Even as the child denied his belief, he flickered with light once, twice, three times.
“What’s your name?” Kris asked. Of course, he knew it was Jack—Jack Benson. Vague memories of previous years’ gifts floated like smoke: a toy guitar, a skateboard, even a Beatles album, Magical Mystery Tour. Kris asked, though, to see if the child would lie. The boy already seemed so angry; how close was he to becoming something bad?
But then he said, honestly, “Jack,” and pointed up at Kris. “What’s yours? I’m not calling you Santa.” He waved a skeletal little hand at the fire. “And how’d you do that anyway? You a magician?”
Kris considered the question. “I’m very good with gifts.”
“So the fire’s a gift for me?”
Kris nodded.
“Well, Frank is going to be pissed when he sees it.”
Kris knew Frank wouldn’t see the fire; soon, he wouldn’t be seeing much of anything, especially after Jack rolled up his sleeves to reveal hand-shaped bruises on his too-skinny wrists.
“You better go, actually.” Jack sniffed. “Magician man.”
“My name is Kris.”
“Thanks for breaking into the house, Kris. Frank busted the TV when his stupid, drunk ass tripped last night, so it’s been extra boring around here.” Jack certainly didn’t talk like a ten-year-old, although Kris supposed that by the look of things, Jack had more nasty life experiences than most full-grown adults.
“I want to give you something.”
Jack turned to look at him, emerald eyes squished together in suspicion.
Kris reached into his thick, dark red coat and pulled out a snow globe. Inside was a detailed rendering of New York City. He shook it once while Jack watched, and tiny white flakes and silver glitter danced in the water’s current.
Jack’s eyes widened before he recovered with a disinterested sneer. “Lame.”
Kris could tell the child actually loved the snow globe but also knew it wasn’t about the snow globe but about the gift. He doubted Frank gave the children anything for Christmas. Kris probably was—and always had been—the only gift-giver in young Jack’s life.
When Kris held the snow globe out for Jack to take, Jack grabbed it in a rush like Kris might change his mind, take it back. He shook the globe some more and stared into the tiny city.
“It’s a magic globe,” Kris said. “If you’re ever in trouble, real trouble, I want you to smash it on the ground, and I’ll be there.”
Jack scoffed. “Why would I break this? It’s the only thing I own. Frank threw out everything else.”
Kris was surprised with himself. Giving away enchanted trinkets was a rare thing. He’d done it perhaps a dozen times, only when a child was in dire need, but he couldn’t remember the last time it had happened. Maybe it was time he protected a child once more. Their joy was, after all, his purpose.
And Jack looked so very fragile.
The boy shook the globe again, and although he tried to bite back a smile, one soon blossomed, revealing crooked teeth. “I’m going to live in the city someday. Have a big place of my own. All mine.”
“I’m sure you will.”
Jack chewed his bottom lip and quirked an eyebrow at Kris. “You are Santa, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
The light surrounding Jack no longer flickered but glowed bright. He hugged the snow globe to his chest. “Isn’t tonight really busy for you?”
“I manage,” Kris said. His job became easier and easier every year due to social media, television, and cruel older kids. As belief dwindled, so did Kris’s responsibilities.
Jack looked down at the snow globe he kept pressed against his heart. “Well. Thanks.”
“Remember what I said.” Kris stood. “If you ever need me, break it.”
Jack’s gaze moved to the floor. “I’ll be okay. Frank doesn’t hurt me too much, and he’s not as bad as the last jerk.”
Frank wouldn’t be a problem anymore. Kris just hoped Jack’s next foster family would be better.
With a nod, Kris left the living room. Behind him, he allowed The Other Place to fall away, replaced by reality, although he kept the fire lit for Jack. He then disappeared into the back hallway of that horrible home.
He found Frank unconscious on a bed covered in stained sheets. He’d passed out with a lit cigarette between his fingers—a cigarette that Kris grabbed, dropped on the frayed carpet, and ground out with his big, black boot.
Kris watched Frank sleep and snore. Then, he took a pillow and shoved it against Frank’s face. For a couple moments, Frank didn’t respond. When he did, he first mumbled something and tried to sit up. Kris wouldn’t let him. That was when Frank blindly flailed, kicking his legs to no avail. He screamed into the pillow, as Kris pushed it down harder.
Once Frank stopped moving, Kris still lingered, holding the pillow tight to make sure Frank had truly suffocated. Kris stood slowly and looked down at the wide, unmoving eyes of a dead man, face frozen in a silent scream. No one in that house would have to worry about “foster asshole” ever again.
Kris turned to leave, and the woman in black stood before him. Together, they walked back down the hall. Kris gave little Jack one last glance before they vanished out the front door and into a chilly Christmas Eve. Snow had started falling again in big, soft flakes. Kris pulled his hood up and walked. He knew they would walk all night, and the woman in black would disappear in the morning.
Kris couldn’t remember what he was doing when it happened. He felt first a tingle on the back of his neck. Then, a breeze blew at the black hair that hung just to his shoulders—hair that never changed, despite his unfathomable age. He knew what was coming. It had happened before. Despite all the blank spaces in his brain, Kris remembered this: the way the air tingled and popped right before he was summoned.
A child was in trouble.
The wind picked up and swirled around him, an invisible whirlwind, increasing in violence. Soon, Kris felt the pull of his body being lifted. He closed his eyes and whipped through the air.
Mere moments later, he landed on his feet in a sunlit apartment where two men fought on the floor.
“Fighting” gave the altercation too much credit. One man lay on his back and tried to dodge blows as the other rained down punches that would have knocked out a horse.
Kris took but a moment to digest the scene. Based on the mess—books and paper all over—this “fight” had not always been on the floor. Kris scanned the area, and there it was: a shattered snow globe, probably broken in the struggle. Water surrounded the busted trinket, and yet, the tiny renderings of New York skyscrapers remained intact and standing proud.
Jack, Kris remembered. The child’s name was Jack Benson.
Kris whispered the name before taking stomping steps forward. He grabbed the attacker’s leather coat and pulled.
The man flew backwards and knocked into a kitchen table that lurched with his weight. The other man—the young one with blood on his face—sat up slowly, gasping for air.
Kris looked back and forth between them. Where was Jack? Jack was a child. Jack was ten years old. Jack was skinny and small and …
Bright emerald eyes stared up at Kris from the floor. Familiar eyes that once reminded Kris of fresh pine and still did.