by Max Dune
The doctor reaches out to comfort Lily, but she pushes his arms away and runs out of the room, her wails trailing behind her.
* * *
Doc Billings watches Lily disappear behind a door. He doesn’t go after her. What for? She’s beyond any consolation right now. He decides it’s best to let the girl grieve on her own terms, wherever she feels most comfortable. Besides, he has other matters to tend to.
Wiping his face clean of all emotion, he pulls out his cell phone and presses the two button for speed dial. A moment later, Santa’s face pops on the screen. He appears collected, though his cheeks seem slightly more flushed than usual. “It’s done,” Doc tells him dispassionately.
“Did she buy it?” Santa asks.
“Yes. I was...quite convincing,” the doctor says, glad he took the time to rehearse the speech several times over the last few hours, since Santa had alerted him to the situation. What a shame, he thinks. I kinda liked Lucian. Out of all the pathetic elves here, he was the only one with any backbone. That was not all that surprising, though, between Santa’s preternatural powers of persuasion and the psychological makeup of the elves he hires.
Santa nods, pleased by the news. “Excellent.” He pauses to think. “If she asks too many questions...she may join him.”
Doc Billings bows his head. “As you wish.”
He turns off the phone and stuffs it back in his coat pocket, then glances around at the quiet ward. Two more elves are gone. That suits him just fine. Less work for him. But he knows it is only temporary, and that those beds will be occupied before long.
* * *
After hanging up, Santa sinks back into the leather chair, then drums a hand over his glass and chrome desk. Sleek granite décor surrounds him. Modern. Luxurious. He spared no expense for his office, and it shows. From the elegant white marble tiles, with splashes of gray and gold, to the single floor-to-ceiling window, the whole place screams money. He rises and heads to the minibar. The day has been full of excitement, and he needs something to calm his nerves. He withdraws the whiskey and pours himself a glass; the amber-colored liquor was a gift from Oleg upon Santa’s arrival, and he’d even gone to the trouble of having the decanter monogrammed with his boss’ initial. Who would have thought a soulless Bratva murderer could be so thoughtful? Then again, respect for one’s employer is what being a foot soldier for the Russian mafia is all about. Santa swirls his whiskey around and smiles. Hiring the Russians had been a great decision.
He raises the crystal glass to his lips and inhales the aroma. It sends a shiver of delight through him. He takes a gulp, savoring the strong, refined taste. He moans softly, finishes the glass, refills it, then slams that down too. A third glass is his limit—always—a lesson learned from past experience. Even his magic, potent as it is, cannot not prevent blackouts and vomiting.
He staggers back to his desk with one hand on the wall, glassy-eyed and giddy. If my workers ever saw me like this! he muses. But of course Santa takes precautions to keep his vices hidden. He must keep up appearances. Thus, he only gets drunk at night, in the privacy of his home.
At one time, even the thought of alcohol revolted him. But all that changed when the first report came in from the Naughty Tracker Beta. He changed. Santa couldn’t believe what he was reading. He was stunned. Santa is no fool, and he knows times change and that people must all adapt to the new age rolling in...but the level of vitriol, hatred, and obscenities those kids managed was completely unexpected. The full release had refined the results and showed that things were even worse. How could someone so young spew such filth? Santa had asked.
Catching a glimpse in the reflective desk, he stops to inspect himself. The shine in his eyes is long gone. His cheer, his joy, his hope—all crushed long ago. Now Santa is just an empty shell of what he used to be.
He lifts his gaze to the computer and opens Naughty Tracker Pro, continuing his drunken ritual. The program immediately starts its thorough scans of social media. Santa watches in horror, staring at Vines of little girls twerking in skimpy outfits, to rap songs with crude lyrics. Each video is followed by endless lewd comments written by other children. The program captures their names and adds them to the naughty list.
Next, the program moves to Twitter, where it discovers a famous comedian’s tweet to Justin Bieber: “Seriously, douchebag, go kill yourself.” There are over 50,000 retweets, mostly by Justin’s young fans. Onto the naughty list they go.
On YouTube, there is a video of a school monitor. The overweight woman is being bullied by middle-schoolers due to her size. The tormenting continues even after she starts to cry. So much naughtiness. Santa watches the hundreds of comments being flagged on YouTube, all of them hateful in one way or another. Judging. Cursing.
They did this to me, Santa thinks. They destroyed me.
His mind wanders back to the night he broke down, the first night he ever picked up the bottle. He went on a tour of the warehouses, drunk and disillusioned, staring at the toys he couldn’t possibly deliver. How could he? It went against his nature. Naughty kids do not get toys. But then what was he supposed to with the toys? Just leave them there to gather dust? It seemed so wasteful.
That’s when the idea came to his alcohol-fuzzed brain: sell them.
He rejected the idea at first. It seemed so ludicrous, so wrong even. Still, it kept festering in his mind over the following weeks, taking shape, strengthening, until Santa finally gave in.
He justified the devious act by promising himself that he’d donate a portion of the profits to his elves in the form of higher wages, better benefits, and even new machinery to make their jobs easier—whatever he could come up with to assuage his conscience. Once the money started rolling in, though, his elves got shoved to the back of the line; the money was intoxicating. There was so much! Enough to pay for a yacht in the Bahamas, a penthouse in Manhattan, a vineyard in France, Arabian racehorses, his own KHL franchise, a Turkish masseuse on-call twenty-four/seven and willing to travel anywhere in the world, and so much more.
Santa soon realized how much more he could make if he sold all the toys—even those that were meant for the nice kids. I mean, why not? Hadn’t he worked selflessly for centuries? Wasn’t it time for him to have something to show for it? To get what he wanted? What he deserved?
On that fateful night, Santa decided he was tired of giving. It was time for him to be the one receiving. It was his turn to be naughty. He’d been nice for too long.
Chapter Fourteen
“Are we almost there?” I shout in Jack’s ear, struggling to be heard over the howling wind. We’ve been flying for hours now, and my body aches from being immobile for so long. A cramp around my calf is particularly killing me.
“Yeah,” he responds this time.
On the horizon, the snow-capped mountains come into focus. We dive toward one of the peaks, then come to a landing.
I happily climb off Jack’s back and stumble around, trying to stretch out the kinks in my muscles. “Gosh, I’m hurting,” I mumble.
Jack, for his part, seems completely unaffected by the long flight. I figure enhanced strength and stamina must be among his powers. Either that or he just hits the gym more than I do.
“Well?” I say, looking around. “Where’s your lair?”
He lifts an eyebrow. “My lair?”
I shrug. “Or, you know, whatever you call it.”
“Well, I’ve tried a variety of terms over the years, but the one I’m most fond of is home,” he says, his voice thick with sarcasm. “It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
“Sure.”
He rolls his eyes, close to smiling, then extends a hand over the ice-covered ground. The ice cracks at once, revealing stone stairs that lead down into a dark hallway. He begins his descent, lets a fake-evil laugh out, then hollers over his shoulder, “All those who dare, come into my lair!”
Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes, but as a new layer of ice begins to form over the opening, I hastil
y follow. We walk in silence awhile. Anticipation tingles through me like electrical sparks. What am I walking into? Who is Jack working with...and will they welcome me into their group? The whole time, I bite the inside of my cheek. When I bite too hard, the metallic taste reminds me that I need to stop that bad habit.
We stop when we reach a studded metal door. Frost places his hand against a square screen off to the side. It illuminates in a yellow glow and scans his fingerprints. “Clear,” a voice says.
Frost looks sideways at me, rather smugly. “Impressed by my security?”
I fold my arms, trying to feign boredom. “In the movies, the villains usually cut off the good guys’ hands to bypass this.”
He snorts. “Hmm. Well, any villain who tried that would be frozen solid the instant he touched me.”
The door opens, and so does my mouth. His home is a gigantic underground hangar. The vast, rectangular space is the size of a football field, constructed from what appears to be reinforced concrete. My eyes immediately snap to the training equipment strewn all over the place: punching bags, weights, and even a rock-climbing wall. At the far end, I spot a shooting range, and excitement rises in my chest at the possibilities.
“Impressed now?” Frost asks.
“A little,” I admit.
I catch sight of a group of figures jogging around the hangar perimeter, dressed in gray sweats. As they approach us, I gasp in recognition. Among the group are some of the elves who supposedly died of the virus, including Chance! Upon seeing me, he smiles widely, separates from the others, and runs over. He meets me with a hug and gives me a firm pat on the back.
“Chance! You’re here!” I exclaim.
“Back from the dead and at your service,” he says, smiling and looking much healthier than he did the last time I saw him.
I’ve never been happier to see anyone. “You’re not sick anymore?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. That healing potion worked wonders, courtesy of our leader here.” Chance nods at Jack, with respectful gratitude shining in his eyes.
I stare at him, wondering if Oleg tried to kill him too.
As if he can read my mind, Chance says, “I take it you’ve been to the cliff.”
I nod, now serious.
“Why don’t you give Lucian a tour,” Jack says. “Before he gets started?”
“Yes, sir,” Chances says and straightens.
I almost expect a salute. His time in this boot camp has changed him.
“Thank you,” Jack says and walks away.
Chance gives me a once-over. “Follow me, buddy,” he says, then leads me to an area filled with a few rows of military-style cots. Each is topped with neatly folded blankets and a pillow. “These are our sleeping quarters. The beds aren’t as luxurious as the ones in the village, but you get used to it. You can hang your coat there.” He points to a rack. “Also, you’ll need to trade in your boots for a pair of sneakers over there.”
I do as he tells me and select a pair of black sneakers in my size. They’re surprisingly comfortable.
After I lace up my new kicks, we continue over to the next area. It looks like a cafeteria, furnished with a number of foldable tables and chairs, shelves upon shelves of canned foods, a microwave, and a sink.
“Kitchen and dining room. You like applesauce?”
I nod. He throws me a can. I catch it. “Don’t mind if I do.” I twist open the lid and pour the sweet mush into my mouth.
The next stop takes us to the showers; I’m grateful to see private stalls.
“This is where we clean up,” he announces, even though he doesn’t really need to explain.
We walk until we reach the center of the hangar. Elves run past us, sweating and panting.
I nod at them. “Did Jack rescue all these elves?”
“Yes.” When Chance sees the slight sadness flashing across my face, he says, “Jack can’t be everywhere at once, especially with all the guards all over the place. He saves all he can, Lucian.” He pauses. “As for the others... Well, I know he wishes he could’ve saved them too.”
I know he’s referring to my parents, Pluto, and now, possibly Lily and Zeb. A lump builds in my throat. “I know.”
Four unfamiliar elves enter, three men and one woman, definitely not from our village. They look hardened, lethal, and dangerous. The type no one would want to anger under any circumstances. They break off and head to different areas.
“Hey, who are they?” I ask.
He chuckles. “Rogue elves. Part of our army. Jack recruited them to help train us, to turn this group of toymakers into warriors.”
“But just four of them?” I ask.
“Yep. Nobody else was crazy enough to accept this mission.”
I glance at the rogue standing among the punching bags. He’s in his late 20s, with olive skin and longish, black hair, dressed in shorts and a tank-top that shows off his well-defined physique. The elf pours gas into a shiny flamethrower, then straps the weapon to his back.
“That’s Fuego,” Chance says, pointing. “Jack found him in Mexico. He was a boxing champ for a long time, then ran a gym when he retired.” He grins at me. “Do you know what his name means?” Before I can venture a guess, Fuego shoots a blinding stream of white flames up at the ceiling. “Fire. Perfect for a pyromaniac.”
“What about him?” I ask, referring to the thin, blond elf in an expensive-looking suit and circle-rimmed glasses. “He’s your IT guy, right?” I ask, noticing that he’s tinkering with cables on a desk littered with various computers and electronic devices.
Chance tilts his head. “Sort of. Tiktok hails from Sweden. He was an orphan, forced to live on the streets. He picked pockets to survive, until he discovered he has a real knack for building electronics...and bombs.”
I fidget, suddenly apprehensive. “Wait. There are bombs here?” I ask, thinking back to the bombs launched on our village.
“Don’t worry,” Chance says. “They’re safe and secure. Tiktok is very careful.”
Somehow, that doesn’t quite alleviate my nerves.
“That mountain of muscle over there is Bullets,” Chance continues.
My gaze shifts to the shooting range, where a brawny, chocolate-skinned elf in a black military outfit sits. He is bald but sports a goatee on his menacing face. At first glance, I think he’s carrying a huge, multi-barrel machine gun, but when Bullets rests the huge gun on his lap and starts to polish it, my eyes widen. He only has one arm, and his gun is some kind of...weaponized prosthetic.
“He’s an ex-soldier from the U.S. Army. He was a triggerman. Top marksman of his troop. Then his right arm was blown off in combat. He didn’t like the prosthetic options the army offered, so he built his own.” Chance speaks in awe. “That arm of his fires fifty rounds per second...”
I let out a soft whistle.
“It’s an absolute thing of beauty.” Chance sighs, then clears his throat before turning to the female.
She’s very short and lean, as revealed by her tight-fitting, black outfit. Her red hair is braided into a ponytail. Her area is filled with a variety of katanas, knives, and—interestingly enough—bamboo sticks.
“Last but definitely not least is Yuriko. She’s a ninja. No joke. She was raised by the most lethal clan in Japan. Eventually, she got so good that assassination jobs came her way—lots of ‘em.”
I turn to Chance, paling. “She kills people for a living? She’s an actual ninja?”
He nods admiringly. “Pretty and deadly.”
My can of applesauce suddenly flies from my hand and is pinned to the wall by a throwing knife. It takes us a moment to realize Yuriko is gazing at me, signaling me over, obviously responsible for the demise of my snack.
I swallow hard.
Chance nudges my side and chuckles. “I guess you’re up.”
Chapter Fifteen
I walk toward the woman, my movements tentative and anxious. By the time I’m just a few feet away, she’s sitting, concentrating on sh
arpening one of her katanas. Her hands move swiftly, with great expertise, bringing the edge of the silver steel to sparkling perfection. She uses a whetstone, similar to the one I use for my axes, but Yuriko does a much better job than I’ve ever done. My blades have never been so lucky, but hers could probably cut through anything.
Without looking up, she says, “They weren’t saints.”
I stare at Yuriko in blank confusion. “I beg your pardon.”
Her black eyes, alert and focused, shift to mine. “My jobs. Most were murderers, drug lords, sexual predators...or worse.”
My face burns at her statement; she overheard my conversation with Chance. But how is that even possible? We were well beyond earshot.
Yuriko shrugs ever so slightly. “It’s one of my powers, enhanced senses—sight, hearing, speed, and strength.” This elf has powers? I can’t believe it. I thought our kind had lost them over time.
“I see,” I say simply, willing my face to return to its normal color and my voice to remain steady. Then I realize there’s something familiar about her accent. Is she the one who debated my worth with Jack back in the forest? It feels like a lifetime ago. I decide not to bring it up, at least for now, and instead stick to our current conversation. “Well, is that what this is for you? Just another job?”
At that, she stiffens.
Great. I’ve offended her. Probably not the smartest thing to do to a world-class assassin.
“No, this is about justice,” she states flatly. “And honor.”
Just like that, her irritation fades, and she returns to her graceful calmness. She stands and offers me the katana she’s been sharpening.
I look at it, then back up at her, frowning.
“Take it,” she says. “This is your first lesson.”
I grab the hilt and step back, holding the weapon awkwardly with both hands. It’s heavier than it looks. “Are we going to spar?” I ask.
Her upper lip curls. “You wouldn’t last two seconds.”