Page 10 of Letters to Satan

“Damien, is it?” I mutter, and his eyes flare as I reach to place a thumb on the small cleft in his chin. It’s so innocent, so unassuming. “Be a darling nowand take a seat so we can continue this conversation with a better attitude.”

“If you’re going to call me by my given name, then it’s only fair I learn yours.”

I chuckle, tilting his face to the side as he lifts his chin, offering his throat. He’s submitting, and I don’t know that he even realizes what he’s done as a shiver courses up my spine. Mythumb digs in, watching in fascination as his lips pop apart. “You may call me Niklaus, but only if you behave.”

“I can’t promise that,” he says, a wicked smile digging into his cheeks.

“Oh, I’d expect nothing less from the devil himself.”

Chapter 4

Damien

Xalreth gives me a side-eye full of attitude from the armchair he’s sprawled across, but I keep my eyes fixed on the crackling fireplace ahead. Even inside, the temperature difference is surprising, but I relented and finally removed my coat. A small shudder works through my shoulders as I scoot closer to the flames, soaking in the heat.

A loud sigh comes from my cranky companion, and I unsuccessfully try to rein in my temper. “Are you going to fucking say something, or do you just want to stare at me all day? Not that anyone would blame you. If I weren’t me, I’d stare at myself for hours too. I’d offer topose nude for you, but your tiny little brain might implode and then you’d really be useless.”

He scoffs and leans forward with his elbows on his knees, pulling his lips between his teeth. It’s a familiar gesture, one that inevitably precedes something I don’t want to hear. How he does it without maiming himself with those pointy daggers in his mouth is a mystery. “By submitting to him, you gave him the upper hand.”

Anger causes my shoulders to stiffen as I fix him with a glare, trying to laser-focus my irritation into tiny little beams to fry his brain a little. Just a little! Eyeball lasers are apparently beyond the scope of my powers, though, so all I can do is fuss. “Mind your fucking tone. I wasn’t giving him the upper hand, nor was Isubmittingto him.” Not that submitting to Santa Daddy doesn’t sound like a good way to spend an evening, but that’s neither here nor there. “We are in his domain,hisworld, and we don’t know the extent of the power he holds here. If my memory serves me correctly—and it does—he easily held you at bay.”

He grumbles but can’t deny the unexpected show of strength.

“And besides, we aren’t here to wage war with the North Pole. It serves no purpose to be at odds with them. We’re here to solve a problem… and maybe cause a few while we have some fun.”

“Always with the schemes,” Xalreth mutters as his lips twitch, a sliver of his irritation fading. “What sort of problems are you thinking, sir?”

I grin, standing and pulling an extra sweater over my head before gesturing for him to follow me. “Come on, let’s go explore the workshop while Santa Daddy is busy.”

“Santa Daddy?” His eyebrow arches so far up on his forehead, I’m surprised it doesn’t take flight. I pretend I don’t hear him, sliding my feet into my boots and heading to the door. He relents, following me as we weave through the hallways.

Each elf we walk past has eyes as wide as snow globes and scurries to the other end of the hallway, even though we’re not causing any trouble. Not yet, at least. Niklaus had responsibilities to attend to and promised we’d regroup soon to discuss the letters. There was no direct restriction to stay in our quarters, so we are not technically breaking any rules by exploring.

It isn’t my fault I’m getting restless.

Or that the elves are terrified of me.

Or that Xalreth’s smile looks like a prehistoric sea creature.

We finally emerge into the main workshop, and I scan the room, absorbing how, despite the initial pandemonium, there’s a synchronized rhythm to the chaos. It’s like watching a river rushing past rocks and navigating obstacles, darting this way and that, all while the flow is somehow never interrupted.

Except, instead of water, they are googly-eyed miniature people in too-bright clothes.

The assembly lines are a flurry of activity as elves dart to and from the meticulously labeledrooms. There’s storage for fabrics and stuffing, mechanical parts, paints, wood, metal, and tools, and those are the few that are visible from where we stand.

Most of the materials are routed to the lines, where they are sorted into stacks by those at the head of the long tables. Others are carried into specialty rooms, such as the one for bicycles directly in front of us.

Curiosity gets the best of me, and I wander over to peek inside.

A smaller group of elves works on assembling bikes, their tiny hands moving so fast they become blurs. It’s fascinating to witness. At one station, two elves are welding a frame, the sparks reflecting off the glass of their protective helmets. Another duo fastens wheels and seats once the metal has hardened and cooled, and a solo worker sprays the finished frame in a vibrant blue behind a drop cloth barrier.

The elf that’s painting meets my eyes and gasps, tripping on her feet as she tumbles backward. Blue paint becomes a fountain and showers over everything in a rainstorm, causing the welders to shout. One of them whirls with his flame still burning bright, and a stack of papers ignites, the paint proving to be an affective accelerant as the fire whooshes into an inferno.

It’s all very dramatic, and I’m quite disappointed that I didn’t even truly earn the reaction, merely standing here.

Such a waste.

“FUNGI!”an elf screams, while another bellows, “Ah,SHEETS!” A weird chorus of squeaky, censored cursing rings out as more eyes dart our direction, and a familiar deep voice booms in the distance. “What is going on out here?”

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