by J. L. Foster
"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. 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 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.
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?"
"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.
"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 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, D
ylan 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.
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 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 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 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 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 ca
mera 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 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."