Unholy Night: A Paranormal Holiday Romance

by Karpov Kinrade

I have cookie crumbs on my T-shirt, an old oversized thing that is more gray than black after so many washings.

  I look around, searching my room, and my eyes land on the dimly lit wall clock. One minute past midnight. What woke me?

  I pause the audiobook and take off the headphones slowly. It’s dark in my bedroom. And cold. An icy wind blows through a window I didn’t close all the way.

  And then I hear it. Talking. Arguing, really. Two men.

  And it’s coming from my living room.

  My pulse lurches, my head aching from the wine and this new danger.

  I look around for my cell phone and curse myself. Right. I left it in the kitchen and was too lazy to retrieve it.

  Shit. Not good. Not good at all.

  Letting my eyes adjust to the dark, I search my room for anything that can be used as a weapon.

  After groping around the bottom of my closet, I finally settle on a high heel shoe, a decision I’m not proud of. But my home security safety has taken a back seat to just trying to keep me and my daughter alive. Some days, more than I want to admit right now, that’s really all I can do. Thank God Mandy’s room is farthest from the living room.

  With shoe firmly in hand, I slowly open my bedroom door and begin to creep down the staircase. I realize then that I’m not wearing pants. Just the shirt and underwear. And I wonder at the fact that this bothers me more than possible intruders in my house in the middle of the night while I’m alone with a child.

  I don’t often wish for a husband these days. But nights like these I do. It’s a special kind of loneliness to parent alone. To carry the full weight of responsibility for not just yourself but a young, innocent child who didn’t choose this life. To not have anyone to share that profound responsibility with.

  Some days it feels too heavy. Too much. Like right now. I can feel myself cracking in the deepest, most hidden places of my soul. I think I can keep the cracks from showing for a little while longer.

  But then what?

  What happens when I crumble??

  I shake my head and push those morbid thoughts out of my mind. I have a more pressing issue. Definitely more pressing.

  The voices are getting louder and I pause by the hallway to the living room and listen.

  “You’re overstepping your authority,” a male voice says. It’s a full, rich voice that should be pleasing to the ear but… he sounds whiny to me and I take an instinct dislike to him.

  “The letter isn’t addressed to you, old man. Go back to your elves. This one is mine.” This man sounds arrogant. Self-assured. His voice is a husky baritone. It sends a shiver down my spine… and not the scared type.

  There’s a pause, then the first man makes a disgusted sound. “These cookies are garbage.”

  His insult to my admittedly lackluster baking skills still makes the blood run hot in my veins and I feel my skin flush. How dare he break into my apartment, steal my cookies then complain about them! The nerve!

  I’m about to barge in against all common sense and give him a piece of my mind when the second man speaks. “These cookies are delicious. If you weren’t such a piece of garbage, you would taste the joy and the tears that went into baking these.” He makes a satisfied sound as if he’s taking another bite. “This realm is so dense. Each visit it becomes more difficult to breathe. To cut through the human slime. Magic is almost dead. But I taste what was and what could still be in these cookies. Now get out. You don’t deserve this family.”

  I’m about to make a dash for the kitchen to grab my phone and call the police when a tiny voice nearly stops my heart.

  “You don’t like my mommy’s cookies?” Mandy asks.

  My feet move on their own and I’m suddenly standing in the living room, breathless and terrified, to find my little girl dressed in her reindeer onesie standing between two men, a look of utter, heartbreaking sadness on her face.

  The man on her right is a big man with a large belly, long white beard, wearing a very familiar red suit and hat, with a red velvet bag at his feet.

  If you believed in such things you might be tempted to call him Santa Claus.

  The man to her left holding the last of the cookies is tall and lean, wearing a tailored black suit, a black silk tie, and a black Christmas hat trimmed with ebony fur. His hair is pitch as night; it is a wild, untamed dark halo around his pale face. His eyes are bottomless pits that I find myself falling into when he turns to look at me. He’s got a very posh, black briefcase with a silver clasp at his feet.

  “Mandy, come here right now,” I say in my most stern mom voice as all eyes in the room turn to me. I clutch her to my chest before shoving her behind me and brandishing my shoe at each man in turn. “What the hell is going on here? Who the hell are you, creeps? And why aren’t you wearing masks during a freaking pandemic?”

  2

  Lucifer

  I snort before I see the anger flashing in her blue eyes, but really, I can’t help myself. Masks? She’s standing there in a t-shirt, brandishing a shoe, and demanding to know why I’m not wearing a mask.

  Cute.

  Her eyes move back and forth between me and the old elf that has lived far past his expiration date. Surprisingly, the ancient git hasn’t decided to just disappear. That’s his trademark move. I cut my eyes at him and watch as his brows come together and he strokes his beard. What is that walking heart attack thinking?

  I look back at the woman, taking in her long legs, light brown bed-tousled hair, and bright blue eyes. Honestly, if I didn’t have plans for Christmas, this night might have taken a different turn. Especially if the fat bastard wasn’t standing there smelling like soured milk.

  “If you’re Santa Claus, you should be nicer.” A little voice pipes up and I look into the cherubic face of the reason I’m here.

  “You heard her, elf. Straight from the babe’s mouth.” I can’t help the grin that pulls at my cheeks as I wink at the little girl. She has the same straight hair as her mother but hers is blonde, and instead of blue she blinks back at me with bright green eyes.

  “Oh now, little one! I didn’t mean any harm. I think I’ve just had a bit too much sugar.” The jerk smiles and kneels down to meet her gaze.

  “That’s not an apology,” I point out. The little girl nods her head in agreement.

  “Excuse me? Yeah. I’m still standing here.” The woman reaches a hand back and clasps the girl's shoulder as if to make sure she’s still there. “No one has answered my questions. Better yet, you both need to get out of here before the police arrive.”

  Lie.

  I can taste it on the air. Bitter and coppery. And that isn’t all I can taste. Fear is the strongest—the salty tang of it a too sweet candy I’ve grown tired of, but anger is quickly catching up, a spicy fiery flavor, followed by confusion, and something akin to… treachery? No, that isn’t the right word. Plotting? It tastes like bitter greens in butter. She’s trying to come up with a plan to evict us from her humble abode. Yes, if it was any other night, I might find myself delightfully enamored with her.

  “My dear lady, we won’t stay but a moment longer. Please, take your sweet child back to bed and we will be out of your hair as soon as we settle something.” I smile and push a little compulsion into my words.

  Her back straightens and I return my attention to the velvet atrocity next to me. He needs to leave. This house is clearly mine and I’m on a schedule.

  “Do as the nice woman asked and get out of here.” I drop my smile and glare at the idiot. He is still smiling like the simpleton he is.

  “Uh, no. I didn’t ask,” she says. “I told you both to get out.”

  I turn back to see the woman standing stiffly, her mouth twisted in anger. That is justified, I suppose. I did just dismiss her as if she wasn’t important.

  Santa cackles next to me. This isn’t his friendly Ho, Ho, Ho. No, it’s pure wicked delight. His smug emotions are almost thicker than the woman's fear. Cancel that thought. Her anger is most definitely in the
lead now.

  “Looks like your little trick didn’t work, Lucie.”

  I grind my teeth but don’t respond. I hate that name more than I hate Cupid. But he’s right. Apparently my compulsion doesn’t work on this woman. I look at her with more interest. I used more than enough compulsion to have any human scampering off to do my bidding. Why isn’t she?

  “Lucie?” She wrinkles her nose and I hate that I find it adorable even though she repeats that awful nickname. “Look, I don’t give two shits who either of you are. Get. Out. Of. My. House!”

  “Mommy,” the little girl whispers. “That’s Santa Claus.”

  Mandy. Her name is Mandy and the reason I’m here at all. I received the letter she wrote with her mother a few weeks ago. I remember it clearly because compared to the others it smelled sad but hopeful, like a flower in full bloom nearing the end of its lifespan. There had also been a whiff of desperation that I’m now sure had been the mother’s. I’d marked it as a VIP on my list. This little girl is close to losing her belief in magic and I am going to make sure that doesn’t happen.

  Even if she had sent the letter to the wrong place. After all, she's only eight. She had all the letters right, just a little out of order.

  “That’s right. I’m Santa Claus and I’m here to bring you a present.”

  “No, you are not.” I whirl toward him. “I showed you the letter. She wrote to me.”

  “On accident!” The elf rises to his feet entirely too quickly for someone his age. “She meant to write to me. That’s why I’m here. It’s Christmas. This is what I do. You have a job. Leave me to mine and go torture some kittens.”

  A tiny gasp reminds me that we are not alone.

  “I do not torture kittens!” I raise my hands as if to defend myself. See? No kittens.

  “Is this a joke? Are you part of some sick prank?” The little girl's mother raises her shoe higher and gestures in our direction with the pointy heel. “It’s Christmas Eve! This is not funny! I swear if you don’t get out of here right now, I’m going to call the police!”

  I cock my head at her and frown. Well, she blew her own lie and I’m not sure if I’m amused or disappointed. From the look in her eyes she must’ve realized her mistake too.

  “Now, Lyla, we’re not here to hurt you or Mandy. Lucie is just a little confused about his job description.” The idiot smiles in their direction

  “My name is Lucifer. Stop using that idiotic nickname, you self-righteous toddler. I’m older than the land your workshop is built on.” I owe Michael more payback than a solid punch or two. I’ve been hearing that stupid Lucie crap for eons. I look at the elf my father chose and anger washes through my body.

  “Careful. You’re frightening the little one.” Jolly Old Fat Sack tips his head in the human’s direction.

  I take a breath and squeeze my hands into fists, putting out the flames that are gathering in my palms. Fear is quickly filling the tiny living room so thickly I can barely breathe, and I fight to not choke on it. No matter the years I spend as Hell's Keeper, I never get used to that smell. It clings to everything in my domain, and this is supposed to be my chance to escape it for a night, but more and more the human plane smells of fear as much as hell itself.

  I close my eyes and breathe through my mouth. I know it’s a flimsy excuse, but I will not have it taken away from me. Besides, I actually enjoy the irony of it all. And I’m not going to let the red Michelin Man ruin it for me.

  Slowly, I loosen my fingers and open my eyes. What had he called the mother? She’s not on any lists I have so I had no way of finding out.

  “Lyla.” I say her name and meet her gaze. A hint of arousal floats toward me. It’s barely there, but it is there and it is much better than the fear. She likes me saying her name? I will happily indulge her. “Lyla. As you can see, we are not the usual thieves or hooligans. I’m going to reach into my pocket and get something that will make all this clear. Don’t do anything dangerous with your… shoe.”

  Red seeps into her cheeks at my words, but she doesn’t lower the shoe. She also doesn’t tell me not to reach into my pocket. Instead she jerks her head yes, very much like her daughter had earlier.

  Slowly I slip my fingers into my suit jacket and pull out a folded paper from the interior pocket. She doesn’t need to know it was actually on my desk just a moment before. She just needs to see the writing and understand the mix up. Then I can deliver my present and be done for the night. I have a date with a glass of scotch and a new book I don’t want to miss and this run-in with the blowhard is already messing with my timeline. Though, I might have to find a reason to visit again later. Lyla is an interesting woman. Fierce even when deathly afraid, a devoted mother, cunning, beautiful, a pair of legs that go on forever, and at least somewhat immune to my compulsion. Definitely interesting.

  I unfold the envelope and hold it up for her to see, but it’s too dark. I snap the fingers of my free hand and the lights come to life.

  “My letter!” Mandy steps around her mother and points at me.

  “Mandy!” Lyla pulls the little girl back behind her.

  “Mama, that’s my letter! Remember? You helped me write it. We put it in the mailbox on the corner next to the apartments.”

  Lyla doesn’t say anything and her eyebrows knit together. She inches closer, probably without realizing.

  “It does look like…” She shakes her head and glares at me and then at the fool next to me. “This has to be a joke.”

  “It is not a joke. Like I said, I’m simply here to deliver a present.” I pull the letter out and some of the left over glitter falls to the carpet as I unfold it. “The glitter bomb was a nice touch.”

  Mandy looks up at her mother. “See, I told you we needed the glitter.”

  I laugh at that. “Ask any crafter, glitter is definitely my domain.”

  Sadly, no one in the room gets the joke. Jerk Face snorts and goes to sit down on the couch. He wipes at the cushion first and lifts his gloved hands and inspects his fingers as if expecting to find something on them.

  “Hey! Watch it!” Lyla pulls Mandy closer to her edging a little towards my direction, as if the elf is the biggest threat in the room.

  Good instincts. Another point in her favor.

  “Don’t mind me. I’m a very busy man. If I’m going to be here for a bit, I might as well rest my old feet while I can. You don’t mind, do you?” With a flourish of his glaringly red jacket, Saint Crap Head sits down and crosses his arms. “But I do have a schedule to keep. So if we could hurry this along, it would be for the best.”

  “Shut it, Nicholas.” I snap at him, annoyed he is behaving so churlish in front of a child. A child I’m here to make happy, to shore up her belief in magic. And he’s being a red and white candy-cane shaped dick.

  Lyla is looking between us, but I sense she is more annoyed with Milk Breath than moi.

  “Go ahead. Show her the letter.” Nicholas waves his hand at me in a dismissive gesture and I have to remind myself I’m not allowed to roast the old elf with the flames of hell. Pity, that.

  Turning to Lyla and Mandy, I carefully hold the letter and envelope out for her to take.

  She looks at me for so long I start to wonder if she’s going to actually take it. After many seconds tick by, she lowers her shoe, which I now notice is black with a thin heel, and she takes the papers.

  She looks at the letter, then the envelope.

  I wait patiently as she glances back up at me with large eyes. Oddly the stench of fear does not overwhelm my senses again. She looks at the envelope once more, then her eyes dart to where Nicholas is sitting and then back to me.

  “No.” She shakes her head as if that will change anything.

  “Yes.” I hold my hand out for the letter, but she presses it to her chest.

  “This is a joke.” She looks over to the other man.

  “What is it going to take?” asks the Saint Asshat. “Snow in the living room? A ride in the sleigh? Maybe the
winning lottery numbers?” The old man narrows his eyes. “I. Am. Santa Claus. And he is exactly who you think he is.”

  “Why are you here?” Lyla looks back at me, her blue eyes wide, before suddenly narrowing. “You cannot take Mandy.”

  Loyalty, devotion, rising rage. The scent of a mother’s love when her child is threatened. Milk and honey. A hint of cayenne pepper.

  “What’s wrong?” Mandy looks at me in worry. “Are you a lawyer? You don’t look like Daddy’s lawyer. The judge already said Daddy couldn’t have me. Do you work for Santa?”

  “I most certainly do not.”

  “Hell no.”

  We speak at the same time and exchange glares over their heads.

  “Then why are you here?” Lyla’s voice is barely more than a whisper.

  “To deliver a present for Mandy.” I motion to the letter she is clutching. “She wrote to me, so here I am.”

  “But you don’t work for Santa?” Mandy frowns at me. “I thought he brought the presents.”

  “Well, he does bring presents to some children, but you didn’t write to Santa this year. You wrote to me. So here I am.” I motion to my briefcase.

  “I don’t understand.” Mandy’s eyes fill with tears. “I was good this year.”

  “Now you’ve done it.”

  I ignore the old bag of bricks and kneel down. “Yes, you were very good. So I brought you a present.”

  “But you’re not Santa.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m much cooler than that old… I mean, I’m much cooler than Santa Claus.”

  “But I sent my letter to Santa.” She reaches out and grips her mother’s hand.

  “No, you didn’t.” Lyla looks down at her daughter.

  “I did! I wrote on the front of the envelope like you showed me!” Mandy’s eyes are dangerously close to overflowing.

  “Not quite.” Lyla seems to shake herself out of whatever she’d been thinking and looks down at her daughter. “You misspelled his name and the letter went to this man.”

  “Who is he?” Mandy looks from her mother to me and then back to her mother.