded him, and there were rumors about a white-washed antebellum home, church every Sunday, and woe unto them who dared defame the American flag!
Griffin had taken an instant dislike to him, for he could see that within Piedmont’s veins lurked something sinister.
In lieu of a handshake, Griffin had been ushered into Piedmont’s office with a grand, sweeping gesture and a flash of blinding white teeth. Griffin had felt like a child sitting in one of two chairs as Piedmont settled into his own behind the desk and looked down at Griffin. One single sheet of paper—a credit card statement—had lain ominously on the large desk.
With that fake smile on his face, Piedmont dug right in, direct and to the point.
“Mr. Kloss…” Piedmont had paused for effect before moving on, his voice dripping with a syrupy poison. “It’s come to my attention that you’ve incurred charges to your company platinum credit card in excess of twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Griffin had gone cold. After the earth-shattering disappointment of being wiped clean and left alone, this was what the universe had planned for him? To keep from slipping, Griffin focused on the Christmas carols playing in the background and the scent of Piedmont’s wooded-pines aftershave.
“There must be some mistake. I’d never—”
Piedmont’s insipid smile had grown wider as he slid the statement across the expanse. Griffin picked up the statement and glanced through each line item: first-class air travel to Brazil, four-star luxury hotels, men’s clothing, restaurants. He struggled with the bile in his throat and his desire to vomit.
“I-I don’t know Mr. Piedmont, sir. I—”
“Did you think no one would find out, Kloss?” Piedmont’s voice oozed with a politeness that shoved Griffin further into a quagmire of unspeakable fear. He knew he should speak up for himself, but how could he explain it had more than likely been his ex who’d put Griffin in such a predicament? He didn’t want to share the gory details of the sordid thing his life had become. And even if he had, he highly doubted Piedmont would understand, let alone sympathize. Rumor had it the man had donated heavily to the committee behind the Defense of Marriage Act and that he was a pro-life, bible-thumping, conservative member of the GOP.
“I’m going to pick up this here phone to call the police. When they arrive—”
“Mr. Piedmont, I-I don’t know who did this, but…I didn’t do it. I would never do anything like that. Someone stole my identity. If it’s any consolation, my own bank account was emptied and closed about a month ago. I only found out when I tried to withdraw money and—”
“Mr. Kloss.” Piedmont’s false veneer had slipped as he uttered Griffin’s family name with something like revulsion. In that moment, Griffin thought he’d seen something peering through Piedmont’s mask, something so vile it made Griffin recoil. But as quickly as the monstrous image was revealed, it disappeared, and Piedmont was once again the epitome of the saccharin, albeit orange, caricature he’d presented himself to be.
“Do not insult my intelligence,” Piedmont had continued. “I do not care about the loss of your money. I only care about the loss of mine. And speaking of loss…”
Piedmont made a show of pulling out a thick, perfectly bound report and riffling the pages. “Can you explain why you show a loss of over two million dollars in investment monies when the economy is on the rebound and all of our other offices show a profit?”
In that instant, Griffin knew he’d been set up. The question was…why?
In the end, though Griffin had gone to jail for a while, it had been a civil-rights lawyer who kept him out of prison. Unfortunately, the only way to raise the money to pay for the attorney was to sell his condo and liquidate any assets Thomas hadn’t stolen.
And now, there was Thomas, standing before him as if the past nine years had never happened. Had he and Piedmont been working together?
“What’s going on, Roscoe? I went to the men’s room to take a piss, and when I came out—”
“Thomas?” Piedmont turned ever so slightly, his eyes never wavering from Griffin. “Be a dear and call my attorney. We may…”
But Griffin didn’t hear the rest. Nor did he hear the cops shuffling to break through and reestablish order. His hearing faded except for the thumping of his heart. But he could see clearly. In fact, too clear, as most everyone’s faces, monstrous and demonic, seemed to change before him. It was the stuff of nightmares, and Griffin feared for his sanity.
This can’t be real. This has to be a nightmare.
And then, surprisingly, a voice replied in his head, “This is no nightmare. It’s real.”
Griffin stared at Thomas. The man smiled.
“You’re not going crazy, Griffin. This is really happening. But you knew that, didn’t you? You’ve always suspected.”
Griffin’s mind whirled with images of the odd things that had happened throughout the years, of overpowering moments of darkness when he’d been with Thomas—not all of it had been good—and then, strangely, images of Jackson…embracing him, fingers laced together as they held hands, Jackson’s hair and the way the color had grown out within a matter of minutes. The way Griffin had moved from one spot to another, physically impossible within the blink of an eye. And yet, he had done just that.
“And Chase. Don’t forget Chase.”
Griffin searched his memories, flickering back to the night of that party. The last night of spring break, the night before Jackson and his friends were supposed to leave. Chase, possessed or high and propelled by jealousy. He’d turned into a raging demon but somehow ended up frozen, straddling Griffin in bed.
“I don’t understand. How do you know about…” Realization dawned on Griffin. “It was you! You drove Chase toward me with that broken beer bottle in hand. But how, Thomas? Why?”
“Does it really matter?”
“What did I ever do except love you? Was I lousy in bed? Was I…an asshole?”
“That’s enough, Thomas,” Piedmont interrupted.
Stunned and at a loss for words, Griffin shot Piedmont a look, wondering if the man had heard.
“Oh, yes,” Piedmont replied aloud, his grin wider still. “I heard. I heard every word. But no one will believe you. You know that, don’t you?”
Griffin felt the malevolent energy course back and forth between Thomas and Piedmont. It fluctuated and crackled like electricity. Suddenly, Griffin’s hearing returned. It rushed back loud and quick, making him want to press his hands to his ears, but he refrained.
“You’ve been hounding me…creating ways for me to fuck up from the first moment we met. Why? What have I ever done to you? Did I…steal your boyfriend or something?”
Piedmont laughed. “Thomas is not my boyfriend. He’s going to marry my daughter. No, Griffin. You simply…existed.”
“But you hated me from the start. I felt it. You didn’t have to say a thing. Why? Why do you hate me so much?”
“Haven’t you ever hated someone from the moment you set eyes on them? Before shaking their hand or even hearing them speak? Sometimes…sometimes it’s just their very energy you pick up on, and you just know you’re not going to like that person.” Piedmont paused for dramatic effect. “That’s the way it was with you. Then, when I found out who and what you are, I hated you on principle. For everything you stood for and all that you believe in. Justice and equality for all. Good will toward man. Hah!”
“I-I don’t get it. I don’t understand any of…whatever this is. Wh-what’s going on? What do you want from me?”
“To finish what I started when I had you thrown in jail.”
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“Wasn’t that enough?” Griffin replied in kind.
Piedmont shot him a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m taking you to my Master. He wants you. He needs you. I would just as soon see you destroyed.”
“What the fuck are you saying? What are you talking about? Who needs me?” Around him, Griffin could sense a disturbance. No one had heard what Piedmont had said. He’d never opened his mouth to speak! Piedmont’s grin widened. A maniacal glow seemed to emanate from his eyes as he spoke mentally once more.
“This is bigger than any of us, Kloss.”
“I’d rather die than let you take me anywhere or suffer any more of your indignities, you swine!” Griffin put up his fists, ready for a fight as Piedmont rubbed his hands together. For a moment, Griffin was taken aback. Were those sparks crackling in the old man’s hands? And why was Thomas approaching, rubbing his hands as well and looking like he’d just seen a long-lost enemy?
Piedmont made a bring-it gesture just as the police broke through the crowd and surrounded them.
Griffin knew it was wrong. He knew he was being goaded, but he’d had enough. He pulled back mightily and swung. Except he didn’t just swing. One second he had been standing still, the next he’d moved so fast everything around him was a blur.
He might have been in awe of what was happening, by how he could move so fast, but Griffin had experienced lightning speed more than a year ago at the hospital when he’d run to Jackson and caught him in his arms to keep Jackson from falling to the floor.
Griffin connected. First Piedmont, then Thomas. Bone and cartilage crunched beneath the power of his fist. He relished in their surprise, blood pumping with adrenaline and the high that came from venting frustration in such a physical way.
Then two large things slammed into him.
Griffin fell to the ground, his legs buckling beneath the weight of the two cops who had flanked and taken him down. He struggled against them. When they started swinging, Griffin held up his forearms to try to protect himself.
One of the cops punched Griffin’s jaw. His teeth clicked together, and he was sure he’d bitten off a piece of his tongue but chuckled when he saw the pained look on the winded policeman as he tried to breathe.
“Y-you—” The cop gasped as he tried to recite the Miranda rights. “You have the right to…”
Griffin felt the cold, hard cuffs clasped to his wrists.
“The right to—” The second cop wheezed, trying to finish what the first cop started. “To remain silent…”
And as they read Griffin his rights, instead of feeling nervous or scared or even ashamed of a second arrest within two years, he roared with laughter. He’d no doubt pay for what he’d done, but it had been worth it, if only to see that noxious grin disappear from Piedmont’s face and Thomas’s beauty marred by the blood that spurted from his broken nose.
Chapter Five
The North Pole Central Surveillance Unit glowed with the flickering from thousands of flat-screen monitors used to watch, track, and record suspected Magicals around the globe.
Bucket’s footsteps echoed as he pursed his lips and blew at the scalding liquid in his large white mug with I ♥ SANTA in bold red letters. He slurped audibly, smacking his lips after a rush of thick, hot, and rich dark chocolate.
Then something made him stop.
Ping…ping…ping.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “It actually worked?”
Bucket had grown tired with the lack of results in his search for Kris’s replacements, so he’d rewritten the antiquated computer program. Now, instead of simply searching for Magicals by scanning them—effective once upon a time, when percentages of magic in the blood were higher—they would be able to, in theory, search for unusual magical activity since magic left behind a traceable residue of ion particles.
And here was the result.
Ping.
Looking back, Bucket wondered why he hadn’t thought of it sooner, but he already knew the answer. Though changing times meant changing methodology as well as technology, complacency was the enemy of innovation. It was how they’d done surveillance for many decades. Why change? And truth be told, as scared as Bucket was of not finding a suitable replacement for Kris, he was even more scared of how things might change between them if he did.
Ping.
Tingling with an excited curiosity that bubbled inside him, Bucket hurried to his workstation, spilling hot chocolate as he went. The pinging grew loud and incessant as Bucket drew near. He stopped and watched the screen, stunned.
Ping.
A big burly man with thick, flaming red hair and a full beard stood unaware he was being filmed by a seemingly floating leaf. The man’s face contorted with anger and hate. And then he was gone from the screen.
Ping.
“It can’t be…” Bucket sat as the image rewound itself. He hit Pause and looked carefully at the handsome man’s face. He noted the wide, generous mouth, the flare of his nostrils.
Could it be? Bucket wondered.
Except it couldn’t be. Gavin had disappeared more than thirty years ago. The man looking back at him had to be someone else.
His son, maybe?
Bucket dared to hope. He hit Play and grew excited as the man’s face contorted with rage once more, then became a blur as he raced from where he stood, moving at a pace so rapid he was almost invisible except for the wind he pushed.
Ping.
The image rewound back to the beginning.
Bucket had to be absolutely certain before taking this to Kris. He had to be sure this guy was indeed a Magical and the recording wasn’t some glitch, a bizarre transmission planted into their system like a virus, meant to waylay their continued search at the North Pole Central Surveillance Unit.
Bucket paused the clip before it replayed itself. He stared at the man on the screen. There was no doubt in Bucket’s mind that the man recorded was the spitting image of the former Santa Claus. And Bucket should know. He’d been Gavin’s temporary assistant on their yearly trek around the globe. Bucket had looked into the man’s eyes enough times to know that this was, if not Gavin, then a direct descendent of a powerful Magical.
On the screen, the man’s face contorted yet again as Bucket played the footage a third and final time. He noted the fire in the man’s eyes, the gritting of his teeth as he charged. Bucket changed the speed of the recording down to 600x and let the image roll in slow motion.
The Magical, large and muscular, moved like a beast of burden yet possessed a certain grace, beauty, and harmony. Bucket was in awe as the man moved from one spot to the other—one second he was there; the next he wasn’t—with fluid precision, punching one, then the other of two men standing amid a large crowd in a parking lot.
Ping!
The recorded footage rewound again, ready to play out as per Bucket’s programming. He paused it, then reached out with his mind.
“Kris? I found one.”
A moment later. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. And, Kris? I think he might be related to Gavin.”
Chapter Six
The sliding double doors, insulated to keep out the cold, whooshed open as Kris walked up the steps to the entrance of Santa’s Workshop Unlimited. A blast of warm air struck his face as he stepped inside. The doors shut behind him, blocking out the gusting wind, and cocooned him in the reception area with scents he’d always associated with Christmas—cut pine and fresh-baked cookies. Cinnamon and eggnog. Even peppermint. The assault on his senses made his groggy tiredness diminish. It lessened even more when Garland stepped out from behind a glass block wood-topped desk, clipboard in hand. She wore a simple emerald-green dress and flat shoes. A stylish hat, not unlike Robin Hood’s, sat perched on her head.
“Good morning. Thank you for phoning Santa’s Workshop. May I place you on a brief hold? Thank you so much.” Garland’s voice was lyrical, upbeat, and pleasant despite the
switchboard on her desk glowing angrily and flickering red with in-place, on-hold, and incoming calls. It only served to remind Kris how many Elves thrived off stress and chaos. In the recently reassigned Garland, Kris noted a sense of self-worth and newfound confidence that had not been there when she was male.
A thought popped into Kris’s head, and it made him smile even though he couldn’t remember where he’d heard the phrase.
I am woman. Hear me roar.
Garland tapped the bud in her ear to mute her call.
“Good morning, Mr. Kringle, sir. I have—”
“After all this time, and you still won’t call me Kris,” he teased.
Garland smiled, somewhat embarrassed. “Sorry, Kris…sir. I guess old habits die hard. Besides, I know my father’s name is Pignoli, but I wouldn’t dream of calling him anything but Dad.”
“Well, old habits do indeed die hard, but that’s okay. You call me whatever makes you feel comfortable.” Kris gave Garland a paternal pat on the cheek. “I’m so glad you let out the true nature within you. It’s turned you into a beautiful woman, and I’m very proud to know you.”
“Ohhh! Santa, I…” Embarrassed yet clearly pleased with the compliment, Garland blushed and looked away, unsure of what to say. Then, composed and beaming, she replied simply.
“Thank you, sir.”
Kris acknowledged her gratitude with a smile.
Garland quickly remembered herself and why she’d left her post behind the desk. “Tinsel is in the board room along with the CEOs of Pear Technologies, HeartFit Wristbands, and Succulent Haute Couture. They’re ready to strike a deal.”
Santa’s Workshop Unlimited ran the gamut of manufacturing. From the most basic items and toys any child or adult could ever want or ask for at Christmastime, including naughty gifts, to electronics and technologies. There were very few companies SWU hadn’t entered into partnership with, and the deals they’d made over the years allowed them to produce a portion of total items sold in stores and online, as well as exclusive versions and product lines made specifically for outlet malls. Their profits might have been less than those of major conglomerates, but they were still huge.
