by Johnny Miles
“Are you okay, Michael?” Griffin asked with some concern.
“Yeah. I’m fine. Thanks.”
A voice boomed suddenly from the hallway.
“Let’s go, Michael.” The big cop, the man Griffin had seen in Michael’s thoughts, stood at the now open cell. His chest puffed out with self-importance, and he swung his keys as though reminding them all of who was in charge. “Now. Before I change my mind.”
“It was nice meeting you.” Griffin smiled. Then, sensing Michael’s hesitation as well as his need for encouragement, something to buoy his spirits, Griffin added, “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah. Maybe. Good luck, Griffin.”
Griffin observed the two men as they walked away. There was a deep connection between them, something beyond physicality. He thought he saw a red, throbbing glow about them.
“Ohhh! Very good. He can see auras. Even I can’t do that.”
Griffin spun around. Santa and Elf sat quietly watching him as if he might burst into flames, drop dead, or both.
“Did you…did you just…say…something?”
“I did.” Santa stood.
“I-I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you?” Santa approached. He stood less than a foot away. “Search yourself…Griffin, is it? Listen with your heart.”
“For what?” Griffin shrugged but thought he was now surely losing his mind.
Santa placed a hand on Griffin’s shoulder.
“I can assure you, you’re not losing your mind.”
“You…you just spoke.” Griffin stepped back. “W-without even opening your mouth. How is that possible?”
“I could ask the same of you.” Santa chuckled. “Except I already know the answer. Just as I know that right now you’re very troubled.” Then, he opened his mouth and actually spoke.
“Don’t fight it, Griffin. You know what you are. I can see it in your eyes. I can see it in your soul. I wasn’t sure before, but I can feel it in my blood now that we’re sharing the same space. You’re one of us, even if you don’t believe it.”
“Wuh-one of you? What do you mean? Who are you people, and why are there so many freaks crawling out of the woodworks all of a sudden? What do you want from me?”
“My name is Kris. Kris Kringle.”
“Right. And I’m Donald Trump.”
“I know it sounds crazy, but…” Kris pressed on. “I am indeed Santa Claus. One of them, anyway. And this…” He wrapped an arm around the Elf, who at that moment made his way toward them and stood against Kris. “This is my…Bucket.”
“Your…Bucket?”
“Yes,” Kris replied simply.
Griffin glanced down and stared into the ancient eyes looking up at him. He scratched his head and turned his attention back to Santa. “What kind of a name is Bucket? Is that like…an Elf thing?”
“Ho, ho, ho! Heaven’s no. Bucket is his nickname. It’s what I call him. If you prefer, I can introduce him as my lover.”
“Your lover?” Griffin scoffed.
“Lover. Yes. Husband, if you prefer. But he’s so much more. My confidante. Partner in crime. Soul mate.”
Noting the seriousness on both their faces, Griffin opened his mouth to speak but closed it, uncertain of what might come tumbling out.
Goddamnit, Jackson, Griffin thought. Ever since you walked into my life, the world around me has gone insane. But it wasn’t really Jackson’s fault, was it? The crazy things had been there all along. Griffin just hadn’t wanted to see.
Griffin about-faced, took three paces, then turned back.
“This is it, isn’t it? I’ve gone over the edge, haven’t I? You’re…figments of my imagination, just like all the voices in my head, and I’ve…I’ve gone insane like…” Griffin sighed heavily.
Kris and Bucket exchanged glances.
“Virginia was many things,” said Kris. “Insane was not one of them.”
Flabbergasted, Griffin took another step back. Kris and Bucket exchanged glances once more, and Griffin could have sworn thoughts passed between them, thoughts he could not hear, despite all the other voices in his head.
“How do you know—?”
“I understand you have questions, Griffin. And we’ll answer them…to the best of our abilities. But right now, we really must get you out of here. You’re not safe. None of us are. Things are happening. There are malevolent forces at play that—”
“You mean like that wacko who tried to kill me? The one who nearly choked me to death without laying a finger on me? Or do you mean Thomas and Piedmont? And how, exactly, do you propose we get out of here? We are in jail, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“Griffin, I’m not going to tell you again. Your life is in danger, and we must get you out of here.” Kris stepped forward, reaching out with one hand.
Griffin stepped back. “Why should I listen to you? And how do I know you’re not one of those…other crazies?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Bucket rolled his eyes and huffed impatiently. “Magicals. All right? We’re called Magicals.”
Kris suddenly disappeared.
“What the…? Where’d he—?” Griffin’s jaw went slack.
“Satisfied?” Kris asked from the other side of the bars. He disappeared from the hallway and popped back into the cell.
“Holy…that is so fucking cool. How’d you—”
Kris held a finger to his lips. He listened a moment, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “We have to go. Take my hand. Now!”
The lights went out suddenly. Griffin thought he heard a collective groan beyond the cell, beyond the corridor, and past the doors. His heart pounded as something drew near in the inky darkness. Then paranoia struck. Was that laughter he heard from the corridor? Or was it his imagination?
That was when he noticed the light. Bucket glowed softly from within. Griffin furrowed his brow and wondered if his life could possibly get any stranger. But in the tiny oasis of light, he did not bother asking further questions. He did not put up a fuss. He needed no further convincing. It was time to shut up and fly. Kris and Bucket had already clasped hands. They reached out to him. Griffin took the offered hands, and they stepped closer together, into a tightly knit circle.
Griffin waited a moment, expecting some cool effect like in the movies, but nothing happened.
“I-I don’t understand. This has never happened before.” The perturbed tone in Kris’s voice set Griffin on edge even more than he already was.
“What’s never happened before?” Griffin asked.
The lights came back on suddenly. Griffin felt awkward in the growing silence between them. “Ummm. I’m, uh…should we still be holding hands?”
“This should have worked. Bucket, do you get a feel for… Bucket? Oh no!” At that moment, Bucket’s hand slipped from Kris’s, and he fell to the floor in a shivering white heap of wrinkles and loose clothing. Kris knelt. He placed a hand on the Elf’s neck and felt for a pulse.
“Is he…is he all right?” Griffin whispered and took off his jacket. He offered it to Kris.
“He’s alive, but only just.” Kris wrapped the jacket around Bucket. “We have to move, but I clearly don’t have enough power to see all three of us safely to the sleigh. Not at the same time at any rate.”
Kris stood with Bucket in his arms.
“I’m sorry, Griffin. I know you’re feeling apprehensive and anxious right now. Maybe even frightened. But I have to slip you out one at a time. I’ll take Bucket first, get him settled, then come back for you.”
The last thing Griffin wanted was to be left alone. Not when danger lurked so near. But he mustered his strength and nodded.
“Very well, then. Just do me a favor. Don’t move!” Kris warned. A split second later he disappeared with a faint pop.
Griffin looked about, stunned and scared and fantastically intrigued all at once.
Three seconds went by.
Griffin wondered how long it would be before Kris ret
urned. How long did it take to pop in and out of a room?
Six seconds went by.
Where was the sleigh, anyway? And how long would it take to get Bucket settled into it?
Nine seconds went by.
Griffin cleared his throat. He waited. A horrible thought flashed in his mind. What if, after popping out with Bucket, Kris couldn’t pop back in? Worse yet, what if he just left Griffin there and never returned?
Twelve seconds went by.
The lights went out a second time. Griffin gulped. In the stillness, he thought he heard the laughter return. Breathing. Or was that his own? He held his breath. No. That was definitely breathing. Someone was here with him!
As Griffin’s vision adjusted to the dark, he grew aware of a faint, reddish glow in the shape of a human body. Something in that glow swished about in rapid spurts. Something that looked remarkably like…
Blood? Is that…someone’s circulation system? Holy—
“I see your powers are growing now that that meddling son of a bitch is in the picture.”
“Piedmont.” Griffin went cold with fear. Even if he hadn’t recognized the voice, Griffin would have realized who was in the cell with him the moment the familiar wooded pine scent assaulted his sense of smell. Griffin would forever associate the scent with only one person.
“Fucking Kringle,” Piedmont continued with disdain. “You must understand, Kloss…we simply cannot let you two mingle. Nor can we let you and Kringle leave. Isn’t that right, Thomas?”
Griffin gulped, unable to move even if he’d wanted to. He felt his Adam’s apple bob drily. A familiar chuckle made him gasp, and he cringed as something sharp pressed into the back of his head, just below the cranium.
Suddenly, someone grabbed his arms.
In that instant, Griffin broke his paralysis. He screamed, struggling manically to free himself, but whoever held him did so with a tight grip.
Chapter Eleven
Unlike his father, Jackson couldn’t create the type of winter that sent most of the northern hemisphere into their homes. Nor could he create actual wind. However, as Woden’s half-human son, one of Jackson’s powers—limited as they were—was his ability to ride the wind. Not quite flying, he could relax his entire body, then swoop and glide where he wanted to go without anyone ever spying him.
Normally, Jackson found the wind in his face and hair exhilarating. A lot like driving a convertible down the highway. But not tonight. Tonight, something made it difficult for him to focus, let alone arrive at his destination. Caught in a circular pattern, Jackson kept gusting past the police station. Something was trying to keep him away. He tried a few times before the wind finally died down, and then he stopped, blocks from the station.
Jackson finally stepped out of the wind and onto the curb. He smoothed out his ruffled thermal shirt, then ran his fingers through windblown hair. He rubbed his teeth with a finger to make sure he hadn’t any bugs or feathers stuck between them, then took a deep breath and relaxed before listening to his surroundings.
There had been far too much interference riding the wind. Sporadically, Jackson thought he’d heard Griffin calling to him, but he couldn’t be sure. The thoughts weren’t quite clear. And if there had been interference on the wind, there was even more so on the ground.
Strangely, he could now actually feel Griffin near.
Of course, Old Man Winter could have something to do with the interference, but it didn’t feel like him. Woden was never so far away that Jackson couldn’t call out to him when and if he needed his dad. But this was different. For starters, it was colder than usual, and Woden felt…angry.
“No. Not angry. Not exactly. More like…” Jackson closed his eyes and imagined his father. He sought his father’s mind and heart, in an attempt to connect.
Worried and upset.
What would his father have to be upset or worried about?
“All right, Father. I’m here. What’s going on?”
Jackson found the lack of reply unsettling. He picked up the pace and veered toward the back of the police station just beyond an employee picnic area. He gradually became aware of an odd pulsating energy that waxed and waned with rapid bursts. It made him feel both strong and powerful one minute, then drained and lifeless the next. It was as if someone were flicking a power switch on and off. Something was afoot in North Carolina, and it felt oddly familiar. The pulsating energy made Jackson flop between great joy and down in the dumps.
His mind began to scatter, making him think of too many things at the same time.
Focus, Jackson, he told himself. Remember your priorities.
First he’d see to Michael, make sure he was okay. Yes, the man had been Jackson’s plaything, and yes, things had gotten out of hand. He’d used Michael to forget about Griffin, but now, Jackson felt guilty. He should never have thrown himself at Michael, but truth be told, it had been fun…even if forgetting about Griffin had proven difficult.
Once he checked on Michael, Jackson would see to Griffin, wherever he might be.
Jackson sniffed at the air. Whatever he picked up earlier grew stronger the closer he got to the police station. This made Jackson uncomfortable, and he began to worry.
Sprinting across a wide-open space, Jackson stopped when a cop burst through the back door. The man shouted into his cell phone. Jackson remained still, blending into the night. When the cop turned his back, Jackson rushed for the still-open door.
Inside, barely past the threshold, Jackson picked up Michael’s scent from one of the interrogation rooms. But mixed with Michael’s was another scent.
Heart racing, Jackson inhaled deeply to pinpoint Griffin’s whereabouts. Michael was his first priority, but Jackson wanted to make sure Griffin was indeed there.
Apprehensive, Jackson meandered through the hallways of the quiet station. He stopped every so often to blow cold air up at the security cameras, causing them to malfunction, but someone had beaten him to the punch. The lenses dripped with a greenish goop that resembled mucous. Someone not of this world was present somewhere within the station. Jackson made a face and pressed on, despite the goose bumps on his flesh indicating caution.
Ignored by all as though he were invisible, Jackson observed as the people in the station went about their business—criminal research, follow-up calls, filing paperwork, booking lawbreakers—in eerie silence.
Jackson was reminded of an old black-and-white movie where aliens invaded Earth and in pods grew duplicates of the bodies they planned to snatch.
A heaviness gradually overtook Jackson as he stood there. He began to feel drowsy. Sweat beaded on his forehead and made his armpits clammy. His mind grew fuzzy. He tried to move, but an invisible barrier had taken hold. It was a lot like stepping from an air-conditioned room and out into a hot, muggy environment, where after a while all you wanted to do was melt.
The precinct had definitely been placed under a spell. But by whom? And why?
Struggling to clear his thoughts, Jackson found himself wondering if perhaps this might not have something to do with his father. Then again, if it were Woden, it wouldn’t be this warm. There would be a delicious iciness in the air, a cold that would have allowed Jackson to move freely without being bogged down by the heavy stagnation of humid heat.
Strangely, as Jackson thought of his father, his mind freed itself of whatever kept everyone else in check. He stepped back a few paces and noted the difference in the air.
Suddenly, Jackson heard a commotion. It sounded like someone being slammed onto a metal table.
Turning from the thick, invisible barrier, Jackson hurried down the corridor where the noise had come from. Halfway down he stopped just outside an interrogation room. Here, too, someone had blinded the security cameras with the brackish goop.
Jackson pressed an ear to the door and heard the sticky, slurping sound of lust. The two inside were noisily making out. Then came the sound of keys laid on a metal surface. A hollow clunk. The unmistakable sound of a zi
pper followed by a familiar whimper. Finally, a sound that never failed to arouse Jackson, the gateway to releasing his innermost sexual demons. Handcuffs.
“What ever happened to ‘we shouldn’t have sex again until we resolve our differences’?” Michael’s quavering voice was muffled. The reply, too, was muffled but rough, firm, penetrating.
“Shut your mouth, cocksucker.”
Curiosity got the best of Jackson.
He looked left, then right, and quickly slipped into the adjoining room. He carefully closed the door behind him and stepped up to the one-way mirror. In the next room, Michael was bent over a metal table, cuffed to an upside-down U welded to the top of the table. Draped over Michael, half naked, stood his big, beefy bruiser of an ex, Beauregard.
“No questions, you submissive little faggot.” Someone had left the speakers on in the observation room, but Jackson would have been able to hear regardless. His ears were highly attuned.
Jackson watched Michael jump and twitch, as if zapped with a live wire, and experienced an a-ha moment.
No wonder he couldn’t give me what I wanted. How could he when this was what he wanted himself? Poor guy.
“Whore!” breathed Beauregard.
Jackson had never realized one word could drip with so much longing, awe, and venomous sexual desire.
“You’re my slave, bitch. And I’m your fucking Master. Deep down inside that quivering body, you know this is what you were born to be. It’s what you were raised for. It’s what you will always be, no matter how much you fight it. You’re a submissive little cunt. My cunt. Mine to do with as I please. You belong to me because I am. Your. Master.”
There was something vile and repulsive about listening to and witnessing something so intimately violent that it bordered on rape…despite both men being clearly excited by what was about to happen. He was almost embarrassed for Michael, watching him in his vulnerability, unable to pull away.
