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& the Elf
An Urban
Christmas Fantasy

MK Swanson

Copyright ©2012
St. Nichole and the Elf: An Urban Christmas Fantasy

On Christmas Eve, Nichole was dodging late shoppers and

early drinkers in her dash to go home and change. It wasn’t traffic
making her late to the best holiday party ever, though. Sixty hours
a week since graduation at an environmental non-profit was
exciting, but a serious drag on her social life. She didn’t mind, of
course. This work was all she had wanted to do since her parents
took her to see the polar bears at the zoo, and she learned that their
icy arctic home was melting. At a stop light, she tapped the polar
bear totem hanging from her rear view mirror. “It’s for you, Polly.
It’s all for you.”
Running up the steps to her second floor apartment, she hoped
her sexy red velvet dress still fit. She reassured herself that while
she hadn’t had time to exercise, she also hadn’t had the chance to
eat—it would even out.
An elegant envelope leaned against her front door. As she
picked it up, she saw her name written in antique script:
Nichole Merry White

Inside the apartment, she chucked it on the hall table, along

with her keys and handbag. Probably advertising.
A half hour later, she was clean and clothed, her straight blond
hair brushed until it shone like gold. “Shoes, shoes, shoes. If I were
a pair of black patent pumps with gold heels, where would I be?”

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St. Nichole and the Elf: An Urban Christmas Fantasy

She flapped her hands in the air. “Don’t answer that! Don’t! I know
I look like a trampy Christmas ornament, but when else do I get to
dress up? Catwoman at Halloween doesn’t count.”
She had just discovered her catch me, kiss-me-under-the-
mistletoe shoes when she heard an inquisitive-sounding knock.
“If it’s you, Liam, I’m on my way out,” and I don’t want to
hear you brag about your last game or push you out the door when
you make a pass at me. A very forward pass.
A muffled male voice, deeper than Liam’s, answered. “It’s
Elvis del Norte. I left you a note?”
A reformed small-town girl, Nichole remembered to use her
peephole to see the voice’s owner. Medium height, good build
under the leather jacket, black hair and olive skin, but no one she
knew. Still, he didn’t look like a bad guy. In fact, he looked good.
Whoa, girl. There’s a whole holiday of single guys at the party,
but they’re going fast. Still, she had to leave anyway, and he didn’t
look like he was going away. She opened the door and turned to
lock the door.
“It’s important that we talk.” The man didn’t touch her, but he
stood close enough she could smell him. Not cologne. Pine resin?
“I came by earlier but you weren’t here.”
Nichole stopped in the middle of locking the door. “Drat, I
forgot my good bag.” She turned her key in the opposite direction.
“Stay there a minute.” Leaving the stranger in her doorway,
Nichole ran back to rustle around in her closet. How could a white
fake fur purse disappear?
When she emerged from the bedroom, the stranger stood in her
living room, and her front door was closed. He didn’t look like he
planned anything, but it was the principle. “Excuse me, but why
are you in my apartment?” She walked purposefully to the door
and put her hand on the knob, ready to run screaming into the hall
if it was called for.
“I told you, we need to talk. About your family.”

MK Swanson
St. Nichole and the Elf: An Urban Christmas Fantasy

“Family? I don’t have any family. Not for years. You must be
looking for someone else.”
“You’re Nichole Merry White, aren’t you? I explained in my
Nichole remembered the envelope leaning against her door.
“That was yours?” She found it on the hall table and groped for her
mother’s letter opener, the one inscribed, ‘For my wife, Christine:
Merry Christmas.’ A silver knife didn’t seem like a romantic gift,
but in her memory, they loved each other very much.
Inside, the note was written in the same antique hand as the
envelope. An inked correction told her this wasn’t a fancy printer
font: the word ‘destiny’ had been misspelled ‘deftiny,’ with an
elongated letter f. “Is this your handwriting? Where did you learn
to write this way?” she asked.
“My mother taught me.”
“Oh.” She read:
Dear Nichole—

Please excuse my intrusion on Christmas Eve, but it is

essential that I speak with you before the day is over.

You may already know much of what I have to say,

and if that’s the case, you know it is your deftiny destiny.

I look forward to meeting you again and working with you.

I have no doubt that you will be everything your great-
great-grandfather was, and more.

Yours truly,
Elvis del Norte

“I don’t have time for this, Mr.—”

“I don’t have time. I promised I would be somewhere.” Of
course, they would expect her to be late, if she showed up at all,
but she didn’t have to tell him that. “Please,” she opened the door
pointedly, “leave, so I can, too.”
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St. Nichole and the Elf: An Urban Christmas Fantasy

Instead of leaving, he sat down on her couch. “This won’t take

long. If you want to go after I explain, I won’t stop you.”
“I’m going to call the police.” She reached for the cell phone in
her purse.
“Go ahead. By the time they get here, I will have told you what
you need to know.”
Nichole balled her hands into fists. “Aarrgh! You’re here to
make me crazy. If I listen, you’ll leave and never come back?”
“If you listen, I’ll never come back unless you want me to.”
“Fat chance. OK, talk.” She remained standing, tapping her
foot until her toe began to hurt. The more beautiful the shoe, the
worse it felt.
“Nice outfit. Interesting choice.”
“Holiday party.”
“You like the Christmas holiday, then?”
“I like to be with my friends, rather than hanging out with a
stranger on Christmas Eve.”
“But you were such a loner when you were a child.”
“You don’t know anything about me!”
Elvis held up a hand and starting counting on each finger.
“Your parents died when you were eight, and you were raised by
your grandmother, who died during your first year of college. You
are an artist with a passion for the environment, which led you to a
graphics design job at a non-profit, a job you pretend to love.”
“Don’t get me wrong, you want to help, but you find it
disheartening that it’s all you can do. I’m here to tell you, you can
do more.” He cocked his head, making him look a bit fey. “Did
your grandmother tell you anything about your ancestors?”
“She didn’t like to talk about it. They lived in Germany in the
thirties, and they were Jewish. You do the math.”
Elvis bowed his head. “A terrible time. So many of the kindest
people were taken.” He looked back up. “Did she tell you about

MK Swanson
St. Nichole and the Elf: An Urban Christmas Fantasy

your ancestors farther back? Did she mention anything odd, like
how you got your name? Were there old stories about gifting,
about a home in the far north, about a great family responsibility?”
“No. She played cards, she hated holidays, and she missed my
mother. That’s all I know. She wasn’t a sharer.” She paused, and
then added the rim shot. “And my mother named me after her
favorite soap opera character.”
A crease developed between the stranger’s black brows. “So
you don’t know anything. This is going to be harder than I
“Well, you can just go, you know. There isn’t any reason for
you to put yourself out.”
“No. I can explain, but you have to promise—and I know that
means something to you—that you’ll listen.”
Nichole closed her eyes tightly, then opened them wide in
exaggeration. “Fine! I promise. Unless you start to say something
disgusting, then I call the police.”
Elvis laughed. “No, not that!” His expression sobered as he
noticed the clock on the wall. “Time is passing. I’ll get to the point.
Your family, specifically, your mother’s mother’s father’s father
and his ancestors, back to the beginning, are the Giving Spirits.”
“The what?”
“They give gifts and inspire gifting—the right gift, the right
people, the right time. In Western culture, the Giving Spirit has
been called St. Nicholas.”
Nichole was struck dumb. Elvis watched her hopefully.
She finally choked out, “Santa Claus? For goodness sake, my
grandmother was Jewish! Fallen away, but Jewish! My mother and
father celebrated Christmas and Hanukkah, but my grandmother
ignored both holidays.” Nichole began to stalk around the living
room. After a few passes, she took off her excellent footwear.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Elvis. “the Giving Spirits aren’t bound
by religion. You are inherent in all of them.” Elvis watched her

MK Swanson
St. Nichole and the Elf: An Urban Christmas Fantasy

every move like he was at the zoo, following the pacing of a wild
beast behind a suddenly inadequate barrier.
“And another thing! I hate the idea that Santa only gives you a
gift if you were good, not pouting, not crying, not shouting. What
else do children do? By that estimation, no one would ever get a
gift. And when I was little, it didn’t take long to notice that the rich
children got gifts and the poor children didn’t. Did that mean that
they were bad?”
“The December gifts started with Claus, your ancestor. After
the plagues, there was so much sadness, and in the longest, coldest
nights of the year, it was at its worst. Children needed to believe in
the spirit of giving, more than ever. When Claus, and then his son,
Nicholas, left gifts for each child, parents would say, ‘Look what
that saint, Claus, brought you! You must have been very good for
him to have remembered you.’” Elvis shrugged. “It caused a lot of
misunderstandings, but they were the right gifts then.” His eyes
shifted briefly to the clock. “Even now, we do a lot of work on
Christmas Eve.”
Nichole paused in her pacing. Elvis met her eyes. His, she saw,
were green.
Pleased to gain her full attention, he continued, “But the true
purpose of the Giving Spirits isn’t to deliver hats, stockings, and
toys; your calling is to inspire people to give generously and
receive graciously when they most need it—the right gift, the right
people, the right time. Sometimes that involves a physical gift.”
Nichole tore her gaze away and resumed furrowing a channel
in the carpet. “So you’re saying that people aren’t good on their
own, that they need some kind of gift muse to force them. I just
don’t accept that. People are good, at least potentially.”
“But without the Giving Spirit, they wouldn’t know the exact
moment and the perfect gift. Ideally, both the giver and the
recipient are enriched, and the world is nudged away from the
brink of self-annihilation.”

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St. Nichole and the Elf: An Urban Christmas Fantasy

Nichole stopped, facing the wall to avoid green eyes. The clock
told her she was officially late, but somehow, she wanted to hear
more. “Putting aside the question of how handing out gifts can
possibly save the world, how would these gift-giving Don
Quixotes know the gift, the people, and the time?”
“Well, to give it a modern spin, you have the biotechnology to
learn everything you need to understand who should get what gift.”
He grinned and made a curious, seated bow.
Nichole eyed him askance. “So you’re saying, I’ll know when
they’ve been sleeping, I’ll know when they’re awake.”
“Kind of like that.”
“Well, even if I did, how could I possibly give enough gifts to
make a difference? There are nearly seven billion people in the
“That’s where your family legacy comes in. You just do it. As
many people as needed, as often as needed.”
“I can’t do that. I’m only human.”
“Well, not exactly.”
“I look human. I feel human. I had my appendix out!” She
poked her abdomen hard enough to hurt. “Ow.” She collected her
dignity and went to sit in her most uncomfortable chair, across
from the couch. “If I wasn’t human, the doctors would have
Elvis jumped up. Now it was his turn to pace. “Your family
was always close enough to pass for homo sapiens. You descend
from a species of hominid so similar that the fossils just appear
anomalous. My ancestors were less similar, but too rare to leave
much trace.”
He paused in front of the couch. “These days, both of our
families have become part of the human race, but our genetic
material is included in the so-called junk DNA. Anyone with the
genes of your family has the potential to become the Giving Spirit.
In fact, it manifests all the time, in smaller ways. Someone like me,

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St. Nichole and the Elf: An Urban Christmas Fantasy

on the other hand, only comes along once in a generation. And our
generations are long. I’m older than I look. I worked with your
great-great-grandfather for a decade.”
“You mentioned him before. Are you saying he’s still alive?”
“He was until just before last Christmas.”
“That’s impossible. Nobody lives that long.”
“Being the Giving Spirit has advantages. Like me, you would
stay young,” he smiled winningly, “and not just young at heart!”
“But then, I would be alone.”
“You don’t have to be. Obviously, your great-great-grandfather
had a family. Some Giving Spirits have more than one over the
“Nice for them! What a crock. It sounds like you’re recruiting
me for a cult. What’s next? Apocalypse surprise?”
Elvis collapsed onto the couch, blowing out his breath in
consternation. “Look, the spirit of knowledge has never had to
recruit before. Nicko should have done this, but he was so busy
with what has happened in the world, time got away from him, so I
have to do it. You and your cousin Christopher were the only ones
in this generation that Nicko said had the ability and the heart.
After thinking it over, I decided on you because Christopher is
gay.” His voice wavered, or maybe it was hearing.
She ignored it. “That makes a difference?”
“I’m not going to talk about him. You have the gift for true
compassion. Nicko said so, when we met you.”
“I told you we met. At the zoo, in front of the polar bear
exhibit. Nicko said, ‘She could be the one.’ And he was right. You
want to save the world, and now you have the opportunity.”
Nichole sneered. She had never tried it before, it felt like being
in a movie. “So now you’re saying that fixing global warming is
down to gift giving?”
Elvis didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was

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St. Nichole and the Elf: An Urban Christmas Fantasy

lower, and softer, and sad. “The right gift, the right people, the
right time. It’s a crucial part of healing everything, and everyone. If
we don’t get it right…I don’t know about you, but I want to see
what comes next, rather than going back to square one,
evolutionarily speaking. This last round, it took a long time for my
ancestors to blend in with humans. Intelligent life was a lot smaller
the last time.”
Something that had been swirling around at the back of her
mind whooshed abruptly to the front. “Now, that’s just going too
far! You can’t be an elf. You don’t have ears.”
His eyebrows rose.
“I mean, your ears are a little narrow at the top, but hardly
Elvis grinned again. “The glamour is working!” She realized he
was enjoying their conversation, too.
“But you’re like, five-eight. Are you saying that you’re
actually three feet tall?”
“No, though we were, at one time. We’ve been working on it.
My grandmother was four-ten, and her great-grandfather under
four feet. That was during the dark ages, though—he didn’t seem
so small back then.” He smiled again, this time with more of an
edge. “But the ears, now, that’s just who we are.”
She asked another question. “How do you know all this? I
mean, you can’t be old enough to remember past civilizations.”
“Whatever. How?”
Elvis stood up to take another circuit of her apartment. It
seemed to be getting too small for him.
“We have access to the memories of our ancestors. I suppose it
might go back to the dawn of time, if I had the ambition. It’s what
humans call the collective unconscious, only for us, it’s conscious.
It also gives me insight into living people, so that I can locate the
right person, right gift—”

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St. Nichole and the Elf: An Urban Christmas Fantasy

“Yeah, yeah. The right time. You’re a fruitcake, if you’ll

pardon the holiday reference.”
Elvis stood up, and in spite of his height, he seemed to tower
over her, angry. She found she liked it. Stop it, she told herself.
“If you can’t get on board, Christopher will do it. He was my
first choice, anyway.’
Offended, Nichole snapped, “I thought you said his being gay
was a problem.”
“That’s not what I said. He is more considerate, and certainly a
lot more open-minded, than you. He’s just not in the best position
to help.”
Nichole felt deflated, and she wished she could figure out why.
She shook it off. “So, how exactly does Santa fly around the world
in the blink of an eye?”
Elvis shifted from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t
know. This is where Nicko would have helped you. As far as I
know, he just did it. I brought the intel, he provided the logistics. I
never asked him how.”
“Great. So this is all just craziness. “I’m not Santa Claus, and I
can’t change the world.” Nichole slammed her feet incautiously
back into her high heels, which pinched her toes in mute
retaliation. “I’m going to a party. You can go back to your hollow
“You will change the world, you know. Just not as the Giving
Spirit.” Elvis walked to the door and opened it wide. “Your party is
The party seemed far away, and less enticing. Nevertheless,
Nichole picked up her furry white purse and flounced to the door.
To her horror, tears started as she crossed the threshold. “Even if
you were an elf, with antenna ears to listen to people’s hearts—”
Elvis made a small objecting noise, but she rolled on.
“—I’m too selfish. I’m not remotely like a saint. Like you said,
I’m not a very good person.”

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St. Nichole and the Elf: An Urban Christmas Fantasy

Elvis put his hands on her shoulders, and she leaned toward
him involuntarily. Without knowing exactly how, she was
enveloped in the warmest hug of her life. Her tears kept flowing.
After a while, she sniffed, pushed back, and stood on her own
two gold-shod feet. He still had his hands on her shoulders. She
patted him on the chest. “Nice pecs for an elf.” She heard his
frustrated sigh and added, “Tell Christopher, I wish him a very
merry Christmas.”
Elvis said, “You’re not selfish, you know. You have it in you to
be a force of good in the world. Honor it.” He let go of her
shoulders and stepped away. She searched in her purse for a tissue,
and when she looked up, he was gone.


It was Christmas Eve again, and Nichole had forgotten most of

what Elvis had said five years before. Still, when peace broke out
in the Middle East, a cure for cancer was developed, and
technology was created to improve crop yields, she liked to
imagine that Christopher and Elvis were behind it. Plus, she had
uncovered a knack for giving. When she made a difference in the
lives of people around her, it made her happy.
But the ice caps were still melting, and continents of trash
roamed the oceans alongside icebergs. Whole species she used to
see on Crocodile Hunter would be extinct before she reached fifty.
Population growth was slowing, but not fast enough. At twenty-
seven, Nichole stilled worked for and environmental non-profit,
but the effort versus the good achieved was burning her out. She
wasn’t hardened; it mattered when there was a new oil spill, or a
Cat 6 hurricane. Polar bears made her cry so predictably that she
had to move Polly off her rear view mirror so that if she started
sobbing, it didn’t happen in traffic.
And this Christmas was bringing her down even more. Her
boyfriend of ten months, the first in a while, had disappointed her.
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St. Nichole and the Elf: An Urban Christmas Fantasy

He had seemed thoughtful, funny and caring—maybe a bit of a

snob, but at heart, a good guy. He reminded her of Elvis.
Then, there was the restaurant. The look in his eyes when that
poor sick waiter had dropped a glass of wine in her lap would stay
with her forever, but she hoped she could eventually eradicate the
grating sound of his voice. ‘You cretin! If you’re sick, stay home.
You look like you have HIV, or something. That can’t be sanitary.”
The manager rushed over to talk to her date while she and the
waiter stood nearby, mopping up her dress.
“Maybe I should have stayed home, today of all days. But my
work is very important to me.” The waiter was a blonde man about
thirty-five. He would have been handsome if it weren’t for sunken
cheeks, dark circles, and a papery dry complexion.
“I’m fine, really. He’s just being an ass.” The man still looked
so sad that Nichole put her hands over his where they held a wine-
stained napkin. “I’m sorry for what he said. People need to work.
You can’t stay at home just to make jerks like him feel
He smiled and thanked her.
She gave his hands a squeeze and said, “I hope you feel better
Next, she found the flustered manager behind the counter and
paid the bill, doubling the tip.
The manager was startled. “But the service! Why would you
leave a tip?” He pushed some of the money back toward her across
the counter.
“My grandmother always said, don’t eat out if you can’t afford
to tip. I can afford it, and I want the waiter to have it. It’s a gift.”
She put the money back in his hand.
The manager nodded. “I’ll tell him. Thank you.”
That was a month ago. The party she would have gone to
tonight was at the ex-boyfriend’s house, and she didn’t feel like
attending a party, anyway.

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St. Nichole and the Elf: An Urban Christmas Fantasy

But tonight, as she drove home from work, she missed her
family. The weather was cold and crisp, snow weather if you didn’t
live in Florida. The park across from her building was still and
waiting, a newly installed bench facing her building empty.
As she mounted the steps, her neighbor Liam headed out past
her with his wife and new baby. They murmured Christmas wishes.
As soon as she was in her apartment, she wanted to be out
again. So, after dinner with her cat and a hot shower, she put on
white flannel pajamas and fur-lined black slippers, then poured
herself an eggnog. She would go out to sit on the new park bench.
No one used it but her and a homeless man named Jack. On that
thought, she poured and microwaved a second eggnog for him, this
one nog-free. Wrapped in a huge red blanket, she carried two cups
and a spare blanket down the stairs.
There was a man on the bench, but to her surprise, it wasn’t
Jack. It looked like—
“Nichole. Merry Christmas.”
Suddenly, the remembered the night he visited her with clarity.
The Giving Spirits, elves, destiny. “How are you? How’s
Christopher? You’ve been busy.” She offered him the nog, and he
took it. “Sorry, it’s virgin. It was for Jack, and he’s in AA.”
“That’s OK. I don’t like the taste of alcohol, and it doesn’t
work very well on me, anyway.”
She waited, but he didn’t speak. He sipped his eggnog, holding
it in both hands.
“What happened?”
“Christopher died at the beginning of December.”
“What? You said the Giving Spirit lives a long time.”
“I told you, Christopher had AIDS. He didn’t turn out to be one
of the lucky ones who live for decades after diagnosis, and globe-
trotting for five years didn’t improve his chances.”
“You didn’t say that he had AIDS. You said he was gay, and

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St. Nichole and the Elf: An Urban Christmas Fantasy

implied it was a problem. I thought you were prejudiced.” She

remembered, exactly.
“I did say.”
And then, she did remember. ‘I decided on you because
Christopher has AIDS,’ Elvis had said, but she heard it differently.
Elvis watched her face. “You weren’t ready to hear.”
It was Nichole’s turn not to speak, so they sat quietly for a long
time. Finally, Nichole said, “I wish I’d met him.”
“You did, the day he died.” Instead of objecting, she waited for
Elvis to explain. “He was very weak. He hadn’t moved from his
lover’s house in months. Not being able to help people hurt him, so
I stopped telling him, and then I stopped knowing.” Elvis squeezed
his eyes shut. She thought she saw the sparkle of tears. “That’s
never happened before, in the history of my family.”
“Then, that day, he told me he wanted to give one last gift. I
told him I didn’t know who needed one.” He shook his head. “He
said that he did, and we went to see you at a restaurant.”
She knew instantly which restaurant he was talking about.
“Were you there? You said you can change your appearance.”
“I was there, but not in the restaurant. I can’t change that
She thought about the stupid ex, the sick waiter, and the
manager. Had she met anyone else? Maybe, in the lobby?
“He offered you a gift.”
“I don’t remember. Did I accept?”
“Yes. Don’t you recall the waiter?”
“The sick waiter? Of course I do. What happened made me
realize what a jerk that boyfriend was.”
“You couldn’t turn away from a sick stranger. You spoke with
love and compassion.You needed to know what you were, so
Christopher came in person to show you. He wished he’d gotten to
know you, he said.”
She put her hand around one of his where it held the cup. Her

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St. Nichole and the Elf: An Urban Christmas Fantasy

eyes burned. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She looked up at the gray
sky, clouds lit by street lights. “What are you going to do?”
“Find another saint, I guess. They’re out there. It’s just going to
take time. Another Christmas without Santa.”
Nichole nodded. “I wish that I hadn’t said no. What you told
me was so hard to believe.” She breathed a deeply of the crisp,
winter air. “But I’ll do what I can. You taught me that I should, and
Christopher showed me that I can. Thank you, Elvis, for what you
did for me and Christopher, and what you both did for all of us.”
She let her hand fall back to her lap and wrapped it tightly around
the other to stop herself from clutching. Elvis had his own worries,
he didn’t need hers.
She stood up. He followed suit.
She wasn’t going to cry—the cold was just making her eyes
water. “If I can help you find the next Giving Spirit, I will.” She
offered her hand to say goodbye.
Instead of shaking it, he pulled her hand to his chest, then
wrapped his other arm around her. It felt like five years ago, only
better, so she closed her eyes. After a few minutes, to break the
spell, she patted his chest with her trapped hand. “Nice pecs for an
Then she felt cold tap her cheeks. When she looked up, the sky
was lit with stars, and a light snow was falling. Snow in Florida?
She turned around in his arms to watch.
And saw a polar bear ten feet away, looking as baffled as she
felt. “A polar bear in the park?” She swung back around wildly,
trying to make sense of what had happened, and felt her foot slip.
Quickly, Elvis pulled her close in his arms. He nodded over her
shoulder. “Watch your step. You might fall in a crevasse.”
Nichole looked down in slow motion. A faint glitter in the inky
black told her where it stopped. Even more slowly, she met Elvis’s
green eyes. “What did you do?”
“Me? Nothing. Remember, intel? I can’t do this. You did.”

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St. Nichole and the Elf: An Urban Christmas Fantasy

“Does that mean I’m Santa Claus?”

He hugged her tightly against the bitter arctic cold. “That’s not
how I’m thinking of you at this moment, but if you’re not, we’re
going to be stuck here for a long time.”
His face looked so sweet that she kissed him. In the blink of an
eye, they were back in the park.
As soon as she knew they were safe, she felt embarrassment
creep in. She raised her chin and met Elvis’s eyes. “Sorry, I was
just so happy…” And saw something else amazing. Elvis’s ears
were pointed and red with cold. She reached up to brush one with
her fingertips. “You’re going to get frost-bite.”
He touched his ear self-consciously. “It’s unattractive?”
“Just odd. But I think I’m finally ready for odd.” She smiled up
at him, uncertain.
He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her close for a
much longer kiss. After that, he took her hand and stood with her
facing the apartment building. “Well, ask me in out of the cold. I
promised I would only come back if you wanted me to, and we
have a lot to do before Christmas morning.”

The End

MK Swanson