Page 6 of Unholy Night

“Lyla.” I say her name and meet her gaze. A hint of arousal floats toward me. It’s barely there, but itisthere 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 thanmoi.

“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?”

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