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The female sleeps for so long, I worry that I overdid it with the magical tranquilizer.
Twelve hours is nothing in my world, but I understand that’s not natural for a human.
I go to my bed and press two fingers against her throat. Her heart beats a steady rhythm. She breathes.
She drools on my pillow, and I can’t control the smile that cracks the hard lines of my face.
The human is so fragile. I never should have bagged her up and brought her here, to the North Pole, without permission.
I’ve already broken so many rules of the elf code of conduct. If she had died in transit, or in my bed, I’d never forgive myself.
Facing the elven tribunal and answering to Santa Claus would be harrowing enough. Losing Ivy would be lifelong torture.
Perhaps I was too hasty.
I should have waited and sought permission from Nicholas to make contact with a human. Nicholas, Santa Claus, Eldrin the Uncommon — whatever we choose to call him — has instituted an application process to keep the mating of elves and humans on record. We at the North Pole do not want too many humans learning that Santa is real and that he and his minion elves live at the North Pole where they make toys in factories run on Christmas cheer. We prefer that it is left to folklore. But revealing the truth would cause a mass panic. At worst, a human government might bulldoze their way in and colonize our magical resources for their own benefit.
So I understand why the system is in place.
But as soon as I set eyes on Ivy, I knew the orderly application process would take too long for my liking.
Ivy is perfect, and I have to have her now.
Nicholas should not be surprised at all at this influx of elven/human romances. Because we no longer keep a record of a people’s “goodness” or “badness,” we no longer look down our noses at the pitiful humans and their inability to solve hunger or war. We’ve developed compassion—or as much as elves are capable of it.
But we are still forbidden from making contact without permission.
And certainly, administering a tranquilizer to an unwilling female and shoving her into my bag of toys is highly illegal.
Ivy stirs under my touch, and I hide. It’s better to let her adjust to her surroundings before meeting her mate.
ChapterThree
Ivy
I wake up, and the first thing I notice is the crick in my neck.
I shouldn’t have slept under the Christmas tree. Who do I think I am? The family dog?
This most recent bad decision involved too much rum, which led to curling up next to the Christmas tree, which led to “I’ll just rest my eyes for a second.”
That “second” turned into passing out on the floor, which may have been fine in my younger days, but I’m not 22 anymore.
But then I realize something strange. I’m no longer on the floor.
Not prepared to open my eyes just yet for fear of a dreaded morning-light-induced headache, I blindly run my fingers over the exquisitely soft surface on which I lie. I must have drunkenly moved to the sofa at some point.
That can’t be right; the sofa has never felt this cozy. My employers do not own any comfortable furniture.
So…where am I?
Carefully, I open my eyes. I find myself in a dark room lit only by a fragrant fire that blazes in a fireplace big enough to walk into. The fireplace has an iron stand for cooking, and on the hearth is a mess of iron tools I don’t recognize. The floor is made of massive stone tiles. Upon closer inspection, the dancing firelight reveals that each stone is intricately, beautifully carved.
Did I stumble down to my room last night? No. Whatever I’ve been sleeping on is still much nicer than my Ikea bed. The Frosts have pledged to finish renovating the partially finished basement where I sleep behind a partition next to the creepy, spider-infested furnace room but haven’t yet made good on that promise.
This is not a sofa at all. This is not my bed, nor is it the Frosts’ magnificent primary bed, which I’ve occasionally sneaked onto for a nap. I have no regrets about that.
As nice as this place is, I have no idea where I am. And that’s a problem.
