Winter Tales: An Original Sinners Christmas Anthology

by Tiffany Reisz

  “I like you,” Magdalena said to Father Ballard. “I wish I didn’t.”

  “You aren’t the first to say that to me. As I was saying, any woman who treats that piece of work over there with a modicum of compassion is already a saint in my eyes. God knows he’d try the patience of Job—and the patience of Stuart.” He pointed at himself. “As for your former priest…I don’t know why he called you what he called you. It doesn’t matter in the least to me. Nothing you were or are or did or have done or are doing merited such cruelty. No child merits cruelty. Your very life is a miracle and to call your life and the mystery of your creation ‘demonic’ is a sin God will punish.”

  The priest held out his hands, palms up, and she took them in hers, thinking he wanted help off the floor.

  But he didn’t. He simply held her hands in his. They were large, warm hands, gentle but with calluses on the tips of his fingers. She liked that.

  “Dear lady,” Father Ballard continued, “I will not ask you to come back to the Church, because the Church does not deserve you. But I would ask you to allow me to say mass in your home and serve you Communion. It would be my honor.”

  “Your honor? To offer Communion to the madam of a brothel? To a woman who unrepentantly whores herself?”

  “There are four women in Christ’s lineage—his great-grandmothers, so to speak. Tamar, who played prostitute to seduce her father-in-law; Rahab the Harlot, who gave aid and shelter to Joshua’s spies; Ruth, who seduced Boaz; and Bathsheba who committed adultery with King David. Christ called the clergy hypocrites, but he dined with prostitutes. He would have liked you more than me. Even more, Christ would have loved you more than he loved me. I know this. It hurts me and humbles me to say it but it is true—you’re closer to God in your brothel than I am in my church. Jesus had a great fondness for women named Magdalena, after all.”

  She sighed.

  Heavily.

  “You’re good at begging,” she said.

  “I’m a Jesuit. They teach us to beg. Usually for money from rich patrons, but the lessons apply anywhere.”

  “Tell me why you have calluses on your hands. Seems suspicious for a priest.”

  His eyebrow quirked in confusion. “I play guitar. Electric. He hasn’t told you that?”

  “He has not.”

  “I force him to play with me.”

  “What do make him play?”

  “Two weeks ago we did a duet of Pink Floyd’s ‘Shine On You Crazy Diamond.’ If I can find the sheet music for The Who’s ‘Tommy,’ we’ll tackle that next.”

  “Surely you’re joking.”

  “He’s not,” Marcus said. “He makes me play gaudy rock music with him in exchange for him allowing me to play what I want on the school piano. It’s neither my style, nor my forte.”

  “He’s far too modest,” Father Ballard said. “The boy could tour with Clapton, I swear. Although Slow Hand has nothing on me.”

  She wanted to smile but didn’t. Instead she waved her hand imperiously, like a queen. “You may stand.”

  Father Ballard came to his feet with more humility than grace, pausing first to pat Moussi on his head.

  “You’ll allow me the honor?” he asked Magdalena. “And it would be my honor, truly.”

  “I…” she began and paused. She took a steadying breath, rested her hand on her chest. “I confess I do miss Midnight Mass. My mother always took me every Christmas until I ran away. She would like this.”

  “But would you like it?” Father Ballard asked. “I will walk out the door right now if you don’t want me here.”

  “I would like you to stay. I suppose you should hear my confession and absolve me before I take Communion.”

  “Dear Lady, the Church sinned against you far more than you sinned against the Church. We need your absolution. You don’t need ours.”

  She swallowed hard and turned to Marcus, who came to stand at her side. “No wonder you’re turning into a human being,” she said to her Bambi. “He’s good for you.”

  Marcus bent to kiss her cheek. “You’re good for me.”

  All was forgiven.

  “It’s midnight,” Father Ballard said. “Shall we begin?”

  “Yes, we shall.” She glanced over her shoulder and crooked her finger at Marcus. He walked to her and stood at her side.

  “English or Italian?” Father Ballard asked her.

  “I’m older than I look,” she said. “Could you say it in Latin? Please?”

  “Dóminus vobíscum,” Father Ballard said.

  “Et cum spíritu tuo,” she replied, the words coming back to her instantly like the lyrics of an old favorite song she hadn’t heard in years but had never forgotten.

  Father Ballard took a gold chalice from his bag and set it on the table.

  “This is a good gift,” Magdalena said to Marcus.

  “I am truly sorry that my Church hurt you.”

  “I don’t mind being hurt. I don’t. Pain is my life. But your Church…it did more than hurt me. It damaged me.”

  “It did.”

  “I can’t forgive it.”

  “No, I don’t imagine you can. I won’t ask you to.”

  “But…” she began. “But while it’s hurt me, it’s helped you. I see that. I can give it that much credit.”

  “I promise you this—when I am a priest I will protect the children like you and like me. I won’t harm them.”

  She nodded, believing his promise.

  Father Ballard had slipped into his purple chasuble and stole. He took her poinsettia off her side table and placed it on his altar.

  “So that’s why you brought me the poinsettia from your chapel,” she said.

  “I didn’t steal it,” Marcus said. “I merely relocated it—one altar to another.”

  “You’re much like a poinsettia, Bambi. You really are.”

  He furrowed his brow at her. “How so?”

  “Because everyone has this erroneous idea that you’re poisonous. And you’re not. You’re not at all.”

  Before Marcus could reply, Father Ballard began the mass.

  Outside the window behind Father Ballard, snow began to fall. A little bit of snow, just a flake or two. Magdalena felt a warmth in her chest, joy blooming bright and red as a Christmas Star. Marcus had given Christmas back to her.

  Maybe he was one of the Magi after all.

  Not that she would ever tell him that.

  She much preferred being mean to him.

  The Scent of Winter

  One

  Unholy Orders

  Author’s Note: This story takes place between The King and The Virgin, the sixth and seventh books in the series.

  New York City

  What was the point of cold weather without any snow?

  Not that Kingsley minded the lack of snow in New Orleans during winter. There was something to be said for sitting on his back balcony in December and drinking wine with Juliette after putting Céleste to bed. But now that he’d been back in New York for two days, he found himself wishing for snow with the same fervor and longing he’d wished for it as a child, when a rare heavy snowfall meant Maman might let him stay home from school. From the window in Griffin’s dining room, Kingsley studied the sky and found it empty of snow clouds. The sun hung down from the ceiling of the overcast horizon like a sad, low-watt light bulb.

  Winter in New York was a disappointment. The sooner he got back to New Orleans the better. Ah, well, it was a business trip anyway. Not in town for pleasure. Pleasure was back in New Orleans. Nothing in New York these days but paperwork.

  “I promise Mick’s not dead,” Griffin said, interrupting Kingsley’s melancholy reverie. Griffin brought two cups of coffee over to the dining room table where they’d been working. Kingsley had offered to sell his old townhouse to Griffin at below market value to use as a base of operations, but Griffin hadn’t wanted to leave the apartment he’d shared with Michael for almost four years. He liked the privacy of it, which Kingsley co
uld appreciate. In the old days, people were always tramping in and out of Kingsley’s townhouse on Riverside Drive for a dinner party or a music recital, an auction or an orgy.

  “Sick?” Kingsley hadn’t seen Michael all morning. And not once yesterday either.

  “Worn out from finals. He always sleeps for about three straight days when the semester’s over. But he’ll be up eventually.”

  “Let him sleep. He’s earned it,” Kingsley said, taking the coffee cup Griffin offered. “What are your Christmas plans?”

  “The whole family’s at the ski lodge again this year. Mick’s mom is coming, too.”

  Kingsley raised his eyebrow. “This is the same mother who is now dating your oldest half-brother?”

  “Yeah.” Griffin winced as he scratched his fingers through his dark brown hair, which was still a little wild from sleep. “If she and Aiden get married, I’ll be Mick’s step-uncle. That’s weird, right? It feels weird.”

  Kingsley shrugged. “La Maîtresse will probably write a book about it, knowing her.”

  Griffin rolled his eyes, threw his feet up on the table, and sat back in the chair.

  “She would, wouldn’t she?”

  Kingsley examined the last of Griffin’s books, leisurely sipping his coffee.

  “Well?” Griffin asked. He was nervous, which Kingsley found endearing. Even if Griffin was the new King of the Underground, he still wanted to impress the old King of the Underground. “What’s the verdict?”

  “I don’t see anything of concern. But where are the other books?”

  Griffin’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “Jules and I kept two sets of books. The ones the IRS saw, and the ones the IRS didn’t.”

  “King, my father is the former chairman of the New York Stock Exchange.”

  “Then if anyone knows how to game the system, it’s you.”

  Griffin laughed. “No second set of books. I’m keeping the clubs on the up and up. The only nefarious behavior going on around here is on my sheets, not the spreadsheets.”

  “It won’t be nefarious for long. I hear congratulations are in order.” Kingsley closed the pages of the spiral-bound financial report and tossed it aside.

  “Save the date,” Griffin said. “Mick’s going to make an honest man out of me.”

  “First, he already has. Second, the date is not saved. The entire week is. Nora’s house has been taken over with wedding planning books, and Juliette is already shopping for dresses for her and Céleste. Jules is unusually excited the wedding will be in Scotland, and I’m not sure I want to know why...”

  “Scottish castle. Who wouldn’t be excited?” Griffin drained his coffee in a gulp. “I still can’t believe this time last year, I thought I’d lost Mick for good and now we’re planning a wedding.” Griffin gazed out the large picture window in his high-rise Manhattan apartment and smiled a little dreamily to himself. He was a man in love—and even better, a man contented. It was good to see. Kingsley, too, was a man in love. He wouldn’t say no to a little more contentment, however.

  “The course of true love never did run smooth,” Kingsley said. “No one knows that better than I. Than me? Ah, I still hate English. Than moi.”

  “Speaking of true love...” Griffin said, grinning that old playboy grin of his. “How’s the big guy? It’s his birthday tomorrow, right? The big 5-1? You two partying together? Picnic in the park? Pairs figure skating? Karaoke night?”

  Kingsley took off his glasses and cleaned them with the white silk handkerchief he’d taken from his pocket. He wanted to laugh but didn’t quite have it in him today. Spending two straight days pouring over financial records did not do wonders for his sense of humor.

  “I doubt I will even see him.”

  “He’s that busy?” Griffin asked. “I thought since the semester was over, he’d have nothing to do but grade finals.”

  Kingsley shrugged dismissively. “New Orleans is a very Catholic city. Advent is a hectic time at the parish.”

  “Too bad,” Griffin said and frowned, though Kingsley could see he was trying very hard not to smile.

  Kingsley tucked his glasses and the handkerchief into his pocket. “Never fall in love with a priest,” he said. “God will always be his first priority. If you’re lucky, you’ll be second.”

  “Not a big worry of mine. Mick’s an ex-altar boy, but the only orders he takes are from me.”

  “Unholy orders are far more fun than Holy Orders.”

  “Trouble in paradise?” Griffin asked.

  Kingsley shrugged. “I turned fifty last month. I think I’m finally starting to feel it.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, you don’t look a day over forty. You’re sexier now than you were when I met you. I’d fuck you in a New York minute. If I wasn’t engaged, I mean.” Griffin glanced over his shoulder. “Hope Mick didn’t hear that. Nah. Doesn’t matter. He’d fuck you too. Well, he wouldn’t fuck you since he’s a bottom. But you get what I mean.”

  “I do. You paint quite the picture.”

  “Don’t sweat the numbers, King. Sting’s in his mid-sixties.”

  “Now that does make me feel better.” Kingsley stood up. He’d seen everything he needed to see. “You’ve done very well. I’m impressed with your work.”

  “You are?” Griffin looked like a boy about to burst with happiness but trying very hard to remember he was a grown man.

  “You’re an excellent CEO,” Kingsley said. “Even if you don’t quite look the part.”

  As it was only eleven in the morning, Griffin was dressed in pajama pants and a faded blue t-shirt that read WANT TO WATCH PORN ON MY FLAT SCREEN MIRROR?

  “Sorry,” Griffin said. “We keep it casual around the house. You’re lucky I have pants on.”

  “Yes, we know how offended I am at the sight of naked men.”

  “Speaking of looking the part…I see you’ve given up the Lord Byron duds. I kind of miss ’em. Don’t get me wrong, you look damn good. Like one of those sexy Greek tycoons on those romance novels Mom’s always reading. But it’s kind of an adjustment seeing you look...what’s the word?”

  “Vanilla?” Kingsley said.

  Griffin raised his hands in innocent surrender. “Hey, you said it. Not me.”

  Kingsley had indeed made a wardrobe change, though he still kept all his breeches, military coats, Edwardian suits, and riding boots in the closet at home and wore them on special occasions. But these days, people were more likely to find him wearing something like what he had on today: an Armani business suit, double-breasted, black, with a white shirt under and a slim black tie.

  “I’m keeping a low profile these days,” Kingsley said. “And I’m a father now. I’m not quite ready to explain fetish-wear to my daughter. That’s what her Tante Elle is for.”

  “Don’t worry. When I’m at the clubs, I look the part. You set a high bar. I want to make sure I clear it.”

  “I have no doubt you do.”

  “Any suggestions for The Kingdom? It’s your baby.”

  Kingsley shrugged. “I’d watch your overhead at the California location. Opening clubs is the easy part. It’s like falling in love. Keeping them running is the real work. I wouldn’t expand operations out west until you’ve turned a profit there two years in a row.”

  “Good advice. Anything else?”

  “Nothing else. I put my realm into the right hands. Merci. Merci beaucoup.”

  “De rien, mon ami,” Griffin said as they shook hands. “I love the work. I feel like I’ve found my calling.”

  Kingsley picked up his coat off the back of a chair and pulled it on. Winter had hit New York hard this week. The temperature was barely scraping the bottom of thirty.

  “Leaving already?” Griffin asked. “You could reschedule your flight. Tonight’s Bisexual Appreciation Night at the club.”

  “Isn’t every night Bisexual Appreciation Night?” Kingsley asked.

  “Yes, but tonight we’re having punch and
pie.”

  “Tempting. But I must get home. My girls miss me almost as much as I miss them.”

  “I know. Just had to ask. Let me walk you out.”

  They strode down the long hall toward the front door of Griffin’s penthouse apartment and passed a darkly sensual abstract painting that looked to Kingsley like a red mouth kissing a black bruise. Kingsley almost inquired who the painter was so he could buy one for his home in New Orleans when he saw the artist’s name scrawled at the bottom—Michael Dimir.

  Griffin stopped at the door to the master bedroom and cracked it open.

  “Just a sec. I want to make sure he’s still breathing,” Griffin said with a wink.

  Michael lay on his stomach across Griffin’s large platform bed, the sheets pulled up to his waist but no higher. Red welts decorated Michael’s pale back diagonally from shoulder to hip. The boy had been transformed into a human candy cane.

  “Mick?” Griffin whispered. “You awake?”

  Michael raised his head, blinked, and pushed a lock of black hair off his face.

  “I’m sort of awake, sir.”

  “Say hi to King,” Griffin ordered.

  Michael gave a quick, tired wave. “Hello, Mr. Edge.”

  “Joyeux Nöel, Michael,” Kingsley said.

  “Merry Christmas to you, too.”

  Then Michael dropped face first back down onto the bed and Griffin shut the door.

  Kingsley looked at Griffin and blinked pointedly at him. “Exquisite welts.”

  Griffin wore a devilish smile. “He woke up about eight o’clock last night for a couple hours and said he was finally rested up. I must have fuckered him out again.”

  “The phrase is ‘tuckered out,’ non?”

  “Pretty sure it’s fuckered out. And if it’s not, it is now.”

  Kingsley kept his mouth shut as the elevator took them from Griffin’s penthouse to the main lobby. The welts on Michael’s back had sent a jolt of intense longing through Kingsley’s body. A longing far too much like envy…envy left him grappling with guilt. He had Juliette, whom he loved and adored and lusted after with every bone in his body. He had his daughter who had kicked in and crawled through every closed door in his heart. He had Nico, who was everything a father could want in a son and more. He had friends like Nora and Griffin, who were a second family to him. He had a beautiful home, a beautiful life, meaningful work...