Page 2 of Santa & His Elf

Like all Elven kind, their pointed ears, rosy cheeks, and upturned noses make you smile. They are smaller than humans, but not by much. The men hit an average of five feet six inches, whereas the women are lucky to reach five feet. Thanks to the magic that powers the North Pole, most live long lives serving Santa’s Village before retiring around their five hundredth birthday, if they choose. Our oldest, Sticks, is twelve hundred years old, yet doesn’t look a human day over sixty.

Pepper’s a baby by comparison—at three hundred and sixteen years old. Though, if you met him on the street, you’d think he was fresh out of college. I wish I could say I aged that well, but my time in the human world, where magic doesn’t flow like it does here, has given me a distinguished salt-and-pepper, mid-forties appearance. The standard Santa belly and beard will make its yearly appearance on Christmas Eve, and I’ll be back to my normal fit self by the end of Christmas Day. It's pretty neat how that all works, huh?

Setting my magic pen down, I relax and steeple my fingers under my chin to give Pepper the audience he seeks. “How may I help you?”

He rubs the sleep from his eyes, then cards fingers through his hair to fix the wayward strands. “You haven’t slept, and you’re stressing too much again.”

I nod along with his assessment. He should know how I feel better than anyone. It’s part of our bond as Santa and head elf. When I took the magic of this world into myself, he did so as well when he took his oath to be my second. A golden spun inscription glows around his right wrist. It’stethered to me somehow, giving Pepper a one-way connection to every emotion I experience when I experience it. I’m still not sure how I feel about that. Though, I suppose, I have little choice in the matter.

“Yes, and yes,” I agree.

“You know what that does to me.”

“I wish I could fix that, but I can’t.” As I'm sure you can tell, he has difficulty sleeping when I can’t. You’d think his body would adjust to our mismatched schedules after a few months of this, but it hasn’t. We have this same conversation at least once a week. Except it’s typically done during the day, not before sunrise. I guess we’ve upgraded to nightly visits.

“You could sleep,” Pepper unhelpfully offers before he picks up the pens and pencils scattered across my desk and drops them into their reindeer holder. Not sure why he bothers. They’ll be back by the end of the day, littering the bureau once more.

“I will when my brain shuts off,” I counter.

His golden-green eyes seek mine. “Nick, please. You and I can’t keep doing this.”

“If I knew how to fix this for both of us, I would. Don’t you think I would?”

“Did you call your dad?” Pepper’s brow arches in question as he continues to tidy my mess.

I stiffen at the thought of speaking to my father about anything. “No. Why would I call him?” I willnevercall him. Not ever. He may have been Santa, but he wasn’t much of a dad. I spent most of my childhood in an Elven school, raised by people who weren’t my parents. He was always busy at the workshop. Too busy for anyone in our household besides my mother, who also went to work with him every day. Shewas his second. An elf. Though you wouldn’t know my lineage by looking at me. I have no pointed ears and am well over six feet tall. My sister, on the other hand, got Mom’s genes. She’s tiny, with reddish hair and small features. She even has a hint of pointed ears.

Ignoring the tension in my voice and the emotional wave he must sense coming from me, Pepper carries on as if we don’t share a connection. “Because he might know how to handle this problem.”

I snort.

Not likely.

Paperclips are placed into their magnetic cube as Pepper rounds another side of the desk to reach more of the disaster. I let him because I’m suddenly tired. Thinking about my father and his legacy I must live up to does that to a person.

Rubbing my temple and watching him work, I yawn. “I’ll sleep when I need to sleep.”

“You haven’t slept in four days.”

This is true. I stare wistfully at the antique hot cocoa bar laden with goodies that have helped me through the toughest days. If it wouldn’t piss him off, I’d get up and grab another cup. I could use another shot of caffeine before the workshop opens in a couple of hours.

“Then there’s always tomorrow, right?” I force a snicker because what else am I supposed to say? Sorry, I suck as Santa? Sorry, you got stuck with a dud? Sorry, I’m not my father?

Pepper rounds the desk and lays a hand on my shoulder. Sparks of magic crackle and pop between our connection so strong I have to catch my breath. Our eyes catch, and the sensation travels down my arm and into my gut as I force myself to breathe normally.

“Nick,” he whispers, and I swallow hard. “Please. I feel everything. I know how bad it is. Have you tried to lay down?” He looks at the sofa in the corner. Beside it lies a stack of neatly folded clothes he brings me every day. Pepper’s a good elf and an amazing second. I don’t deserve him.

“I can’t,” I confess when all I want is for him to leave… to quit touching me. The magic intensifies the more I speak, spreading throughout my body, lighting it on fire from the inside out. “It makes my brain race. Then I get antsy and have to get up again.”

Unable to help myself, my breathing accelerates. I grip the carved chair arms, ready to crawl out of my skin.

“What would you do when you had this problem before?” he asks, calm as a cucumber.

“I’ve never had this problem before,” I choke out, sweat dripping down the sides of my face. I refuse to look away. Those eyes, that nose, lips, flushed cheeks—this is my person. The one trying to help me when I know I can’t help myself.

“Did you talk to Doc?” His hand shifts. A fingertip brushes my neck, and my asshole clenches.

What. In. The. Holly Flippin’ Jolly. Is. Going. On?

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