Page 1 of Stalked By Santa

PROLOGUE

NICK

Three years prior…

If there’sone thing being the Man in Red has taught me, it’s that we live in a sick, sad world. A world filled with cages. Even a posh corner office can be a cage.

Mine sure as hell feels like one tonight.

Surveillance squares projected onto the windows blot out a breathtaking view of the Manhattan skyline. The images of thousands of innocents dance before my eyes. I stare at them, numb.

When I took this gig, I didn’t grasp how much it would demand of me. But the syndicate isn’t just an organization, it’s a way of life. Hell, it’s the Christmas miracle that changed my life.

Permanently.

Like most recruits, I came from nothing. And without the syndicate, I’d still be nothing. When Blitzen found me, I’d just aged out of the foster system, graduating to the streets. Young and hungry, I had zero compunctions about getting my fists bloody. But what set me apart was that despite my crap childhood, cynicism hadn’t sunk its claws into me.

I still believed.

Blitz brags that he spotted me a mile away. He probably did. Reindeer have a way of sniffing out believers, and he’s one of the best.

His sales pitch emphasized the perks. The climate-controlled polar compound. The twelve-cylinder sleighs. The Amex Black Card, stock options, and bank vaults stuffed with cash. And that’s just the material shit. Power was the real carrot he dangled.

“Imagine,” he said, “having the magic of Christmas at your fingertips… plus every pussy between the north and south poles.”

He wasn’t lying. Even ordinary elves end up swimming in enough luxuries and vices for several lifetimes, which makes sense. Immortality is part of the benefits package.

Not that it’s all reindeer orgies and snowy mountains of blow. While magic may make Christmas possible, a lot of dirty work happens behind the scenes. A willingness to commit felonies is a non-negotiable part of the Christmas Contract.

No, no one hid the ugly parts. The syndicate is selective, only recruiting those with nerves of steel, physical prowess, a flexible moral compass, and the ability to believe. They don’t even approach you unless they think you’ll be up to snuff.

But the part they didn’t disclose was the paperwork.

Paperwork I’m stuck doing on a Friday night. It’s just like the song, except there’s nothing merry about making a list and checking it twice. Well, technically,twolists. But the Naughty List can be delegated to any ambitious elf. The carols and storybooks gloss over this, but Christmas elves are sadistic fucks.

The Nice List is trickier. The Christmas Contract stipulates that it can only be prepared by the big guy, the Man in Red. In other words, the current Santa Claus.

My first inkling that reaching the top of the syndicate’s food chain might not have been my brightest idea came too late—the first time I had to make that list. Because the problem with the Nice List is that it’s fundamentally unfair.

It has to be.

Even the syndicate doesn’t have unlimited resources. There simply aren’t enough elves and reindeer to bring Christmas miracles toeverygood boy and girl, so selecting the correct children is crucial. Reward the right child, and the returns are exponential.

The pressure is intense. It’s why I’ve been poring over the list all day, getting more and more pissed off. So much fucking sadness, so many deserving kids I’ll have to deny.

After spending hours narrowing down my top picks, the temptation to call it a night is strong. Yet the more lead time the workshop has, the more impressive Christmas will be. And these kids deserve an impressive Christmas, even if they won’t all get one.

Frowning, I scrutinize the feed of little Penelope one last time, then close her square. Her cancer diagnosis means this is likely her last Christmas. I’d hoped to include her anyway, but there are simply too many worthy children this year.

Take Kaden. A new puppy will help restore his faith in Santa. But the cherry on top will be what, or ratherwho, we remove from his holiday this year. I make a note to have Merryn cross-check the Naughty List and add his mom’s boyfriend if he’s not on there already.

But I feel like more of a bastard with every child I deny. It’s all so fucking unfair. There are simply too many good boys and girls.

And, yeah, believers are mostly children. Those who hang on through adolescence, the syndicate recruits, usually. And the ones who aren’t ruthless enough, well… either their belief fades soon enough, or they’re dismissed as crazy.

Hell, many of themareinsane—but their belief in me isn’t what makes them crazy. Like I said, it’s a sick, sad world. It’s no wonder some people snap.

Yet as I stare at the nearly empty surveillance grid, I come across a square that makes me question whetherI’mthe one who’s crazy. Fuck, maybe I’ve finally snapped from the sleep deprivation. Rubbing my burning eyes, I enlarge the square.

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