Page 41 of Unholy Night
I was gentle last time, but now… now I just want to ravage her, holding nothing back. Of course this is not the time or the place, so I will use just my lips to communicate my desires.
I claim her mouth deeply, with abandon, pulling her against my chest as I do. She sucks in her breath, and I still, waiting for any sign that she doesn’t want this.
With her exhale, she scoots her body closer to mine. Winding her hand around my neck, her fingers digging into my hair, Lyla explores my mouth with her tongue. I lose myself in this kiss, in her, in this moment.
And then the elf be damned Nice List starts vibrating.
There’s so much more I want to say, to do, to feel, but we have arrived at the final house on the list. Lyla and I peel ourselves away from each other, adjusting our clothing as we do, and I assess our location. It’s a small cottage on the edge of a quaint town. It could have been charming once, but time and disrepair have given it a rundown, almost abandoned look.
Lyla looks back at Mandy. “Maybe I should stay here with her while you do this one alone. I don’t want to wake her.”
I can’t argue with a mother’s love, but Mandy spares me the need to even try when she jolts awake. “I’m up. I’m up!” she says a bit frantically, looking around and trying to pretend like she’s been awake the whole time.
“Hey, bunny,” Lyla says, leaning over the seat to be closer to her child. “You’re sleepy. Do you want to skip this one and rest?”
“No way!” she shouts, startling Gurch awake, who was slumbering on her shoulder. He’s certainly worming his way into their hearts, I notice. Maybe he’s following my example and making memories of his own to cherish.
Lyla laughs. “Alright then. Let’s go. This is the last one!”
That’s my cue. With a flick of my wrist, I produce the black smoke that will spirit us from the sleigh to the living room in a flash.
It feels much like walking through a gust of warm air and then poof, we are standing in the humble living room of one Chuck Bergstein and Mona Miller-Bergstein, parents to Sara Miller-Bergstein, age eight, precocious but kind, loves science sets--the more explosive the better.
Santa St. Dick’s notes were thorough, I’ll give him that.
The tree is in the north-west corner of the room, strewn with simple, hand-made decorations. No lights. There’s one present under the tree. For Sara, no doubt. Nothing for her parents. The cottage smells of worry and regret. Too little food and too much stress.
Even Lyla and Mandy appear more somber, as if they too can sense what I do. And maybe they can. After all, they know what this feels like better than some.
I set the bag of gifts down, and Mandy opens it, revealing one elegant gift wrapped in shiny ribbon.
She looks under the tree and frowns. “The mommy and daddy need gifts too,” she says softly as she places the gift gently by the other.
I frown. “I don’t think that’s how it works. The bag only gives one gift per child.”
Mandy sticks her lower lip out in a pout. “No wonder grown ups stop believing in magic. Magic stopped believing in them first!”
Lyla shrugs, her gaze locked on mine. “She has a point.”
I know she does. That's what’s so irritating.
“It’s not my magic,” I say. “The Jolly Red Sausage is responsible for this. His magic, his rules. There are no more gifts.”
“What if I give up mine?” Mandy whispers. “For two years, I give up my right to a gift so this little girl’s mommy and daddy can have one too. Wouldn’t that make it fair?”
“Oh Mandy,” Lyla says, kneeling down to face her daughter. “That’s so kind and generous of you, bunny. You have such a big heart. I’m very proud of you. Even if we can’t change the magical rules, what you just did was brave and good.”
Mandy smiles sadly and hugs Lyla around the neck.
But of course, I can’t tell this little girl no, when she’s willing to give up her own gifts for others. Plus, she has a valid point. Why shouldn't the adults still have some magic in their lives? No wonder the magic of this world is dying. We’ve been stealing it from them all along.
The Council will be very interested to hear this.
I snap my finger and a contract appears in my hands. I hold out a pen to Mandy, but Lyla grabs my arm. “She is not using that pen!” Her voice is stern, alarmed.
“It is not the same pen. It has perfectly normal ink.”
“You cannot legally enforce a contract with a child,” she hisses, eyes wild.