Page 7 of Santa Daddy, I'm Not the One

“We never had someone not wanting to come, Santa. We didn’t know what to do.”

“He’s still unconscious,” Dix whispered. “We might have used too much dust.”

I rose to my full height. “Take me to him.”

Leaving the lively cacophony of the workshop behind, I followed Pix and Dix through a labyrinth of winding corridors. The walls were adorned with centuries-old tapestries depicting Christmases past, their colors vibrant against the polished wooden panels. The air was filled with the subtle scent of pine and the distant echo of Christmas carols.

We passed under arched doorways, each leading to different parts of the vast North Pole complex. The path was familiar, yet today it felt different, as if every step was weighted with the gravity of our situation. The floor, made of smooth ice that usually glimmered under the twinkling lights embedded in the ceiling, seemed duller somehow. Even the ever-present gentle warmth, a magical contrast to the frosty outside, did little to comfort me.

Elves bustling with last-minute preparations offered respectful nods or curious glances. The usual playful banter and laughter were subdued, as if they too sensed the disturbance in our normally harmonious existence.

As we moved deeper into the heart of the workshop complex, the sounds of the workshop faded into a hushed silence. We reached a secluded wing reserved for special guests—those rare humans who crossed over during the Yuletide Crossing. The area was welcoming, with its soft, glowing lights and luxurious furnishings.

Pix and Dix stopped in front of the door, their usual confident demeanor replaced by anxious uncertainty. I pushed open the door, the heavy oak with ornate carvings depicting the northern lights creaking softly, and stepped inside.

The room was spacious, with walls painted a calming shade of midnight blue, dotted with tiny lights that mimicked the starry sky. A large, plush bed sat against one wall, its linens crisp. On the bed lay the unconscious figure of the human.

His features were peaceful, belying the turmoil of his unexpected journey. The sleigh dust had done its work well, leaving him in a deep, dreamless slumber. His clothes, those of a modern-day businessman, were in stark contrast to the whimsical decor of the room. Beside him, the limitless loot bag lay deflated, its magic spent.

I approached slowly, a mix of curiosity and concern washing over me. This young man, who defied our understanding of belief and magic, held the key to the unease that had been plaguing me.

“Why does he look so familiar?” I murmured, studying his face. Under the soft glow of the room, his pale skin was as white as the snow outside, unmarred and immaculately smooth. His lips were a gentle shade of pink, slightly parted in his slumber, revealing the edges of even white teeth. His jawline was finely sculpted and delicate.

The most striking feature was his hair, the color of wheat. Golden curls cascaded onto his gently sloped forehead. His body was slender and, even though he was a full adult human, he looked as tiny as my elves.

There was something about him, a connection I couldn’t quite place.

“We need to figure out why the List of Hearts guided us to him.” I turned to the elves. “What’s his name?”

“Landon McClain.”

“Landon,” I repeated, and the syllables rolled off my tongue. “Stay with him.”

I strode out of the room and hurried to the records room. When I stormed in, the elf on duty startled but smiled. “Santa. What are you doing?”

“I need to check the List of Hearts.”

“Of course.” He rushed toward the book, picked it up, and brought it over to me.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. Is there something specific you’re looking for?”

I grunted a noncommital response and flipped through the book for theMentries. I found McClains, but none of them turned up to be Landon. My heart sank, and I shut the book with a thud. My gaze fell on the Shadow Ledger. Could it be?

I returned the List of Hearts and trudged to the lectern. Slowly, I opened the Shadow Ledger and followed the same procedure as before. And found Landon McClain’s entry. One photograph showed him as a child, the other as he was now. The words were written in charcoal, each letter meticulously inscribed as if to emphasize the severity of his actions.

“Landon McClain, age 22. Notorious for his cold-hearted business dealings and his callous disregard for others. Known to exploit vulnerabilities for personal gain. Has repeatedly shown a lack of empathy and kindness. Notable incidents include the harsh dismissal of employees without just cause, manipulative business tactics, and a pervasive air of entitlement and selfishness. Displays a strong skepticism toward acts of charity and communal spirit. Has lost the true essence of human compassion and connection.”

The description was a stark contrast to the joy and generosity that defined the spirit of Christmas and everything we valued at the North Pole. How had such a person been selected? Landon McClain was not just a nonbeliever; he was the antithesis of the Christmas spirit. And now he was here in Twinkle Glen, a place of joy and magic, potentially disrupting the delicate balance we had maintained for centuries.

We had to bring him back to his world. But how? The passage had already closed. He was stuck here for another two weeks. How could we put up with two weeks of his evil spirit without letting it infect everyone else?

“Is something wrong, Santa?” the elf asked.

“No, Fergus. Nothing’s wrong.”

I returned the book and walked out of the records room, curling my hands into fists at my side. Someone had messed up, and I had to figure out who it was. Eirwyin was the one in charge when the name was sent over to the expedition crew.

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