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I’m in a stranger’s extremely luxurious room, wrapped in the softest fur I’ve ever felt.
I sit up and rub my eyes, examining my surroundings, and try to think about where I might be.
I didn’t think I had that much rum last night. But I don’t remember boarding a plane with the Frosts, either.
I scoot off the bed, and I’m immediately hit by the scent of warm spices and fresh pine emanating from the crackling fireplace.
I should have a hangover, but I feel…different. Fantastic, actually, other than the crick in my neck.
And this room is not like any hotel room I’ve ever seen. It’s round, and everything in it has soft, rounded edges. The doors and windows are all gothic arches. There’s a desk built into the rounded wall. Two cozy-looking chairs sit by the fireplace, laden with welcoming blankets. The exposed beams of the ceiling are hung with herbs, holly, dried flowers, vines, and mistletoe.
I reach for my phone to take pictures of this place, because it’s truly the weirdest hotel I’ve ever stayed in, and I need to post them on Instagram immediately. Brad said it would be unlike anything else I’ve ever experienced. This must be the boutique ski lodge owned by their guru. He might be a scam artist or a cult leader, but I have to give it to him—he knows how to make a place feel cozy and exclusive.
The Frosts must’ve trundled me onto their private jet and mercifully let me sleep. And then, somehow carried me to my room?
Seems crazy, but what other explanation could there be?
I’m sure the twins have posted an unreal number of candid photos of me passed out and drooling by now. I wince at the thought.
But I don’t hear the twins or their parents. The only sound is the popping of wood in the alpine-detailed fireplace that’s big and deep enough to roast a beast on a spit.
They all must have abandoned me for a gourmet Christmas brunch. Figures.
Where is my phone, anyway?
The pockets of my pajama pants are empty when I pat them down. I throw open the duvet and search the bed. No phone.
No night tables exist where I might have set down my things. That’s going to go into the suggestion box when I leave.
Dammit, why can’t I remember anything? This makes zero sense to me because I’ve never blacked out before.
I scoot out of the bed, and my bare feet touch something strange when they hit the floor. That feels like…dirt?
I knew this so-called spiritual retreat was too good to be true. Dirt? No, I’m not having it.
“This has now gone from eccentric to stupidly weird,” I mutter as I glance around for a rug or my shoes.
“Weird is a matter of perspective, human,” says a booming voice behind me.
I scream and jump three feet off the floor.
When I recover my senses, it’s difficult to see anything clearly, but I can make out a silhouette at least eight, nine feet tall, with a wild mane of white hair and pointy, bat-like ears.
In the firelight, he’s human-ish shaped. Heavy on the ish.
“Who are you? Where am I? Did they send me to hell? Am I being haunted? Am I dead?”
A soft, masculine chuckle caresses my ears. The dude is amused by me. Well, that’s helpful. Maybe I can keep him laughing until I’m able to make a run for it and get help.
Unless I am actually in hell. Then I suppose whatever’s out there is far worse than whatever this thing wants with me. I step backwards, toward the fireplace.
“My name is Cyran, head elf in charge of reindeer care and feeding at the North Pole. It may seem strange for us to be matched, but I assure you, I am more than equipped,” the guy says, lighting a candle and then another and another until the whole room is filled with the soft glow of white candles of all shapes and sizes, on every surface of the room.
He has a smooth way of talking that makes me temporarily forget that his words are crazy-pants.
Reindeer? North Pole? Matched?!
“Equipped for what exactly?”
