Lucifer cut her off. “That’s enough. Dismissed.” He waved his hand and made her go away then turned to his cousin. “You heard the lawyer.”

“We both know you don’t really want them, so what will it take for you to give me that pile?” Nick pointed to the tray.

“I’m so glad you asked.” Lucifer offered his terms, to which Nick laughed so hard his cheeks turned rosy.

They negotiated, and even before Nick left with the mail, Lucifer was pondering who to evict that he might demolish their home to enlarge his garage for his upcoming new sports car. Elven made, which meant more surprises than a 007 vehicle.

There was a knock. Knowing it was Polkie, Lucifer flicked his fingers and opened the door.

“Your Highness, it would seem we misplaced one of your letters.” Polkie waved a red envelope.

“Misplaced?”

“The new butler dropped it.”

“This kind of ineptitude is unacceptable.” Lucifer shook his head.

“I agree, sire. I shall have my understudy punished at once.”

“Borrow my kitsune of nine tails if you require,” he offered. The electricity in it shredded flesh like a knife through soft butter.

“Too generous, sire.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll add years to your sentence to pay for it.”

“Hmph.” Polkie handed over the letter before departing.

Being a woman, which meant observant and nosy, his wife said, “Looks like another one for Nick.”

“No, it’s not.” It was addressed to Satan.

“You just made a deal—"

“For the pile on my desk. Nothing more.” He was very specific in with his terms.

“You are so crooked,” she muttered.

“I am.” He prided himself on it. “Would you like me to read it to you?”

“Listen as you shatter some poor child’s dream?” She shrugged. “Okay.”

“That’s my wench. Ahem.” He tore open the envelope and began to read. “Dear Satan…”

3

Dear Santa.

Merry pursed her lips and stared at the word. Nope. That wasn’t right. Rather than waste paper and hasten the demise of their beautiful planet, she crossed it out and started over.

Dear Satan.

Much better.

Her tongue poked from between her lips as she wrote.

I don’t want anything for Xmas.

A lazy way of spelling but her dyslexia had a problem with the longer version. She reread and then crossed it out because the phrase wasn’t quite true. She did want something. Something huge.

For Xmas, I’d like to see my boy smile.

It had been almost a year since she’d last glimpsed one. A year since she’d heard Miguel speak. He’d retreated into a tiny shell of himself since the incident that saw his dad dead. Poor traumatized baby. It broke her heart.

Which was why she had to do something about it. If only she weren’t running out of ideas.