Page 7 of Unholy Night

“I most certainly do not.”

“Hell no.”

We speak at the same time and exchange glares over their heads.

“Then why are you here?” Lyla’s voice is barely more than a whisper.

“To deliver a present for Mandy.” I motion to the letter she is clutching. “She wrote to me, so here I am.”

“But you don’t work for Santa?” Mandy frowns at me. “I thought he brought the presents.”

“Well, he does bring presents to some children, but you didn’t write to Santa this year. You wrote to me. So here I am.” I motion to my briefcase.

“I don’t understand.” Mandy’s eyes fill with tears. “I was good this year.”

“Now you’ve done it.”

I ignore the old bag of bricks and kneel down. “Yes, you were very good. So I brought you a present.”

“But you’re not Santa.”

“No, I’m not. I’m much cooler than that old… I mean, I’m much cooler than Santa Claus.”

“But I sent my letter to Santa.” She reaches out and grips her mother’s hand.

“No, you didn’t.” Lyla looks down at her daughter.

“I did! I wrote on the front of the envelope like you showed me!” Mandy’s eyes are dangerously close to overflowing.

“Not quite.” Lyla seems to shake herself out of whatever she’d been thinking and looks down at her daughter. “You misspelled his name and the letter went to this man.”

“Who is he?” Mandy looks from her mother to me and then back to her mother.

Lyla takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. When she opens them again I can see the resolve she has gathered.

“Satan.”

3

Lyla

“Can we move this along?” Nicholas--no, Santa Claus--stands up and brushes off his pants as if my house is dirty. “I have more than enough work without this idiot getting in my way.”

When he reaches for his bag, Lucifer lifts a hand and it fills with golden flames, so hot I can feel the heat from here.

Mandy’s eyes nearly pop out of her skull at the casual display of magic, and I don’t blame her one bit. I’m kinda freaking out myself.

“Stop right there, elf.” His voice is stern and brokers no room for argument. This is a man who is used to being obeyed without question.

“See? See how he is?” Santa asks in a petulant tone. “I’m just doing my job and he is in the way.” Santa throws his hands in the air before pointing at Satan, his voice filled with too much whining for my taste, especially from a grown-ass man. “You might be able to laze about, but time doesn’t stop for me.”

I’m not sure which surprises me more. The fact that Satan and Santa are actually real or the fact that Satan is currently threatening Santa because he wants to give Mandy a present. Am I dreaming? Had the wine been bad?

A high-pitched wailing shatters my thoughts and I look up at the ceiling before smacking Satan in the shoulder.

“Are you crazy? Put that out!” I drop the shoe I’ve been wielding as an entirely ineffective weapon--especially against a man who can conjure flames from his hands--and run over to our dinning table to grab a chair and drag it across the room. I climb up and just barely manage to get my fingers on the smoke alarm. The stupid battery case won’t slide open and in desperation I manage to hook my fingers between the plastic and the ceiling and yank it off, leaving little wires hanging in the air.

There goes my deposit.

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