Chapter 1

Damien

“A-fucking- nother? ” I bellow, thumping my fist on the desktop as Xalreth nonchalantly drops an envelope onto the polished mahogany. Irrational anger, white-hot and explosive, flares to the surface as I stare at the colorful red and white striped paper, with its stupid holly leaves and—gag me —hearts.

“Don’t these people know how to spell?! S-A-N-T-A!” I pound on the desk between every letter. “It’s not that fucking hard, is it? Santa and Satan don’t even sound the same.”

“Yes, sir, of course they don’t,” Xalreth says, bored as he flips through the rest of the mail in his hand, leafing through them as though they’re nothing more than annoyances.

Honestly, same.

My hands wave in the air as I glare at the offending letters. “Just like that tomato and to-mah-toe business... completely different.”

He freezes, sparing a glance up at me. Gods, those solid black eyes get no less creepy, even after decades of working with him. “I don’t think—”

“Yes, yes, we’re aware you don’t think, Xalreth. Leave it to those with more brain capacity so you don’t hurt yourself.”

A quiet snort rolls from his throat, muttering something that sounds an awful lot like, “I know you aren’t including yourself in that assessment.” As I open my mouth to argue, he interrupts me by holding up the bunch of envelopes and waving them in my direction. “There are a few actual important letters mixed in with the rest, if you’re interested in them.”

“More important than lazy little whiney humans begging for presents from a bearded man in a red suit?” I ask, flicking the disgusting candy cane letter away from me until it teeters on the edge of the desk.

“I mean, come on, am I right?” My voice turns into a mocking, high-pitched whine, which I feel is terribly accurate for most members of the human species. “Dear Santa, I want a new set of golf clubs or world peace or a goddamned BMW so I can look like even more of a douche. Send me a Turbo Twister 9 dildo because my model 7 is worn out. Wah, wah, fucking wah. ”

Xalreth’s eyebrow arches, but he doesn’t look up from the papers in his hand. “You think The Santa is dealing in vibrators these days?” Irritated, my tail twitches and snaps out, flicking him on the back of his hand with enough force to make him yelp and drop the mail, causing him to finally meet my eyes.

“Petulant little shit,” I mutter as he tosses me a smirk and leans to pick up the fallen letters. “And no, I don’t think The Santa is involved in anything as interesting as vibrators. Probably still making wooden rocking horses and fucking dictionaries, being the insufferable, goody-two-shoes, pot-bellied asshole he is. Or maybe he’s crafting a new style of stick to shove up his ass, uptight fuckface with his holier-than-thou attitude. Right boring, if you ask me.”

“You’ve never met him,” he points out as he drops two letters in front of me, which I glance at and push aside. “This Santa took over a few years ago.”

I furrow my brow, trying to think. “How long has it been since the last Santa came to visit?”

“A few decades. You…” He coughs, a very sarcastic sound. “… accidentally set him on fire.”

“Ahh, that’s right,” I say, a sly grin spreading across my face at the delightful memory. “Purely a misunderstanding. I was merely showing him that the flame retardant on his suit wasn’t sufficient.”

“Right,” Xalreth says, completely dry. “Because summoned Hellfyre from The Lucifer himself is the same as a common chimney fire.” I click my tongue and give a noncommittal hum, refusing to voice an opinion on that matter.

It’s not my fault his elves were slacking in their R I sold my soul to the devil, remember?”

“Bah,” I bark, swatting him away, “details. You know you love it here with me.”

Xalreth’s mouth twitches in what might be the start of a grin as he shakes his head. The unspoken truth between us is that we are each other’s closest companions, even if we never openly acknowledge it. The nearest thing to friendship in either of our lives. “Yes, sir… of course I do, sir.”

“Oh, fuck all the way off,” I mutter, glancing at the three letters before me. My fingers drum against the surface before I snatch the red and white striped monstrosity and tap it against the desktop. “Who’s my best portal crafter?”

Xalreth taps his chin thoughtfully, a slight frown creasing his forehead. “It was Amon, but he’s staying in the human realm now.”

“Humans,” I mutter, voice rightfully disgusted. “Gods, they’re just so… gross , soft and smelly and weak with those freaky ass bellybuttons… falling in love and wanting to be…” A visible shudder moves up my spine as I force the word out. “Hap… hap… happy .”

“After him, Marissa would be your safest bet.”

I nod, reclining in my chair and staring past Xalreth with a grin forming on my mouth. “Get Marissa… and Cherise, as well. ”

As he gives a slight bow, his brow arches in question. “What need do you have for the royal tailor?”

I gesture at my naked torso and lightweight pants. “I can’t make a trip to the North Pole wearing this, now, can I?”

“Oh, mercy, this is fucking marvelous !” I twirl in front of the mirror, admiring the intricate details of the coat that Cherise crafted. The fur is luxurious, long and thick, gleaming black with an iridescent sheen like an oil slick, while the hood is so large it can cover my eyes and has plenty of space for my horns. The coat hits past my hips, reaching mid-thigh, and has the perfect kick pleat in the back for a dramatic spin.

“It is crafted from the highest quality Cerberus fur and enchanted with Pheonix magic. It should keep you very warm, Lucifer, sir.”

With a twirl, I add, “And let’s not forget how fabulous I look,” placing a sassy hand on my hip.

“Oh yes, sir, very fabulous, sir. The most fabulous,” she agrees, and I narrow my eyes, searching for sarcasm. When she only smiles serenely—as serenely as a demon can, in any case—I nod again .

As she explains each piece of clothing she has crafted for me, I run my fingers over the intricate details. There are several pairs of thick, leather-hide pants, a stack of extra-warm sweaters, and a pair of boots with a fur lining so soft, my toes are ready to cream themselves.

“Those give me a toe-boner,” I announce, and her eyes immediately widen with nerves.

“I’m… so sorry? Sir?”

I wave her off, glancing over my shoulder at my reflection to see how my ass looks through the kick-pleat. “No, no, it’s a good thing… Xalreth!” I shout, and he comes bustling in the door, his solid black eyes wide in the mirror. “Is a toe-boner a good thing?”

“If you have a foot fetish, then I would say definitely, sir.”

“See?” I gesture vaguely and Cherise nods like I’ve given her the wisdom of the gods. Smart one, she is.

“Did you coordinate with the portal maker yet?” I ask, facing Xalreth.

“Yes, Lucifer. Marissa is on standby until you are ready to leave.”

“Perfect,” I murmur, a wicked grin spreading across my lips as I rub my hands together theatrically. “Have we informed The Santa of our visit?”

Xalreth raises his brows at me as he slowly shakes his head. “No, sir, you strictly forbade me from reaching out to the North Pole to warn them of our arrival. You wanted it to be… how did you word it ?” He gives a dramatic pause, thumping his pointer finger on his chin. “Ah, yes… ‘The biggest motherfucking surprise of the year.’ And when I dutifully asked, ‘How big of a surprise is that, sir?’ your response was, ‘A donkey-dick giant-sized surprise that can be seen from outer space.’”

“That does sound like something I’d say,” I agree with a nod.

“Oh, very much, sir.” I glare as Xalreth clasps his hands in front of him, suddenly very interested in looking at the imaginary lint on his shirt. When he notices me still staring, he attempts a smile, but his razor-sharp teeth make it more menacing than calm.

“Cherise!” I shout, and she startles since she was only a foot away.

“Yes, my Lucifer?”

“Pack my bags, because Papa’s leaving for the North Pole.”

“Dear god, don’t ever call yourself that again,” Xalreth groans, and I reach with my tail to slap him, but he dodges out of the way. “What time should we plan to arrive at The Santa’s front door?”

“When would be the biggest inconvenience? Middle of the night? Right at dinnertime like a robo-caller? Five minutes before his alarm clock goes off in the morning?”

“Hmm…” He taps his chin as he thinks. “It’s less than a month until Christmas and I bet his workshop is running double-time. Showing up during the workday might cause the most disruption. ”

“Oooh, good call. We’ll make a big scene when he shows us around the workshop, too. Distract his minions and get his assembly line all sorts of fucked up.”

“I believe they are called ‘elves,’ sir,” Xalreth says, but I dismiss his words with a flick of my hand. I glance in the mirror, catching my wide brown eyes and fluffing my thick blonde curls.

Thought the devil would have dark hair, didn’t you?

That’s what you get for stereotyping.

“Would sharpening these make me appear more threatening?” I ask, poking at the blood-red horns that stick through my hair. “Like, should it look as though I could disembowel a man just by head-butting him, or is that overkill?”

“Overkill is kind of your schtick,” Xalreth says, and well…

I couldn’t agree more.

“Cherise!” I shout, and she jumps in surprise again. Poor girl needs to have that anxiety checked out. “Find someone who can sharpen my horns and wax my tail.”

“Wax… your… tail?” She glances at the long, leathery, spear-tipped tail, which is the same color as my horns. The rest of my skin is a more muted tone of red, brightest only at my extremities. “It’s not… hairy? Sir?”

“Not like that. ” My exasperation is obvious as my hands wave through the air. “I mean, wax it! Make it shiny! Go at it Mr. Miyagi style. ”

Slowly nodding, she edges closer to the door. “Yes, Lucifer, sir. I’ll get right on that.”

“We should have a royal waxer,” I tell Xalreth as I slide my hand over my tail. “In case this becomes a regular thing.”

“Yes, a royal waxer,” he says, his tone as dry as the desert sun. “That’ll be a priority for the next time you want to… polish your tail.”

“You don’t have to make it sound so perverted.”

“Nor do you.” I glare at his sass. “Sir,” he adds, like the snarky asshole he is.

“Come on, let’s go pack.”

“ We’re going to pack, Damien?” My side-eye is gentler, knowing he reserves my given name for when we’re alone. He’s one of the few that’s allowed to address me in such a casual way.

“Well, you’ll pack, and I’ll supervise.”

“It’s what you do best,” he mutters, and this time, he doesn’t avoid the swat on his hand.