Page 32 of The Nightmare Before Kissmas
IRIS
yeah i’m laughing
against my will you punk ass nerd.
nerds.
both of you. huge punk ass nerds.
but you love us
IRIS
also against my will.
Iris named the conversation “Iris and the Punk-Ass Claus Boys”
Chapter Four
“Ihatehim.”
“Pretty sure I initiated you into that club years ago.”
Iris leans on me to adjust her shoe. “I didn’t sign up for that. You and Kris complain—well,youcomplain—but I always tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. I never wanted to hateSanta.”
I throw a glance over the crowd. This part of Claus Palace is packed with the same group from the Merry Measure tree trimming, all decked out as befitting Christmas at, well,Christmas,only the background is now our massive ballroom. Heavy, deep brown wood adorns the walls, giving the feel of a ski lodge with greenery strung through the rafters and two enormous fireplaces on either end of the room gilding everything and making the air smell woodsy and cozy.
The only imperfection in the scene is the reporters still lurking at the edges of the ballroom.
I willfully put my back to them. Iris and I are off to the side on a stage where a full orchestra usually sits, and it’s easy enough to make it so I only see her and the rear wall of windows that caps off the ballroom.
“He isn’t Santa,” I say.
Her look of disbelief is puckered, like I’m stretching to make a point. “So he has the white beard and dresses in red because…”
“It’s my dad. It’s a publicity stunt. But he’snotSanta. He’s the King of Christmas. The ideal ofSantaexists beyond all of us.” My tone dips, and that makes her frown at me in mild confusion. I know I don’t often get serious, but it shouldn’t bethatsurprising. “He’s Santa the way you’re the Easter Bunny.”
Iris cracks a smile. “Don’t blow my cover, Claus. I work hard to hide my werebunny transformations from you.”
She makes claws with her fingers and hisses at me.
“We are, need I remind you”—I’m grinning—“currently at a party to welcome a suitor foryou,costumed up into believable facsimiles of functioning adults. Don’t blowourcover, Lentora.”
She drops her hands with an eyeroll. “You used to be fun.”
“You’re upset that I won’t hiss at you in public?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry, I was too distracted picturing a feral fanged rabbit breaking into little kids’ bedrooms and pilfering their carefully situated pastel baskets.”
She straightens, playing for righteous, but her eyes sparkle. “Well, maybe the next time you try to start something silly and fun, I’ll be too distracted imagining you as Santa, which is honestly a far more horrifying mental picture.”
My head jerks back on an instinctive recoil.
I’ve never really imagined myself asSantaeither despite knowing I was born into the role, but for some reason Iris’s easy dismissal of me in that position… hurts. More than it should. I’m sure as hell nothing like my dad, but I’m nothing like the jolly, loving, boundlessly joyful visage of the mythical Santa figure either.
So her flippancy isn’t misplaced.
