Unholy Night: A Paranormal Holiday Romance

by Karpov Kinrade

  Unholy Night

  Karpov Kinrade

  Nichole Chase

  http://KarpovKinrade.com

  Copyright © 2020 Karpov Kinrade & Nichole Chase

  Cover Art Copyright © 2020 Karpov Kinrade

  ISBN-13: 978-1-939559-74-6

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  Published by Daring Books

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  First Edition

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  eBook License Notes

  You may not use, reproduce or transmit in any manner, any part of this book without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews, or in accordance with federal Fair Use laws. All rights are reserved.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only; it may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to your eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Disclaimer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or the author has used them fictitiously.

  To everyone who has struggled with this challenging year, may this book bring you an escape, some small bit of holiday cheer, and most of all… hope.

  Love, Lux and Nichole

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  THE WINTER WITCH by Karpov Kinrade

  FLUKES by Nichole Chase

  About Karpov Kinrade

  About Nichole Chase

  Also by Karpov Kinrade

  Also by Nichole Chase

  Prologue

  Lucifer

  Swirling the amber liquid in my glass, I stare into the fireplace. I lift the glass and sniff, trying to rid myself of the lingering scent of fear and pain that fills my nostrils.

  Fuchsia knocks on my office door and I snarl softly. I’ve just gotten back from doing my rounds through the levels of hell and I’m exhausted. Not physically--that’s not possible--but mentally. Humans believe I delight in torturing souls, but it’s just a job to me. I’m not torturing them for pleasure. It’s my duty and their destiny. If they learn their lesson, another path will open to them.

  But I am forever stuck on this one.

  And after eons of dispensing punishment, I just feel hollow. The pain, the fear, the howling screams have eaten at me inside and out. At first, my own anger fueled me and my methods, but anger is an insubstantial companion and left me far sooner than I would have thought.

  Now I spend my endless days measuring souls and serving them punishment. Yes, I have my demons, and I’m thankful for them. They help me do my job and some have become friends and confidants. Yet, I still feel as if something is missing. I need something more.

  “Master, the letters have arrived.” Fuchsia is used to my moods and ignores my growling as she enters.

  After such a long trip through the different levels, I have nothing left to give. My soul feels foul and gritty, as if I, myself, have committed these awful sins. It feels as if they have rubbed off on me and I want nothing more than a quiet drink and a long shower, not to be bothered with more work.

  “What letters?” I slam the glass on the table and it somehow manages to not shatter. Fuchsia most likely had something to do with that after cleaning up too many shards of glass to count. “Who dares write to me?”

  The only time I’m contacted by other immortals is if they need something. Same with humans. They seek to bargain with the devil. They watch too much television.

  “It’s that time of year again, Master.” Fuchsia sets a large basket full of letters at my feet. Several of the other demons that work in my home follow closely behind, leaving their own baskets heaped with envelopes.

  I sit up and look at the red demoness in surprise. She smiles, her dainty fangs resting on her bottom lip. She knows what this means for me. I should be embarrassed, but instead I’m relieved to have someone understand. Not just an employee, but a friend who knows exactly what I need tonight. These letters must’ve been showing up for weeks.

  “Christmas,” she says.

  The other demons scurry out of my office except for Fuchsia, Dan, and Birch. They’ve become more than employees over the centuries. I’m not sure friends is a strong enough word for what they are to me now, but family--well, family isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be. In fact, I refuse to label them as family. The crimes committed in the name of family is a big reason the population here is growing.

  “Christmas,” I whisper. As much as I loathe the fat, bearded elf, I look forward to this holiday. Though I will never say that out loud. I might even cut out the tongue of someone who dares imply I do. But the letters, these letters are important. They are the only thing I look forward to every year. I glance at the baskets and feel the corners of my mouth turn up.

  I inhale deeply and breathe in the happiness, the eagerness, the hope, and little traces of magic. It’s like breathing fresh air for the first time in a year. I run my hands over the baskets, absorbing a bit of the clean energy clinging to the envelopes.

  Unable to help myself, I reach into the nearest basket and rustle around, but something catches my attention. A scent I recognize all too well. I drop the letter I’m holding and plunge both hands into the basket, spilling envelopes onto the ground as I search for the one that calls to my soul. When I find it, my hands shake as I lift it up to study.

  I bring it to my nose and inhale, closing my eyes so I can pick out all the different flavors. The cloying smell of a child’s sadness matched by the fresh evergreen smell of a child’s hope… but it’s sadly fading. I breathe deeper and find the other smells that call to me. The heavy scent of loneliness and desperation, the salty smell of fear.

  I open my eyes and trace a finger over the letters of my name written in green crayon. Carefully I slice open the envelope with a sharp fingernail. The smells intensify as I gently pull the folded piece of paper out and open it.

  An insane amount of silver glitter falls into my lap and I frown. It looks like a disco ball exploded in my lap. I hear one of the demons in the room snicker, but when I cut my eyes in their direction, they all have blank expressions. Ignoring the glitter for now, I read the sweet letter and look at the very short list. This little girl isn’t asking for the newest name brand shoes or fancy game console. She’s not demanding the most expensive phone.

  She is asking for a puppy, and in doing so, she is asking for unconditional love and to give love in return. Yet, I smell the desperation of someone else on the letter, fear of failure. The person taking care of this child can’t also take care of an animal. This person is in complete despair.

  I don’t know how long I sit and contemplate this one letter. I memorize the swoops and straight lines of the child's handwriting. I memorize the smells that are particular to the two humans who spent so much time lingering over the paper.

  Eventually I fold the letter, replace it in the envelope, and tuck it inside my suit jacket. I pour myself another finger of scotch and look back at the baskets. I will read each letter and prepa
re a gift for them.

  But I will need to do something special for the little girl named Mandy.

  She will be my last delivery on Christmas Eve.

  1

  Lyla

  The smell of burnt cookies is nearly my undoing on a night meant for magic and cheer.

  “Mommy, mommy, my sniffinator says the cookies are done,” Mandy says, crinkling her button nose. I tweak it with my fingers gently and smile, swallowing the tears burning my eyes.

  “I think you're right little bunny.” I grab the oven mitts and run over to save what I can of Santa’s unfortunate treat.

  When I pull them out I’m relieved to discover at least a few are salvageable. I was lucky I could scrounge together enough sugar and flour to whip these up when my sweet eight-year-old daughter convinced me we had to leave a snack and a note for Santa.

  Honestly, I thought we would be past the Santa lie by now. Had counted on it actually. There will be precious little in her stocking this year, and nothing in mine, though she still insisted I put it up. “Mom you can’t just give up believing. This year has sucked! We need all the magic we can get!”

  “Don’t say sucked,” I chastise her.

  This year Mandy seems determined to make this a Hallmark-worthy Christmas. She is on a mission, from cutting snowflakes from random bits of paper to trying to talk me into using our last bag of popcorn to string around the tree. But I know Santa isn’t coming.

  2020 has been the year of the pandemic. The year of job loss and financial ruin. The year of homeschool—Jesus take the wheel—-masks and social distancing. The year of out of stock toilet paper and too much isolation for even the most introverted of us. Certainly too much for children who crave socialization and friends. It’s the first holiday season I couldn’t join my parents for Thanksgiving and now I won’t see them for Christmas. They live too far away to visit during a pandemic and I can’t put them at risk anyway.

  And so it’s just me and Mandy, and burnt cookies and only a splash of milk. Only a splash because we are almost out and Mandy will need some for breakfast in the morning.

  It’s a chipped cup for the fictional man in red and recycled gifts wrapped in newspaper that I spent weeks drawing on to make it festive because I couldn’t afford wrapping paper.

  Not this year.

  When you’re suddenly jobless with barely enough money in the bank to pay the bills and eat, wrapping paper just isn’t a necessity. Especially when no one is hiring office workers right now and I’m contemplating taking an overnight job at a gas station just to put food on the table.

  Except I have no one to watch Mandy. And she can’t go to school. And… ugh. Everything about this year feels impossible.

  Thankfully, Mandy doesn’t seem to mind the burnt cookies as she happily smears them with green and red frosting and sprinkles.

  I force myself to stop calculating how much each ingredient costs and make myself just be present with my daughter. She is the light of my life, and I am doing my best to hold onto the magic for her even if I can no longer see—or feel it—myself.

  No one tells you when you’re young that you will outgrow magic. It just happens, so slowly you barely notice it until one day it’s gone. And you’ve already convinced yourself it never existed at all.

  That’s the most tragic part of growing up, I’ve always thought.

  And now, as a broke, scared, single mother, it’s my job to create the magic. To preserve it and guard the light of it as I pass the torch to the next generation.

  And I have to admit I feel like I’m failing right now.

  “We have to feed the reindeers too,” she says, once we’ve set the frosted cookies and chipped tea cup of milk on the table by our sad Charlie Brown Christmas tree.

  “Feed the reindeers?” What fresh hell is this?

  “Yes, it’s the law. They eat oatmeal and glitter and they won’t bring Santa if we don’t feed them.”

  I stifle a groan and turn back to the kitchen, mentally calculating how much oatmeal to give up. I can skip a few breakfasts if it means the reindeer will survive Christmas Eve. Right?

  We pull out the glitter and mix it into a handful of oatmeal, then take it out to the apartment balcony. We don’t have a lawn or any grass nearby so this will have to do.

  Mandy very solemnly tosses the mixture onto the ground and mumbles something under her breath.

  “What was that honey?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Nothing. Just making my Christmas wish.”

  My stomach clenches. There’s no way I can give her what she’s wishing for, and I fear tomorrow morning what little magic I’ve managed to salvage will be destroyed by cold hard reality.

  But I smile when she looks at me and guide her upstairs to brush her teeth and get into bed.

  I tuck her in and kiss her forehead and as I’m about to leave she stops me. “You have to read the story,” she says. “It’s tradition.”

  Right. Of course.

  I suppress an exhausted sigh and remind myself that this is usually my favorite time of the year. My favorite part of the holidays. These quiet moments reliving comforting traditions, getting lost in the magic of a story, absorbed by the wonder of it all. The glint of lights against snow, colorful baubles and ornaments decorating the world, reminding everyone that underneath it all, we do want peace and love and joy.

  Even if we, humans, often seem to work counter to that base instinct in the choices we make, but once a year a fat man in a red suit somehow reminds us to be better people.

  Except I can’t find the wonder this year.

  I’m spent. I have nothing left and I am pulling on reserves I didn’t know I have to keep going. It’s all for Mandy. I’m driving on fumes to keep her safe. Happy. Secure and loved.

  I just don’t know how much longer I can hold on.

  I read her ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas and she smiles and quotes the book by memory with me. We both know the words to this poem down to our marrow, but we read it nonetheless, the very same story my parents read to me as a child, the pages worn from use, some scribbled on with crayon, whether by her or me, it’s impossible to say at this point.

  This book has seen us through too many moves. Too many new beds during the holidays as I chase jobs that have any hope of paying enough to keep us fed and clothed and safe after a messy divorce that left me broke and alone.

  The one silver lining of this year, as much as it’s driven me crazy at times, is I have had more time with this little girl who I love more than life.

  It’s a nice change of pace after so many long days away, working late without overtime pay, for an amount that barely covers the cost of childcare and gas, only to come home exhausted and to a baby already asleep. It feels good to finally be here for her, to slow down a bit. If only the money didn’t also slow down.

  I have hoarded one indulgence, one mommy treat, a gift from my job before they laid me off. “Sorry but we can’t afford to keep a paid staff while we’re shut down. But… here.” Stewart awkwardly handed me a parting gift, and through the months of this pandemic I’ve kept it safe.

  I creep out of Mandy’s room, grateful I still have my own room for now. It’s very likely we’ll have to move to a studio if things don’t improve… or more likely beg my parents to let us live in their camper trailer in their backyard... I dread the day it comes to that..

  But today, for right now, I have this apartment, and electricity, and one burnt cookie frosted with love, and my pandemic downsizing gift.

  I tiptoe through the house, knowing Mandy is fighting sleep to hear Santa’s sleigh, and grab the bottle of red wine on the top shelf. Stewart even put a bow on it, which seemed an odd choice at the time but I had bigger things to worry about. Of course, now that I think about it, the wine had likely been a re-gift considering the festive bow on the bottle.

  I lock up the downstairs, take my cookie and the wine and head up to my bedroom. I slip out of my pants, put on an old shirt and sink
into my bed, then put my headphones on and reach for my phone to play my current audiobook when I realize I left it downstairs in the kitchen.

  Shit.

  I weigh the pros and cons of getting back up and walking all the way downstairs, and I just can’t. Cannot. I’m done.

  I reach for my laptop on the dresser next to my bed instead and play the audiobook that way. Mandy will wake me up in the morning and I won’t need my phone until then anyways.

  I pour a generous glass of wine and take a long drink, then a bite of my cookie.

  And then I cry.

  It’s a sadness that rolls through me like a storm in the sky, upending my insides and drowning me. I can’t stop. The sobs wrack my body, shaking me and crashing into me like the sea.

  I don’t know how long I stay like this. But my eyes are puffy and heavy when I finally stop. I pour more wine and wipe away stuff from under my nose that I don’t want to think about. I take another bite of the cookie and close my eyes again. Losing myself to the murder mystery I’m listening to until everything around me fades away.

  I don’t even realize I fell asleep until something jolts me awake.

  I sit up, my heart beating against my ribs like a trapped hummingbird.

  I’ve still got my headphones on, the voice of the narrator a calm presence in my ear. I look at the wine bottle. Empty. And the glass. Also empty.