Page 1 of Ms. Claus's List

Chapter One

“Iwant cock for Christmas.”

Donna, my cute little blonde elf PA, regarded me for a moment over her rhinestone reading glasses before scribbling madly on her clipboard. “Oh, the girls are really going to get their partridges in a pear tree over this one.”

I sniffed a laugh. “Nah. I heard Olga in shipping is single again.”

“Good point,” Donna agreed. “She’s been licking stamps for fifty years. She’ll have those maids a-milking in no time.”

I laughed again and spun around to face the vanity mirror. “True dat.”

Donna set her clipboard down beside my makeup case and picked up a hairbrush, running it through my long, white-blonde hair. I let out a dreamy sigh as her magic hands went to work, coiffing me for the big night.

Christmas Eve.

My favorite night of the year. And not for the reason one might think.

Most of the world assumed ensuring all the little kids got every blasted thing on their Christmas lists was what those of us in the great white north lived for. I suppose if folksreallyknew what went on at the North Pole behind the scenes, our whole operation might lose a little bit of the Christmas spirit. Sure, we’re all about the kids 24/7/364. But on one glorious day a year, when Santa takes his prize thoroughbred reindeer around the world, those who stay behind at the workshop spread our own kinda Christmas cheer. It’s the one night I get to be the top dog, queen for a day.

I am Ms. Claus.

Note the Ms. not the Mrs.?

It’s not a typo. I’m not sure how the stories got told that we were married, but there’s no changing it now. Actually, if one wanted to get technical, I would be Lady Frieda Claus and Lord Nikolas Claus would be my twin brother. The whole Santa title came from the Christians making him a saint of sorts. Don’t even get me started. Really? A saint? My brother?

Gimme a break.

You should’ve seen the fuck-fest parties he used to throw before modern society and religion ruined our fine pagan celebration and made it a family-friendly-G-rated-Bing-Crosby-happy-time. Ahhh, Saturnalia, the drinking and fornicating. Those were the good old days. Now we have to keep up the appearances, so we won’t lose our corporate sponsors. Believe me, running the North Pole ain’t cheap. And I suppose if we had to come up with some way to kill our eternity, making toys for a bunch of brats—er... kids, seemed as good as any.

Nicky—he hates it when I call him that—and I are the half-human grandchildren of the Nordic goddess Freyja, one of the Vanir, a group of gods associated with fertility, wisdom, and the ability to see the future. She rules Fólkvangr, the meadow where half of those that die in combat go upon death. The other half go to the more well-known Valhalla with Odin.

Our father, an Iclandicskáld, or chieftain, by the name of Claus the Benevolent—see where I’m going with this?—knocked up one of Freyja’s goddess daughters. We’ve never been told which one, but we came out in a matched set: tall, thin, blond, and pale as a couple of Ljósálfar. Raised by our human father, we outlived him by centuries, and now Nick and I only have each other. See, as demigods, our human blood prevents us from entering Valhalla or Fólkvangr to live with our Nordic god relatives, yet our god-blood, which makes us immortal, means we can’t die...the only ticket into the otherworld.

So we must stay in Midgard, the place humans call Earth. This lonely conundrum our grandmother fixed quite nicely by bartering a deal with the Ljósálfar and Dökkálfar—Light and Dark Elves—to always provide us with a willing supply of companions and workers for Nick’s toy-making. These elves are not exactly the tiny, cute imps with high-pitched voices, curly shoes, and rosy cheeks one might find on holiday cards or funneling children to sit on Santa’s lap at the local mall.

The swarthy, dark-skinned Dökkálfar reside in cities tunneled beneath the earth, and exude raw sex and strength, their power tempered by unwavering loyalty and honesty. The fair and lithe Ljósálfar, who come from the elven world Álfheimr up in the sky, bring to mind the sweet innocence of a hottie-next-door. The two nations aren’t caught up in some great battle of good versus evil like one might conjecture from their names. We make toys, for Christ’s sake—now that’s funny—not war. We leave war to our Nordic brethren, wherever they are, smashing and pillaging in the afterlife.

Donna began the checklist for the night as she worked on my hair. “The sixty-nine kegs of ale are ready to go.”

“Mead?” I asked.

“Sixty-nine barrels, per your request. And I made sure the reindeer didn’t get into it.”

I sniffed in disgust. Stupid reindeer. I hated those things. “Rum?”

“Already in the eggnog.”

“Decorations?”

“Scheduled to be dropped the moment the comet trail is out of the sky. I think you’ll be especially pleased with them this year.” She wriggled with anticipation. “The pageant should go off without a hitch, too.”

“Good. How much longer till he takes off?” I asked as she effortlessly twirled my hair into gorgeous ringlets, the sparkle of her magic tickling my skin the way a warm blanket sometimes crackles fresh from the dryer. I wanted to get on with the true meaning of Christmas...and believe me there were no angels getting their wings atmyparty. They might fly, but it sure as hell wouldn’t be because of wings.

“Less than thirty minutes,” she answered after a quick glance at her elf-made wristwatch.

A shimmer of excitement made my feet dance. I could hardly contain my giddiness. I lived for tonight. And so did the elves. “Well, we better hurry. I don’t wanna miss a second.”

Donna finished my hair and I slipped into a skimpy red velvet outfit, making sure I put on a long, white polar bear coat to hide it. Wouldn’t do to let the bro see me looking like the slut I planned to be tonight. Thank the gods he’d never thought to put in security cameras.

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