Page 6 of Letters to Satan

“Yes, elf!” Xalreth bellows, and the face disappears with a frightened peep before reluctantly returning. “His Highness has travelled far to meet with your leader, and we request an immediate audience.”

Those giant blue eyes sweep over me, stopping to fixate on my fabulous coat before swallowing with a dramatic gulp. When she speaks again, her voice quivers and her lip trembles. “I’ll… just… The Santa is very busy this time of year, but I’ll try to… find… him…”

“Are we expected to stand out here in the freezing cold?” I demand, speaking for the first time, and the elf’s terror magnifies. She’s visibly shaking as she clutches the door, opening and closing her mouth as she tries to form words, but her little elf brain appears to be as frozen as my nuts are going to be if we don’t get inside soon.

A rich, rumbling voice comes from behind her, and heavy footsteps approach. “Now, Pattie, we have rules against being rude.”

“Y-y-yes, sir, but…”

“No arguments,” he says in a firm, gentle tone, while a huge hand inches her to the side. The door swings open and my entire field of vision is replaced by a bright red suit. It’s not velvet and fur like Iexpected, but a form-fitting sweater over a pair of tailored pants.

My chin tilts up to find a chiseled jawline covered with a salt-and-pepper beard, neatly groomed and not a hair out of place, with a broad nose that’s tinged pink by the cold. A head full of thick, unruly hair is the same distinguished shade as his beard, and narrowed green eyes study me, wrinkles in the corners displaying laugh lines that stretch almost to his hairline.

He clasps his hands in front of himself and cocks an eyebrow, not speaking. Waiting with an iron will that gives me the impression he’ll stand here all day in this silent standoff, refusing to be the first one to speak.

Holy fuck.

Santa is a Daddy.

Chapter 3

Niklaus

A commotion unfolding around the front door steals my attention away from my conversation with Cadbury, the head elf. Production for Christmas is tight this year, and I’m afraid we’ll only fall further behind if we can’t pinpoint the root of the slowdown in our toy department.

“I’m still not convinced that Jujube isn’t finding ways to dodge his work… and possibly persuading others to do the same. He’s been caught napping in fabric storage more times than I can count.” For such a small man, he shoots a rather intimidating glare across the room atthe suspect in question, scratching his snow-white beard in suspicion. Jujube, a wiry redheaded elf, has his arms up in a lazy stretch, then scratches his belly like he just woke up.

Maybe there’s merit to Cadbury’s assumption.

When he catches us studying him, he jumps back to work with a smile that’s a bit too forced to be natural. It’s borderline manic, and downright creepy.

The increasing commotion at the door returns my focus to it. “Uh huh,” I mutter absentmindedly, my eyes fixed on Pattie as she peers through the narrow gap of the massive wooden door. The opening is hardly wide enough for a finger to pass through, and I’m unsure how she can see what lies on the opposite end.

“Apologies, Caddy, we will resume this discussion later.” As I pat him on the shoulder and walk towards the door, my confusion intensifies.

“… His Royal Highness of the Infernal Land of the Damned…”

What the…?

Unable to glimpse outside without making my presence known, I wait for just a moment longer while a pompous voice continues, rumbling in a deep growl. “The Devil Himself requests an audience with The Santa.” Their conversation creates a whirlwind in my mind as I try to keep up with the back-and-forth.

The Devil is here?

Six years ago, I accepted the role of Santa, but besides the essential supernatural ambassadors needed for the transition, I’ve met none of the otherleaders. Vague stories about my predecessor’s visits to the Underworld are confusing at best, with rumors of heated arguments, singed eyebrows, and scorched clothing.

Oh, and something about emotional damage lawsuits? It's never been very... clear.

The Lucifer is more of an urban legend than an actual person… something used to frighten children into eating their vegetables and going to bed on time.

We all know he exists, but he’s not tangible. Notreal.

Not pounding at my door at eleven fifty-three in the morning.

“Are we to stand out here in the freezing cold?” A different voice interrupts my thoughts, this one smoother and not as deep as the first, though with the same level of arrogance.

Despite myself, my interest is piqued.

Gently, I lay my hand on the elf’s shoulder, causing her to tense beneath my touch. “Now, Pattie, we have rules against being rude.”

---