Unholy Night: A Paranormal Holiday Romance

by Karpov Kinrade

  Her pupils dilate and I feel a wave of emotion crashing out of her and into me so hard that it rocks me back on my heels, but I don’t break contact with her, gripping her hands tightly in mine.

  Her voice is soft at first. “I want…” then it sharpens like a blade. “I want the truth.”

  A flicker of surprise widens my eyes. This… I was not expecting.

  She notices the expression on my face and frowns. “What did you think I would ask for?”

  I shrug and deliberately continue holding her hands. I like the way they feel in mine, so small but so fierce. Just like her. “Money,” I tell her finally. “You’d be surprised how many people are willing to trade their souls for a pittance of cash. I guess I just expected… given everything…” I let my words trail off as I glance at the pile of overdue bills stacked neatly in the corner of her kitchen counter.

  Her gaze follows mine and her cheeks are set aflame a second time, for less enticing reasons sadly. Shame. And anger. It tastes like vinegar and jalapeños.

  I like the anger, the spice, and I want to flame it, to let its fiery scent fill the air, but she pulls her hands out of mine and our connection is severed.

  “I probably should have asked for money,” she says with a small sigh that is nearly my undoing. “Lord knows we need it.”

  In that split second I feel…uncomfortable at her pain. I don’t like it and I want it to stop, which honestly isn’t like me at all. Natural consequence of my work of course. Causing pain is in my job description after all. And the ones that appear for me? Well, they deserve it.

  She… she doesn’t. That’s another occupational hazard; I can assess a person’s soul with a single thought.

  She will never end up in my neck of the woods.

  She glances at Mandy who’s staring up at both of us. “Honey,” she says, her voice going straight into Mom mode--kind and loving and patient. “Why don’t you go upstairs and get dressed in your warmest clothes. It looks like we’re going on a Christmas adventure!”

  I don’t point out that the contract isn’t signed yet. But when the child squeals and runs upstairs so full of joy it smells like the sweet scent of fresh jasmine on a beautiful night, I know I will do whatever I must to make this night happen.

  For Mandy.

  It has nothing to do with the reaction my body, mind, and soul have when I’m this close to her enchanting mother. Nothing at all.

  It’s all for the kids.

  Yep. The kids.

  Mandy stops at the top of the stairs and turns back. “Don’t you need to know what I want from you?” she asks.

  I’m about to answer when Lyla speaks first. “Honey, you put it in your letter. A puppy. But remember, we can’t have dogs here, and I can’t really afford the care of one. Did you want to ask for something else?”

  Mandy’s face drops, and before I can tell Lyla that I will make sure she can raise an entire pack of puppies… Mandy rushes off to get ready.

  Once the child is out of ear shot, Lyla turns back to me, her words instantly changing from a soft caress to a woman on the edge of a very steep cliff.

  “I may regret not asking for money. Especially if we’re evicted and end up homeless.”

  Her words send ice through my veins and I know instantly that I will punish whoever tries to hurt this family. She will not go homeless. Neither of them will. I feel it best not to tell her this outright, lest my words fail to have the intended effect. But she will know eventually. Lyla and Mandy will never want for anything as long as I am King of Hell.

  Lyla continues, unaware of the dark path my thoughts have journeyed.

  “You have no idea what it’s like to be a single parent without enough money to take care of your kid. At least, I don’t think you’ve ever been a single parent.”

  I shake my head, fighting the urge to ask if Father of Lies counts as parenting. This isn’t the time for my humor.

  She nods, continuing. “To not know how you’ll make the money last to the end of the month. To have to choose whether to pay the electric bill or buy groceries for a week because you can’t afford both. I have endured long lines and the feeling of being a complete failure just to make sure we have enough food to get us to another paycheck. And we have no safety net. If she gets a cavity, or I end up breaking my foot… we are screwed. I can’t afford our life even if everything goes according to plan. And now we’re living through a pandemic, and she hasn’t been able to play with her school friends in nine months. I haven’t had work, and I’ve lost what little social support I had. Do you have any idea how long nine months is? Probably not, you’re older than humanity. But to an eight-year-old? Nine months is a lifetime. And if one of us gets sick and ends up at the hospital, what will I do then?”

  Tears are streaming down her cheeks, though I don’t think she realizes that yet. I cannot resist the temptation to use the pad of my thumb to wipe one away. I bring my thumb to my mouth and flick my tongue against the saltiness of her emotion.

  Scent carries a lot. A bold flavor of feelings. But tears and blood, they carry the heart and soul of a person. They carry the complex blend of deep, deep pain and love and fear and joy.

  I close my eyes, savoring her.

  But I am interrupted when she clears her throat. I open my eyes to see her glaring at me. “Would you and my freaking tear drop like to be alone?” Her voice is dripping with venom, her eyes like daggers ripping into me, and I am loving everything about this exciting, bewildering woman.

  “Why didn’t you choose money then?” I ask. It flies in the face of self-preservation and caring for her child to give up a chance at wealth. And I know that little girl is the center of Lyla’s universe. I just wish I could have one night alone with Lyla to show her how it feels to be the center of someone else’s universe for a time. She certainly deserves it.

  “Because I have to know the truth.”

  “The truth about what?” I ask.

  “All of it!” She says in such charming exasperation I have to stop myself from doing something we both might regret.

  “All of it is a big ask for someone who has existed for all of human history. Care to narrow it down?”

  Her eyes widen cartoonishly and I want to suck my words back in. Of course, that information is going to unnerve a human. But… is she entirely human? That’s a really good question.

  And what I learned from her teardrop didn’t answer that for me. As much as it did fill me with a bouquet of other answers.

  “This. You.” She says. “I just gave up my chance at being independently wealthy. Or famous. Or whatever. So I want answers instead. If you and Santa are real, there must be other things I thought were stories that are real too, right?”

  Her words are measured. Almost too much so. She’s being very conscious of how she talks about this. About magic and the realm of the fantastical. But it’s there in her eyes. The wonder of it all. The hope. Not the kind made in childhood in the newness of first life, but a raw, beaten, bruised and bloodied hope. One that has been tested by the cruelty of life over and over and over again. A kind of hope a person earns through pain and trauma and a tenacious grit. That is the kind of hope I see in her eyes right now. That is why she chose to know the truth over financial security. The truth is, in the hierarchy of needs, Maslow got one thing wrong. There is one need that comes before that pyramid base of basic physiological needs. Before even your base survival needs of food and shelter. And that is hope. Hope for the fantastical. Hope for the brighter day. The lighter load. The magic of it all. Without that, humans would not have the will for the rest of it.

  And humanity is losing its hope. It’s already lost most of its magic, and hope and magic are intrinsically connected at the root.

  I’ve been trying to stop it. To find someone, anyone, who still has a spark.

  And here she is.

  So with a flick of my wrist I produce a parchment flowing with magic. It is already filled in with the terms of our understanding.
<
br />   I roll up my sleeve and produce a quill pen, then use the razor-sharp edge to slice my arm. Lyla gasps as blood trickles down my skin. I use the pen to soak up enough to sign my name.

  Then I hand it to her.

  I half expect her to refuse it, to say she will not sign herself away to Satan on Christmas Eve. That the whole thing is ludicrous. I don’t know what I’ll do if she says that. I clench my jaw and wait.

  She licks her lips, an action done in such an innocent way that it does not aid at all in my attempt at composure.

  Finally, she takes the pen and the contract from my hands and begins to read.

  I hold my breath, which is uncomfortable for me in this form even though I don’t strictly need to breathe.

  “I only have tonight to ask my questions and find out the truth?” She asks, looking up.

  I give one solemn bow of my head. “This is a limited time contract. Not the kind I am typically known for, but desperate times and all that. You can ask me anything tonight and I will do my best to answer.”

  “And then we never see you again,” she says, flicking her lower lip with her tongue again. “At least I get to keep my soul.”

  That last little bit is whispered under her breath, so I pretend to not hear it.

  “That’s the idea,” I say. And why are those words so difficult to say?

  She nods, then brings the pen to her arm. She pauses. “Um. I’m assuming you can’t pass on STDs or viruses? Given, you know, the pandemic and the… blood thing.”

  “I assure you, my blood is the purest you will ever find.”

  She nods again then doesn’t hesitate or flinch as she slices her arm.

  The smell of her blood blooms in the air like a rare flower, nearly extinct. Exotic and fragrant and oh so delicious.

  When she scrawls her name, I feel the magic of the contract bind us together.

  My contracts aren’t usually so… intimate in a non-sexual way. I don’t typically sign up for spending time with others.

  But this… this feels different. A sense of knowing settles on me and I shiver.

  Tonight will change the course of both our lives.

  One way or another.

  5

  Lyla

  Mandy clambers down the stairs sounding like a small herd of buffalo despite being one tiny girl. My mouth twitches when I see what she’s wearing.

  She must’ve put on all the sweaters she could find before pulling on a snow suit that’s two inches too short for her, leaving ankles and lower legs bare. She made up for that by layering on socks--which look suspiciously like mine--and is trying to wrangle her arms into the too small snow jacket.

  “Mommy, I can’t find my scarf.” She finally manages to get her arm into the second sleeve and sticks her tongue out as she fiddles with the zipper.

  Lucifer makes a choked sound and I look up to see his full lips fighting to stay still. I might be annoyed at him laughing at her if my daughter didn’t look like a hobo version of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. It’s rather ridiculous and I don’t bother to keep my lips from curling into a smile.

  “It’s hanging up in the bathroom. Remember we had to let them dry after the snowball fight?” I watch as she gives up on the zipper and smiles. She’s still missing one of her top teeth and I’m a sucker for her smile.

  “Oh yeah!” And she’s off again, another herd of buffalo racing up the stairs.

  Lucifer clears his throat next to me. “Might I suggest you find some warm clothes of your own?”

  I look down at the old, baggy t-shirt I’m wearing and cringe. Not only is the shirt awful, it’s the only thing I’m wearing other than a pair of panties that have long since seen their hey-day.

  And it’s quite obvious that I’ve been skimping on the heat for the apartment.

  “Of course, if you’d prefer to travel like that, I’d be happy to keep you warm.” His dark eyes rove over my body and I fight a shiver that has nothing to do with the chill in the air.

  Just as I snap myself out of it and try to come up with an appropriate response, he lifts one hand and it fills with those magical flames. “I’ve been told I run a little on the warm side and the fire won’t hurt you.”

  My blush is instantaneous. He knows exactly what I thought he meant. I walked right into his trap. I also feel certain that those flames could and would hurt me if he so desired.

  “No! I mean, no, thank you. I’ve got clothes.” I take a step back toward the stairs. “I mean warm clothes. I have more clothes than this. You know, it’s not like I just wear this all the time.” I take a few more steps backward. “I mean, I wear warmer clothes than this. When it’s cold. But I was asleep.”

  His knowing smile grows with each nonsensical word I utter.

  “I was asleep when you broke in! I’m sure you don’t sleep in that suit!” I gesture at him and take one more step toward the stairs.

  If possible, his smile grows even wider. “Me? I prefer to sleep in the nude.”

  Of course he does. And boy does my imagination have a field day with this information. Lust courses through my body like a tidal wave and I feel an unwanted ache build in my body. It has been so long since I’ve been touched. Caressed. Loved.

  But this isn’t the man or the night for such thoughts.

  I turn to the stairs and take them two at a time, ignoring the chuckle that follows me. I can hear Mandy still in her room, so I shut my door and lean back against it. What the hell is wrong with me?

  Lucifer, really? I slap my forehead as if I can knock sense into myself that way. I can’t be attracted to Satan! Wait, can I? I mean, he is Satan, isn’t temptation part of his MO?

  And boy, is he tempting.

  I dash to my closet and rummage around. What does one wear to deliver presents for Santa Claus? Deciding Mandy probably has the right idea, I go for layers. I shuck my shirt and dig around until I find a clean bra. It’s nothing to write home about, but it will do the job. I layer tank top over tank top, before doing the same with t-shirts and add a thick wool sweater. I pull out a pair of thermal underpants and shimmy into them before sliding into a pair of jeans.

  Socks. I look at the drawer and see it’s open, socks hanging from its sides. Yep, Mandy is definitely wearing mine. I grab two pairs and shove my feet into them just as I hear Mandy scampering back down the stairs.

  Rushing, I grab a pair of snow boots from my closet and chase after her.

  As my feet hit the stairs, I hear high-pitched laughter from the first floor, followed by the amused rumble of a man’s voice. My feet stop and I press a hand to my heart. How long has it been since I’ve had a man in my home? A man who seems genuinely interested in Mandy? A man who isn’t trying to escape as quickly as possible once he realizes I have a daughter?

  It’s nice.

  Then my brain catches up with my heart and I remember it’s Lucifer down there with Mandy. I take a deep breath and slowly descend the stairs. He hasn’t done anything that should make me question his motives. In fact, he’s been protective of Mandy. Even showing up to bring her a present in case Santa missed her because her letter went to the wrong place. Really. Who would have thought Lucifer could be so… sweet?

  They are both sitting on the floor eating the remaining cookies and giggling like best friends at a sleepover when I approach.

  Mandy looks up at me and grins, crumbs dotting her chin and a dollop of red frosting on the tip of her nose, making her look a bit like Rudolph.

  But it’s Lucifer’s gaze that heats me up through the layers of clothing, making my skin tingle with the promises inherent in his look. Promises I will not lay claim to, no matter how tempting he is.

  His grin is wicked as he takes in my outfit. “If at any point you need help peeling yourself out of those layers… let me know. I’m quite skilled at such things.”

  I snort. “I’m sure you are, but I’ll be fine.” I’m starting to sweat though, so I clap my hands and put on my mom voice. “Shall we be off then? I’m not
sure how this works but I don’t imagine we have a lot of time to make this happen?”

  This is the first time I’m actually considering the logistics of this night. How will Mandy get any sleep? There’s no way she’ll have the stamina for an all-nighter. How are we going to get to every house on earth in one night? Or at least the ones that celebrate Christmas, which is still a shitton. And if Santa is truly real, why do so many kids go without during the holidays? I need answers, but these aren’t questions I want to ask in front of my child.

  Lucifer stands and helps Mandy up, who’s a bit unbalanced with her multiple layers.

  “Yes, about that,” he says. “First, we’ll need to stop by Hell to get ourselves organized. Then we can begin.”

  “Hell? As in… actual hell?” I ask, my throat going dry.

  He nods. “Don’t worry, it’s quite pleasant for honored guests, of which you both are, of course. You needn’t fear the more nefarious parts of my domain.”

  “Right. Sure. Okay. How do we get there?” I ask. I must be under some kind of madness spell for even considering taking my child to hell with Satan on Christmas Eve. If my ex finds out about this, he’ll have a field day in court. But of course, he already tried to accuse me of being Satan, and that didn’t fly. So no one would likely believe him about this even if he believed it, which he wouldn’t. That man doesn’t have a magical bone in his body.

  And he has no claim on me or Mandy anymore. She’s all mine. I repeat that mantra to myself daily, when anxiety creeps up and fears starts to take hold again. It’s done. The abuse. The court battles. It’s over.