Page 12 of SOS HOTEL: Ho, Ho, No

No, nope, the creepy gnomes hadn’t moved, it was just my own mind playing tricks. They were not coming alive.

“Do you know what I know . . .”

Yeah, probably not.

The blunt table knife in my grip shimmered.

Strings of white fairy lights strobed.

“Come out, Santa,” I crooned. “I’ve been a good boy.” Mostly. Lately. Not so much before that, but those were extenuating circumstances.

The song ended, a crackly record clicked over, and the opening plink-plings of a Mariah Carey track Zee assured me was popular at this time of year began to play. “I don’t want a lot for Christmas . . .”

“Fuck yeah!” Zee announced.

I turned back to see him flick his hair, crack his knuckles, and strut forward. He raised his spork like a microphone, sashayed to the beat, and sang at the top of his voice. And since he had a generous pair of lungs, he belted out the lyrics in a voice made for theater.

When he reached me, he sang, “All I waaaant for Christmaaas iiiiiiiiiiiis yooooooooou . . .” And took my hand, yanking me into his embrace. “Go with it.” He winked and we were off, strutting down the snowy tunnel, lit by flashing lights. Zee grabbed a fluffy red pointed hat off a gnome and popped it on my head.

I mean, I’m not going to lie, Zee’s energy was infectious. And within a few steps I was jiving along, scary gnomes forgotten, murder-Santa shoved to the back of my mind while Zee and I danced and he belted out Mariah Carey’s money-making hit.

Were the lights getting brighter?

It didn’t matter—Zee and I were killing it. I could dance, and this was just like when Victor had taken me to the swing club. My heart soared, my grin ached. So what if something mean was out there that likely wanted us dead. Zee lived for the moment, and right now, so did I.

There was no way Santa could ignore Zee, even if he wanted to.

We approached the end of the tunnel as Mariah reached her climax. Zee pranced ahead, struck a pose, and belted out that final high-pitched “yoooooouuuuuu” into his spork microphone.

The music faded. I clapped, thrilled, and Zee cut off, grinning. Soaking up my praise, he took an exaggerated bow and said into his spork, “Thank you, thank you. I’m here all week.”

“Ho, ho, ho . . .” A deep, thunderous voice rumbled from all around.

I stopped clapping.

Zee jolted upright, and spun to face a sparkly shed adorned with fake gingerbread panels, that looked like either something a witch baked to lure human babies inside, or Santa’s grotto—it was all sort of the same. Human fairy tales are real dark.

The gingerbread door flung open, and a jolly overweight bearded man wearing red felt weebled out. He looked harmless. But if you were a child-eating mass murderer, what better disguise than a jolly old man who gave out gifts? I should know, one carnivore-in-disguise to another.