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Introduction

Careful what you ask for, because Lucifer sees you when you’re sleeping. Spies when you’re awake. Knows if you’ve been nauseatingly good, so try to be bad for the devil’s sake.

Merry is determined to make Christmas special for her son. He hasn’t spoken or smiled since his father died, so she writes a letter hoping for a holiday miracle.

Dear Satan…

Her unfortunate error ensures her wish ends up in the wrong place. Worse? Satan answers her plea—after telling Santa where he can shove a candy cane. The devil knows just what Merry needs, and he has the perfect demon for the job.

Marduke’s mission is to deliver a hellhound puppy to a little boy, along with some tips on how to avoid getting eaten. What the devil’s kennel master doesn’t expect on this emasculating mission of kindness is Merry. A happy, optimistic woman despite all the strife in her life.

It’s disgusting. Annoying. Tempting?

Usually, Marduke is all about destroying hopes and dreams—and letting his dogs pee on people while they’re down—but there’s something about Merry…

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Foreword

‘Twas the days before Christmas

And all throughout Hell,

Perversion was happening,

Crime was up as well.

The babies were alive,

And not killed in their crib,

His wife was acting normal,

Which meant good sex for him.

Satan wore his red latex,

And Gaia her skimpiest thong,

When Polkie arrived

With a letter sent wrong.

1

“The mail, Your Eminence.” Polkie—short for Philokrates, a strange looking mix between a gremlin and Atlantean, wearing a proper all black suit to match his expression—placed a tarnished tray stacked with letters upon the Devil’s desk. Red, pink, some covered in drawings and stickers of line art holiday trees or fat snowmen and fatter Santas. Some had that damned glitter that got into everything.

Evil shit. It’s why the creator of it currently suffered. The devil should never sparkle. That was for vampires.

“Christmas letters. My favorite.” He rubbed his hands. While he publicly complained about Christmas—all that kindness and family time and goodwill blah blah puke—secretly he loved it.

The month of December, leading up to his nephew’s birthday, was a busy time, what with all the increased crime and the drama amongst adults. Divorces skyrocketed. Violence, too. So much sin it was hard to keep track at times.

Christmas also meant thousands upon thousands of letters being mailed by children to the North Pole and that fat bastard who didn’t even live there. So many letters and some addressed to Lucifer himself.

Dear Satan.

He read each and every one. He could predict the future for a few with their greedy demands. Some didn’t ask for toys but acts that guaranteed he’d see them eventually. Pretty much everyone past the baby stage ended up crossing the Styx.

Polkie set the tray down, the stack of mail so high that when it toppled, it covered Satan’s massive desk. So many letters. He wiggled his fingers over the pile, trying to choose the first one.

“You look like a hungry pervert,” remarked his wife.

Gaia sat knitting spider webs, fresh from the spinneret glands, while their two youngest played in the corner. Junior fired live rats at Lucifer’s giant, meat-eating Venus meat trap while Jujube giggled and clapped. Daddy’s little hellions. Wait until they saw what he’d got them for the most horribly amazing holiday of the year.

Hating Christmas led to him taking steps to ensure it got ruined. However, his efforts were nothing compared to what one Nikolas Claus accomplished. Turning it from Charlie’s—formerly known as Jesus—birthday into a thing with its own set of decorations, happiness, joy.

Gross.

Lucifer fought back, introducing the greed aspect as people asked for more and more, turning it into a commercial event. A parody of what it used to be and a moneymaker that sent sin spinning off the charts. Christmas brought out the greedy bastards in his life.

“I am hungry to bask in the love of my fans.” He stroked the pile of letters.

“They’re not your fans. You stole Santa’s letters. Again,” Gaia stated without stopping her stitching. Her fingers flew, the needles clacking away, making who knew what. Didn’t matter. He’d tell her it was wonderful because not even the devil was dumb enough to piss off his wife. Why just last week he’d been reminded of this lesson when she asked him if she’d gotten fatter and he said he liked the new curves.

Wrong answer.

The Bahamas got their first deep freeze, which everyone blamed on climate change. Idiots. As if she cared about pollution. Gaia had a way of cleaning up her planet. But when it came to her temper, Lucifer was the one causing havoc with storms and temperature increases. He knew how to get her hot.

“It’s not stealing if they’re addressed to me,” he declared. He even had the fine print to prove his point.

“Fine, I’ll give you they say Satan, but it’s the wrong address. We don’t live in the North Pole.”

“Not true. I have a mailbox there.”

She stopped knitting. “You’re doing it on purpose to justify stealing those children’s wishes from Santa.”

“Don’t be blaming me for the fact they can’t spell.” He blamed the public education system. Today’s youth were woefully incapable of matching his wits. It wasn’t even any fun anymore making truly lopsided deals for human souls.

“You should do the right thing,” his wife declared. “Give them to Santa.”

The very idea. Lucifer choked and grabbed his chest. “You trying to kill me, wench?”

“Just saying it doesn’t have to always be about you.”

Was she new? “But it is all about me.”

Her gaze narrowed, and she injected a warning tone. “Luc.”

“What is it, my wench?”

“Those letters belong to children.”

“I am aware of that fact, and as you well know, I would never hurt a child.” He did have standards after all. That said, once they became adults, all bets were off.

“There are different kinds of hurt. Like destroying their belief in the real Santa.”

“Bah, hellbug,” he exclaimed, huffing smoke. “You’re nitpicking!”

“I better not find nits,” she said with a glare at her spinning spiders. who quivered and shot out a useless gob that made her sigh as she snapped the thread and tied it off. “Aren’t you busy enough without stealing Nick’s mail?”

Nick now, was it? As if he needed another reason to be stubborn. “Never too busy for my fans.” Lucifer didn’t get as many letters what with the postal service and their difficulties delivering to the first ring of Hell. Apparently, neither rain or snow didn’t extend to brimstone and hellfire. Pussies. The rare few that made it to his mailbox didn’t make it past his hellhounds.

“Fans?” She snorted.

“You’re just jealous.”

“Not really. I prefer actions to words. My fans show their love with tree plantings and luscious gardens. By protecting wetlands. And the carbon tax.”

Lucifer snorted. “The carbon tax is a scam created for yours truly.” He was quite proud of the way he’d managed to make the rich even richer.

“You are reprehensible.”

“I know.” He winked. “And yours are dicks.”

“They are not!” she huffed.

“I’ve seen how they show their appreciation. Ever increasing plastics in your ocean. The mowing down of rainforests. The smog.” Oops. Too late he shut his mouth, closed his eyes, and waited for her to smite him.

When the expected smiting didn’t occur, he opened one eye and saw her calmly knitting. “Um, not gonna argue?”

“As if I’d argue with you over something so silly.” She tittered.

Uh. Oh.

She was pissed.

An itch began in his manly parts. A really bad itch that turned to burning.

“Ouch!” Lucifer hopped out of his seat, dug around inside his trousers, and ripped free the silken boxers she’d knitted for him. They smoked into ash as they dropped to the floor. He proffered the mightiest of glowers.

As usual, his wife didn’t appear impressed.

“You were saying?” was her smug reply.

“I’m saying it’s time I started going commando again. Let the boys roam free. Be the sexy demon you first met.” He swung his hips.

She rolled her eyes. “That move has never been, and never will be, sexy.”

“Worked on you.”

“Actually, your saving grace is that tongue. Who knew forked could make such a difference?” She winked.

Lucifer would have dropped to his knees to worship her if not for a knock at his door—and the damned children. Forget the olden days where he fucked her anywhere he could, even if there was an audience. Now he had to wait until they could be private. It did make the fast romps in closets and hidden spots more exciting.

“Are you going to answer that?” she asked as someone rapped again.

“Me?” he exclaimed. “The devil is not a servant. Opening doors is Polkie’s job.”

“Actually, no it’s not. We have a new butler.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Given Polkie is getting up there in millennia, I’ve hired him some help,” Gaia stated as if this was okay.

“An apprentice! I didn’t approve this.” He glowered.

“You told me to run the household as I see fit and to not bother you with annoying questions.”

“I meant those fucking paint chips, and you know it. One hundred shades of cream you made me look at.” And look as he might, he couldn’t see the differences as she went on and on and on about the varying hues.

“Forgive me for thinking you’d want a say in the décor for our bedroom.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck about the colors of the walls or the thread count in the sheets so long as you’re naked in bed with those delicious toes up around my ears.” His leer had dropped countless panties in his lifetime.

Gaia was the one woman who didn’t succumb. She came to him on her terms.

It was so damned sexy. And annoying.

“Your intent doesn’t count, only your words.” She snapped her fingers and suddenly wore reading glasses on the tip of her nose. She held up a sheet of paper. “Here’s the conversation in question. Would you like me to read it to you?”

“It’s as if you are trying to goad me into a fight.” Meaning she wanted sex. Makeup sex. The best kind after sweet, and then there was impromptu and languorous…

“According to the transcript—”

He interrupted. “Yada. Yada. Fine. I said it. You want to hire people. Go ahead. But don’t come crying to me when you hurt Polkie’s feelings and shit starts going wrong.” There were few people he dared piss off. Polkie being one of them. That guy knew how to make his life miserable without getting caught doing it.

“I think the person gave up on knocking,” she stated, putting away her glasses. For now. He’d be asking her to wear those later, maybe with some heels and nothing else.

“Mustn’t have been important.” He waved a hand. “Tell me more about this new butler.”

“Well, he’s handsome for one.”

Before Lucifer could change that by adding a few barnacles and maybe another eye, a sudden whoosh of soot puffed from the hearth, causing a cloud in the room that had him closing his eyes for a second while he waved his hands to get rid of it. When Lucifer opened them, he discovered a visitor standing in his office.

An unwelcome one at that. His cousin.

The one and only Santa Claus.

2

“You know, most people use the door to visit me. Those people live,” Satan muttered with a scowl as the big man brushed off his red suit.

A suit Lucifer envied. He could have had his own made and worn it with panache. However, people would think he’d copied the do-gooder Santa Nikolas Claus.

Unacceptable. People copied him.

His cousin’s apparel was modeled after that of the Santa from the Netflix special, The Christmas Chronicles: red duster—using pleather because killing animals was cruel, blah blah blah—lined in fake fur. His boots shone so well they acted as a mirror. Lucifer truly envied Santa’s beard. He could do scruffy, but full-on bush from his chin? Patchy at best.

Cousin Nick had brought his famous bag with him. It acted as an inter-portal conduit to his workshop, which wasn’t actually in the North Pole as people thought but on another planet. Pluto to be exact. Cousin Nick was banished there a few decades ago because of his Krampus phase. He’d apparently earned back his visiting privileges.

“Hand them over,” his not-so-jolly cousin demanded.

Lucifer was never clear on which side of the family Nick fell. It had been a long time since their birth. They’d both changed a lot since then. Some of them for the better. Others—ahem, his cousin—got more annoying each year.

A good thing Lucifer was king when it came to being a dick. “A fine hello to you, too, my dear cousin. Judging by your increased girth, your flushed complexion, and that irregularity I detect in your heartbeat, your wife is still trying to kill you.”

Everyone joked about how Mrs. Claus kept feeding her husband sugar and fat in an attempt to get rid of him. Not a joke. She really did want him gone. Why she didn’t just use a sword and sever his head to save herself the trouble was something Lucifer had discussed at length with her over spiked eggnog. She grumbled about the promise she’d made during their wedding vows about not harming her husband. She also wouldn’t cheat.

People with morals were just distasteful to Lucifer. It was why he didn’t visit often.

Nick cupped his belly, full of beers and nachos. not jelly. “You’re just jealous of my Becky because your wife can’t cook.”

Gaia laughed.

Laughed at the insult, because she and Nick went way back.

She wagged a finger. “Naughty Nick. You know what happens when I cook. A little bit of this, a little bit of that, and we end up with the blobfish.”

Nick snickered. “Those were ugly but not all your cooking went bad. My elves are still one of your greatest accomplishments.”

Gaia had performed some tricky splicing to create a species that thrived in the cold and were possessed not only of long lives but an extremely good work ethic. Elves truly were happiest when busy. Nick and his crew got things done and delivered without fail every Christmas. Brought joy and happiness all around the world.

And the family called Lucifer the disgrace.

“I remember us making the elves.” She sighed dreamily. “Good times.”

Wait a second, did she ever get that look when she thought of him? Did she like Nick more?

Ridiculous. Still, his wife’s past with his cousin and continued friendship annoyed. “Why are you here?” he barked.

“You know why. My mail.” Nick headed for the desk. “I’ll be taking those.”

Lucifer leaned back in his seat, laced his hands over his flat belly, and smiled. “Touch them and lose that hand. Permanently.”

“They’re not for you.”

“Not true. They’re addressed to me.”

“Satan Claus?” Nick cajoled. “We both know that’s not your last name.”

“Actually, it is.”

“Since when?” Nick blustered.

“Since I applied for a name change. It is a little bit lengthier now. Satan Lucifer Morningstar Yahweh Kardashian Skywalker Manson Easter Bunny Claus Baphomet and a few more.” Nine hundred pages worth.

“And what of the address?” Nick argued.

“That’s what I said.” His wife took the cad’s side.

“You’re not the only one with a mailbox in the North Pole.” Turned out a few people had some redirects. Santa Claws, a grumpy cat living in San Francisco who inherited a billionaire’s fortune. Then there was Satan Claws, Lucifer’s massive and demonic cat who used the shreds of his letters to line his kitty litter box.

“Those letters are for me,” Nick insisted.

“I disagree. Let’s read one, shall we?” Lucifer grabbed the most promising one from the pile. Black envelope, the red marker almost impossible to read. Addressed to Satan. Inside, a scribbled note. “Dear Satan. I’ve been doing my best to be bad all year, but I’m worried that’s not enough to earn me a spot in Hell. How can I sin more this stupid, commercialistic holiday season? Signed Adam.” Lucifer tossed it aside. “For starters, he shouldn’t have to ask. How hard is it to break laws and do no good?”

“You planted that!” Nick accused.

As if he’d admit to cheating. “Don’t be a sore loser.”

“I’m not the one who set the board game on fire when I was winning.”

“You intentionally snuck that serpent in there to sabotage me.” Snakes and Ladders. The most evil game in creation.

“Still such a baby. Can’t admit I beat you,” Nick taunted.

For a moment, Lucifer saw red and his nostrils smoked. Just what Nick intended, judging by his smirk.

Lucifer composed himself and then retaliated. “Sounds to me like you’re jealous that my wife still likes to suck my dick every night.”

He ducked the needle Gaia threw at his head. Totally worth it to see his cousin red cheeked.

“You’re a pig.”

“Demon, actually. And you’re not.”

Cousin Nick might be old, but he was a youngster compared to the devil.

“You want the letters. Keep them. I can always find more children to replace them.” A statement that had Nick turning and holding out his arms to Lucifer’s kids.

“Who wants to sit on Santa’s lap?”

As if—

What the ever-loving fuck! Lucifer almost exploded as Jujube crawled over and bounced on her bum, exclaiming, “Santa!” She clapped and held out her arms.

Traitor.

“Naptime!” Lucifer snapped his fingers and sent both children off to the nursery.

The lie fooled no one. Nick got a smug expression, and Lucifer’s ire grew. He began entertaining thoughts of revenge, which interfered with his previous plans that involved getting into his wife’s panties. The distraction couldn’t be allowed to happen.

His wife needed him to defile her. He couldn’t let anything get in the way of that.

Time to get rid of this pompous fool. Jolly his ass. “Don’t you have some elves to crack a whip on? Some reindeer to fellate into flying? A wife to disappoint?”

“I’ll leave once you hand over my mail.” Nick imperiously held out a hand.

“Still no, and before you argue, you don’t have a case. Ask my lawyer.”

A woman in a blue dress suit appeared at the snap of his fingers. Kourtney—who usually worked earth-side for his match making service, Grim Dating—scowled as she crossed her arms. “What now?” Such a lovely attitude and to think he could enjoy it anytime he wanted since he’d arranged to have her fall for one of his Grim Reapers.

“I have need of your legal expertise.”

Kourtney arched a brow. “And what did we say about proper notice?”

“You spoke. I never agreed. And even if I had, I would have been lying.” Lucifer could never understand how people didn’t grasp this simple concept.

“It’s a good thing you pay me ridiculously well,” she grumbled. “What is it this time?”

“Letters addressed to Satan Claus. Does my cousin have a legal right to them?”

Kourtney sighed. “No. But morally—”

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.

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

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