Playing St Nick

Shaded Whisperings: Playing St. Nick by J.L. Foster

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Shaded Whisperings: Playing St. Nick by J.L. Foster

Shaded Whisperings: Playing St. Nick Copyright © December 2007, J.L Foster Cover art by J.L Foster© December 2007 Amira Press Baltimore, MD 21216 www.amirapress.com ISBN: 978-1-934475-32-4 No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Amira Press.

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Shaded Whisperings: Playing St. Nick by J.L. Foster

Dedication Dedicated to the memory of Ira Levin, one of the greatest novelists of all time and one of my heroes. Ira Marvin Levin—August 27, 1929 to November 12, 2007 May you live forever.

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Chapter One November, Europe, 1492 "Ye best watch out for icy patches," young Graedal Smit warned his smaller sister. "It be cold, but yon ice be thin." "Aye," she agreed softly, holding onto her brother's hand and staring all around her at the falling snow and the patches that glistened from the dead branches of the surrounding trees. Her eyes were everywhere but where they needed to be—below, at her feet. It was nearing dark and the children had been lost in the woods outside of their village for hours. It had been their stepmother's idea to have a picnic near the woods in the dead of winter, and neither she nor the children's father had attended the event. They had, instead, sent a servant along with the siblings, who escorted them in a horse-driven carriage to the edge of the village, where he instructed them to pick a spot for the picnic while he tended to the horse. The children had not been thirty meters away before the carriage suddenly rode off in a frenzy—abandoning them in the cold, bitter woods. "Fine then," Graedal had protested, waving his ten year old fist in the air and stomping his foot into the thick of the snow. "Ye can leave us here if ye wish! We don' need ye!" "We don'?" eight year old Estella asked as she shivered against the cold. 5

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"Bloody no!" her brother had cried. "Man done survived in this wilderness for centuries without servants or parents. We don' need no one! Come on!" Four hours ago, Graedal Smit had taken his sister's hand and led her into the cold, mysterious Exile Wood and he had not let go once. The further they walked, the deeper into the woods they became. Soon, the sun had set completely and darkness befell the woods around them. All was silent. A frosted blanket of winter had quieted most creatures into a restful and long hibernation. Aside from fear of wolves, Graedal felt that he and his sister were relatively safe. Yet, there was no food for them to eat on this night. In the servant's hurry to rush them from the carriage, Graedal and Estella had forgotten to take the basket of food that the family cook had prepared for them. There was no vegetation around them to be eaten either. The ice and snow had killed away all greener until spring. "I be hungry, Graedal," Estella complained as they safely crossed the frozen creek and stepped back onto secure ground. "Aye, yer hungry," he agreed knowingly. "I be hungry too, sister, but we have a long way left to travel before we find us a bit to eat again." "Why do yon villagers refer this wood as Exile Wood?" the sister asked, changing the conversation away from the talk of food. Perhaps it would help her stomach not feel so empty. "Ye be too young to understand, Estie," Graedal laughed, chuckling off the question without a second thought. Much to 6

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his discomfort however, his sister was now more curious than before. "Tell me, Graedal," she pleaded with sad eyes and pouting lips. "Please, oh, please tell me. After all, we be stuck out in the woods. We should talk about things of interest!" "Ye be too curious for yer own good," he grunted as he rolled his eyes at her. Still, he had to admit to himself that it was an excellent story and one he had enjoyed discussing with his mates many times before. Perhaps his sister had come of an age where he could tell her the tale—and truly make it enjoyable. "But alright," he grinned, tightening the grip of his hand around hers as they walked. "If ye really wanna know, then I'll bloody tell ye." The excitement in Estella's face was evident, but her grip on her brother's hand was fierce. Graedal had never known his sister to be so strong. It felt as if her nails were digging into his flesh, and perhaps they were. He stayed silent for a moment, wondering if the absence of words would build more anticipation for his story, but the pain being inflicted into his hand was enough to finally bring the story to his lips. "Aye, lass, it began some time ago, with pillagers and murderers, thieves and rapists." Glancing down, he could tell that Estella did not understand the meanings of all of the words that he spoke of, but she took them in with the knowledge that they were important to the story. "These evil fools were ruining the village, an' so they had to be stopped. One by one, they were captured by the villagers and beaten with stones and sticks in the center of town. When they were so bloody and so weak that they could hardly move or 7

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breathe, they was taken by the villagers and tossed into the wood. None of the crooked souls could survive the wood in the condition that they was left here, and none of 'em ever returned or was seen from again." "Do ... do ye think they still be out here," Estella asked with a lump in her throat. She tightened her grip on her brother's hand even more and stared around her at the wintry, black as night Exile Wood. "Nay," Graedal chortled humorously. "They was all eaten by wolves an' the like, I be sure. Although—" "Although what?" she asked, coming to a dead stop and refusing to budge further until her curiosities were settled. "There was this one man—a horrible man—worst than any of the others. They say that he was pure evil with not a lick of good in his heart or soul." He smiled a bit as he saw a flash of terror sparkle in his sister's eyes. "His name was Nicholas Von Barron, an' his hobby was killin' children." Estella's eyes grew with panic and she took a quick step backwards, afraid of her brother's next words. "For weeks, one by one, the children of the village began to disappear. At first, it was worried that they had wondered too close to the woods, an' that the wolves had been eatin' them. After several weeks of this, they learned that it wasn't no beast—not in the typical sense anyway. It had been a man—a hermit who had lived on the outskirts of the village, killin' all those children. Some say he would eat them. Others say he just tortured 'em an' fed 'em to the wolves."

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Estella was paler than Graedal had ever seen, and she was trembled while she watched him. Graedal knew that she was not trembling from the cold. She was trembling from his tale. "Nicholas was revealed when he attacked a group of children wanderin' throughout the village streets at a late hour one winter's night—cold like this 'un be. There had been five children. Two of 'em managed to escape an' tell ever'one 'bout Nicholas an' his ways. The other three, well—they weren't never seen again. "The villagers hunted down Nicholas Von Barron, decidin' that he was worthy of the worst beating of all—death, even. They dragged him from his home an' to the village square, where they tied him to a stake surrounded by straw. Aye, but the villagers were rampant. They each wanted a piece of the child killer, but t'was the village priest who took the first step toward the murderer's doom. Takin' a torch from a peasant's hand, he lit the straw aflame, ignitin' a bright light o'er all the village. But when the fire reached Nicholas, the flames dwindled out. Many blame the cold winds of the winter, but some claim that Nicholas was unearthly an' that he used magic to calm the flames." Estella was rendered speechless. Quietly, she remembered dreams that she had envisioned recently during her bedtime slumbers. She could plainly see the face—pale and round, covered in a thick, white beard and mustache. He wore a woolen red hat atop his head, and now she was more certain than she had been in her dreams that the hat was red because it was stained with blood—the blood of children. His 9

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eyes were cold and blue like ice, and his mouth opened to a pit of blackness as he laughed with the pitch of the devil. He had merely frightened her in her nightmares, but now Nicholas scared her more than she could have imagined. Now, she knew this nightmare man was real. "They beat him with the heaviest stones they could lift," Graedal continued. "They clobbered him with large branches an' even cut into his flesh with rusty blades. The story has it he fell unconscious from the pain an' was led to an abandoned in Exile Wood. They left him for dead like all the others, but this time the killings did not cease. Ever' time a child wandered too close to the woods, they were never seen again." "But—we be lost in Exile Wood now, brother." Estella spoke for the first time since Graedal's mention of Nicholas Von Barron. "Aye," he snickered, clenching tightly to her hand and leading her deeper into the black, cold woods. "But I be here with ye, an' I shall defend ye with all me life!" His heroic stance and tone of voice made Estella giggle, and for the moment, she forgot her fears of Nicholas, the child killer of Exile Wood. "We haven't much to worry about, I assure ye," Graedal continued. "We'll be safely out of these woods an' into the next village by morn at the latest." "I sure hope ye be right," Estella commented weakly. "Me stomach be speakin' again." "Tell it to be patient. That's what I be doing with mine." 10

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Now silent, they wandered deeper into the thick of the woods, taking little notice to the changes around them. The snow fell heavier here. The ice spread wider. The trees took on lives of their own, even though it was assumed that they were dead. They were taller and thicker than the trees at the edge of Exile Wood had been, and they were of a different breed as well. These were evergreens—dead, dried, and left for the insects of the world to feast upon. Yet, as the trees had died, they had not rotted. They still stood tall and mighty with snow covering areas that should have held vibrant, green needles. Estella suddenly became aware of her surroundings when, from somewhere deeper into the woods, a dim light shone in the distance. "Look," she whispered, bewildered. "We must be nearin' a village. There be a cottage just up the way." "Maybe the blokes have food," Graedal snorted hungrily. As the pace of the children quickened, they felt the cool breeze pass them by. The cottage was maybe a hundred meters or so away, and they could smell the shelter. Then the children came to an abrupt stop, hearing the distinct sound of a branch snapping from somewhere behind them. This was not the first time they had heard this sound since journeying into the woods, but this was the first time it had alerted them. Before, it had sounded like nothing more than snow falling from branches onto the ground or icy patches crackling in the cold. This time the noise had been more distinct and sounded like someone stepping on and breaking a twig as they walked. 11

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Turning around, the children stared into the black, snowy wonderland. "Who be it?" Graedal called out—his voice no more than a shaded whispering over the sudden howl of the wind. "I don't think anyone is there," Estella commented as she tried to see through the black and white array of night. "Perhaps ye be right," her brother agreed with hesitation. "Yon night be playin' tricks on the ears, lass. Nothing more perhaps." "Perhaps," she whispered. Turning their backs to the abrupt but seemingly harmless sound and the darkness that accompanied it, the children again faced the distant, blurry yellow light. With each step they took, the light grew greater and more vibrant until they finally noticed that it was not a single light but a cluster of colored lights put together. They saw the green and yellow colors first, and then the blue and red came into clear view. It was the first time that either of them had seen colored lights, and neither had ever known a light to come from anything but a flame. They wondered exactly what kind of flame this was. "I cannot believe it be real," Estella sighed in amazement as they neared the multi-colored light and the cottage that barely contained it. The cottage, actually, was a mixture of ice, snow, and wood, transformed into a sort of fairy tale wonderland home. When it came into clear view, neither child had ever seen anything quite like it. The snow sat atop the cottage in a roof-like fashion, but it appeared more like a sturdy white cloud or fresh cream turned solid. This same 12

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appearance of snow appeared on each of the window ledges and above the arched door. The wood of the house was light brown in color. Icicles hung above the door and each window, even holding strong to the lining of the snow-impacted roof. All in all, the cottage was bright, intriguing, and an inviting escape from the cold. "I'll race ye to it," Graedal challenged, releasing his hand from his sister's for the first time in hours and taking off over the snow-covered ground. "That's no fair!" his sister pleaded as she chased after him, finding it difficult to maneuver through the snow at a decent pace. "Ye be bigger than me!" When she finally caught up with him, he was at a standstill. Together, they stood before the cottage, staring through the window at the magnificent multi-colored light that glowed from the center of the room. From what they could see, there was no source to the light—no flame to ignite it and no object touching it in any way. It simply hovered there, like magic. The longer they stared at it, the more they found that they could stare through it, and it dazzled them with the mesmerizing colors of the rainbow. "It cannot be real," Graedal insisted, turning from the window and rushing over to the door. As he placed his hand on the knob, he stopped at the touch of his sister. "Don' ye think we should knock first?" she asked, finding it important to remember her manners when visiting a stranger's cottage.

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"If no one be home, we could be out here forever," he griped back, brushing away her thoughts of mannerisms and pushing open the door. Inside was just as cold as out. In fact, the term cold barely described it. The cottage felt more like a hell—a cold, icy hell. Both children shivered instantly as if they had just stepped outside from within a warm, comforting shelter—not the opposite that had occurred. Looking down, they saw that the floor was, in fact, made of ice and it was as blue as a summer sky. The walls were still wooden, just as they had appeared outside, but as Graedal looked up, he saw that the roof actually was formed of pure snow. "This be horrible," Estella murmured as she tried to still her trembling body. "It be worse than outside." "No one can live here," her brother acknowledged through a chattering jaw. "No one could survive." "What about the light?" "Who cares about the light? We best go or we'll just make ourselves later getting to another village." Silently, Estella agreed. As they hurried back outside, she did so more quietly than she had ever done anything before. Her mind was suddenly plagued with questions—questions not involving finding a neighboring village. She was curious as to why her father and stepmother had abandoned them in the woods ... possibly to die. Had their new stepmother hated them so much that she would have rather seen them suffer than to have seen them at all? It had only been five months since the death of their mother, and they had not imagined their father would have 14

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remarried so quickly. But their new stepmother had appeared humble and warm at first, and for all that Estella could remember, the siblings had not angered the woman once. Outside, Graedal shut the heavy door and once again took his sister's hand. It definitely felt warmer outside than inside, but that would not help them survive the night. They had to continue walking. "We shall go around the cottage," he instructed as they moved, "and once we're behind it, we should find a path to a village. Whoever made this cottage must have gotten to and fro it somehow." "Let us hurry," Estella pleaded. At the front left corner of the cottage, Graedal began to steer to his right to turn. There, he froze with deathly fright. As Estella came around to her brother's side, she joined him in the overwhelming fear. At that moment, the siblings learned that the myths of Exile Wood and of Nicholas Von Barron were more than mere stories made up to frighten young children. They were, in fact, true. Halfway between the children and the back of the cottage stood one of the tallest, plumpest men that they had ever seen. He looked exactly like he had in Estella's dreams, only now she could see his full frame. He stood well over six feet high and was as round as he was tall. His mighty frame was embraced in a long reddish brown coat made from animal skin that covered him from his wide shoulders to the black of his feet. His beard was even fuller than it had been in the dreams, and its locks curled and entangled with one another 15

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from years of no grooming. His eyes were just as cold as she remembered—blue like ice—and his skin was pale and bitter. Nicholas smiled widely for the children, but his smile was empty and filled with blackness, although a fang or three could be seen here and there. Atop his head, he wore the same blood-stained cap that he'd donned in Estella's dreams, and coming face-to-face with her nightmare man now rendered the child speechless. "This cannot be real," Graedal mumbled, but his voice was raw and hoarse, and barely a word drifted out. "Aye, but I am," Nicholas replied in a demonic voice, as black as the pit it came from. "Just as I have always been." Finally, from somewhere deep inside of Estella, she found her voice, and with it, she forced the most deafening scream she had ever ignited. It sounded loudly into the night, forcing itself high through the trees and hills and shaking the snow from the branches onto the ground. Then, from behind the children, somewhere from within the thicket of dead evergreens and darkness, a voice sounded into the night. "Yon children have found the beast! They found Nicholas!" Torches ignited in multitudes, and from behind every tree and mountain of snow, a militant troop of villagers appeared—armed and angry. "Attack!" cried one as he rushed to the front of the pack. "Kill the beast! Kill Nicholas!" "Kill Nicholas!" others shouted as they joined in. "Kill Nicholas!" 16

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"Run, Estella," Graedal demanded of his sister as he released her hand and pushed her toward the crowd of rescuers. As he, himself, turned to follow her, he felt the cold, strong hand of Nicholas Von Barron clench his arm and pull him back. Estella turned back in time to see her brother crystallize at the mighty beast's touch and instantly form into a human ice sculpture. Nicholas's touch had claimed him. "Graedal!" she cried, attempting to run to her frozen brother's side but being pulled back by a slender but sturdy hand. Looking up, she stared into her stepmother's drawn, saddened eyes. "I'm sorry, my child," the woman said softly and pulled her stepdaughter to her in a warm embrace. "More children have been disappearin'. We had to find the beast. It was the only way any of us knew how." Lifting her eyes, she watched as the crowd chased after Nicholas, who had swiftly retreated into the thick of the woods. Through the rampage of people, she could see the large, chiseled block of ice that was her stepson. "This never was supposed to have happened." Nicholas ran with a speed unknown to any man. He barely needed to breathe as he pushed through tree after tree, limb after limb, leaving those who searched after him in his snowfilled dust. Yet, the villagers did not seem to be just behind him. He could hear them all around. From his left, one began to rush up to his side—a young man of maybe twenty-five. In the youth's hand, he held a sturdy ax, ready to swing it and end Nicholas's reign of terror once and for all. Gaining speed, the young man came into close range of his target, but 17

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Nicholas was well aware that he was there. As the man lifted his arm to swing the ax, Nicholas turned toward him and opened his mouth, breathing crystallized air into his face. Upon contact with the air, the man transformed into a solid sculpture of ice—just as Graedal had when touched by the beast. A moment later, two more villagers met their fates—one by touch and one by breath. Soon, Exile Wood began to fill with human ice sculptures—those who had been determined to seal Nicholas's doom. Stopping suddenly, he turned behind him and could see that the villagers were more than persistent and still on his tracks. He could hear them screaming through the night— shrieking in terror at each sculpted friend and family member that they stumbled upon during their search. As the flames of their torches began to grow nearer, Nicholas turned away and hurried once again through the thick, black woods. He knew Exile Wood better than any of the villagers trailing him, and he knew that if he continued in the direction that he traveled, he would enter into a dockside village and find a safe harbor to hide in. The lights of the village began to blur into view, and with them his pace quickened to heavier steps. Grunting with eagerness, Nicholas forced himself through the thicket of trees and into a sudden clearing, lit by roadside torches and a full moon above. From here, he could see the water of the sea and took note of the ships that lined the dock. From behind, the sounds and lights of the pack of villagers grew louder and closer and Nicholas found his feet moving 18

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once again. With swiftness, he crossed toward the docks and the cottages and businesses that lined them. There, he ducked into the shadows as voices filled his ears. "Please, Michael, promise ye will not leave me," the feminine voice pleaded delicately from within a cottage near him. "Ah, ye know I cannot promise that," replied a male— determined and honest. "I must meet up with Columbus's ship an' bring yonder supplies an' food, or else they will surely starve." "How many men have ye going with ye?" "There be three of us—meself, me mate, an' a cook. T'is all we need, lassie." "But there will be storms—terrifyin' winter storms with ice an' snow an' sleet an'—" "T'is enough, Margaret," he pleaded warmly. "Me mates an' I'll be just fine. We've sailed this course before. It's smoother than yer own wee bottom." Nicholas had heard all that he needed to know. Glancing at the ships lining the dock, he saw one that was ready and awaiting sail. The cargo visible on board let him know that this was the ship that the man in the cabin would be sailing. This ship was Nicholas Von Barron's escape from Exile Wood and from the villagers that hunted him. "What time will ye set sail?" he heard the female ask with a drawn, defeated voice. "Me mates will be here before sunrise. Three hours tops." "That gives us plenty of time." "For what?" 19

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"For this." Nicholas did not need to look inside to know what the woman meant or to know what they were now in the process of doing. They were making more children for him to eat. In the distance, the screams and threatening chants of the villagers drew closer, and Nicholas pulled out of the shadows of the cottages and onto the wooden deck of the dock. There, he rushed over to the ship that would sail away in just a few hours, and in complete silence, he climbed aboard. He breathed deeply, releasing crystallized air as he searched for a place to hide. "Stepmother," Estella asked as she stared at the ice sculpture, also known as her brother. "What will happen to Graedal once spring arrives?" Squatting down to her stepdaughter's level, she took her by the shoulders and turned her to face her. "Most certainly ... he will melt."

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Chapter Two It was one hundred and seventy-three hours before the ship met up with Columbus's own vessel. The hour was late and it was as black outside as it was cold. The two ships met side by side, and by means of a rowboat, the supplies were transferred to where they were most needed. There were several crates that were much too large to be carried over by the rowboat, and so they were chained and dragged from one ship to the other, pulled up and hoisted aboard Columbus's craft. Within one of these overtly large crates was Nicholas Von Barron. "Take food supplies to the chef's quarters," Columbus instructed with pleasure. He had been certain that the storms would have postponed the arrival of their much-needed supplies, but the vessel had arrived in almost perfect time. "Anything else put in the storage room." Turning to Michael Wilder, the captain of his saving ship, he asked, "Ye an' yer men will be joinin' us in a feast, correct, Captain?" "It would be an honor to dine with such a voyager as ye," he commented proudly, recognizing the importance of the invitation. Michael had only been a captain for a few months, and to have received orders from the King to tend to Columbus's crises had been his highest honor. "Also, yon sky promises problems for the new day. Our vessel is much larger than yer ship. Perhaps anchor it down until the storms pass. Ye an' yer men can seek refuge in our chambers an' freshen up a bit after yer rough voyage here." 21

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"The storms weren't that bad," Michael pointed out, but with a grand grin, he added, "but we could use a bit o' rest, I believe. An' there only be one cabin in me ship. Me mate's snore louder than a hog durin' its feedin' time." Columbus laughed merrily at this comment, able to imagine exactly what Michael meant. He, too, had a crew of loud ruffians. "Come, me friend. There be red wine awaitin' us in me cabin. There, we can drink an' talk more." "I be certain ye have some high sea tales that ye be itchin' to share," Michael chuckled as they crossed over the large deck of the ship. "Ye will not believe some of the tales I could share," he remarked pleasurably. "I've seen things that would scare yon boots right off o' yer feet." "I don' know 'bout that, Cap'n," Michael sneered with selfconfidence. "I be a hard lad to scare." "There be things in this sea that scare even me," Columbus remarked as he opened the door to his cabin, "an' I've been on the waters much longer than ye. Ye'd be amazed at what creatures lie just outside this door." And with that remark, he closed the cabin door. Columbus's cabin was much larger and more elaborate than any cabin Michael had ever seen on any ship that he'd sailed. The room was nearly the size of his own ship's entire deck, and it was equipped with everything from a mirrored bathing chamber to a bed large enough to fit eight sturdy men. There was more gold in the room than Michael had ever been witness to. Nearly every railing and trim was lined in it. The bed was dressed in the most flamboyant colors and 22

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fabrics in the known world, and they appeared soft and delicate to the touch. Just down from the bed was the dressing chamber—large and luxurious, filled with more clothes than any man would need on one voyage. There were mirrors here too, and even places to sit if needed. Directly across from the bed was a comfortable conversation area with a table between two grand chairs. On the table sat a bottle of red wine and two steel goblets. Columbus ushered Michael to the first of the chairs and sat opposite him where he began to pour the wine. "So, tell me, young Michael. What made ye decide on a life at sea?" "Me father was a sailor," the youthful captain replied swiftly. "It was his whole life." "So ye made it yer whole life too? Ain' ye got a lass at home?" "Aye," he nodded as he sipped the cool, refreshing wine. "She wished me to stay this trip, but ye needed the supplies an', if I dare be so frank, this be the opportunity of a lifetime. I was contacted by the King's men. The King!" Columbus could not help but laugh at Michael's enthusiasm over the mention of royalty. The fame aspect of royal influence had faded from the elder captain's being long ago and such things no longer phased him. It was refreshing to see a lad so impressed with something he obviously understood so little about. "Aye, the King," he responded, nodding his head softly. "He be a fine man—true to the Spanish people. An' I thank ye 23

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for takin' the job. But ye best treat yer life with warnin'. Yer lass will surely grow tired of sitting alone while yer off at sea." "I been fearin' that for weeks now," Michael agreed humbly. "There be nothin' I want more than to be at home with her. But this be my job." "Be there no work in your village?" Michael fell silent now. The wise seaman had struck a nerve deep in his core. Margaret, his lass, had said the very same thing to him many a time. And there were, in fact, many places in his village where he could seek work—should he wish to give up his life of sea-faring adventure. "So, Lord Columbus—share with me some o' yer adventures. Tell me of these wonders ye swear will scare me so deviously." Columbus grinned silently to himself, knowing that the young captain had purposely changed the subject. Deciding that he would let it go, he began his reply. "Some of the world's greatest terrors live in the water, lad. There be creatures with eight tentacles that could squeeze the life out o' any mere man. There be serpent-like creatures that carry magic in their touch an' can send fire into yer blood an' body. Some o' the monsters can sting ye straight to the devil, if ye be unlucky enough to touch one." "I've battled many o' these creatures before, Captain," Michael announced with a determined smile on his face. "Not one had scared me." "Ye be a brave lad," Columbus spoke crudely. "But make sure ye be not an ignorant one too. It always be best to stay safe than sorry." 24

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"Wise words spoken from a wise man," he whispered gently and drank more from his goblet of wine. A knock from the chamber door interrupted the conversation and Columbus offered permission for the crewman to enter. To the surprise of both captains, it was Michael's first mate. "Cap'n Wilder," he said with an inquisitive voice. "There be a problem wit' the cargo." "What kind of problem?" he asked alarmed. "I think ye best come on down to the ship an' take a gander for yerself." The look in the man's eyes spoke of confused warning. There was a problem, but the man was not quite sure how to explain it. A few moments later, they were back aboard Michael's vessel and in the cargo room of the ship. It appeared empty, just as it had been when they had finished the unloading of Columbus's supplies. "I don' see the problem," he referenced, noticing nothing out of place. "What's wrong?" "This," the crewman stuttered as he crossed over the floor and opened a small wooden door. The cabinet was stuffed with supplies originally packed into one of the cargo crates. "Someone emptied one o' the crates," the first mate explained. It took only a moment for the situation to fully sink into Michael's mind, and with perked eyebrows, he looked to Columbus and announced, "We have a stowaway." 25

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Without delay, the three men rushed back to the rowboat and hurried aboard Columbus's vessel. "Open up every supply crate," the mighty captain ordered his men in a voice filled with worry and rage. "We have a stowaway! Every crate must be opened and checked." "Captain!" cried a voice from below the deck where the storage shelter was. "We have a situation down here!" "Bloody hell," Columbus growled as he led the way through the door, down the stairs, and into the storage room. There, the two captains and their crewmen found everything just as they had left it, with the exception of one large crate that had been savagely ripped apart. "A wild animal?" one of the crewmen asked with uncertainty. "A wild animal couldn't o' unpacked this crate, climbed inside, and sealed himself in," Michael remarked. "This be the work of a stowaway." "But could a stowaway have done this?" one of the men asked. Then, leading the captains' eyes with his, he stared down at the bottom of the crate. A thin sheet of ice glistened coldly. "I want every inch o' this vessel searched," Columbus ordered in a voice high and powerful. "Find the intruder an' bring him to me." Looking about him, he saw his men slowly begin to fall into motion. He knew that they were just as curious as he was about the ice and the stowaway, and he could smell a tinge of fear. Deciding the need to speed them up a bit, he shouted, "That's an order!" 26

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With swiftness, they hustled about, many back to the deck of the ship and many searching all through each and every chambered contained below the deck. Two went down even further, where they investigated the dark regions of the ship's core. Michael and Columbus now stood alone in the storage room, each with a look of curiosity on his face. "I don' understand how a stowaway got aboard me ship," Michael spoke, verbalizing his thoughts. "Me ship was docked right in front o' me cottage. An' all the time we was on the water, we never seen hide nor hair o' trouble." "Most likely, it be someone out to get me, kill me before I spread the wealth of our great heritage. That's why they waited on yer ship an' didn't strike. They were waitin' for me." Captain Christopher Columbus stood tall and proud with this announcement and a glistening look of accomplishment filled his eyes. This was the type of situation that the man thrived on. He feasted on the rippling nerves of adventure. "Who knows what this stowaway expects from the New World, but so help me, he will be taken there as a prisoner." Michael cocked an eyebrow and smiled at the determined leader, wondering exactly how many times the man had dealt with stowaways. Perhaps, if he was lucky enough, he would get to witness someone walking the plank. From the heavens above, a loud rumble of thunder erupted and the two captains swallowed deeply. They had anticipated storms during the day, but neither had expected them so soon. It was barely daylight, and now that would fade away 27

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with the approach of the gray clouds that threatened to fill the sky. "A storm be brewin'," Michael noted and stared into Columbus's deep-set eyes. "It sounds like it's gonna be a mighty one, too." "Aye, it does," he agreed, and in unison, the two retreated back to the top deck of the ship. With their arrival came the arrival of the heavy, cold rain. Darkness once again filled the sky. "The waters be icy an' rampant, Cap'n," Michael's first mate noted as he stared over the ledge of the boat. "Our ship be anchored, but any heavy current will still send it into motion." "Someone has to get down there to man the ship," the young man ordered, patting his friend on the back. "That was me father's ship, mate. Treat her well." "Aye, Cap'n," he said sturdily, saluting his young superior and finding a new purpose in his mission. He not only had to man a ship—he had to man the ship of a legendary sailor. Turning to Columbus, he nodded at the Spaniard before embarking for his own Captain's vessel. "Attention to all hand on deck!" Columbus shouted in his loudest roar, turning to face the seamen who were scattered about searching for the stowaway. "Prepare for the storm! Batten down the hatches! Tighten up the main sails! Hustle, boys. Yon storm waits for no man." "Aye, aye, Captain!" his men cried, immediately falling in place to follow their superior's orders. 28

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"Ye seem to have a way with yer men, Captain Columbus," Michael noted, watching the men—each soaked to the bone— preparing for the impact of the storm as ordered. "Eight o' me men still be missin'," Columbus added, lowering his eyes to the deck. "They must still be searchin' for the stowaway." "Perhaps they have captured him an' be torturin' him?" Michael asked with a hopeful tone of enthusiasm in his voice. "Perhaps, but it be much too quiet below deck. I'm growin' fearful for me men." Michael detected the roughness in Columbus's voice. It was evident that the man had lost crewmen before. The young man knew this was a harsh memory to live with. Michael's father had been lost at sea, aiding a ship in need that was hit by a merciless, sudden hurricane, taking the ship apart. His father's own ship—though much smaller than the large vessel it was aiding—had miraculously survived the storm, albeit without its captain. "Well then," the young captain began, "I suggest that we go below deck an' see what's up." "Fine suggestion, Captain," Columbus smiled, thankful to have another captain by his side. He had begun this voyage with other ships—none of which survived the trip. "In Spain, I shall see that ye be highly rewarded for yer efforts here." "Too kind o' ye, Cap'n." "Let's see what me mates be up to." With a heavy grin, the elder captain led his new accomplice below deck and into a narrow, dark hallway. 29

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Chamber after chamber, they searched to no avail. There were no signs of the stowaway or of the eight missing crewmen. The captains grew weary the further and longer they searched. A terribly—if impossible—thought began to fill their heads, but they knew that it could not have been. Still, it seemed to be the only explanation for the crewmen's absences. "Have—have they vanished?" Michael asked with a doubtful look in his eyes. "Impossible." Columbus sighed and thought heavily over the answer he had just given. "So, if they've not vanished, where be the crewmen?" "What's below this level of the ship, Cap'n?" "A bunch of planks and wood, I imagine," he confessed strongly. "I have crewmen to know that information for me." Below the level of the cabins, Michael and Columbus found themselves faced with even tighter darkness. They could not see each other, much less what was in front of them as they moved forward. They used their hands to guide them and feel for danger as they traveled. Both were filled with hope that when the time came they would be able to find their way back to the door in which they entered. Clumsily, they felt upon various unknowns—some made of wood and some made of solid steel. They were in an equipped area unlike any that Michael had ever been in, and he wished that he could see it. It was no large secret that he was fascinated by the workings of ships of all sorts. His hand edged forward a bit more and his movements came to a halt. A chill encompassed his body, tingling into the 30

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rough of his spine. Whatever he was touching was as smooth and as cold as ice. It was large—almost as tall as he was. Michael continued to run his hand over it, finding the top of it to be smooth and round, the front fondly chiseled. "Ye have ice sculptures on this vessel?" he inquired as he continued to feel around the frozen block. "None that I know of," Columbus snorted absently. "An' if we had, they surely would o' melted by now." "Reach out an' feel." "Oh, me," he whispered with a slight shock. "That be deathly cold." "Aye, it be. Cold as ice." As Columbus continued to smooth his hands over the icy form in front of him, he took a sudden gasp and ceased all movement. His right hand was on what appeared to be an icy arm holding an icy sword. The arm he wasn't so certain of, but the feel of the ice-sculpted sword he recognized immediately. "These be no ice sculptures," he stated thinly, taking a large step back. "These be me crewmen." Deafening thunder roared from the heavens above and mighty currents brutally rocked against the ship. Michael and Columbus were nearly thrown from their feet, but they managed to hold on to the steel poles surrounding them. The human ice sculptures fell victim to the currents however, and Columbus cringed with dread as he listened to eight ice sculptures—his eight crewmen—fall and shatter on the ground. 31

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"Me men..." He breathed heavily, feeling Michael's hand taking him by the arm and leading him in the direction that they had come from. "Somethin' be very wrong here, Cap'n," Michael explained in a quiet rush. "We best check on the rest of the men." Vicious thunder continued to roar throughout the sea as they made their way back to the deck. There, the sounds of the thunder competed with the shouts, screams, and cries of the captains' remaining crewmen. "Bloody fuckin' hell," Columbus whimpered, watching several of his crewmen scatter as they tried to both capture and avoid what he assumed was their stowaway—a tall, round, white bearded man that forced instant fear into the Spaniard's soul. "What in the name of God be it?" Michael stared in disbelief at the image he had only heard of in childhood stories. "That, me Cap'n, be Nicholas Von Barron." It was like watching a weaponless bullfighter in the ring. Each time one of the seamen so much as neared the giant beast, Nicholas would no nothing more than breathe, transforming each into ice sculptures of their former selves. Their weapons proved useless to them. Each was equipped and well-trained with their swords, but in order to use the swords they had to be able to near the beast. Michael watched as one man attempted to throw his sword into the beast and pierce him, but the moment the sword touched the beast it turned to ice and fell to the ground where it shattered into a million tiny fragments. 32

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"There's no stoppin' yon monster," Columbus whispered, watching helplessly as each of his crewmen's tactics proved useless. "Everythin' that touches him turns to ice, an' everythin' he touches doeth the same." "You have cannons on this ship, yes?" Michael asked, attempting his best to form an idea in his head. Currently, only eleven crewmen remained in human form, and they were weakening quickly. The smaller the group got, the stronger and more dangerous Nicholas seemed to become. "Aye, but ye can expect the cannon ball to do just the same as the swords—turn right to ice." "Perhaps, but I be hopin' that the impact will be strong enough to knock him over board an', with any hope, render the beast unconscious." "I'll help ye with the cannon," Columbus said, finding no better solution and in no position to disagree. Due to the threatening rains that continued to plummet down atop them, the cannon seemed nearly impossible to light. Yet, when no more than six crewmen stood alive, the flame ignited and the fuse burned with eager purpose. Both Michael and Columbus took heavy steps back, waiting with dire anticipation. The cannon was their only hope for survival. As the fuse sizzled down to nothing, the captains braced themselves and plugged their ears. The cannon exploded with a horrible bang, firing its heavy ball in the direction aimed— focused on the large, imposing body of Nicholas Von Barron. Wise to the sound of the firing cannon, the remaining seamen scattered across the deck, leaving Nicholas as the only target. The massive beast of a man turned toward the 33

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sound of the explosion and watched with dominating, ice-blue eyes as the ball plummeted into his gut. It formed immediately into a heavy rock of ice but its force held strong for a colossal impact. The trick worked just as Michael had hoped. Having already been positioned near the edge of the deck, Nicholas was sent high into the air, rendered immediately unconscious, and then banished into the icy, torrential waters of the all-mighty sea. All became still for a moment, and even the rain appeared to lighten a bit. The sky calmed and the gray clouds parted, letting the cold air settle. Michael and Columbus stood from their crouched positions and took uneasy steps forward, shortly joined by what remained of the crewmen. No one spoke a single word for quite some time. The experience had rendered each of them into a state of shock. In disbelief and mourning, they lowered their heads to their icy mates— trapped forever in their frozen hells. Edging slowly to the side of the ship, Michael stared down at the cold seawater. His eyes searched desperately for a glimpse of Nicholas Von Barron, but there were no visible signs of him left. The impact of the cannon ball had been strong enough to send him sailing to the bottom of the sea, and he hoped that it had buried him there. "Ye see anything?" Columbus asked, approaching him from the side. "Not a thing." "Nicholas Von Barron, huh? Hellish Saint of Satan be what he was." 34

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"That's almost amusing, Cap'n," Michael whispered, but there was no enthusiasm in his voice. "St. Nicholas. Instead o' eaten children for centuries, he gave them gifts and treats." "Only in myths an' legends could that ever happen," Columbus stated blandly, turning his sights back to his stunned but still living crewmen. "Only in myths and legends."

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Chapter Three December, New York City, Present Day She felt warm in his embrace. To have him inside of her made her feel as if winter had never arrived, and as he suckled on her right nipple, she teased her left one with enthused pleasure. Straddling Dylan, her husband of three years, she panted heavy breaths, each one growing deeper as she quickened her speed against his thrusts. The further his member pressed into her, the more she moaned and edged closer to her climax. "You feel so good, Jasmine," Dylan grunted, buckling hard against his wife's soaked pussy. "You're so fucking tight." "You like that sweet pussy, don't you, big boy?" she questioned him with a ruthless, sex-filled voice. "You like Momma's hot cunt." "Oh, yeah," he moaned, closing his eyes and pressing his head hard against his pillow. His full eight inches were inside of her, and yet he still wanted to go deeper. "Say my name, baby. Say my name." "Jasmine!" he cried, grunting fiercely as he pumped harder in and out of her. "Jasmine! Oh, my fucking god, Jasmine!" "That's right, baby," she charmed, taking on a suddenly sweet tone of voice. "That's right. Show Momma what you're made of."

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"I ... I don't think I can last much longer," he pouted, opening his eyes and smiling as he attempted to slow his strides. "Oh, no you don't," she grunted, climbing up off of him and easing off the bed. Moving over to the dresser, she faced the mirror and placed her hands firmly on the dresser's surface. Looking over her shoulder, she grinned coyly, spread her legs, and pressed her bottom up into the air. Dylan watched it for a moment from his position on the bed. He could see the hole he had just visited between the thick, pink lips of her pussy, and he hungered for it still. Taking his cock in hand, he stood from the bed and edged over to his wife, coming up behind her and dropping down to his knees. There, he began to feast on the warm, plump cunt that tempted him so devilishly. He had learned long ago that when a man went down on his woman, he was fully in charge of the situation. Jasmine melted down onto his mouth, sitting on his face as his tongue delved deeply into her pulsating hole. She cried out with tense excitement, finding that her voice was growing weaker with every lap of Dylan's long, thick tongue. Over the course of their relationship, he had proved himself extremely talented with his tongue, and he was currently giving her a "best of the best" moment. In a fiery instant, he went from tonguing her cunt to suckling on her clit. She whimpered helplessly, pressing her horny pussy as hard against his face as she could. Dylan then began to alternate between the sucking of the clit to the lapping of it with his tongue. The laps were swift and electric, 37

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and each one took strength in bringing Jasmine closer to the brink of her much anticipated orgasm. "Oh, Dylan," she moaned, feeling his tongue explore areas that she had at one time not known existed. Dylan Wylde had been the greatest lover she had ever known, and she had kept him as her own. "You're going to make me cum." His only response was a brief whimper and the quickening of his lapping and suckling of her clitoris. Finally, Jasmine's heavy scream forced itself from her body and she felt herself orgasm into her husband's mouth. He suckled on her sweet fluids for quite some time, relentlessly continuing his torturing of her clit. Then, when he'd had his fill, he climbed back onto his feet and pressed the head of his cock against her wet opening. With a single thrust, he entered her from behind, filling her with his thick manhood. His strides were fast and long, pumping into her with strong, trembling emotion. It was not long at all before he felt the goosebumps rise to his skin, the lightning shriek through his body, and the intensity of the orgasm arriving at the head of his cock. Gazing into the mirror before him, he stared into his wife's eyes, which stared back into his with a lusty look, pleading for him to fill her with his seed. "I'm cumming baby," he groaned, collapsing onto her back and pulling her hips hard against his pelvis. "Fill me, Dylan," she pleaded, buckling her pussy hard against him and clenching her muscles to squeeze every last drop out of him. He panted hard and heavy, shooting what he currently thought was his largest load ever inside of the woman that he 38

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loved more than life itself. When the last pellet trickled out into her, he stayed inside of her, holding her beneath him and passionately kissing her neck and ear. "It's been so long, Dylan," Jasmine panted breathlessly, gazing through the mirror into the eyes of her husband. "We made love just last night," he grinned curiously. "Like I said, it's been so long." Now, they laughed a bit and Dylan leaned upright, slipping out of her and knowing his seed was doing the same. Glancing to the floor, he watched a couple of drops land on the carpet and made a mental note to clean them up later. He stretched as he walked back to the bed and sat, patting the mattress beside him for his wife to join him. With a pleasant smile, she moved toward him, kissed him lovingly on the lips, and took the place where his hand had offered. "I suppose you have to work tonight," she sighed, gazing into his deep hazel eyes. "You know I can't miss even a single day, Jasmine, but there's nothing I'd love more than to stay right here with you all day and night long." "Still ... there is something, well, strange about working as a store Santa." Her eyes crossed down to the floor as she blinked. "Look," he pleaded, placing his warm fingers against her chin and lifting her eyes back to his. "I've been out of work for months now. Every interview I've had since the company closed has been a bust. I'm lucky to have gotten this job." "But they don't even give you the department store discount. You could do so much better than this." 39

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"But I haven't." His words were flat and needed nothing more to emphasize their meaning. Dylan Wylde had, ever so briefly, been the vice president of an up-and-coming technology corporation, specializing in antivirus software. For two years, ScanTronics flourished and money was coming in left and right. Then, an insider for a rival company was hired on staff and ScanTronics' secrets were leaked within days. With nothing new to build on and their software codes having been leaked to companies offering the same technology for a much cheaper cost, ScanTronics was forced into bankruptcy. With this came poverty for Dylan and his beloved Jasmine. "So, what time does Santa Claus report to work today?" she asked, forcing a thin smile over her voluptuous lips. "Four o'clock. That's like a whole half day away almost." "It's ten now," she noted, glancing at the digital alarm clock on the nightstand beside the bed. "That's six hours. That's only a quarter of a day." Her smile turned to a pout, but her eyes showed that she was teasing him more than she was actually sad. "I'm going to go to the bathroom and ... freshen up. Why don't you go fix us some coffee?" "Sounds good to me," he yawned, kissing his wife one more time before standing and stepping to the edge of the small bedroom. Placing his hand on the doorframe, he looked back at Jasmine and offered a Cheshire grin. "You like it sweet, don't ya?" "You know how I like it, Daddy."

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"Ruff!" he barked at her in a humorous manner before laughing and stepping into the thin hallway, disappearing from his wife's sight. "I married a clown," she giggled, plopping back against the bed. "But, god, can that clown fuck!" Standing on weak, wobbly legs, she moved through the bedroom, into the hallway, and down to the small but adequate bathroom. There, she freshened herself from their sexual indulgence and, on a whim, sifted through the vanity drawer. A few minutes later, she stepped into the kitchen completely refreshed and with a giddy smile strapped over her face. She held her hands behind her and batted her alluring brown eyes at her busy husband. When Dylan turned to her, he held both cups of coffee in his hands. The coffee was fortunate to survive, as when he caught side of his beautiful exotic bride, he nearly lost his grip. "Every time I see you," he began, "is like the first time all over again. I swear you've never been more beautiful than you are right here, right now." Crossing through the room to him, she took her cup from his hand and tasted a sweetened sip. "It's just how I like it," she confessed proudly. "And you ... you're just how I like you. Mine." Their eyes met again, and thus, so did their lips. The kiss held just for a moment, as both were afraid of spilling their coffee, but the kiss was still just as powerful as all that these two had shared. Pulling back, Dylan glanced down her body and stared at the arm being held behind her back. "What are you hiding 41

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back there? A present maybe? For me? It's not even Christmas yet." "I think it's close enough for a treat," she explained, swallowing deeply as she straightened herself. "Okay then. What is it?" "Close your eyes." "This isn't going to hurt is it?" "No, silly!" she laughed, sipping again her coffee. "Just do it." "Alright. But if this hurts, I'm withholding sex for a month!" "You couldn't go a week." "You know me too well." Once Dylan sat his coffee down on the counter and closed his eyes, he extended his hands out in anticipation of his surprise. "Okay, Momma," he grinned, twitching slightly as he waited for her to deliver. "Give it to me." Softly, Jasmine pulled her hand out from behind her and carefully transferred the object to him. As he started to clench his hand closed into a fist, she stopped him, holding his fingers open flat. "Careful," she cooed. Dylan opened his eyes and stared down at the object in his hand. A brief moment of puzzled curiosity floored over him, and then he shifted his eyes wonderingly from the object to Jasmine's wide, brown orbs. "A pregnancy test?" he asked, nearly breathless. 42

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Without a word, Jasmine hurriedly nodded her head back and forth. He could see she was fighting back tears. "So this means—" "Yes!" she shouted finally, bouncing up and down on the tips of her toes. "Yes! Dylan! I'm pregnant! We're pregnant!" "Holy shit!" he shouted in joy, pulling his wife into his arms and lifting her off the ground, spinning her around in the air. Then, quite suddenly, he sat her down on the floor and took the coffee from her hand. "Oh, no! I shouldn't be spinning you around like that. That might not be safe for the baby. And this coffee—not until we find out if it's okay for you or not. Oh, my god. There's so much to do! We have to find room for a nursery. We have to go shopping for clothes and food and, oh jeez, we've got to call Mom. I promised if the moment ever happened, I'd call her. And what about your mom? She'd definitely be hurt if we didn't let her know too." Dylan was talking a mile a minute, but Jasmine heard not a word of what he said. Her thoughts were on the child that was beginning to live within her—the child she had wanted all her life. Now, in a way, she knew her life would be perfect— even though all of the years she'd been with Dylan she had considered perfect. Despite their financial troubles, she loved him more than she had ever loved anyone, and she wanted nothing more than to have a family with him and to grow old with him. Now, that dream was beginning to turn into a reality and there were no words to describe the joy that she currently felt. It took a long moment, and during that time, Jasmine reclaimed her coffee and sipped, but eventually Dylan came 43

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back to his senses and calmed. When his attention had stabilized back to the here and now, she took him by the jaw and kissed his perfect lips. "The coffee stays," she whispered sweetly and with a smile. "At least until we hear otherwise from a doctor." "Deal," he agreed, nuzzling his forehead against hers and kissing her on the nose. "And thank you. That was the greatest present you could have ever given me." "Well, crap. Now what do I get you for Christmas?" Fawning a look of intrigue, she chortled a bit and kissed her husband again. Dylan pulled away with sudden urgency. In a rush, he began to search around him. "What's wrong, D?" "What day is this?" "Wednesday. The nineteenth." "Shit." "What's wrong?" "I've got an interview at eleven thirty for a job that would be perfect for me, but I have to get across town in time to get there." "Then what are you waiting for, stud?" she exclaimed, slapping him on his bare rear and pushing him along. "Go get cleaned up and go get that job." "You sure you don't mind me going right now?" he asked, knowing that there was nothing more that he wanted than to be in bed with her once again. "The sooner you get a new job, the sooner you can quit playing St. Nick," she stated smoothly as she rubbed a hand 44

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over his chest. "Santa Clauses should be old, fat men who go 'ho, ho, ho' and need to shave. You, my love, are one sexy stallion." "You say the kindest words," he remarked, kissing her again, "and damn it if you're not right. I'm gonna get cleared up and score us a new penthouse, baby!" "Show 'em what ya got, tiger!" She growled after him, slapping his ass one more time as he hurried from the kitchen toward the hallway and bathroom. As he stepped into the hallway's shadows, she watched the muscles of his ass clench tightly with his movements, and it made her realize how wet she had grown below simply by thinking about him. If soul mates truly existed, Dylan Wylde was hers. Standing just over six feet tall and weighing around a hundred and eighty pounds, he was the chiseled example of fit perfection. Having never spent a day in a gym, he trained his body in other methods of exercise and diet. Jasmine had never seen a body so exquisite. His hair was short and curly, the color of rich chocolate and as healthy as the body it accompanied. From the powerful curves of his arms to the immense strength of his thighs and legs, there was not a physical aspect about him that was flawed. Even his testicles hung low and heavy. There were times when Jasmine wondered what he was doing with a woman like her, but then she remembered that she, too, was quite stunningly beautiful and had a few worthwhile traits of her own. Bred from a black mother and a white father, Jasmine had been born with extremely delicate mocha colored skin. Her complexion had been flawless from 45

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the get-go, and her high cheekbones gave her a distinct caliber of sophistication. Her hair was long, black, and wavy, and it reached from the top of her head down to just above her full and voluptuous ass. Although she was not very tall, what she lacked in height, she made up for in breasts. Large and ample, they were her prized twins. Completely all natural, they had been the apple of many young men's eyes, but only a few had been fortunate enough to have sampled its sweet nectar. Dylan had been the one to earn it and keep it. From the shadows of the hallway, Dylan stepped out into the warmth of the living room. He stood clean, dressed, and proud. His hair was slicked back into a nice wave, and his smile shone brightly with pearly, freshened teeth. Dressed in his best black suit and tie and with his most expensive pair of shoes—recently polished—he was the image of success. "You look fantastic," Jasmine observed with awe. "You're sure to wow them in the interview." "Well, if I don't get a move on it, I'm sure to miss the interview," he chided, rushing up to his newly pregnant wife and placing on her lips one of the most fantastic kisses she had ever experienced. When he broke away, she remained in her puckered state, faint to the world around her. "I promise to hurry back immediately after the interview's over." "I'm holding you to that," she breathed—her words almost a whisper. Opening her large, brown eyes, she stared again at the beauty of her heart's desire. "I'll see you soon." Kissing her one last time, he grabbed his heavy coat from the back of the couch and darted to the front door. Dylan looked at his wife again as he stepped 46

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outside. Pulling the door shut, he shouted, "I love you, Jasmine!" "I love you, my prince," she sighed merrily as the door closed and her husband ventured off to possibly land his perfect job. She knew that she was making a fuss about the Santa gig over nothing. In her heart, she could have cared less if he was Santa Claus or a pauper panhandling on the street. As long as he returned home to her each night, she had all that she needed. But Dylan was talented. Jasmine knew this. He had a mind for technology and data that most people would have killed for. It had been brilliant enough to strike gold once with ScanTronics. It had been because of his ingenious ideas that the company had become a success, and she knew that it could easily happen again. The fact of the matter was now they were pregnant. They were bringing a child into the world, and playing Santa Claus—or even a pauper on the street—would not bring in enough money to support them. Besides, there were hundreds of men playing St. Nick in New York City. His genius could never stand out from beneath that red and white costume. Jasmine hated to be separated from Dylan for even a moment, but she hoped with all her heart that this job interview would be the one. And she knew from the look in her husband's eyes every time he had to leave for work that he hated playing Santa Claus. 47

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"I suppose I should shower," she mumbled through a yawn and crossed through the miniscule living room and into the hallway, which ended at the bathroom door. Inside, she shut the door, turned on the shower faucets, and gazed into the mirror while the water heated. Yesterday when she had performed this very same ritual, she had looked rough and a bit tired. Now with the news of her pregnancy, her reflection seemed to glow. The room began to fill with steam, and softly she stepped into the waiting tub. Drawing the curtain closed, she relaxed and shut her eyes under the pressure of the hot, massaging water. Blindly, she took the bar of soap from the small ledge beside her and began to rub it over her stomach, sides, and breasts. Thick lather formed where the soap had traced, and it ran with the flow of the water down to the v of her thighs, mixing with the warmth of her vagina. While one hand began to caress her breasts and her hardening nipples, the hand with the bar of soap followed the running trail of lather down her stomach, over her pelvis, and into the warmth of her thick, yearning lips. Taking a rounded edge of the soap, she circled it around her perky clit before sliding it into the wetness of her cunt. She moaned with pleasure, relaxing her back against the wall of the shower and letting the hot water continue to pound against her eager flesh. Replacing the bar of soap with her finger, she entered deep into her warmth, touching the regions where Dylan's seed had recently wet. She rolled the hand on her breast down to her stomach and thought of how much of her husband's semen she had wasted by letting it 48

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seep out of her so quickly. She knew that she was ever so fortunate that one of his troopers had still managed to invade her mother ship. Letting the soap slip down to the floor of the tub, Jasmine imagined that her finger was Dylan's cock, pressing and pushing inside of her and then pulling out before plowing back in again. She moved rapidly, repeating the process repetitiously with first one and then two of her long, slender fingers. With her left hand, she began to tease at her right nipple again, panting heavily as her knees weakened and she slowly began easing down the wall into the tub. Her head jerked upward and her jaw snapped open, releasing a broken, raspy scream as her orgasm flooded throughout her soaked and trembling body. The water continued to beat against her, cleansing her. Jasmine pulled her fingers out from her sopping cunt and rested her head against the lip of the tub. Opening her eyes, she felt both relief and exhaustion. She turned the water off and climbed up from the tub, careful to hold onto the railing so that she would not lose her balance and fall. With a fresh embryo in her womb, she had to be careful of her movements. Her feet safely touched the cloth rug outside of the tub and she snatched her towel from the rack to the left. After drying her body, she wrapped her hair in the towel and crossed over to the mirror, rubbing the fog away. Her naked body glistened clean and refreshed in her reflection. A smile that she had previously been unaware of was locked over her face, and she could not remember the last time she had appeared so joyous. She'd never been 49

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unhappy while with Dylan, but she had never felt this much internal excitement. There was something new within her— something that would deliver brand new adventures for her and her husband. In the bedroom, she searched for the perfect outfit to greet Dylan in when he returned home from his interview. Hopefully, she would be congratulating him as well. She chose a pair of red tights with a long sleeved red dress that showed enough of her cleavage to satisfy any man and had a hem that stopped at the underneath of her buttocks. With black boots and borrowing Dylan's red and white work hat, she decided that if he was going to play Santa, she would be a good Mrs. Claus and share in the role play. Over the course of the next hour, Jasmine treated herself to the finer things in life—or at least those that they could afford. She sipped hot green tea with honey and curled up on the sofa, taking the opportunity to catch up on her favorite soap opera. She'd never really been big on the soaps, but her mother had watched this particular one when Jasmine had been but a small child, and so she had practically grown up with it. She had seen it on and off for nearly fifteen years now, and oddly enough, very few of the characters had changed. Some of the actors playing them had been replaced from time to time, but the characters, plots, and bad writing had all remained consistent. She had nearly dozed off by the end of the show and the sound of the door opening startled her. Lifting off the couch, she turned to see Dylan stepping through the threshold with 50

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his chin hung low. He was not wearing the smile she had hoped to see. Remembering that she had dressed up to look sexy and please him despite the interview's outcome, she kicked one foot out in front of the other, placed her left hand on her hip, and wrapped her right index finger below her bottom lip. "Welcome home, stud," she purred, taking slow but easy steps toward him. "Mrs. Claus has a tasty treat for her big, strong Santa." "The interview was a bust," he pouted, unable to crack even the slightest smile for his wife, who he knew was trying her best to ease his visible pain. "They'd already hired someone else by the time I arrived." "Oh, I'm sorry, honey," she whispered as she moved close to him and rested her head against his strong, heavy chest. "I know how much you wanted this." "What am I going to do?" His voice held a quiver as he pulled his wife into his grasp and held her close. "I can only play Santa Claus for so long. Once the season's over, I'll be out of a job again." "Don't you even think about that right now," she insisted. "You've had enough worries today. Why don't you sit down and I'll pour you a beer." "You're the best, baby." Lifting her chin, he kissed her briefly and released her from his grip. "And you look awfully hot, too." "Go get out of that stuff suit and I'll get your beer ready." "Will you use one of the frosty mugs from the freezer?" he asked with a puppy dog's pout embraced over his face. 51

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"You bet." Jasmine smiled at her husband as he ventured down the hall and into the bedroom to change. She knew he was heavily disappointed in not getting the job, but she was pleased with herself for being able to make him feel somewhat better. As she ventured to the kitchen and began to pour the beer into one of Dylan's special frosted mugs, she wished there was more she could do to ease the tension that he was feeling. Beer in hand, she turned around to find Dylan standing behind her, dressed in his Santa Claus suit—minus the stuffing, beard, and wig. His eight inch erection protruded mightily from his red velvet pants and he held a devilish grin over his lips. "Mrs. Claus has been too good this year," he growled sensually as he approached her. "Santa wonders just how naughty she can be."

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Chapter Four Nearly forty miles outside of the industrious New York Harbor, a ship struggled desperately to hang on to its freight. There were no storms this day. Aside from a slight wind and bitterly cold air, nature was calm. Their struggle was with the sea, as it seemed to be trying to prevent them from pulling their newfound cargo up from the depths of the water. "Pull!"Professor Harold Bishop shouted in instruction for the crewman to try again with the automated draw on the hook. Whatever the hook had become attached to wasn't going to give up its fight for freedom so easily. "Again. Pull!" "You want some of my men to swim down there and see what the problem is?" the handsome head of the ship asked in an offering. "No, Captain, they've already been down there once when they hooked the monstrosity in the first place. Perhaps we could try to tug it to shore on the chain?" "If it's this heavy and hard trying to pull it up, we won't be much more successful trying to drag it to land." "Well," the profession groaned, adjusting the glasses over his nose. "I know this is the cargo that holds the ancient Spanish artifacts that I've been searching for years to find, and I refuse to let it go now that it's in my grasp." "What makes you believe Spanish artifacts are inside there, Professor? We're a long way from Spain." "I've searched more water in my forty-four years of exploration than I guarantee you will ever see, Captain. I've 53

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discovered Egyptian artifacts outside of London. I found Aztec tools near Africa. I bet if I searched hard enough, I could find the lost city of Atlantis off the coast of Florida. But mark my words, Captain. Inside that steel crate down there, there is an infamous Spanish artifact just waiting to be uncovered." "I'm glad you seem so sure of yourself," Captain James Hills snorted unconvinced. "The rest of us think you're pretty much a kook." "I paid you for your ship, labor, and time, Captain. Not to insult me." "So noted." "I think it's budging, Captain," the mate from behind the large iron machine called out as the chain began to pull inward. "It's coming up!" "I've waited for this my whole life," Professor Bishop murmured deep in his aged throat and rubbed his hands together with greed. He could finally see the twisted, larger than life box erode from the ocean's depths and emerge out into the open air. Although more warped than he had imagined, it was magnificent. An ancient trunk direct from one of Christopher Columbus's infamous ship. There was no telling what wonders it held inside, but Bishop knew that it would bring him fame and fortune. Turning his attention back to Captain Hills, he asked in his roughest voice, "Can't they hurry it along any faster?" "My men are moving as quick as they can, Professor," Hills responded coolly. "I've got five of 'em under water with that thing, helping it ease as quickly to the deck as it can. There's no telling how much it weighs." 54

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"Or what it contains," the impatient historical professor added beneath his breath. He watched as minutes passed and the men and their iron machine raised the distorted, infamous crate into the air. "Everyone, get out of the way," the man behind the machine ordered as he began turning the crane to bring the trunk on deck. Bishop's eyes were wild with bewilderment and greed. Just as the heavy chain that hoisted the heave crate snapped and broke apart, the crate landed on the deck of the ship with a heavy crash. One of its corners broke through the deck, forcing one sailor to fall from his feet. "You'll have to pay for that," Captain Hills announced without a flinch. "Once this steel crate is open, Captain, I'll be able to buy you a whole fleet of these horrible ships." "This horrible ship is my life, Professor, and I don't much like you insulting it." This time, Captain Hills' face showed heavy expression—something closely resembling anger. It was the second time he had been insulted by this man, and he would not tolerate a third. "I'll have your ship repaired once we get to land," Bishop grumbled cowardly. Then, snapping his attention back to Hills' crewmen, he shouted, "Can't we get this open already? It's been onboard nearly two minutes already!" Hills shook his head and sighed. Yet, he had to admit to himself that, from the looks of the monstrosity, it was sealed air tight. Whatever was inside was most likely perfectly unharmed from the elements of the ocean. If there were 55

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indeed treasures within this crate, they could have consisted of anything from original maps and documents from Spain to the New World to countless other treasures of unknown immense worth. Captain James Hills decided then that he would wait until the crate was open and the treasures were revealed before he killed Professor Bishop. Hills and his men felt that it was about time their ship came in. Harold Bishop watched with uncanny eyes through his thick, obtrusive glasses as all of Hills' seven crewmen gathered around the warped steel crate, each carrying crowbars to pry the gigantic, heavy door open. Bishop's glowing future awaited him within, and he knew that if they didn't open the door soon, he would surely wet himself in anticipation. Taking a step forward, he no longer had the strong young captain of the ship in his vision, and Hills watched him with a grim smile. He held a crowbar—just as the rest of his men did. Only, the crowbars were not just for opening the steel crate. Each man on this ship would have a turn at the torturous death of Professor Harold Bishop. "Come on!" Bishop demanded, hoisting his clenched fist into the air. "Come on!" The men worked painstakingly hard for the next several moments while Bishop watched impatiently—not lifting a finger to help. Finally, silence took over the entire ship—and perhaps the entire ocean—as one single click from the steel crate's door sounded. 56

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"If what's inside is what I think it is, our lives will be changed forever, men," the old professor mumbled as visions of gold danced in his head. "You don't know how right you are," replied Hills from directly behind him. His crowbar was raised high in the air, ready to strike down hard on Bishop's head at the first sight of the treasure. Carefully, as if in rehearsed slow-motion, each crewman backed away from the steel crate. They stared at the door for quite some time, as if deciding who should be the one to open it. Finally, growing frustrated and further impatient, Bishop pushed his way to the front of the crowd, leaving Captain Hills and his crowbar behind. "If none of you pussies are man enough to open it, by all means, let the old man do it!" Bishop shouted ruthlessly as he stepped up to the crate. "I'll show you how we used to do it in Egypt when seeking out lost Pharaohs. It's the job for a man with brains—not a wimp with brawn." With each word he spoke, each man readied himself more to partake in his demise. Clamping his thin, withered fingers around the thick steel of the door, Bishop grunted heavily, clenched his eyes shut, and pulled with all the force that his small frame held. Yet, somehow, it had been enough. The crewmen watched in amazement as the door slowly began to budge open, allowing glistening dust particles to escape for the first time in over five centuries. "This is it, men!" he shouted, pulling even harder on the door. "This is what we've been waiting for!" 57

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Captain Hills stared with inquisitive eyes. He wondered where the frail old man had come up with the strength to do what would have otherwise taken each of his men to accomplish. Adrenalin, he assumed, nodding his head. It gave men unknown strength, and he knew that Bishop had to have been full of the chemical. He'd been waiting for this his entire greedy, pathetic life. Bitterly, Hills spat on the deck and wiped the remaining strand of saliva from the corner of his mouth. As Bishop persisted to pull the door, finally opening it wide, he stepped back and wiped a palm of sweat from his face. He thought it was peculiar that none of the crewmen had so much as breathed a word as it opened, and he thought it even stranger that none of them had yet attempted to kill him, like he knew they had planned. Perhaps it was empty, he thought as he turned to face his open steel crate. Perhaps nothing but darkness would stare him in the face. It was, indeed, darkness that stared into his face. It was the appearance of pure evil, awakening from a five hundred year slumber. Bishop's eye grew wide and horrified as he stared into the piercing blue and black orbs of a monstrous beast. Behind him, the crewmen of the ship began to awaken from their moment of shock, and carefully, they each took a step back until they were safely behind their captain. Captain Hills, however, took a step forward. He had visually studied the steel case when they brought it out of the water, and he knew from the looks of it how long it had been under there. 58

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There was no way in hell a creature could have survived inside. But survive, it did. Placing first one and then the other of his great, white as snow hands out of the crate and onto the floor of the deck, the monster began to crawl out. "Get my gun," Hills ordered quietly to whoever was closest behind him, and all at once a handful of his men scattered away. To find the gun, of course—Hills was certain of it. Harold Bishop's backwards steps were dizzying and off balance. In all of his years exploring the deepest, darkest regions of the planet, he had never witnessed anything quite like this. In his haste, he had failed to check if the seals of Columbus or his Spanish king had been on the crate's door. Now, as he eyed the embedded imprint that remained and saw the large indentions all around the door, he knew that this monster had not been sealed inside by Columbus or by Spanish royalty. The monster had opened the already closed crate and sealed itself inside. Captain Hills eyed the monster and the emergence of his head—a face as white as snow, eyes the color of blue ice and black coal, a white beard and mustache that concealed all but the fangs of his mouth, the red stained hat that rested upon his large, round head. This was not simply a beast. This was a man. Hills swallowed hard and noticed that—despite the bitterly cold temperature—he was sweating. This man-beast breathed deep, heavy, growling breaths as he pulled his body out from within the crate. Nearly as round and wide as he was tall, the monster stood with tremendous effort, and the sounds of his 59

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joints popping echoed loudly across the ship. It was now that he was out and standing that Hills could see fully inside of the crate. It was completely emptied of any treasures, and oddly enough, the entire surface was covered in ice. Looking down to the spot of deck where the beast's hands had rested as he crawled out into the open, Hills saw more ice patches, all in the shape of handprints. "What on God's earth is happening here?" he questioned lowly under his breath so that none of his men could hear. He knew that they would not have an answer. All thoughts of ancient treasure were far from Professor Bishop's mind as he stared at the true size of his ocean find. The beast towered high above him and was equally as round. Dressed in a red and white coat and with coal black feet that showed nails nearly as long as those on his hands, the monster stared down at the professor with nothing but evil in his soul. Nicholas Von Barron then howled a growl that echoed deep into the wintry ocean, cascading off of the winds and circling throughout the ship. Bishop stood in his place unable to move, shaking with terrible quickness. He shook not for the cold, but for the terror of doom that faced him. Bending over so that he was at a face-to-face level with the shrunken man, Nicholas smiled his fang-filled black grin and winked one of his icy eyes. Then, after having breathed in slightly, he blew out a cloud of crystallized air, turning Professor Bishop into nothing more than a cold, blue ice sculpture. Now, the men remaining behind Captain Hills began to scream and scattered, hurrying as far away from the beast as 60

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they could. Sadly enough, they knew that they were far from land and this ship was their only hiding place. Hills wondered for the first time where the man with his gun was, and realizing that he was without any means of defense, he, too, began to flee. The ice monster took notice of the rushing captain and began to follow. As Hills reached the door to his cabin, he turned to proudly find that not all of his men had abandoned him. Three of his crewmen had come out of their shadowed hiding places and were creeping up behind the beast with a large fishing net. He watched their lips as they quietly counted to three, and on their heave, he watched the net sail over the monster. However, the moment the net came in contact with Nicholas's flesh it formed into ice and shattered into thousands of splintering fragments. These fragments shot through the airs, piercing the flesh of the three crewmen who had thrown the net. Nicholas turned from the impact and faced his attackers. His eyes promised pain, and his fanged grin vowed even more. "How dare ye attempt to attack me?" he questioned in a voice more demonic than his very appearance and mixed with a Spanish accent, even though he somehow spoke English— albeit with a dialect centuries old. "For this, ye shall parish." The three seamen began to run, but ancient Nicholas was much too swift. He snagged one by his t-shirt, causing the man to turn into an icy version of his former self. His frozen expression cried out in terror, and his running position seemed almost animated. The second of the three men was 61

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caught almost in the same fashion. But through his anger, Nicholas shattered this one's skull after the freezing. As Nicholas closed in on the third crewmen, two more attached from behind, leaping atop the giant beast's body. When they touched upon his flesh, they too became ice and were thrown from him, sent plummeting into the cold ocean water. Nicholas then his attention back to the prey at hand and watched the man scurry up the post that would lead him to the crow's nest, high above the ship. When the man had reached the half-way mark, Nicholas reached out and grabbed the pole with both hands, causing it to quickly transform into ice. The icy current soared up the length of the post, and when it reached the point where it touched against the crewman climbing it, he too turned to ice and fell from the pole. When he reached the deck, he shattered into nothing but minuscule fragments of his sculptured self. Captain Hills had never witnessed such horror. He'd experienced many terrible moments at sea—ravaging storms and pillaging pirates—but he had never encountered something as frightening as this. A splash from behind him stormed his attention, and jerking his head back he saw several of his remaining crewmen swimming out into the ocean—far away from the ship and the monster on board. "Smart men," he whispered to himself and turned his vision back to the horrible beast with the icy powers. Nicholas stared down at him from just a few feet away. "What the hell are you?" Hills questioned the monstrous man, attempting his best to keep his voice from quivering. He 62

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and the monster were alone on the ship now—all of his crewmen were either dead or floating in the water as shark bait. He had to know his opponent if he ever wanted to escape him. Still ... something whispered to him that it was likely escape would never come. "Me name be Nicholas Von Barron," growled the devilish voice. "I have wondered the lands of earth an' sea for millennia, feasting off the flesh o' the youth an' sipping from the blood o' the damned. An' then one night—a night as cold as the waters o' this sea—I was captured an' beaten by a mob o' angry villagers. They left me for dead in the bitter cold, unconscious but not defeated. Ye cannot kill what be immortal. But as me blood poured into the snow an' earth an' dripped down to the pits of Hell, I was given vengeance for me suffering." Somehow, this giant man's words were like the songs of the watery Sirens, and Captain James Hills' vision began to blur. The beast released a slow, controlled breath and the captain's vision went black. Then, a glowing light of red and orange surrounded him. His mind had been overcome by the monster's voice and words, and without warning, Hills had been transported into the evil story. He was, in fact, in Hell. The soul of the Spanish monster stood many feet away from him and appeared just as bruiting and evil as ever. The man stood before an even larger creature—powerful, mighty, and devilishly handsome. Then, the captain realized that it was, indeed, the devil and he had no choice but to listen and watch. 63

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"Yon villagers," the monster explained to his master, "have weakened me, beaten me, an' left me for dead." "I see ye have been left in yon snow to parish," echoed his boss in the most frightening tone Hills had ever witnessed. "Yon villagers hope the death of the frost will chill ye an' take ye away." "Aye," agreed Nicholas through clenched fangs. After a moment of quiet consideration, the devil spoke again. "Ye have done me a long an' fine service, Nicholas Von Barron. Ye have delivered me countless souls of countless children, an' ye have asked me nothing in return but yer long, miserable life. I will offer ye something even greater, Von Barron." Captain Hills swallowed hard as he listened through tense ears. All around the two visions was blackness, engulfed with glowing red and orange. There was not fire as he had imagined, but the smoke was thick—as was the horrible stench of burning—and it blurred the demonic creatures in his vision. "Ye have already been a fine master," Nicholas grunted, offering a slight bow of the head. "What I offer is this, Von Barron—eternal an' instant vengeance on all that ye seek." Both Nicholas's and the captain's ears perked at the announcement. "Yon villagers wished to kill thee with ice an' snow—ye shall offer the same in return." All was silent as the devil paused once more and Nicholas took in what he was hearing. 64

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"I offer ye the power of ice," the devil continued. "By yer touch an' by yer breath—ye shall transform all ye wish into ice." "Very kind of ye, master!" Nicholas cheered humbly and offered a minute smile. "An' now, Von Barron, comes the price of yer punishment." Captain Hills felt every muscle in his body clench as he heard these words. Even the devil's own minions didn't receive kindness from the ultimate evil. What had Nicholas done to betray him? "Punishment?" Nicholas questioned with an uneasy tone. "Ye be sloppy, Nicholas," the echoing, violent voice persisted. "Ye allowed two children to escape an' expose ye to the villagers. This be not the first time of yer sloppy ignorance, minion. For this, ye must be punished." Hills watched as the devil—which had been in the form of a bruiting, fierce man—transformed into a jackal. Then, the blackness began to open, and from the earth above, snow and ice folded into the smoldering heat of Hell. The ice and snow fell upon the jackal's body, soaking into him until he was as white and crystallized as the crewmen Nicholas had killed. Then, when all the snow and ice and melded away, the hole in the blackness sealed up and Hell was once again closed. "What I am about to do," the devilish jackal growled, "will give ye the powers I mentioned. It will also inflict yer punishment." Slowly, angrily, violently, the jackal began to approach his slave. At this moment, Captain Hills suspected that he was 65

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just as fearful as Nicholas, who had actually begun to whimper. "Take it easy now," the jackal spat with a howling laugh. "This will be over shortly." With a speed quicker than light, the jackal was in the air and upon Nicholas's body. Fiercely, the animalistic devil tore at his minion's flesh, ripping a deep wound into his neck. There, the jackal held his bite and a chilly glow overtook both their bodies. Like liquid being drained from a bottle, the snow and ice left the jackal's body and seeped completely into Nicholas's. When the jackal was fully black again, he released his bite from the monster's neck and let the man tumble hard to the black ground. Nicholas cried and shrieked in loud agony as the cold overtook his body. His chilled trembles sent vibrations all throughout this region of Hell—even to where the captain stood watching. Nicholas's coloring began to change from pale pink to pure white. His eyes—which had been brown—burned black before an eerie blue glow overtook them. He gasped loudly like he was trying to breathe but could not, and his body thrashed all over the ground. Finally, after several long moments of this freezing torture, Nicholas Von Barron fell still. Hills wondered if, perhaps, the devil had killed his minion, but he knew that to be impossible. It had been Nicholas who had brought him to this place—who was making him witness all that he was seeing. "Yer punishment," the devil began, transforming back into his manlike form, "an' yer vengeance have been delivered." 66

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Captain Hills held his breath as he watched Nicholas begin to move and jerk about. And then, quite suddenly, the monstrous man lifted up and stood tall. He held a new glow to him—a powerful glow—and as he took his first steps, he breathed hard and long into the black pit of Hell. His breath, despite the outrageous surrounding heat, formed immediately into crystals and sent a chill throughout the pit. "I be cold," he announced in his crude, deep voice. "Yer punishment be yer vengeance," the devil reminded him. "Be it by yer breath or by yer touch, ye shall render instant vengeance onto anyone ye chose. In return, ye shall spend the remainder o' yer countless days as cold as ice, never to find warmth again." "Even here in Hell," Nicholas growled through a chattering mouth, "it be cold." "I guess ye could say it be colder than Hell in here," the devil chuckled madly. Then, his expression and tone turned deathly serious. "Do not disappoint me again, Von Barron. Next time, I might not be so cool with yer punishment." "Aye," the frozen beast muttered as he bowed his head. Nicholas turned away from his master, and Hills felt as if the monster was now staring directly at him. But that was impossible, he knew. This was all some sort of flashback—an alternate reality. Hills wasn't actually there. He couldn't have been. Yet, as his fears predicted, Nicholas's expression turned instantly angered at the sight of the captain and he began to approach him with swift, intense steps. Fear overwhelmed the captain, and he found himself unable to turn, move, or run. 67

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Then, he realized that aside from trembling in fear, he had not been able to move at all since arriving here. He was surely doomed. Coming within inches of him, Nicholas smiled his black, fang-filled grin and blew coolly into his face. Blackness appeared for Hills once more, and Hell was no longer around him. Then, in a flash, his eyes jerked open and he was back in his crouched position on the boat with Nicholas Von Barron hovering over him. "Ye asked me what I be," the ageless man explained deafly, "an' that be what made me what I be." "You—you're a product of Satan," he stuttered, finding his voice. "The devil made you what you are." "Man made me what I am!" the beast roared with the strength of the heaviest thunder. "An' now, man shall pay for me sufferin'!" Knowing that his time had come and there was nowhere to run or hide, Captain James Hills shut his eyes and braced himself. "I'll see you in hell, you bastard," he whispered with his final words as Nicholas laughed heavily—loudly—and then placed his hand over Hills' face. The captain formed to ice in an instant, and when Nicholas pulled his hand away, Hills' expression had held strong and brave. With a heavy swipe of his arm, Nicholas crashed through the ice sculpture, shattering it from recognition. Now alone on a strange modern ship surrounded by nothing but silence and water, Nicholas stood in confusion. He turned toward the crate that had been his home for the longest of years and sighed heavily. The crate had been as 68

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much a curse as it had been a shelter for him. Painfully wounded from the shot of Columbus's cannon, he had been sent unconscious into the water. When he awoke, he was anchored to the rotting post of a sunken ship, entangled in seaweed and other underwater vegetation. He also awoke with a hole the size of a cannon ball through his stomach. Although the ball had turned to ice when connecting with his flesh, the strength of its impact had kept it from shattering and it tore right through Nicholas's massive body. Long ago, his master had rendered him immune to mortal death and the wound had not taken his life, but he had been left weak and had needed to heal. That had been when he discovered the giant steel crate aboard the sunken ship. In his poor physical state, he knew that he would have been unable to defend himself against the ongoing tortures that the villagers wished to provide, and so he needed to hide. Over the course of his life, he had learned that—if given enough time—the human body had the ability to regenerate itself. He hadn't any idea the amount of time it had been since first sealing himself in that crate, but nature had done its job and his body was whole once again. Turning around on the ship, he faced the hazy sky and icy waters and watched until the image of land finally came into view. It had been many years—perhaps centuries—since he had last fed and he was craving a fresh, plump child. At the current rate that the water moved the ship, he estimated he would hit land by morning, and at that time, he would feast like he had never feasted before. 69

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Chapter Five The alarm went off at six AM and Jasmine leapt from the bed in a start. From beside her, Dylan slowly began to drift into a state of wake. After a moment of searching for the loud, annoying buzzing and its source, she spotted the digital clock and slammed her hand down on the power button, silencing the alarm. "What the hell?" she asked, pushing on her husband until he was up and out of the bed. "It's six AM. Why's the alarm going off already?" "Oh man," he yawned, standing and popping his back. "It's Saturday—two days before Christmas. Every goon and his brother will be in the stores today." "What's that got to do with you?" "Gracy's Department Store Santas have to be in to their locations by seven-thirty." Kissing his wife's cheek, he stepped clumsily into the hall. "Seven-thirty?" Jasmine asked with a voice that was more than a bit perturbed. "So what time will you get off?" "My relief will get there at four," he called from the bathroom. "I've got the early shift today." "So that's almost nine hours of playing Santa Claus?" Her question held disbelief. "I get a half hour for lunch," he remarked. "So, it's actually just an eight hour day. I used to work those all the time, remember?" 70

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"That doesn't mean I have to like it," she contested, following him into the kitchen where he began preparation for the coffee. "I tell you, I'll never be so happy to see Christmas end." "When Christmas ends our money ends," he reminded her. "I have no other job." "We—we could ask your parents for a loan. That would get us through to spring." "I could never ask my parents for a loan, especially after the way we treated them when ScanTronics folded. They offered us money then, and our pride let us throw it back in their faces." "That was different," Jasmine confronted. "We weren't as desperate as we are now." "Still, we can't ask. They'd let it hang over our shoulders until they died—or until we died. Whichever comes first." Jasmine knew he was right. They couldn't ask his parents. Although Madeline and Broderick Wylde were two of the richest souls she knew, they were also two of the coldest, sternest people to have walked the face of their earth. Asking charity from them was like asking a leading surgeon to tear up his bill. Even if they gave them the money, they would never let the young couple forget it. There was one time in particular that Jasmine could remember where Dylan's older brother had fallen into a financial crisis and needed a loan from his parents. They had willingly given him the loan, but when he had failed to pay it back in what they had considered a timely manner, they placed him in jail to teach him a lesson. 71

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"You must learn to become more responsible," Broderick had told his son. "This world will chew you up and spit you out. This is just an example of how cold it can get." Jasmine knew that caring, loving parents never would have locked their son up for such an ill reason. Madeline and Broderick Wylde were trouble to tangle with, and she wished now that she had never mentioned them. "I'm sorry," Jasmine whispered, admitting her fault. "I shouldn't have mentioned them. I know how your parents can be." "It's okay, baby," he grinned as he finished preparing their coffees. "I love you. You can say anything in the world to me and I would never love you any less." After planting a kiss on her lips, he offered her a cup of sweetened coffee, which she thankfully accepted. "I imagine this has been pretty hard on you," she added and took a sip from her mug. "Having to go from an executive's office to having a thousand germy children sit on your lap and tug on your fake beard all day." "I don't mind the children all that much. I consider it practice for what's to come." As he passed her, he rubbed a hand over her stomach and the life that grew within. "You're going to make a wonderful father," Jasmine cooed, lifting up onto her toes and pressing her lips against his. "And you, my love, will make the perfect mother." Even at six in the morning, he made her swoon. She pressed a hand to his cheek and kissed him again, tasting the warmth of his lips with the tip of her tongue. He parted his lips, allowing her tongue to meet with his, and pulling her 72

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closely into his arms, their kiss deepened greatly. Jasmine's knees began to quiver and she grew wobbly in her stance. Her skin was on fire, and the flames boiled over every inch of her aura, igniting the lava of desire that simmered in her core. A moment later, Dylan broke the kiss and stepped back, letting her hand softly fall down to her side. He smiled at her and looked into her eyes as the man who would take care of her forever. This made her breathless and emotional, and she had to sip at her coffee to prevent a tear from falling. "I have to get in the shower," Dylan groaned, glancing at the microwave's clock. "I expect to taste those lips again the second I get out though. They're much too good to wait too long for." "Why even take a shower?" Jasmine questioned with a touch of laughter. "You're so dirty that it would be impossible to get clean." "You know me too well, baby." Winking an eye, he blew her a kiss and headed toward the hall. Sipping her coffee, she watched him moved away—her eyes tracing down ever muscular crevice of his shoulders, back, and perfectly toned ass. She hungered for him. In the years they'd been together, she could not remember going an entire week without making love to him. The feeling of having him inside of her was so extreme and intense that she never wanted it to stop. Briefly, she recalled one weekend when they spent the entire time in their bedroom, fornicating through a frenzied sexual marathon. That had been at least two years ago, but their sex lives hadn't simmered a bit. 73

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Noticing that he had not closed the bathroom door behind him, Jasmine sat her coffee mug down on the counter and slowly began to step through the living room and into the hallway. She could hear the sound of water pouring from the shower, and thick, warm steam flooded out through the open doorway. He was singing, she could hear—or perhaps it was more of a humming. Either way, it made her laugh silently and forced her to poke her head through the open doorway. There he stood in all of his glory. Dylan had not bothered to close the shower curtain. Jasmine had never known him to do this, and she was quite pleased to find him following his usual routine. She gazed at him, soaked beneath the water. With his chin tilted up and his eyes closed, he hummed pleasantly as he smoothed the bar of soap over his chest and arms. Thick, white lather formed with the water, and it traced down the curly hairs of his chest down to the black, full bush of his groin. His hand followed the trail of soap, running it through his pubic hair, around and over his cock, and venturing down to the underneath of his scrotum. Turning slightly to the side, he arched over to wash his legs and feet, pressing his rear out into the air and clear into his wife's fawning view. Water ran heavily down the curves of his back and the smooth of his ass, edging down his crack and onto his soap covered package, which dangled below. The water ran the soap clear, and as she gazed at his wet, manly delights, she began to pulsate between her thighs. Dylan stood straight and arched his back as he faced the showerhead and the rush of the water. He took heavy breaths as it cleaned him, and he ran his hands over each area of his 74

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body to ensure the soap was gone. Once assured that he was clean and clear, he cut off the water and opened his eyes. Turning toward the door, he smiled at his wife. "I hope I put on a nice show for you," he grinned coyly. "You always do," she purred. Taking his towel from the rack on the wall, he dried his face and then began smoothing it over his arms and chest. Stepping fully from the tub, he turned his back to his wife and bent down to dry his legs and feet, offering her another view of the delights that she was craving. Suddenly, his head arched up and his eyes grew wide as he felt her hand reach between his thighs and grab hold of his prized packaged. "I want this thing inside me so badly," she pouted in his ear as he stood upright, forcing her to release her grip. Turning to her, he kissed her warmly and shook his head. "Not right now. I have to get to work. Of course, when I get off this afternoon, I'm sure to be rather—shall we say— hungry, and I'll need a feast to indulge upon." "Your feast will be warm, wet, and waiting," she promised, kissing him again on the earlobe before turning to leave the bathroom. "Have fun getting dressed, handsome. I'm eager for my turn in Santa's lap when he comes home." "He's got a special candy cane just for you, I'm sure," he grinned, winking one of his sensual eyes at her as he turned to face the mirror and shave for the day. Less than fifteen minutes later, Dylan stood in the living room as the spitting image of Santa Claus. The beard, the wig, the hat, the coat, even the stuffing—everything was 75

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perfectly in place. Had Jasmine actually believed in old Saint Nick, she would have believed that she had married him. "Very impressive, Santa," she complimented. "I've never seen you look so in the part before." "Only today and tomorrow left," he voiced with a heavy sigh. "Perhaps—if I'm lucky—I'll impress someone very rich today and they'll hire me to be Santa all year long." "Don't you dare jinx that on us!" Her voice was strong, but her eyes showed her humor. "Don't let the kids irritate you too badly today either." "It's more their parents that are the problem. They cause most of the excitement and angst for the kids." "Then beware of the Serial Moms!" "I love you, Mrs. Wylde," he stated smoothly, pulling her into his arms and looking deeply into her eyes. "I love you, Mr. Wylde," she replied through a giggle. Leaning in, Dylan offered his wife a kiss goodbye, tasting and savoring her in a way that they would both remember and carry with them throughout the day. When he released her, he was thankful for Santa's large gut. The kiss had given him such a hard, strong erection that he knew it wouldn't be gone by the time he left the complex. With any hope, the gut would cover his protruding member. Jasmine walked him to the door, shutting and locking it behind him. It was ten before seven, and that gave him forty minutes to get to work. She hoped—by a stroke of luck—that during the forty minutes another job would fall into his lap. She had forgiven herself yesterday for being so crass about his holiday job, but when she thought long and hard 76

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about it, what kind of life was it playing a fictional character? Sure, there were many myths about Santa Claus, some of which even claimed that he had been a real man—a saint who had delivered gifts to children during the winter. In school, she had been taught that this saint had been Saint Nicholas, and that Christopher Columbus had carried him to the New World. Laughing heavily at the thought, Jasmine wondered how such myths came to be known and so widely spread. She could see it now—Santa Claus and Chris Columbus, sitting aboard one of Columbus's ships, sipping tea, and sharing fun loving, sea-fairing stories. The idea was preposterous. This made her feel a bit cold, but she almost wished that there was no Santa Claus—that there wasn't a giant, jolly fat man going around and presenting gifts to children all over the world. What was more frightening to her was, perhaps, her next thought. This thought was frightening for the reason that she did not know where it came from. What if Saint Nicholas had not been a saint at all? "Humbug," she groaned, knowing that if there was no Santa, her husband would be home with her right now. Perhaps they'd still be in bed, which was currently where she considered retreating. Yet, the coffee had begun to take its effect on her, and she fought away the urge to retire for more rest. Perhaps there was a talk show on the television— something that she could get lost in. Strolling over to the living room, she sat heavily on the couch and took the remote from the end table. Flipping on the television, she began to search through the three local 77

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stations that they currently had. They'd not been able to afford cable in months. The news was on each station. Jasmine sighed in discontent. She had enough troubles of her own to worry about without having to deal with those of the rest of society. What stories were they covering now? Was it another rundown on the War in Iraq? Perhaps another fire had started somewhere on the coastline. Had they ever taken care of the Katrina victims? Now, she found herself settling into the sofa wondering which of her questions would be answered during the news broadcast. A young man in a beige suit smiled into the camera as he talked, easing through the announcement. "Leah Ramirez is live on the scene. Leah." "Thank you, Tom," beamed young, Hispanic reporter. "I'm down by the New York Harbor where, during the wee hours of the morning, an unknown talent crafted some of the most realistic ice sculptures this city has ever seen." Jasmine watched with easy eyes as she found herself relieved that she'd tuned into a cultural segment and not a violent one. The cameraman then zoomed in on a few of the sculptures behind the reporter, and Jasmine smiled at the handiwork. Whoever had chiseled these had done an excellent job. "If you'll look closely at one of these," Leah Ramirez continued, moving close to one of the sculptures, "you can see the amazing detail that went into each and every one of these pieces. The realistic eyes and facial expressions, the 78

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movements of the bodies—each of these sculptures that we've discovered holds very unique and different expressions, actions, and overall appearances. Right now, nobody knows who has brought this wonderful gift to the people of New York City, but surely it has brightened all of our mornings. And who knows—perhaps the culprit is Santa Claus, himself. Hopefully we'll find out. Back to you, Tom." "Thank you, Leah. In other news..." With the push of a button, Jasmine powered off the television. She stared at the blank screen for the longest moment, trying to make sense of what she had just seen. The expression on the face of the sculpture that the cameraman had zoomed in on had not looked pleasant. It had, in fact, looked in pain. And then there was the question of who made all of those things? How did they get them there, and where did the ice come from? Certainly, there was a ton of snow outside of her warm apartment and all across New York City, but she knew there was not that much natural ice by the harbor—or anywhere else accessible, at that. The reporter had made light of a situation that was now plaguing Jasmine's mind. "They never ask the serious questions," she griped softly. "You'd think she had been covering a bake sale." Standing now, she stretched with a yawn and moved back to the small kitchen. There, she prepared herself a second cup of coffee, but as it finished its brewing process, she left it waiting in the pot. She was not in the mood for coffee after all. She was exhausted, albeit she didn't know why. She and Dylan had made tremendous love last night, but they had still 79

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gone to bed at a decent hour. Although she had woken early, she'd gotten more than enough sleep. Yet, she craved more. Perhaps it was the new life that blossomed inside of her, requiring her to need more rest. Or, even more likely, it was her worry for her husband and how she yearned for him to find a job that would please him. Personally, she could handle living in poverty, but her husband—he had never been this poor. It had been easy for him growing up. He'd had his parents to care for him. Even through college, they had footed his tuition and dorm fees. Dylan had been on his own for only a few years before meeting Jasmine, and even then, he had a steady job. This was the first time that he had not been able to find work as anything but a character from a fairy tale. Yes, it was this circumstance that drained her and made her feel tired, and she gave into these urges, softly footing her way down the hall and into the bedroom. Crawling into her marital bed, she pulled the warm, heavy covers up over her shoulders and snuggled deeply into her soft pillow. It was only a matter of minutes before she drifted off to sleep. At first, her sleep was filled with blackness. Pure, certain rest. There was nothing at all to distract her—only the ease of oxygen slowly filling her body and giving her life. Then, in a flash, the blackness was disturbed. There was a figure in her dream. She could only see the upper half of him but it was enough to frighten her. There was nothing in this black voided dream but him and her, and he stared at her with icy blue eyes and a black as coal grin filled with jagged fangs. A thick white beard and mustache covered his face, and a red stained 80

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hat topped his head. He laughed at her—angrily, hideously— and she could see the crystallized air form from his breath as he exhaled in her direction. "Oh," she gasped, sitting upright in her bed with her hands over her chest. It took her a moment before she realized that it had all been a dream. It had all seemed so real. And cold. She was shivering and goosebumps covered her skin. Glancing to the digital clock, she saw that it was now nearing eleven AM. She had slept for four hours. "It feels like I just fell asleep," she complained and pulled the covers up to her chin. Jasmine briefly considered closing her eyes and falling back asleep, but as her eyes drifted shut she remembered the image of the horrible man. Who had he been and why had she dreamt him? Was he no more than her over-active imagination, induced by worries of her husband and the news on the television? She had dreamed some horrifying things before, but none as awful as this beastly man. Deciding it best to stay awake, she climbed from the bed and stretched tall. The popping of her joints reminded her that it had been at least two weeks since she had last performed her morning yoga, but as she considered it now she thought of the child growing in her womb. She became fearful that some of her yoga positions would injure the child and decided that it was best to wait until her first meeting with a doctor. "A doctor," she whispered as the thought entered her mind. "I'll need a good doctor." 81

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Jasmine Wylde was a pristine display of health. She had not so much as caught a cold since she was in grade school, and she had not needed to visit a doctor since her mandatory gym physical in high school. Through her teens and into her adult life, she'd never had a blemish, a sore throat, and only once or twice had she ever suffered a headache. She took care of her body, and she believed being sexually active had helped her stay in top physical condition. But, with a baby growing inside of her, she had to know what were now the right things and the wrong things for her to do. She only knew one person with a small child, and otherwise, she'd had no contact with children since she had been one. She knew nothing about raising them, caring for them, changing them, feeding them, protecting them, or anything else that a good mother needed to know. She felt sick to her stomach. Jasmine fled to the bathroom in an ill panic, and once positioned before the commode, she felt as if she was dying. She'd never felt so sick in all of her life. It occurred to her that this was most probably what was called "morning sickness," but she had suspected that would come a bit later in the pregnancy. Then it dawned on her that it was quite possible she was further along than she thought. "I've got to see a doctor," she mumbled, reaching for a towel to wipe her mouth. Now, she had more immediate worries. Had the things she'd been doing in the bedroom done anything to damage the baby? She and Dylan believed in exciting, wild sex as well as passionate love making, and more often than not they 82

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combined the two. Since being with him, she had been in more positions than she'd ever known possible, and she had thanked god on many occasions of her flexibility. If this life had been inside of her for more than just a couple of days, who knew what pretzel-like positions it had been twisted into? "Bailey," Jasmine panted as she stood on wobbly legs. "Bailey will know a good doctor." Bailey Blake was one of Jasmine's closest and most entertaining friends—she was a B-Movie actress with an A-List smile. She was also the only woman that Jasmine knew in all of New York that had a child. There was a point when the Wyldes and the Blakes shared a complex with their apartments side-by-side to one another. The complex had been in the better part of Manhattan, and best of all, it had been rent controlled. After the sudden success of ScanTronics, Dylan and Jasmine broke their lease and moved into a more desirable penthouse. Now, that apartment was gone and the Wyldes were stuck in a tiny loft with the leaky sink and four connecting apartments—all of which she could hear flush the toilet every time. She hated it here. A visit to Bailey's much more relaxing and inviting homestead was exactly what she needed. Of course, she would have to take a taxi. If she walked, she would freeze to death. Moving to the cordless telephone, she powered it on and lifted it to her to dial. Kennedy Cab was the closest and most affordable, and it was number two on her speed dial. ScanTronics was still first, even though the number was no longer in service. 83

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Before she could press the button, she heard the beeping from the phone blare loudly. There was no dial tone—only a busy signal. "Okay," she grunted, rolling her eyes. "I know we paid this bill." Setting the phone back on its charger, she checked the time on the clock and rushed to the bedroom. She dressed in the warmest, thickest clothes that she could find—some of them Dylan's—and moved back into the living room to put her heaviest boots on her feet. Sitting down on the couch, she flipped the television on for background noise and began to pull on her boots. "The scene is horrendous, Chris," Channel 5 News reporter Jonathan Jenkins cringed through his report. "All around me are cars, buildings, and people—yes, people—that have all been transformed into ice." Jasmine jerked her eyes to the television. The picture was hazy and flickered as the reporter spoke. "There are no people on this particular street that have not—somehow—been turned to ice. Telephone lines have been taken down, entire iced bodies have been shattered, and worst of all, Chris—we're left with a most difficult question. Where have the children gone? The police say they've received nearly twenty missing person reports this morning, all for children under the age of ten. Parents say they let their kids go out to play in the snow or be with their friends this morning, and they've all seemed to disappear." With a nervous hand, Jasmine touched against the life in her stomach. 84

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"So along with something going around that turns people and objects to ice, we also have an apparent kidnapper on the loose. This will not be a very merry Christmas for New York City, Chris." "Horrible thing there, Jonathan," anchor Chris Logan said movingly. Then, placing a smile on his face, he continued, "In other news, what do a parakeet, a clown, and a class of fifth graders have in common?" With a click of the remote, Jasmine powered off the television. Was what she just watched actually real? How could something have turned all of those people and places into ice? Then she remembered the earlier news report she had watched this morning. The reporter had been amazed at all of the fascinating ice sculptures that had been created over the night, and she had mentioned how lifelike they had been. Jasmine remembered the face of the one they had zoomed in on. The face had been pain-stricken and tortured. Although it was warm in the apartment and she was dressed well-enough to survive Alaska, she shivered with a terrible chill reminiscent of the one she had endured when waking from her nap. Slowly, she crossed over the living room carpet and touched against the glass of the larger of the apartment's two windows. Snow covered every inch of the ground, and the wind lapped mercilessly through the air. Nothing in her view had been transformed into ice, however. Still, somewhere out there, there was something very powerful, very deadly, and it frightened her with the same intensity that her dream had. 85

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In her mind, she could see again his face so clearly. It was as if he was in the room with her, standing only inches away from her face. She could not see his body, only his head from the beard up. Had his eyes not been blue as ice and black as coal, had his hat not been stained red instead of red velvet, and had his mouth not opened up into a black, fang-filled pit, she would have actually thought him to be Santa Claus. That was a preposterous idea, she knew, but if not old St. Nick, then who? Who was this large, bearded man with the red cap and the angry smile? Who was he, and why was he in her dreams? Bailey's apartment was eleven blocks away. If she left now, she would make it there and back before Dylan came home from work. With the telephone lines down, there was no use in trying to call Bailey to let her know she was on her way, and there was no way to contact Dylan to let him know where she was. She would have to hustle and avoid being turned to ice along the way.

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Chapter Six The sign announced the appearance of the city's fattest Santa Claus. Nicholas Von Barron did not know exactly what this meant, but it perked his interest. He had grown quite fascinated with this modern new village. Had this been the New World that the captain of that ship long ago had talked about? Nicholas had never seen such miraculous things in all of his time on earth. Instead of on horses, mortals rode from place to place in monstrous creations of steel that trapped them inside until they reached their destinations. They no longer lived in tiny, mundane cottages. Instead, towering buildings of unusual stones and steels scraped against the skylines. There were not nearly as many trees and wooded areas for him to seek refuge here. Instead, he'd had to take shelter in the shadows of the towering buildings when he needed to keep out of sight. But with as much that had changed over time, one thing had not changed at all—the taste of children. He had feasted on the flesh of more children than he could count since arriving here, and still he hungered for more. Sniffing the air, he smelled the fresh scent of children grow thicker as he crept through the shadows, remaining out of sight from the public eye. Many of the villagers here had seemed ignorant of him, refusing to have even acknowledged his presence when he had approached him. Many, he thought, hadn't even noticed being turned into ice. Somehow, 87

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Nicholas's appearance had not frightened the people of this village nearly as much as it had so long ago. What was it about these odd townsfolk of this village named New York that made them so unafraid of his features and abilities? Still, he could not risk going in to a large group of people and having them recognize him as an outsider. Although he could easily claim them all, he could not take the chance of angering his master yet again. The devil was a ruthless beast, even to his own minions. The scent of the children grew heavier with each heavy step he took. Peering around a rough brick corner, he saw the large cluster of people and heard their rowdy echoes as they moved around a large sign announcing the presentation of New York's fattest Santa Claus. "Ho ho ho!" yelled a voice from deep within the crowd. "Did all the good little girls and boys get their present from Santa?" "Yes, Santa!" all of the children in the large crowd joyously shouted in unison. "Then let's all gather in closely while I tell you a story about me!" "YAY!" cheered the children. Their voices carried and echoed loudly into the busy streets. Although he could not be seen from Nicholas's current position, the beast could hear the man named Santa begin to tell his tale. Relaxing against the sturdy brick wall, he breathed and waited, admitting to himself that he was most curious to learn exactly what this Santa Claus creature was. 88

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"T'was the night before Christmas, when all through the house," Santa begin, reciting by memory from the classic Clement C. Moore poem. Nicholas's eyes grew wide as the voice reached the line, "In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there." He listened with keen ears as the poem continued to build, and he began to recognize the scenes in the village, only it had not been toys that had been delivered to the children. It had been death. He'd never ridden a reindeer before, but he wondered how one would taste. Then, it happened to dawn on Nicholas that this poem was about him—or at least, a version of him. Somehow, Nicholas Von Barron had become legendary during his time undersea. He had become known as "a right jolly old elf." And this Santa Claus character, wherever in the crowd he stood, was pretending to be him. "What have these villagers done to me?" Nicholas growled lowly to himself. From far below, he felt a tug at the hem of his large brownish red coat. He looked down and stared at the face of the tiniest little girl. She smiled up at him with large blue eyes—welcoming and friendly. She was dressed in a red wool coat and her long blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail and hidden under a cap. At the very oldest, she was five. "Excuse me, Mista," she asked through a smile that lacked its two front teeth. "Are ... are you the real Santy Claus?" Now, a smile crossed over Nicholas's face as well. "Aye, I be, little girl," he said in his lowest but most humbling voice to avoid scaring her away. He was amazed. It 89

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was the first time that a child had not run away from his sight. "Will you be bringin' me a Chwismiss pwesent?" she question sweetly. "I've been a vewy good girl!" "Aye, I be sure ye have," replied Nicholas. "I may even have a present for ye right now." Reaching into the deep pockets of his heavy coat, he pulled free a pair of thick, hellish gloves. These gloves prevented anything he touched from turning to ice so that he could feast. It was the only way that he could eat. To Nicholas's fortune, the gloves had been in his coat pocket during his icy transformation. Had the gloves been untouched by the devil's magic, they too would have turned to ice from the beast's touch. Tugging the gloves onto his hands, his smile widened even more. "Me bag o' toys be sittin' way down there," he said, motioning deep within the alley behind him. "Ye come with me an' I'll give ye somethin' special." "Chrissy!" a voice summoned suddenly, appearing from the front of the building by which they stood. The young child's mother stepped into plain view. "Get away from that old man. You never know what germs you could catch from him!" Then, leaning low, she added, "How many times have I told you to stay away from bums? Just because they have a beard does not mean that they're all Santa Claus." "I'm sorry, Mommy," the little girl pouted as she began to walk away with her mother. Then, looking behind her, she hollered to Nicholas, "Bye, Santa!" 90

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He could only wave goodbye. It was the first time in his life that he had ever had a child's mother come up and take their child back from him. Neither the woman nor the little girl had shown any signs of fear and neither had run away. They had walked. "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!" he heard the Santa Claus exclaim loudly as the group of children and their parents sounded into a heavy roar of excitement. Nicholas began to grow angry—terribly so. His name had been tarnished and used to promote festivities and joy. Somehow, he had become the face of this holiday known as Christmas, and this did not please him at all. Dipping back into the shelter of the shadows, he stood quietly and waited as the crowd began to break up, disperse, and leave, and he could see the Santa Claus for the very first time. Announced as the city's fattest Santa Claus, the man was remarkably the same size as Nicholas Von Barron, himself. He wore a coat like Nicholas's, except that it was pure red and made of wool and velvet instead of animal skin. His hat was red and white like his, too. Nicholas suspected the Santa's hat wasn't stained that way from blood though. The beard and mustache, the white as snow hair ... they were all Nicholas's. The only real difference was in the personality. This Santa Claus seemed unfit and weak. He would have no trouble defeating his impersonator. Leaving his gloves on, he stepped out of the shadows and into the bright daylight. Of the dozens of people that had been gathered, only a handful remained, and they had all wandered far from the Santa Claus. 91

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Rick Henderson sat heavily on the large chair that had been set up as his throne. The amount of children had been exhausting for him, but he only had one gig left for the year. Tomorrow, he would play Santa for a Christmas Eve fundraiser, and then he was through with this costume for another eleven months. During that time, he could happily go back to retirement. Had it not been for his age, weight, and that beard that made him identical to the famed Santa Claus, he never would have started doing this in the first place. But Santa was such a fun loving, jolly creature. In a way, he felt it an honor to portray him, as he had done now for the last seven years. Still, it was taking its toll on his body and health. The older he got, the more weight he seemed to put on. And at seventy-three years old, the weight seemed even heavier than it actually was. To move from place to place—even in his apartment—was beyond hard. He attempted to stand from his chair so that he could prepare it to be carried off by the company that he worked for, but it seemed nearly impossible to move. He was exhausted. Perhaps just five more minutes of sitting and then he would feel better. The shadow that blocked out the rays of sunlight made him lift his head and open wide his bright blue eyes. Panic grew over his body as he stared up at the monstrous man that towered before him. Whether a bum or a mugger, he knew the man intended trouble. He could see it in the icy pits of his eyes. The beastly stranger opened his fanged mouth 92

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into a horrifying grin, and Rick Henderson wondered how many breaths he had left until death overcame him. "Ye be the one they call the Santa Claus?" Nicholas asked in a demonic voice filled with hatred. "Only for two hours a day during December," Rick answered, afraid not to. "Yer wardrobe. Give it to me." "What?" the old man questioned, clutching tightly to the costume that he, himself, had spent five hundred dollars on. "This was handmade for me." Turning to the lamp post that stood beside Santa's throne, Nicholas released a heavy breath, turning the post into pure ice. Then, looking back to the Santa Claus, he huffed, "If ye don' want to die right this moment, ye will turn over yer garments." Moving with controlled speed, Rick stood from his chair and began to undress. When the coat, belt, boots, pants, and hat had been stripped from his body, he stood in the cold, shivering in nothing but his boxer shorts and undershirt. "Please..." he chattered helplessly and fought back tears. "I'm so cold..." "Ye be cold, eh?" Nicholas asked, moving as close to his identical opposite as he could. "I'll show ye cold." And with the blowing of a light breath, Rick Henderson was transformed into ice. Nicholas stared at the ice sculpture of the nearly naked Santa Claus and grinned wickedly. Without the costume, he was no more than another fat, pitiful mortal. "How dare ye tarnish me reputation?" Nicholas spat. 93

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He remembered that the old man had admitted to only portraying him part of the time, which meant there had to be others out there like him—other men playing this Santa Claus character. Men who were tarnishing Nicholas Von Barron's name and reputation. These Santa Clauses were now the mark of Nicholas's new wave of vengeance. Briefly, he considered that this modern day Santa Claus was but another punishment inflicted on him by his master. It seemed the sort of thing he would do. He began to pull the clean costume on over his grubby ancient clothing, and once dressed in the former Santa's attire, Nicholas stood tall, mighty, and refreshed. Aside from his eyes and his open mouth, there was nothing to distinguish him from all of the other ingrates that were playing St. Nick. There was one positive side to this new reputation he currently suffered. The modern village children seemed to want to come to him, instead of him having to hunt them down. Yes, Nicholas Von Barron would feast well on this day.

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Chapter Seven Jasmine pushed hard through the heavy wind, bright sun, and snow-covered sidewalks. The streets were packed with traffic jams, last minute shoppers, charity workers, a million Santa Clauses, and everything of the like. The one thing she had not seen so far was an ice sculpture, and for that, she was quite thankful. Bailey's apartment came into view and she sighed with heavy relief. Her ankles felt swollen, her knees were cramping, and her lower back was beginning to feel like it was on fire. Jasmine hardly ever left the comforts of home during the winter, and rarely did she travel by foot. This walk had proved brutal for her, but with her destination so near, she gained momentum and strength and persevered to the front entrance of the grand, comfortable, and all too familiar Ransom Rayne apartment building. She knew this building like the back of her own hand, and she missed it terribly. After climbing the four flights of stairs to Bailey's level— and what used to also be Jasmine's level—she turned down the right wing hallway and crossed down to the sixth door. There, she knocked with a heavy fist. The door was opened by Bailey's husband, George Blake. "Jasmine?" he asked, pulling the door open wide. "Long time no see." "Hi, George," she smiled pleasantly. "Is Bailey home? I needed to speak with her." 95

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"No, she left a few hours ago to do some Christmas shopping. I had hoped she would be back by now, but ... So, what's up? Is something the matter?" "I needed to talk to her. Dylan and I—well—we're pregnant." "That's terrific," his cheered. "Having a kid is great. I've been sitting with our son Toby all day. We just woke from our nap, actually." "So, you haven't heard from Bailey?" "Not since she left, no. Would you like to come in and wait for her? She should be home before long." "No," Jasmine whispered, feeling a familiar chill befall her body. "I think I'll give her a call later. Have—have you watched the news today?" "Nah," George remarked. "I haven't watched television in years. We don't even own one. It rots the brain, you know." "So I've heard," she said, forcing a smile. "If Bailey comes home, will you please tell her I stopped by and share the news with her?" "Of course!" Saying his goodbye and closing the door, he could not help but wonder what Jasmine had meant by "if" Bailey came home. Crossing down the final steps of the stairway, her ears perked at sounds that resembled chaos. Her pace quickened as she rushed to the exit of the apartment building, pressing her hands against the glass and staring out into the street. Cars in all directions had crashed together, and people ran hurriedly and screamed with deafening tones as they rushed about, toppling over one another. Then, as Jasmine peered 96

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further to her left, she could see the local post office only two blocks down transform into solid ice. Loudly, a clock chimed behind her on the wall, alerting her that it was now two in the afternoon. In two hours, Dylan would be leaving work, and Jasmine would be nothing more than a block of ice. A flock of Santa Clauses swarmed by the apartment building, and they all looked more terrified than the normally clothed people that ran along beside them. Then, more buildings began to turn to ice, and Jasmine suddenly had the most terrible of ideas. What if, when the buildings turned to ice, so did everything inside of them? Panic struck deep within her core and she opened the door with terrible quickness. Stepping outside, she founded herself pushed against the building, nearly overrun by the mob that filled the street and sidewalk. Climbing up onto a snowcovered planter next to her, she stood tall above the heads and searched for the source of the ice. Then—she found him. The ice was from some unknown power controlled by a large man in a Santa suit. "I always knew Santa was bad," she whispered, astounded at the sight of an office building transforming into ice from the ground up. Through the icy windows, she could see the frozen faces of the building's inhabitants. They too were ice, and she received the wrenching answer to her question. "Jasmine!" she heard a voice call and took immediate notice of Bailey Blake running up to her. "Jasmine, it's terrible!" 97

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"Bailey, what's going on?" she pleaded as she climbed down from the planter. "What's happening?" "Some crazed Santa Claus," the woman answered in a huff as she tried to catch her breath. "He's gone on some sort of rampage, chasing after everyone in a Santa suit and turning everything in his path into ice!" "How—how does he turn things into ice?" "Just watch." And turning her back to her friend, Bailey ushered toward the mad Santa, who had just made it to the edge of their block. By the touch of his hand, he turned an apartment building and its connecting grocery into pure, sleek ice. "Holy shit," Jasmine panted, finding that all other words had left her. "Come on. We've got to get out of here! Are George and Toby out of the apartment yet?" Coming back from a daze she hadn't known she was in, she turned to face her best friend. "No—no, I just saw him in the apartment. I was up there looking for you, and..." "I've got to get them out of there!" Bailey shouted, pushing past Jasmine and bolting through the door. "No!" Jasmine cried from behind her. "You can't go in! It's too late! He's coming this way!" But Bailey did not hear her friend's call, and shortly, she disappeared up the steps in an attempt to save her family. Jasmine jerked her head back behind her to see the wicked Santa Claus approaching her—only two buildings away. "Bailey!" she cried as loudly as she could, hoping to save her friend in time. "Bailey!" 98

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Another look to the Santa told her that it was time to move. With a great leap, she bolted away from the building just as the monster reached out and touched its wall. Ice began to quickly scale up it, and Jasmine watched as it devoured it completely. "Bailey, no..." she whimpered for a brief moment before realizing that the Santa Claus was staring directly at her. She could see his face now, and she recognized it. The icy blue eyes with the black as night pupils, the hollowed smile filled with fangs, the rough beard that hadn't been trimmed, tamed, or cleaned in heaven knew how long ... This was her nightmare man—the man from her dream. Nicholas's eyes met with hers and for a moment, it seemed as if all else in the world had stopped. She had seen him before—perhaps in a dream—and she remembered him. That meant one thing and one thing only. This woman was with child. Within her stomach, she carried a tiny bundle of brand new life—the most delicious meal of all for Von Barron. Pulling his gloves from his pocket, he slid them on, winked a cold blue eye at her, and then began to charge toward her. In a huff, Jasmine turned on her heels to run. She moved with a greater speed than she had ever used, fleeing through the mixture of other terrified retreaters. Nicholas could have cared less about any of the others now. He now had Jasmine's scene, and he was determined that her womb would be his next meal. He pushed his way through person after person. Each screamed with great intensity, fearing that they were about to become ice. Due to the nature of his gloves, however, every 99

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one of them was thrown to the ground alive and reasonably unharmed. At first, Jasmine no longer recognized the New York neighborhood that she rushed through. Every person and every building became one fleeting object to her as she left them all in her dust. Then, one building managed to stand out among all of the others. She had reached Gracy's Department Store, and inside, Dylan was still playing St. Nick. Once inside the enormous store, she stared at the hundreds upon hundreds of shoppers and then glanced behind her at the only visible exit out of the store. She now realized that it had been a bad idea to follow her instincts and venture into the store. Now, she was trapped and had put numerous more lives in danger. Either the abominable Santa Claus would follow her inside, or he would turn the entire building and everything within it to ice. She knew she did not have time to stop and catch her breath. She had to hide. Her first thought had been to find Dylan, but now she remembered what Bailey had said. The large, evil St. Nick had been targeting other Santa Clauses before setting his sights on her. If she fled to Dylan, they were both doomed. "Excuse me?" one woman asked in a huff as Jasmine pushed by her, causing her to drop the tacky garment she had been admiring. "Have some respect, lady!" "I'm sorry!" Jasmine managed to respond, but this did not prevent her from continuing to push her way through the thick packs of shoppers. 100

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Somehow, she had to find a place to hide. Briefly, she took note of the escalators, the elevators, and the stairwell. She closed her eyes and tried hard to think which one was the best route for her to go. She knew that she couldn't remain on the ground level. He would find her in an instant. In the movies, most damsels in distress fled to the stairwell, where the killer usually caught up with them and put an end to their fleeing. The escalators would put her in plain sight until she reached the top, and a confrontation on them would have easily proved deadly. She could see herself being flung down to her death. The elevators seemed to be the best and most logical choice. They had no windows, and of the three currently running, it would prove impossible to detect which one she was on. Like a flash of light, Jasmine bolted for the row of elevators, thanking her creator as one opened at her arrival. She rushed into it and pressed the button to shut the door, not taking the moment to see who else was there. When the door closed and the elevator began to roll upward, she saw that she stood amongst five men, all dressed as Santa Claus. Although frightened and surprised, she barely showed it, but she felt as if she had jumped a mile. This elevator full of Santa impersonators was perhaps her most frightening revelation yet. If she had failed to notice five men dressed as Santa right in front her when she had stormed into the elevator, how could she trust herself to notice the murderous one when he was in close range? 101

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She felt sick again but knew that she could not vomit here. She couldn't allow herself to grow that weak. Not now. Not while she feared that the horrible Santa Claus still chased her. And she knew for a fact that he was. The building had not been turned to ice. That was the only proof she needed. Jasmine remembered she had not pressed a floor button, and she felt the elevator ease to a stop on floor number two. She panicked as the door slid open, and as one Santa moved to the front and out of the elevator, she pushed herself further to the back. The second floor was much too close to the first one for her comfort. The elevator repeated this pattern with four of the five remaining floors. It did not dawn on her until the last Santa exited that these were the four o'clock reliefs. Dylan would be getting off from work shortly, and in his Santa suit, he would be an easy target for the monster. As the door opened to the sixth floor, she now prayed that she would find Dylan instead of avoid him. She had to warn him of the ice Santa. With only ten feet at most separating them, Jasmine stared into the cruel face of Nicholas Von Barron. In a flash, she pressed her hand repeatedly against the "close" button to seal the door and whimpered as the beast began to near her. Her eyes stayed on the gloved hand that reached out for her with demonic intentions. Salvation blessed her on this occasion though, for just as his hand was about to reach into the elevator, the door slid shut. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the button for the third floor and vomited to her side as the elevator began to move. How had he tracked her so quickly? 102

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The Santas, she knew, had cursed her. By stopping at each and every floor, they had slowed her down. Now, she had nowhere to hide. The beast knew that she was on this elevator, and he knew she was going downward. He would be on every floor waiting for her until she reached the ground floor, and even there, she would be his. There was but one option. Slapping her hand against a large red button, she brought the elevator to an emergency stop. Almost instantly, the elevator's telephone began to ring. She answered it quickly, not wasting a moment's hesitation. "This is Gracy's Security," the rough voice on the other line spoke. "We've received notice that the elevator has come to an emergency stop and are checking the situation." "You have to listen to me," Jasmine spoke lowly, fearful her voice would be heard through the door of the elevator. "You have to get everyone out of this store." "Excuse me?" the security guard asked in disbelief. "You're kidding me, right?" "Everyone in this building will die if they don't get out right now." "Is—is this a bomb threat?" "Listen to me, you stupid mother fucker," she growled as lowly as possible. She hadn't the time for this. "Haven't any of you watched the news today? All day long, some sick son of a bitch has been turning people into ice." "Yeah, I saw something about that." "He's in the store!" 103

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"You've got to be joshing. In here? In Gracy's with nearly two thousand shoppers? Don't you think there would have been some sort of panic by now, or someone turned into ice maybe? Something other than a panicky woman in an elevator?" Jasmine was about to speak, but she recognized the next sound that she heard. The heavy breathing, the sudden gasp from the security guard—the sound of ice slamming to the floor and shattering. The ice monster was in the security room. "I can smell yer insides..." his demonic voice slurred into the phone, sending a chill over her as she listened with numb ears. "I can smell yer womb." "Leave me alone, you sick bastard!" she cried, wishing she could spit in his face. "I can smell yer child, fresh an' delicious. It will do ye no good to run. Ye will join me for my next feast." "What—what do you want from me?" "Nothing much, lass. Just yer child." His laughter was menacing and strong, enrapturing her ears with exquisite dread. Tears fell from her eyes as she slammed the phone back onto its hook and closed the emergency panel-box door. He wanted her. He wanted her child—the child she and Dylan had prayed for. It was too much to handle and she felt faint and weak. But just as her eyes began to drift shut and her body began to tumble to the side, her head tilted up and she saw the door to the elevator's roof. 104

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At five feet, six inches tall, she predicted having great difficulty reaching it. It took her four jumps, but on the last one she pressed hard against the thin metal door and forced it out of place. It moved over enough for her to grasp hold of the open frame's ledges on her next jump, and with all of her might she began to pull herself up and out of the elevator. On its top, she found that she could stand tall. The only thing above her was the roof of Gracy's Department store. On either side of her hung the cables from the other elevators, and she could see the location of each box. One elevator was currently in motion, and it was heading up toward her. The Monster Claus would be expecting her to go down. So, as the elevator gradually crawled up, Jasmine stepped onto it, grabbed hold of its cable to balance herself, and hitched a ride back up to the sixth floor. The elevator eased to a stop, and Jasmine was suddenly thankful that it had not been a janitor going up to the top floor storage. Her head would have been crushed without a doubt. She waited a moment until she knew that everyone had cleared out of the elevator, and sliding the metal door off to the side, she peered down into the empty box. Bracing herself, she began to lower her body down, and when she ran out of arm length, she released her hands and dropped the rest of the way. Now, she stood nervously in front of the closed door. That last time she had ventured onto this floor, her nemesis had been waiting. Perhaps he was waiting again now. 105

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Jasmine had no choice but to take a chance. Nervously, she pressed her quivering finger against the "open" button and held her breath as the door began to move. Her thumb hurriedly jerked over to the "close" button, preparing to press down on the chance that the ice beast was there. Although several shoppers strolled through the sixth floor shopping plaza—which was filled with kitchen and bath wares, sporting goods, and various electronics—there was no abominable Santa awaiting her arrival. She allowed herself to breathe as she stepped from the elevator and down onto the floor, which was large enough for her to run on when the occasion arose. Jasmine moved with heavy speed and the knowledge that her husband was not far away. "Hey!" shouted one shopper as she pushed him to the side. "Watch it!" demanded another who was knocked in the elbow. "Ma'am!" cried the department's sales girl, who began to chase after her. "You need to slow down. Ma'am!" Jasmine heard none of these people. If she risked stopping to explain, she risked exposing herself and everyone else to grave danger. Finally, she found herself in the sporting goods section and turned down an aisle. There, she took a golf club and a baseball bat, unsure of which would prove the better weapon. She knew in her heart that neither would be able to protect her, but she still felt safer with something at her side. Stepping back out into the large center aisle of the sixth floor, she watched several children and their parents step off 106

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of the elevators. Then, she stared at the children as they began to flee swiftly. Perhaps they were about to be eaten, she thought, having learned from the beast of his hunger for children. But Jasmine saw that she was thankfully wrong. The children had all rushed to a long line that led up to the sixth floor's Santa Claus. Taking a few steps closer, she saw that this particular Santa was Dylan. Even through the Santa suit, she knew her husband. Amongst all of her fear, a smile crossed over her lips. She stared at him intently as she neared him, trying her best to remain calm to avoid frightening the children and causing a panic. Then again, who would believe her? Gracy's security surely hadn't—at least not until they saw the monster for themselves. She prayed that wouldn't happen again. Jasmine had to admit that Dylan was pretty good at playing St. Nick. He released a perfectly chilling "Ho, ho, ho" as a small boy took the coloring book from his hand and a beautiful ebony girl took the boy's place in his lap. The girl reminded Jasmine of how she had been as a child—long, flowing black hair, an innocent smile, and large brown eyes that would be the envy of all. With all of her heart, she hoped this little girl would survive to see Christmas morning. "And what is your name, little girl?" she heard Santa ask the child. "Amira," the little girl whispered in a raspy voice as she blushed and turned her head away. "That's a beautiful name, Amira," Santa praised her with an instantly soothing voice. Brightly, the little girl smiled 107

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again and turned her eyes back to his. "What would you like for Christmas?" "But I just told you downstairs what I wanted," she giggled, referring to her visits with other Gracy's Santa Clauses. "Three times! I just wanted another coloring book." "Oh yes," Dylan laughed, hoping not to spoil the child's belief in the fantastic mythical creature. "Santa's old, Amira, and my memory gets a little hazy every now and then." Again, the girl giggled as Santa handed her a coloring book and sent her on with her mother, wishing her a Merry Christmas. It was then that he noticed Jasmine approaching him in a way that was both cautious and brisk. This was odd, he thought, as she hated the idea of him playing Santa Claus, and she would never have—under any circumstances—visited him at work. But here she was, and the sight brought him worry. "Jasmine?" he asked as she broke in line and came up beside him. "You've got to come with me now," she whispered quietly in his ear. "I can't explain here." "It's almost the end of my shift," he said. "Is this something we can talk about shortly?" "If we don't hurry, there won't be a 'shortly.'" Her voice rose a bit with this, and the look of her eyes showed fear. "Jasmine, what's going on? Is this about the baby?" "Hey!" shouted a mother from behind Santa's velvet rope. "Can we move it along here? I've got shopping to do." "Yeah!" agreed several other parents around her. 108

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"Please, please," Dylan pleaded in his Santa Claus tone. "Santa will be with each and every one of you soon. Right now, Mrs. Claus is reporting on the status of all of the toys!" "YAY!" cried all of the children, each one jumping up and down at the talk of their Christmas morning toys. Leaning back toward Jasmine, he whispered, "What's up?" "There's someone in the store trying to kill me," she said in a huff, spilling out the sentence quickly. "He's after our baby. I don't know why and I don't know who he is. He's dressed in a Santa suit and he's turning everything into ice." Dylan couldn't help but laugh. It was perhaps the most preposterous thing he had ever heard. It wasn't April Fool's Day, but he knew she was playing some sort of hoax on him. Perhaps she had come to Gracy's to shop and gotten bored. Whatever it was, it struck him with great humor. "Don't laugh at me!" she shouted, straightening herself and no longer caring if she made a scene in front of the children. She didn't have time for such games. "I'm serious. We have to get out of here." "As soon as my shift's over," he remarked, smiling and winking an eye. Knowing his wife, she was eager for a late afternoon quickie. "No, now!" she demanded, grabbing his hand and attempting to pull him from his throne. "People are dead already!" Glancing over her shoulder, Jasmine saw the looks of curiosity and intrigue that filled the eyes of everyone standing in the line. 109

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"That's right," she told them, nodding her head. "The security guards. Dead. All of them, I'm sure." "Jasmine, that's enough," Dylan ordered softly. "What's wrong with you people? Haven't any of you looked outside? New York has been turned to ice!" In this moment, the store intercom system clicked on, bringing Jasmine to instant silence. She began to shake uncontrollably, and Dylan took this to heart. She was not pulling some stupid prank. She was quite serious. "Attention, Gracy's Shoppers," the voice called over the intercom, nearly causing Jasmine's heart to stop. It was the monstrous Santa Claus speaking in his thick, demonic accent. It was a voice she knew she would never forget—if she survived long enough to forget things. "Thank ye for shoppin' here today. Ye shall find that all exits have been sealed, an' there be no way out of the store. Please, enjoy yer shoppin' an' have a great death." From levels one to six, Gracy's Department Store fell into a deep, thick silence. No one spoke, muttered, whispered, or shouted for what seemed the longest moment Jasmine could remember. Then, she felt her husband's hand clench hers tightly as he stood beside her. Sheer panic developed throughout the store. Mothers and fathers lifted their children into their arms and began to flee in all directions. Shopper upon shopper rushed each other, causing many people to fall from the railings of the upper levels, plummeting down to the first floor and their deaths. The screams and shrieks rose and echoed from all around and 110

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those who managed to fall to the ground were trampled from this life and into the next. "Come on," Dylan ordered to his wife, pulling her from the massacre in front of them and to the area behind the Santa display. Leaning into her ear, he whispered, "There's a secret black door on each floor that leads to a stairway out to the street. It's an employee entrance and none of the customers know about it." Pushing their way to the kitchenware section, they rushed over to the cashier's counter and pulled aside a twenty foot long Gracy's Department Store flag. Behind this was the secret door, and Dylan reached for the black knob. It opened with ease, and he led his wife into their possible salvation. Shutting the door behind him, he gazed down the railing of the stairwell, noticing that all flights below them were empty. "No one's remembered this exit," he whispered, motioning for Jasmine to follow him as he started down the narrow stairs. "Good. Otherwise it would be jammed," she huffed as she held tight to the baseball bat in her hand. "I'm sorry I didn't believe you before when you told me there was trouble." "That's okay," she spoke tenderly, flying down the stairs with hurried speed. "You believe me now." On each floor level, the sounds of the screams and cries of terror blared heavily through the wall into the stairwell. Each new whimper and screech made Jasmine cringe more, as she knew what was happening to them. Santa was on a rampage, and they were being turned into ice. She could no longer 111

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concern herself with the lives of the shoppers though. She had tried to warn them, but there was nothing more she could do. If she tried to help now, she had no chance of escaping with her life and the life of her baby. "Leave my child alone!" she heard one woman scream in anguish, and this caused both Jasmine and Dylan to stop in their tracks. They were now on the second floor landing. "Stop it!" "Mommy!" they heard the little boy's voice strain through pain and tears! "Mom—" And then his voice fell silent as the mother's screams grew louder, echoing higher above anyone else's. "Stop it! Stop eating my little boy!" There was nothing they could do. Jasmine knew that after Santa had finished his small, brief meal, the mother would be transformed into ice. And, just as she had suspected, the mother's scream stopped in mid-note, and then she screamed no more. Dylan took Jasmine's hand and pulled her to attention, causing her to move again and hurry down the final flight of stairs. On the first floor landing, they stood in a tiny boxed area between two doors. One was marked "Exit;" the other was labeled "Floor One." Turning to the exit, Dylan forced himself on the handle of the door, attempting to open it and flee outside. He cursed heavily as he discovered the door was locked. "Back up the stairs," he shouted, turning his wife around to help her in the right direction. Yet, as they took the first 112

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step up, the second floor door opened and the large, deathly Santa Claus stepped out into the stairwell. "I could smell ye ten knots to the wind," he growled at her through his fanged smile. "I could smell yer child." Then, his icy eyes took notice of her companion in the Santa suit—yet another mortal pretending to be him. This was a fine discovery for Nicholas Von Barron. His vengeance and his hunger would both be soothed. He wiped the blood from the other children away from his mouth with his beard and slowly began to cross down the stairs. Knowing that their exit from the building was locked, they turned toward the first floor door, opened it with a jerk, and fled from the mammoth monster that approached. Pulling the door closed behind him, Dylan rushed to front of the cash register counter, pushing with all of his might until it was up against the secret "employees only" door. He watched the door intently, waiting to see if this horrifying Santa Claus would burst through it. It was all too quiet on the first floor, and turning around, Dylan stared into Gracy's Department Store—a winter wonderland. This was his first glance at the terror the Santa was spreading, and it was enough to take his breath away. All around, ice sculptures of people—the shoppers, the Gracy's employees, the other store Santa Clauses—all with panic etched over their faces and in the positions they had been in when fleeing from the icy beast. Looking up at the above five floors—he could see more of the same iced, dead people. There were no sounds or movements anywhere. This 113

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monster had very quickly cleared the department store of all life, with only him and Jasmine remaining. "This is impossible," he whispered, holding his wife tight and trying his best to take in the mournful scene around him. "Who—who is that horrible creature?" "It's Santa Claus," Jasmine replied softly, "and he wants to eat my womb." "How does he do this, Jasmine? How does he turn people to ice?" "When I first saw him," she began, recalling her final moment with Bailey, "he had been coming toward Bailey's apartment, and he touched everything in his path and turned it all into ice. Bailey told me he had been chasing people dressed in Santa suits, but then he saw me," she paused and breathed deeply, afraid to remember and continue. "When he saw me, he took some gloves out of his pocket and put them on. He was after our baby, Dylan. He told me he wants to eat it." Tears ran down her face, and she shook with uncontrollable might. "I think that's why he put the gloves on. If he touched me without them, I would have turned into ice and he couldn't have eaten my womb." Dylan held the most disgusted look known to mankind on his face. His stomach churned and he feared that he would be sick. Forcing the feeling away, he wiped the sweat from his brow and tugged his faux beard and mustache down to his neckline. "That's the sickest thing I've ever heard," he admitted, choking on his words. 114

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"He touched Bailey's building," Jasmine continued, closing her eyes and shaking her head softly. The tears flew heavily and stung warm against her cheeks. "Bailey ... George ... Toby—they were all in the building. Now, they're all ice." "Shit," he spat, wishing nothing more than to cry. But at the moment, he could not take the time for heartbreak. He had to focus on his wife and unborn child. He had to protect them at any cost. "There are some tame but possibly useful weapons in sporting goods," he grunted, hating the thought of having to return to the sixth floor. "I know! I grabbed one!" She grinned proudly, clutching tight to the baseball bat in her right hand. "I meant like crossbows and other things that might actually hurt him," he smiled, looking at the bat and shaking his head. "You'd have to get pretty close to him to hit him with that bat, and by the size of him, I don't think it would do much good." "Fine then," she whispered, nodding her head. "We'll find something else, but I'm keeping the bat just in case." Even though she was quite afraid, Jasmine held onto her independent spunk—a trait that Dylan loved. His smile widened and he hugged his wife tightly, kissing her softly on her lips. "I love you so much," he breathed through the kiss, gently closing his eyes. "I love you, baby," she responded, unable to breathe, for she had temporarily been rendered breathless. 115

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"That all be sweet an' tender," the heavy, hellish voice announced from nearby, "but ye cannot make me twins at this stage. So let us not waste the time tryin'." Jerking their eyes open and their heads up, they gazed across the store to find the large, beastly Santa standing in front of the exit. Jasmine thought she would faint again—just as she almost had in the elevator—but Dylan's arm around her waist kept her secure and conscious. "There be nowhere left to run. Ye be the only ones left, an' all the exits be sealed." Slowly, just as if to ensure his statement, Nicholas placed his gloved hands on either side of the doorframe and blew on the door, transforming it into a block of ice. His gloved hands prevented the entire building from transforming along with it. When he turned back to Jasmine and the Santa Claus, he saw that they had begun to flee. His cold eyes followed them as they leaped up the steps of the escalator, passing iced people all along their way. With slow but determined steps, Nicholas began to follow. There was nowhere for them to escape. This had turned more into a game than a vengeance for him now. Nicholas Von Barron was rather enjoying this round of cat and mouse. On the fourth floor landing, Jasmine and Dylan stopped long enough to turn around and look down to see how far away the evil Santa was. Much to their thanks and their disappointment, they saw no sign of him. He had not taken the escalators to follow them, but they knew he was on their trail. They decided it best not to waste another moment, and they jotted up the first steps of the next set of escalators. 116

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They were almost to the sixth floor, and Jasmine hoped above all else that whatever plan Dylan had, it worked. Halfway up the fifth floor's escalator, they could see their destination come into plain view. It appeared just as chaotic as it had been when they retreated from it, but now the people no longer screamed, fled, or trampled each other. Now, they were all ice sculptures reflecting agonizing pain and desperate fear. "Come on," Dylan whispered, taking his wife's hand and quietly leading her through the glistening, transparent shoppers. "Follow me." With precisely placed steps, he led her to sporting goods. Taking a duffel bag, he began to fill it with anything he thought they might find useful—arrows, flares, camping matches, kerosene. Gracy's had an antigun policy that he currently hated, but he would have to make the most of what he could find. Next to him, Jasmine continued to clench tightly to her baseball bat, ready to strike when needed. "Wants to eat my womb..." she snorted angrily. "Son of a bitch!" "Quiet," he hushed, pressing a finger across his lips. "We don't want to give ourselves away." "I look cheap to you?" she asked, grinning coyly and showing a brief glimpse of humor in this time of mortal—and immortal—fear. Returning her smile, Dylan stood upright and stepped in front of her, ushering for her to follow behind him. If danger lurked ahead, he wanted to make sure that he stood between 117

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it and his wife. He would gladly give himself if it would salvage his family. They stepped out into the large, main aisle of the sixth floor. Aside from the iced shoppers, employees, and the remains of the children, the aisle was empty. Far ahead of them was the Santa Claus throne, and behind that was the big cashiers' counter with the hidden door behind it. Within that cashiers' counter was a set of emergency keys that Dylan had often seen used by Gracy's employees. If those keys were still there, they could open the employees' exit in the secret stairwell. It was their only chance of escape. "We have to get back to the Santa area," he announced in a hushed tone, quickening the speed of his pace. "There are some keys by the registers. If we can get those, we can open the exit and get the hell out of here." "What are we waiting for?" Jasmine questioned and pushed ahead of him, despite his attempts to hold her back. "Let's get the hell out of Dodge." The Santa Claus sign came into view, and she could see the elaborate throne beneath. Her feet then skidded to a stop and her eyes filled wide with terror. Seated in the red velvet and golden throne was old Saint Nicholas. He laughed heartily at them, holding his gut as it moved about like a bowl full of jelly. In his gloved hand, he held a copy of "T'was the Night before Christmas." He winked an eye at the approaching couple, placed the tip of a finger to his nose, and wiggled it like magic. "I haven't got the wiggle part down yet," he announced grimly, setting the book aside, "but the rest o' yon folklore be 118

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a cinch to copy. No wonder so many o' ye play this foul version o' me. It be sickeningly easy." "Stand back, Jasmine," Dylan ordered, pulling his wife behind him as he took nervous steps toward the throne and the beastly Santa seated atop. "What do you want from us?" he demanded with limited fear. "From ye, I just want me vengeance—vengeance for what ye an' yon other "Santa Clauses" have done to me an' me name. For this," he shouted, throwing the copy of the book at Dylan, "ye shall perish." Nicholas's grin grew even deeper as he glanced to Jasmine. "From the lass, I want her womb. Within it be the ultimate feast an' it be too pure to resist." Licking his blue lips, he revealed his tongue for the first time. It was long and black—pointed with bumpy bulges all over. Icy spit dripped down with its appearance. "You will leave my wife alone," Dylan ordered, shaking all the while. He could feel the Santa's chill from where he stood. Its iciness burned his blood, but he forced the thought of it away. He had to find a way to distract the Santa Claus while Jasmine sought out the keys and escaped. At the very least, his offspring would have a chance for survival. Glancing back to Jasmine, he silently mouthed for her to find the keys. When she acknowledged him, he focused his thoughts on distracting Santa. "You know, Santa," he began afresh and brought a smile over his face. "You come here, turn our city into ice, and eat our children. But other than kill them, you don't do a thing to our women—or even our guys, for that matter. What's wrong? Have a little impotency problem that you would like to talk about?" 119

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For the first time in his life, Dylan was glad to have taken two courses in psychology in college. Perhaps he would be able to buy his wife a bit of time. "How dare ye?" the beast shouted coldly. "Ye know nothing o' me." "Then tell me, Santa," Dylan challenged with determination as he took a brave step forward. "Who are you? Or better yet, what are you? Do you really live at the North Pole?" "What am I?" Nicholas repeated the question. It was a question that he loved to answer. From his position at the throne he let out a cool, brief breath, making sure that it was not strong enough to freeze the imposter—only entrance him. Everything went black and cold for Dylan before vibrantly igniting into the hellish vision that a young captain had recently witnessed. Jasmine watched her husband in his trancelike state, and she turned to the Santa, who also posed motionless. Whatever Dylan said had been the right thing, she thought as she hurried behind the Santa Claus's throne and rushed upon the cashiers' counter. There, she began to hunt in a ruthless rage for the keys that Dylan had told her about. She had no way of knowing exactly how long she had until they both came back to consciousness. Finally, her hands fell upon the large, circular key-ring with nearly twenty keys attached. None of the keys were labeled, and each one was different. It was impossible for her to know which key would fit the exit in the stairwell. She pushed the key-ring over her hand and wrist and moved back to the throne and her motionless husband. Wherever the Santa had 120

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taken him, they were still there. But they would return—she could feel it. A fragment of a second later, her assumption proved reality and both Dylan and the beastly Santa Claus began to stir again. Weakly, Dylan fell to the floor, dazed and in shock from what he had seen. He stared out blankly into nothingness. "What have you done to him?" Jasmine pleaded, rushing down to her fallen husband's side. "I showed him exactly as he wished," the monster growled. "I showed him what I be." The Santa stood from his throne and began to step toward her. With no hesitation, Jasmine brought herself upright and began to run. She knew that there was nowhere to hide—that had been proven to her time and time again. But she had to try. For the sake of Dylan and his unborn child, she had to try. "Ye shall go quickly if ye stop the running, I assure ye!" Nicholas shouted in his most pleasant of voices as he trailed after her through aisle upon aisle. "I'll even kill ye before I eat yer womb, if that be what ye wish." "Fuck you!" she shouted, alerting him that she was but three aisles away. "If ye insist," he growled humorously. "But what would yer husband say?" Disgusted, Jasmine continued her run, finding herself in the midst of the bed and bath section of Gracy's. She steadily clutched her baseball bat in her hand, refusing to release it 121

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now. With Dylan down, it was her only defense. Her life depended on this baseball bat, as far as she was concerned. He could not see her, but he could smell her. More importantly, he could smell her child—the fresh, tender morsel that budded within her womb. Hungrily, he quickened his speed, pushing every appliance, display shelf, and frozen shopper out of his way as he moved. Her scent grew nearer and he knew that his feast would be soon. Facing a large half-wall with shelving and several fancy and colorful towels of the likes he had never seen before, Nicholas stopped and inhaled. She was close—very close. He could almost taste her. Quietly and in a hunched position, he began to circle around the corner of the wall. Out of nowhere, the baseball bat took flight and connected with his stomach, sending him tumbling back nearly a foot. Jasmine appeared from the shadows, yielding the bat once again to strike. She landed a second blow to his gut before slicing upward to his chin, connecting with his flesh. She watched the bat begin to transform into ice from the touch of his skin, and she released it just as the ice reached the handle. It shattered into tiny clear fragments upon hitting the floor. Jasmine looked up to see the Santa as he recuperated from his startled daze. He stared at her with the merciless eyes of a cold, icy hell. Slowly, the vile grin crossed back onto his face, and he breathed in deep, readying himself to strike. "Please don't hurt me," Jasmine pleaded, taking slow, nervous steps backward. "Please don't hurt my baby." 122

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"Please don' hurt me baby!" he mocked with horrifying laughter. Jasmine cringed from its blaring sound. "Yer baby be mine, lassie." With one more step backward, Jasmine found herself backed up against another wall of towels. Cursing her luck, she closed her eyes, said a prayer, and prepared to die. "If you're the real Santa Claus," the voice shouted from behind Nicholas's back, "then why am I the one with the magic?" Turning around, Nicholas barely had time to blink as the arrow shot out from the crossbow. It zoomed through the air with great speed and penetrated his forehead directly between the eyes. The arrow formed to ice immediately, but it was followed by many more, each piercing into vital areas of the beast's body. "What can I say, Nick?" Dylan asked as he crossed over to the fallen Santa, who thrashed around the floor in agonizing pain. Black blood poured from his wounds, and he fought to break off and shatter the icy arrows that anguished his body. Taking a chance, Dylan straddled the monster and pointed the crossbow and its final arrow into Nicholas's face. "I know when you've been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake!" "What?" the demonic voice questioned as the final arrow shot out from the crossbow and into his mouth, severing the vertebrae that connected his brain to his spine. The body of Nicholas Von Barron then fell silent and motionless. "Jasmine!" Dylan cried, throwing the bow to the floor and rushing over to his wife. Jasmine sat in the shadows, holding 123

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her knees in her arms and weeping from all she had experienced. The revelation of her husband's voice awakened her from her trancelike moment of panic, and she fell into his arms with heavy sobs. "It's okay now, baby," he cooed softly into her ear. "It's all over now." But as Dylan spoke these heavy words, a cold crunching sound summoned from only feet away. Both he and his wife slowly turned their heads to look, and in amazement, they watched as the defeated Santa Claus began to transform into an even icier version of his former self. After a moment, he appeared identical to the numerous objects, buildings, and people that he had turned into ice sculptures. Then quite rapidly and suddenly, the body of Nicholas Von Barron exploded and splintered throughout the air. Dylan covered Jasmine with his body, shielding her from the spray of the ice. After a moment, he leaned upright and looked behind him to see that nothing at all remained of their nemesis. The monstrous Santa Claus was gone, and they had survived to live yet another day. Jasmine touched a hand tenderly to her stomach and stared down at the spot where the Santa had fallen. Ever so briefly, she had a curious thought. When a demonic Santa Claus died, where did it go? **** When Nicholas Von Barron next opened his eyes, he was surrounded by an all too familiar red glow. Lifting himself up from the black ground, he looked around in dreadful fear. He 124

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stood before a desk—pine wood, in fact—and behind it sat his master. The devil did not appear happy. "Look at the mess ye caused up there," the devil stated unpleasantly. "Ye exposed yerself, turned much of a largely populated city into ice, an' ye let a pregnant woman an' her husband paralyze ye an' leave ye helpless. Had I not brought ye back, there was no tellin' what would have happened." "That was most kind of ye, Master," Nicholas cringed, offering his most stately of bows. Still, he was afraid. He had learned one large lesson over the course of his life. The devil never offered kindness without passing along something evil to go with it. "An' don't think I don't know about yer experience with Columbus all those years ago. The villagers that had tracked ye through the woods, the ship ye turned to turmoil, the crate ye hid in when Columbus sent ye to the sea. Ye hadn't even the courage to face me." Nicholas said nothing now. His expression was of shame and regret. "An' after all that, ye became a legend! A saint, of all things! Children, women, men—they all worship an' love ye— their Santa Claus. Ye managed to take the powers I gave ye an' not only expose yer abilities to the world, but ye became a legendary character that has brought joy to people for years. I could not be more dissatisfied with ye." "I beg of yer forgiveness, Master," Nicholas's demonic voice pleaded as he dropped down to his knees for mercy.

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"I have thought of a suitable punishment for ye. When I have decided yer suffering has been sufficient, I will consider reinstating ye to the outside world." "What—what punishment have ye in mind?" the Santa asked, afraid of his own words. Standing tall from his desk, the devil grinned wickedly and winked a pitch black eye. Raising his hand high, he moved it in a circular fashion, forcing Nicholas to fall to the floor unconscious. It felt like only a moment had passed when the Santa Claus came to. As he opened his eyes, he realized that he felt very different than he had before. He attempted to look at his body and hands, but he could not move. He couldn't even blink. Across from him was a large window, through which he could see his reflection. The sight horrified him, and he wanted to scream but could not. He couldn't make a peep. As his punishment, his master had once again transformed him. Nicholas Von Barron was now no more than a twenty foot tall wooden Santa Claus. "Welcome to Santa Claus Haven," announced the greeter as a middle aged couple and their children walked into the building, "where Christmas isn't just once a year—it's all year round! Our newest attraction is the world's largest wood carved Santa! Now, you just let me tell you all about it, and the origin of old Saint Nicholas as well. Nicholas had been a wonderful saint of kind virtue, delivering gifts once a year to all of the children of his village..." 126

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Internally, Nicholas screamed with a rage loud enough to deafen the ears of any god. His punishment had been himself—or at least what culture had made of him. He was doomed to spend his days playing St. Nick.

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Epilogue Jasmine opened her eyes on Christmas morning, still more thankful than ever to be alive. The news of the crazed Santa had spread wide and far, but by the day after the attack, the story had been reformulated by the media in an attempt to keep the image of Santa Claus pure and dignified. Instead of old St. Nick, it had actually been a Russian spy with a type of experimental ray gun that rendered anything it fired upon into ice. Or at least that was how the newspapers had printed it, the television reporters had told it, and the way that the citizens of America had spread it through word of mouth. Actually, Jasmine preferred it this way. She hated the idea of bringing a child into a world where Santa Claus was considered a bad person—no matter how much she despised the creature that had tried to kill her and eat her womb. Sitting up, she saw that Dylan was not resting beside her in the bed. She placed a hand over the spot where his body had once laid, finding that the spot had cooled. He had been up for some time now. Jasmine climbed from the bed and stretched, releasing a heavy yawn. Starting into the hallway, she glanced to the bathroom, saw that the light was off, and then turned toward the kitchen and living room. Then, her nostrils filled with a pleasant aroma. Bacon, eggs, toast— Dylan was preparing breakfast. "Good morning," she spoke, stepping through the living room and into the kitchen to kiss him fully on his perfect lips. 128

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"Good morning, love of my life. I hope you like your eggs scrambled." "Break the yolks again?" she asked teasingly. "Don't I always?" "I love your broken yolks." "And I love you." Setting the wooden spoon down on the counter, he offered her a more substantial kiss, bringing her close to his body. "Merry Christmas, Jasmine." "Merry Christmas," she responded with a smile and gently licked her lip to taste where his had been. "I went down earlier and got the mail from Saturday," he continued, moving back to the food that cooked on the stove. "It's over on the coffee table. Check it out." Curiously, Jasmine turned her head from Dylan and gazed into the living room and at the coffee table where a stack of holiday shopping ads and a single white envelope sat. With slow, wondering steps, she crossed over to the table and stared down at the stack of papers. The envelope was upside down and she could not see the lettering. Softly, she lifted it into her hand and flipped it around. It was addressed to the both of them, from Mr. and Mrs. Wylde—Dylan's parents. "Open it," her husband called to her from the kitchen. He did not need to turn and see her to know that she had found the envelope and picked it up. She opened the envelope and pulled the card from within. It was a Christmas card—the first that Jasmine and Dylan had received from them since getting married. She giggled at the front image—a teddy bear in a Santa hat, climbing atop a Christmas package. She had to admit that it was cute, even if 129

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she hadn't wanted to see another Santa Claus hat so soon. Opening the card, her eyes jotted to the hand-scribbled lettering—"No Strings Attached, Love Mom and Dad"—and then to the check, written for the amount of ten thousand dollars. "I think we'll be okay for a little while," Dylan called again, knowing the card had been opened and the check had been found. "I can relax a little during my interviews now, possibly." "Oh, Dylan!" she cried, tucking the check and card back into the envelope, placing it back on the table, and rushing into the kitchen. In a fit of joy, she flung her arms around her husband's neck and melted into him. He swung her around as he shared in her glee, and their lips met for a long, magical kiss. When the kiss broke, Dylan smiled and whispered, "Unless, of course, you'd rather me start work immediately after the New Year. I could always play Cupid, The Easter Bunny, Uncle Sam..." "Don't you dare!" she shouted in laughter and licked his lips, bringing him in for another kiss. Setting Jasmine back down on her own two feet, Dylan turned his attention away from her long enough to turn the burners off and set the pans on the Formica countertop. When there was no longer the possible risk of a fire, he turned back to his wife and lifted her again into his arms. He carried her into the living room and to the small area where they had set up their Christmas tree just last night. Laying 130

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her down on the rug that rested in front of the tree, he persisted to pleasure her mouth with his. At this moment, there were no more words to be said. They gazed into each other's eyes as they kissed, connecting with the core and soul of their partnership. With their eyes and lips locked, Dylan began to unbutton the nightshirt that Jasmine had slept in, spreading it open wide and exposing her breasts under the colorful blinking lights of the Christmas tree. He clamped her nipples between his fingers, pinching and teasing them until they grew hard and tall. Then he broke their kiss, moving his lips down her chin, neck, and shoulderline until her reached her breast bone. There, he kissed passionately before turning his attention to her right breast. He continued to tease her left nipple as he suckled on the right one, rolling it beneath his tongue and lips. He sucked it gently at first but quickly moved into a harder speed. Jasmine gasped at this feeling, wishing to let out a scream but finding that her voice had grown hoarse with the release of her breath. She pressed both hands against Dylan's head and clutched fistfuls of his hair between her fingers. Pulling tenderly, she moved with the motion of his tongue and mouth, working him harder onto her tender, pulsing nipple. She sucked in a breath through her teeth and held it tight. Dylan's right hand had moved from her left breast and now trailed down her stomach, rubbing over her closely shaved pubic mound. Then, his hand dipped down into the v of her thighs, touching upon her warmth. She grew wet at his touch, and he pressed a finger deep between her lips. 131

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"Oh, Dylan," she whimpered as he fingered her and feasted upon her breast. Jasmine opened her eyes wide and curled her mouth into an open circular shape as his mouth left her nipple and he began to move further down her body. He took one of her legs in each of her arms and raised them onto his shoulders. "You happened to catch me while I'm hungry," he teased as he dipped his head low and began to lap at the sweet dark lips of her pussy. Hungrily, he feasted upon her clit, suckling it into his mouth and taunting it with tantalizing laps of his tongue. As he fed, he continued to thrust his finger deep inside of her and added a second one as she grew even wetter for him. Looking over her body, he watched her expression as he fed on her tender pussy. Her head was arched back, her eyes were clamped shut, and her lips were parted. Those lips released soft moans of pleasure, encouraging him to feast even further. Several moments passed before he pulled his mouth and fingers away. He offered her clit another hard lick and poked his tongue into her cunt before coming up on his knees. With careful movements, he straddled Jasmine and kissed her again on the neck, cheek, and mouth. Then, when her eyes offered him a look that he knew all too well, he bent upright and crawled further up her body until his legs straddled her chest. Then, unbuttoning the three buttons of his flannel pajama bottoms, he released his strong, slightly curved eight inch erection for his wife's feeding pleasure. Pressing his hands against the area of floor behind her head, he slowly eased his pelvis down and brought the tip of 132

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his cock to her pursed and waiting lips. She teased its head with just as much strength and momentum as he had teased her clit, running the tip of her tongue up and down its underneath and around the slight bit of foreskin that the doctor had spared him during his infantile circumcision. Carefully, she bit down onto the foreskin and began to tug it with her teeth, causing his erection to pulsate heavily from the attention. Her mouth opened fully and Dylan lowered himself even more, pushing the head of his cock between her eager lips. She clamped her lips closed over it quickly and began to suck with tremendous force. Dylan lifted his chin and closed his eyes, moaning hard over the sudden electric sensation. Softly, he pumped against her face keeping with the rhythm of her sucks, edging in deeper each time. Jasmine then lifted her head and swallowed him completely, feeling his scrotum touch against her chin. He held steady there for a moment, feeling the sensations rise with the steady flicks of her tongue and sucking of her mouth. Then, quite suddenly, he pulled out from her beautiful, full lips and grinned down at her. Easing down, he laid flat atop her body, kissing her heavily as he pulled her into his arms. She rolled into his grip and brought him beneath her. She ran her fingernails down his chest and sides, titillating his nipples in a way quite similar to how he had treated hers. They hardened after a moment and his grunt was filled with passion. Bringing her legs around his thighs, she straddled him and opened herself up to his waiting member. It needed not a 133

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hand to enter her, and she settled back onto it, taking it in completely. She held it there for a moment, capturing his tongue with her kiss and enjoying the sensation of having her husband inside of her. She began to rise and lower herself onto him, bringing him into full motion with her moves. With every push down that she offered, he pushed upward, giving total impact to each moment of the penetration. The speed was slow but steady, and every inward thrust seemed like an explosion from heaven. Dylan began to sweat as his movements gradually grew swifter and harder and Jasmine's low moans developed into heavy cries of sexual pleasure. After a moment, Jasmine climbed off of her husband and lowered herself onto her back. Dylan, in turn, brought his body over hers and lifted her legs onto his shoulders one more time, pressing the head of his cock into her sopping wet cunt. He moved eagerly and with determination now, feasting on her breasts as he pleased her with his manly gift. He felt the tingling sensation beginning to surge through his dick, and that meant he was drawing close to orgasm. Slowing his speed, he held steady inside of her and fought back the desire to come. It was Christmas and he wanted his present. He wanted his wife to orgasm first. Pulling out of her completely, he turned his body around over hers and lowered his crotch down to Jasmine's face. As she began to hungrily devour him, he pressed his face between her open legs and delved back into his mixture of fingering her pussy and eating it. Through the midst of the sixty-nine, her orgasm came hard and fast. She screamed in a tone unearthly, filling his 134

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mouth with her womanly juices as her body trembled with electricity. The taste of his wife's climax pushed his own over the edge, and he spilled his life deep into her throat. Leaning over, he collapsed onto his side, pulling out of Jasmine's mouth completely and leaving both of them to their heavy recovery panting. After breakfast had been reheated, they sat together on the sofa, filling their stomachs with eggs, bacon, toast, and fresh hot coffee. Casually, Dylan took his wife's hand in his own and looked into her deep brown eyes. "It's Christmas. Is there anything special you'd like to do today?" Closing her eyes, Jasmine smiled and softly nodded her head. When her eyes reopened, she spoke. "I saw an ad on television yesterday for this place that just opened nearby. Santa Claus Haven, I think it's called. They're open today, and I'm feeling the Christmas spirit." "Santa Claus Haven?" he questioned, unable to believe his ears after what they had just suffered through. "I thought you said you never wanted to see another Santa for as long as you lived." "I don't want to raise our child being afraid of Santa Claus, and if I'm afraid, he or she will be too," she explained before sipping her coffee. "Besides, if I'm going to break my fear of Santas, this is the perfect place to do it. They have a brand new attraction—the world's largest wood-carved Santa Claus." "It sounds like a treat," Dylan replied with a smile. 135

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"Besides," Jasmine continued, "I have no reason to be afraid anymore anyway. It's not like we'll ever be in the presence of that beastly Santa again—that horrible monster playing St. Nick." Nodding his head in agreement, Dylan finished his breakfast before moving to the bathroom to prepare for their trip to Santa Claus Haven. THE END

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About the Author J. L. Foster is the author of numerous erotic and dramatic pieces and has been included in many nationally published magazines. JL also operates and publishes a weekly newsletter via his website at www.jlfoster.biz and is the interviewer for Sensual Reads & Reviews at www.sensualreads.net He currently resides outside of Nashville, Tennessee, with his partner of five years.

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Shaded Whisperings: Playing St. Nick by J.L. Foster

Now Available From Amira Press My Werewolf Lover By Brenda Steele I closed my eyes and leaned back against a tree. My body was on fire and there was no one to satisfy the need. My intended, whom I hadn't as yet accepted, would stick to our customs. He would not touch me or even visit with me until after the wedding. That could be months away. I needed fulfillment now, and I wanted the great big stiff rod of a werewolf! My foolish tears continued to flow down my cheeks until I heard the snap of a twig nearby. I jumped and opened my eyes to see a man standing before me. He was so tall. I bumped my head against the tree trying to look up at him. Though he stood less than an inch from me, I knew he was naked. And the scent, that earthy aroma—male and feral— told me he was of that wild race I had been warned about, the one I had been chasing. My heart pounded and my throat went dry with him so close. I wasn't sure if he knew what I wanted and was there to offer it to me, or if he planned to rip me to shreds. Flames 138

Shaded Whisperings: Playing St. Nick by J.L. Foster

heated my face when I became aware that the thing bumping against my belly was in fact his cock. My eyes widened in shock as I gazed into his eyes. He uttered something, a command maybe. I could no more speak his language than he could speak mine. As though mesmerized, I reached up to touch his face, but he drew back. And then in one rough movement, he hooked his fingers around the collar of my dress and tore downward. I squeaked in amazement when the afternoon breeze tantalized my bare nipples. The werewolf's gaze dropped to the tightening dark pink buds. A tongue longer than any Elf's snaked out to lick his lips. It seemed hardly believable, but the wolf wanted me. I was going to have what I had been craving for so long. "What's your name?" I asked him. He didn't even attempt to answer. Rough hands grasped me by the hips and lifted me. He slung me over his shoulder and began walking deeper into the forest. I can't pretend that I wasn't afraid. I was, especially when he caught a hold of the tattered remains of my dress and tore it away from my ass. When my rear was bobbing for all the world to view as we traveled, he alternately stuck a finger inside my flowing cream and then trailed it back to my ass opening. I groaned and twitched on his shoulder, loving his touch, but wanting a little self-respect like walking under my own steam. The werewolf wouldn't be reasoned with, so I resolved to enjoy what I could. But then when he felt my anus was wet enough and his finger slick enough, with no warning, he plunged the finger inside my hole. I screamed and pleaded. 139

Shaded Whisperings: Playing St. Nick by J.L. Foster

"No, no. Stop!" But he continued in and out, over and over. I gasped and struggled against him. I didn't want to cum upside down, while being carried through the woods, but that's exactly what was happening to me. It hurt ... alot! But I came. My juices were flowing down toward his shoulder, mixing in the curly red hair at the apex of my pussy.

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