From: Timothy Toner <thanatos@interaccess.com>
Subject: A visit from St. Doug

Roman reached out and turned on the last light.  The room now
illuminated before him was the dining room, with its vaulted
windows and matching chandelier making the place seem vast.  This
was one end of his patrol, which began in the east wing.
     He remembered when he had come here the first time.  There
was a shakedown in the numbers game, and Roman had been just a
runner.  He didn't know what they were counting, but this was a
very special game, with high stakes.  Perfect for some ambitious
gang looking to make a quick score, and who knew the routes of
the runners.
     That night still hung like a haze in his mind.  He
remembered all too well the pain, the intense pain, as they tried
to beat where he stashed the money out of him.  He remembered the
fear, but also the pride of doing his job, and keeping his mouth
shut.
     The next thing he knew, he was in a bed.  It was a week
later, and he was untouched.  Roman remembered vividly one of the
men kicking his head so hard that the eye had come free from the
socket, and yet it was as if he had been untouched.  Later, he
would be told that on that night, he had proved a loyalty that
went beyond the fear of death, and it was such a kind of loyalty
that Mr. Ballard respected.
     Ballard.  He smiled quietly as he thought of Maria's gasp,
the first time she saw his girth and...eating habits.  It was the
last time his wife went to the mansion, where he spent most of
his days taking care of the special needs of his employer.  Each
time a party or celebration came around, she would swear off,
complaining of a cold or somesuch nonsense.
     That was forty years ago, and Maria was long dead. 
Something had happened soon after she saw that Roman as not aging
as she was.  Roman told her that it was her fault, that the punch
at the monthly parties was all she needed to feel great, like he
did.  She didn't take too well to that news, and started going to
the priest, almost daily.  Then there was the day the pastor was
there, with the two other men.  Roman ordered them out, ignoring
their talk of devils in human form.
     The next week, he came home to find her dead, drowned in the
bathtub.  As he dragged her out, he felt her skin.  So
cold...like Ballard's handshake.  There were the rumors that
Ballard felt threatened, and eliminated the threat.  All the
pieces fit, and somehow...it was impossible to feel anything but
respect and adoration for the man who had made him.
     The chair creaked beneath him, and Roman checked his watch. 
Time for another pass.  They told him that he needed to drop out
for a while, maybe a year or two, but what was time anymore? 
Maria was terrified of it in a quiet human way, and look where it
got her.  Dead.  He'd bide his time, become someone else, and go
back to work, doing what he did best.
     Now he was just a glorified security guard, and yet he was
pulling the most important shift of all.  Ballard loved to sleep
in late, a habit which was well known in his circles.  If someone
was going to go for him, it would be at this time.  Roman, and
his piece, were ready for everything.
     He passed a large picture window, and sniffed at Julian and
Octavian, the two dogs who had been working for Ballard even
longer than Roman.  He didn't envy them tonight.  Despite the
lack of snow, it was bitterly cold, even for a dog.  They didn't
complain.  They _never_ complained.
     Almost out of the corner of his eye, Julian stood and
trotted away from the house.  Roman turned, and watched Octavian
do the same.  The dogs were trained to move quickly but silently,
but this was almost a friendly trot.  Roman had watched them tear
an uninvited guest to shreds -- one of the ugly ones, he guessed;
it was hard to tell after they were done -- he didn't think they
had a shred of friendliness in them.  He reached for his piece.
     After five minutes, neither dog returned to its post. 
Something was very wrong, and yet was it enough to sound the
alarm?  He had to check it out, dammit.  Mr. Ballard hated to be
woken prematurely.
     He punched the combination, and the door went dead.  Only
then did he reach for the knob, and swung open the front door.  A
blast of cold air suggested that maybe this trip wasn't
necessary.  "Damn dogs," he whispered to the night.
     It took all of three minutes to find them.  They barked at
his approach, and waited for the hand signal.  Those in Mr.
Ballard's circles sometimes could look any way they damned well
pleased, and it was necessary to have backups.  He gave it, and
the dogs settled down.
     Why were they all the way out here?  He looked back at the
house, as peaceful as ever.  Maybe the cold had addled them?  Who
knew.  Roman trudged back to the island of warmth.
     One of the gifts he had been given, besides that little bit
of juice he used to win every arm wrestling contest that came his
way was his hearing.  Beyond normal sounds was a whole different
kind of sound, and somehow he could hear them.  They told him
_about_ things, though not in so many words.  He knew, for
instance, that someone had passed through this hallway recently,
and he or she really didn't belong here.  That was it -- except
maybe that they were really close.  He shut the door,  turned the
alarm back on, and moved toward the living room.  Someone was
about to get really dead.
     In the center of the cavernous living room was the 20 foot
pine which Ballard received each year from "timber concerns." 
Roman had met these men, and they had "smelled" foul.  Ballard
only had the best, however.  The tree itself seemed to be
supported solely by the mass of packages bundled beneath it, each
garishly decorated.  It was the custom in the Ballard family to
invite the children of their employees to a breakfast, where they
would receive a special present.  Although Ballard never showed,
for obvious reasons, he had the party taped, and often watched it
in private.  Most thought that this was Ballard's hidden soft
side.  Roman, however, had guessed the truth:  several of those
children tended to go missing over time.
     Ballard's tastes aside, someone had entered the building
unchallenged, and Roman had to stop them before his employer
caught wind of the guard's incompetence.  Whoever it was, he knew
enough to neutralize Octavian and Julian, and to get Roman
temporarily out of the way.  However, he was heading away from
Ballard, and toward the presents.  Was it just a common thief --?
     A sudden shadow scattered his thoughts.  He levelled his gun
at the mass of darkness to the left of the tree, and barked, "Get
out of there!"  The moment he saw the whites of the bastard's
eyes, he was dead.
     It therefore took Roman quite by surprise to find his prey's
eyes glowing a hellish scarlet.  Roman had been around long
enough to know not only what that was, but who could do it.  The
Gun Grool, or something.  Ballard hardly had them around, except
maybe...
     "Mr. Kenton?"
     The figure froze at the mention of the name.  It then took a
tremendous step forward into the light.  It was indeed Kenton,
one of the grubby ones.  His trenchcoat was as grimy as ever, and
he smelled strongly of campouts.  Kenton was a leader...sorta. 
There was this woman who controlled the Grools, but she was never
around.  When she took a powder, Kenton spoke with her authority. 
It wasn't because Kenton was powerful or respected.  It was
because Kenton was the only Grool who cared enough to show up.
     "Uh, sorry Mr. Kenton.  I didn't know it was you.  You maybe
should ring the doorbell.  I might have taken your head off."  He
smiled weakly.  Ballard would hear about this for sure.
     Kenton continued to stare through Roman, as if considering
whether the guard was really there.  He took two more steps
forward, and reached Roman.  Then with a frightening intensity,
he struck the guard under the jaw.  Roman collapsed like a house
of cards.

     "Wakey, wakey."
     Roman was upside down, hanging by his feet from some tree. 
In the distance he could see the mansion.  In front of him was
Kenton, checking out a .45 and its clip.  At Kenton's feet were
Julian and Octavian, apparently enjoying a quick nap.
     "What the f--?"
     "Shut up, idiot."  Kenton kicked Roman lightly, sending him
swinging like a pendulum.  The bitter wind cut through his now
damp pants and shirt.  "You screwed up big.  Mr. Ballard doesn't
like screwups.  We both know this.  We have problems, but I have
a theory that we can help each other out, right?"
     "Uh, right."
     "Marini, right?  Right.  Well, Marini, I need help, to-
night.  All I needed to do was a quick snatch and grab.  You were
supposed to get egg nog or something.  It's unfortunate that you
interrupted me, so now I have to factor you into the equation. 
It would be far easier, however, to cancel you from it
altogether."
     "Cancel?  Like dead?"
     "It's good to see that at last enough blood is reaching the
brain to allow higher brain function.  Yes.  You will help me
tonight, or I'll tell the kids here that you didn't give the
super-secret hand sign, and they'll treat your face like a
soupbone."
     "No much choices, huh?"
     "There _is_ no choice.  I'm wasting time.  Julian!"  The
dog's ears pricked up.
     "Yeah, yeah!  Okay!  I'll do it!"
     "Anything?"
     "Anything!  Cut me down! Get those dogs out of here!"
     "What if I asked you to help me kill Ballard?"
     Roman stiffened.  Three feet away, Julian sat up, tensing,
waiting to spring. If he answered wrong, he would die...and yet
how could he even consider betraying Ballard.  With trembling
lips, he spat out, "Go to hell..."
     "Good.  Just checking to see if you were bonded.  That makes
things easier."  He fished a Swiss Army knife from a pocket, and
cut Roman down.  "Clean yourself off.  We've got a busy sort of
night."
     Without a word, Roman followed until he was far from the
dogs.  "Uh, how did you do that?  Only Mr. Ballard can talk to
them."
     "No.  That's the problem.  No one talks to them.  One day,
they looked kind of bored, so I started to.  They're quite
intelligent.  There's a lot of history stored in there.  Anyway,
as long as I never threatened Ballard, they had no problem with
me.  So I started showing up at odd times, even when I wasn't
supposed to.  Pretty soon, they expected to see me, and I always
had something interesting to say or show them.  Now they think
I'm the best friend they've got.  Ballard may be their master,
but I'm their buddy."
     They finally reached the road.  Standing there, idling, was
a delivery truck with three men sitting on the bumper.  They
stood as Kenton approached.
     "Dougie," the first called out.  "That was some mean shit. 
You were right."
     "I'm glad that you're pleased.  Is the truck loaded?"
     "Yeah, and nary a peep from --?"
     "Shh!" Doug hissed.  He pointed at Roman covertly, and the
leader nodded.
     "So, uh, where do we get more?"
     "Hemotech.  That's on Route 83 and 75th.  Tell them Max sent
you, and they'll fix you up.  Thanks for the hand."
     "No prob."  In a blur, they were gone.
     "Kids today," Doug spat out sardonically.

     Kenton took the wheel, and handled it like a pro.  Whenever
the Grool visited Ballard, he always either just arrived, or came
in on a smelly motorcycle.  At first, when Kenton started fooling
with the clutch, Roman was convinced that this was the first time
Kenton had operated a truck, but figured flying through a
windshield had to be less painful than what Julian had planned.
     The first thirty minutes passed in complete silence, then
Kenton spoke.
     "So Marini, I'm impressed.  You've been damn quiet for a guy
who has every right to believe he'll be dead at dawn.  You ever
do any heavy lifting?"
     Marini was thrown by the question.  "Huh?"
     "Yeah.  Can you lift something as heavy as, say, a color
tv?"
     "Sure.  I used to work the trucks, and I guess I never lost
it."
     "Good.  I'll need an extra pair of hands."
     They were travelling through the suburbs at a good clip.  A
bank clock's digital flash told Roman that he had been out for
the better part of an hour, giving Kenton and those goons plenty
of time to do whatever it was that they were doing.  Roman had
certain questions that tickled at his soul, and they at last
overcame his desire to keep his mouth shut and follow orders.
     "Uh, were those guys Anarchs?"
     "Ah, so you do know a little bit about us.  I thought
Ballard liked to keep most of you in the dark."
     "Well, you here things here and there."
     "Right.  Well, no, they're not.  Not today, that is. 
Tomorrow, maybe they'll be trying to topple the system through
aggressive body piercing, but today, they're just a cog in the
machine.  My machine.
     "I see you're confused.  That's okay.  Tonight's Christmas
Eve.  Tomorrow's Christmas.  Anything can happen on Christmas. 
You can be anyone you want.  Maybe by the end of the night, I'll
get to be Santa."
     Maybe Roman was mistaken.  Kenton sure sounded like one of
the nutbars who terrorized Ballard from time to time.
     They were on the expressway by now, and Kenton turned off at
a sidestreet.  They were very close to the heart of the city,
where most of the major expressways connected.  From here, any
point could be reached quickly.  Kenton opened the door, and
muttered, "Don't go anywhere."
     He leapt out, and crossed the street.  After a minute,
another figure seemed to separate from the shadows, and handed
him an envelope.  The two shook hands, and while Kenton returned,
the other melted back into the silence of the city.
     Once inside, he handed the package to Roman.  
     "What's this?"
     "Our agenda for the night.  We're on a mission from Santa."
     He turned the engine over, and they darted back into the
night.

     "Who was that?"
     "Full of questions, aren't we?  He's a friend of mine.  I
guess you could call him one of my many little helpers."
     Poking through the packets, Roman noticed that they were
computer printouts with notes scrawled on them.  It was a list of
names and addresses.  Next to each was an item, a toy perhaps, or
a stereo.  Were they delivering gifts?  For whom, and to whom?
     At about this time, Roman noticed that they hadn't stopped
once for a light.  He looked off in the distance as the next
turned from green to red.  Just as suddenly, however, the light
switched back to green.  Roman looked in the rearview mirror, as
the light changed back to red.
     Kenton noticed his confusion, and smiled.  He patted a small
box on the dash.  "On loan from a friend. It's a prototype for
something that 's going to be installed on all ambulances and
firetrucks, which will instantly change the lights, allowing
traffic to clear as they approach intersections.  We're not going
to be disturbed tonight."
     They came to a stop in front of a stately mansion in the
gold coast.  Kenton stepped out, turned to say something to
Roman, then reconsidered.  "Come on."  Roman followed.
     Kenton stopped under a tree, and waited.  A moment later, a
figure jumped out an upper story window, and seemed to _float_ to
the ground.  The stranger sprinted across the yard, and leapt
over the fence.  It was a young woman, who had a folder in her
hand.
     "Doug."
     "Alice."
     She smiled sweetly.  Roman had seen her before, accompanying
the Kid.  Every one of Ballard's employees feared the Kid.  He
thought her name was Alexa, or something.
     "Are they asleep?" he continued.
     "I hope so.  If they catch me out here, talking to you, I'll
be cleaning the alembics for a month.  So...um..."
     "Your formula.  Right.  I ran it through the mass
spectrometer at the university.  The amounts are dead on,  but
you seem to be having a problem with your pH levels.  It
recommends a mixture of..."  They went on and on.  Kenton pointed
to this chart and that number, and Alice / Alexa nodded
thoughtfully.  Finally, perhaps convinced, she stopped him, and
showed him an envelope.  "Here it is.  Four thirty-eight, right?"
     "Correct.  Hope you can stay up that late."
     "No problem.  And here's the other thing.  If he notices
that it's missing, I'll be washing out alembics until the next
millenium."  She passed him a piece of paper that was too stiff
to get battered by the wind.  "One more thing, Doug.  It's pretty
powerful.  Who's going to do it?"
     "That's for me to know, and you to never find out. 
Hopefully."
     She suddenly grew as cold as the night around them.  "So
it's true.  You have the blood in you."
     "If it is true, then I'll have every goddamn warlock in the
region on my ass.  Especially you.  I'd better hope it isn't."
     "Right.  Okay, Doug, be that way.  See you in 30...if not
sooner."  She turned and walked back into the house, this time
through the front door.
     "Shit," Kenton muttered, and turned back to the truck. 
"We've got one more stop.  Let's go."

     If the cab was cold before, the meeting with Alexa made
Roman wish he was stranded on an ice floe somewhere.  Kenton led
the truck back into the city, finally stopping at a club still
rocking into the night.  The thrashing music desperately ignored
the strains of an organ practicing for Midnight Mass.  Kenton
reached for something below the seat, tucked it into his coat,
grabbed a garbage bag, and climbed out.  Roman followed out of
sheer inertia.
     Behind the club was a fenced off area, perhaps a beer garden
in warmer times.  A handsome man sat at a table, and frowned as
the two approached.  His pale nostrils flared, and he looked
ready to strike.
     "Who is he, Kenton?"
     Kenton shrugged it off.  "He's nobody.  Don't worry about
him.  He's not going to be a problem."
     The cold breeze carried the stranger's scent to Roman's
nose, and for a moment, he wished that he had a knife, to cut it
off, anything to erase the stench of death and danger that
emanated from this man.  He wanted to scream, to tell the world
that an abomination walked the streets, and yet no words came to
mind that adequately described his terror.  How could anyone so
beautiful seem so...twisted?
     "Are you sure you want to go through with this?"
     "Positive.  It needs to be done, Franz."
     Franz, the stranger, frowned deeper.  "All right.  Let's get
this over with.  There's a few assholes I need to get back to in
there, and I'm sure someone delightfully pious will be going to
church in a few hours."
     "Touch the church and I'll make you burn."
     Roman noticed that there was an important difference between
what Franz said, and what Kenton said.  Franz's was a threat. 
Kenton's was a promise.
     "All right.  Did you get what I requested?"
     "Yeah.  Beard, hair, entrails..."  Kenton began to remove
his clothes.  "Listen, Marini, you might want to go back to the
truck for a while."
     "Nah, I'll stick around."
     Franz chortled, and Roman burned with rage.  That more than
anything convinced him to stay.
     Kenton was now totally naked, and he retrieved from the bag
a large knife, which he handed to Franz.  "Let's get started."
     Franz ran the knife blade just underneath Kenton's rib cage. 
He widened the cut by reaching his hand inside, and pulling the
skin from the flesh underneath.  Then he reached inside the bag,
and pulled out a fist full of roping intestines.  Like a master
chef, he stuffed the entrails into the pouch, continually
pounding the intestines deeper and deeper.
     Roman wanted to look at Kenton's face, to see it contort in
pain, to know that this was so hellishly unnatural, even for one
of Ballard's "friends."  Before he could, however, his blood
rebelled, and slammed away from his face.  The rest of his body
followed.

     When he opened his eyes, Franz was still there.  Kenton was
nowhere to be found, but standing next to the monster
was...Santa.  Santa.  "Santa?"
     "Get your ass off the ground before I tell him to make you
look like an elf."
     He was up in a flash.
     "If he's going to help you, Kenton, at least let me make his
ears pointed."
     Kenton thankfully ignored the question.  "When does this
wear off?"
     "A day or two.  Just rip out the implants, and the skin will
shrink back into place.  Now about the payment..."
     "He's fine.  I come by once a month, and make sure he's all
right.  His mom's okay, too, if you cared."
     "She's a dizzy bitch.  I wouldn't have gone out that night
if she had remembered to get milk.  Listen, Doug...thanks."
     "It's all right, Franz.  Remember -- I have friends who can
help you escape, if you want to."
     "Nah.  It's too hard.  I'm in too deep.  And I'm already too
much of a bastard to ever get close to my son again."
     "Now that laughing boy is up, we've got to hit the road. 
Oh, Merry Christmas."  Kenton pulled out a package, and handed it
to Franz.  "I had a friend take him out to the beach with a
camcorder."
     Franz looked at the tape, and his lower lip trembled
slightly.  Was that a tear, Roman wondered?  The immaculate beat
turned and dashed into the night.

     Once in the car, Kenton took a map out of the glove
compartment, and opened it on the seat.  He laid the stack of
papers on it, and pulled out the stiff page he had received from
Alexa, as well as that damned knife, still sticky with his blood. 
He stared at the page with a eerie familiarity, and began to
chant.  At a critical moment, he screamed, and plunged the knife
through his own wrist.  The blood speckled the paper, which
seemed to swallow it totally.
     Something was happening.  The words slowly began to move,
shuffling and sliding across the page, off the page, back onto
the page.  The blood cut channels through the pages invisible to
the eye, but Kenton could see them.  That was obvious.
     At last, it was over.  Kenton removed the blade, and licked
it dry.  "Damn, that took a lot out of me, but it was worth it. 
He handed Roman that map.  "Where's our first stop?"
     The map now had a red line drawn on it.  Drawn?  Roman
touched it.  It was still wet...blood.  His finger smeared.  The
path began here, and arced outward in an ever expanding spiral. 
At random points, a dot marked off some destination, but the line
went on and on.  It followed streets, it bypassed busy
intersections.  Roman was terrified and thrilled at the same
time.  He knew exactly what to do.
     "Uh...16th and Racine.  Take a right at the light."
     "Kenton smiled, a rosy redness coming to his now chubby
cheeks.  The queasy feeling returned.

     Somehow...somehow everything flew by so fast, that Roman
barely had time to relay the map's directions.  Despite this,
they were there, and in an impossible time.
     "So who's first?"
     Roman checked the list.  It was once Bobby Donnely, but now
it was someone else, a little girl, who lived on the third floor. 
"Patricia Williams."
     "What did she want?"
     "It says here, 'Barbie Corvette.'"
     "Okay."  He jumped out of the cab, and went to the rear
door.  Roman watched in the side mirror as Kenton pulled out a
wrapped package, and nodded to himself.  Then he crossed the
street, a red figure with white trim crossing the street as
natural as can be.  Kenton studied the building, and saw
something, something not even Roman's vision could catch.  He
seemed to concentrate --
     -- and began flying.  Slowly.  Deliberately.  He rose to a
kitchen exhaust fan, and then faded away into a mist.  Roman was
bedazzled.
     Thirty heartbeats.  That's exactly how long it took before
the fan let out a pull of mist that slowly resolved into Kenton. 
Santa crossed the street, and started the truck.  "Where to
next?"
     "What did you just do?"
     "Ancient secret.  I could tell you, but then I'd have to
kill you.  Well, then again..."
     Roman closed his eyes, and whispered a silent prayer for the
first time in years.  Each secret he learned was one step closer
to death, to that point where it ceased being a convenience to
kill him, and instead became a necessity.  Maybe he was dead back
there, in the woods.  Maybe some bizarre momentum kept him going,
shambling foreword.  Why hadn't he run?  All he could do was
stare blankly at the map.  "Two blocks, then take a right."

     It was so strange.  The streets flew by, and the few poor
souls stuck out on a night like this paid no mind to Santa and
his delivery truck.  And his little helper, who sweat profusely,
despite the bitter night air.  At times Roman would mumble
incoherently, and stop just as Kenton looked his way.
     Soon, however, even Santa's nigh infinite patience grew
thin.  "So what do you want to know now?"
     "Nothing.  Nothing at all."
     "About two hours ago, you were a veritable bundle of
questions.  Don't you want to know why I'm doing this?  Aren't
you remotely curious?"
     "No more secrets!"
     "Ah!  You think that ignorance is gonna save your warm ass
come dawn.  Let me ask you, does ignorance help those poor
schmucks that Ballard hauls up to his estate, and feeds off of? 
Hell, no.  It maybe helped them keep their shorts clean, but come
dinnertime, they were just as dead.  Now that we've got that
pleasant _fact_ out of the way, do you have any questions for me? 
Or would you like to die like a stupid animal?"
     They came out like a flood, a string of gibberish.  Roman
expected a slug to the chops to stop his inane prattling, but
Kenton let him shoot his mouth off.  He felt forty years of
questions pour through his lips.  Theories waited to be
confirmed, and questions begged to be answered.  At last, he
slumped back into his seat exhausted.
     Kenton nodded softly, then pulled the truck to the side of
the road.  "That was good.  Very good.  I'm impressed, Roman
Marini.  You might just be a mensch.  I'll be right back."
     He jumped out, and retrieved yet another package.  Roman
didn't even glance backward to see how large this one was.  He
had burned curiosity out of his system in one violent explosion. 
Now there was a void, waiting to be filled, but what could
possibly fill it?

     It was three deliveries later before Kenton spoke again. 
"Did you go to Catholic school, or public school?"
     "Catholic school."
     "Me too.  I remember that whole advent thing, as Sister
Ellen desperately tried to add significance to all the
commecialistic hype of the season.  It was doomed, but she didn't
know that.  We had it hard wired in us almost from birth.
     "It's funny when I look back at those days, and think about
what I was, and what I've become.  I believed...kinda.  I went to
church when I came home from school, and I kneeled at all the
right times and said all the right words.  I even was a pretty
good person.  But it took this to make me believe -- really
believe.  In a sad sort of way, I had to be damned before I could
be saved.
     "Probably because this state opened a whole world of
possibilities, both good and bad.  Sure, I could lift a car and
see really well in the dark.  But if that was true, then a whole
bunch of other stuff might also be true.  So unlike most of
my...colleagues, I didn't relish my outcast state, and I didn't
hate it either.  I learned from it and others.  If there were
people who had lived to see the mass of human history, I wanted
to see what they had to say.
     "Answers were few and far between, and often the direct
answer was twice as unsatisfying as a vague response.  After
travelling the world twice, and going places where my kind
weren't welcome, I returned home, to find that I had my own
answers inside of me.  Very zen.
     "There were duties here, the price of being a member of this
community.  I despised so many of my kind, as they indulged in
their excesses without once seeing the effect, the toll they were
taking on humanity as a whole.  I didn't let the suffering get to
me.  I didn't let it paralyze me, like so many others whose
hearts were too big for this existence.  I kept my pain fresh,
and my disgust eternal.
     "You'd be amazed how much you can learn by just listening. 
Rather than turning my head, I watched them, and discovered many
of the bitter secrets of our kind.  One in particular brought me
full circle to now, this season, tonight.  You remember that
party three nights ago?"
     "Sure.  We were all called in for security.  Big thing."
     "Well, that's a symptom of a grand disease, older than
modern history, probably older than the Christmas as we know it.
What they didn't tell you in Catechism was that Christmas is not
the birth of Christ.  I've talked to people who claimed to be
there, but that's just so much bullshit and wishful thinking.  No
one, except those three, saw it coming, and they needed a force
more powerful than reality to lead them there.  I've talked to
some old souls who were in Judea, and who remember the census. 
Sometime in September, they figured.  Good enough for me.
     "But that's not what Christmas is about.  The early
Christians merely co-opted a much older festival, a pagan
celebration known to the Romans as the "Feast of the Unconquered
Sun."  It was to be celebrated at the winter solstice, as a means
of celebrating the lengthening day.  Winter had not killed the
sun this time; it would burn on most joyously.
     "Now you can look that up in any encyclopedia.  We -- those
like me -- hold a celebration, because on that night, at that
time, we're at our most potent.  Think about it.  The longest
night.  Most of humanity is huddled in warm little homes, and
everyone is waiting for something wonderful or horrible to
happen.  It should be the perfect time, and we throw a party to
show just how powerful we are.  But it's a lie.
     "Did Ballard go out last night?
     "No, he stayed in."
     "He slept in, more like it.  He slept in the night before,
and the night before that.  In fact, he's been in bed since that
party.  Most of the city's kindred are asleep.   Kindred, you
know that word, right?"
     "Yeah, I've heard it."
     "Good.  Anyway, most of us are asleep.  There's something
about this time of the year, when we should be at out most
powerful, that puts the zap on us.  We have the party to pretend
that it doesn't affect us, but you'll find winter to be a very
slow month for our kind.
     "At first I thought it was just the cold, freezing the
moisture still in the blood.  Then we had that really mild
weather last year, and half the population was still asleep.  One
theory said that it was the sanctity of Christmas which drove us
into our holes, lest its holiness sear us into dust.
     "The truth was much more secret, and more terrifying.  Once
upon a time, long before Christ was born, vampires did rule the
planet during the winter months.  People celebrated the feast of
the unconquered sun because it was the darkest it was ever going
to get.  Soon the days would get longer, and if you made it to
that point, then there was a good chance you'd see another
summer.
     Then a group of holy types -- witches, shamans, whatever --
they gathered together one summer's eve, and realized that it
didn't have to be that way.  They controlled the rain and the
snow and even the sun -- why couldn't they control the earth's
calling to the dark ones to sleep?  Why couldn't they use the
powerful forces inherent in nature to repel the kindred, to put
them to sleep as the earth slept.  So they studied and searched,
and eventually found something.
     "As a Christian, I'd like to think that it was God behind it
all, who tried to protect humanity when it was at its most
vulnerable, to return the world to the natural order.  I'm pretty
damn sure they did it on their own.  Those mystics changed the
way the system worked, and did it so that no one ever had to do
it again, and the Unconquered sun took on a whole new
significance.  When vampires should be at their most potent,
they'd be alseep.  Hell, I'd party if that were true."
     "But you're driving around in a Santa suit."
     "Right.  It doesn't affect the young like it does the old. 
We're not called to the earth as urgently as they are.  I was
turned into what I am four years ago, and I don't feel tired at
all.  Maybe in ten years I'll be snoozing, but tonight, I'm fine. 

     "Which makes this season so special for me, I suppose.  All
the grown-ups are asleep.  We young guys get to run the show for
about two weeks, while they sleep off nature's hangover.  All the
rules have changed, all the crap about clans and alliances get
thrown in the garbage.  In a week, Alexa will be Nikolai's
dutiful apprentice, but for now, he's asleep, and she's Alice,
who remembers the taste of her mother's pumpkin pie.  We're still
young.  We still remember what this season does to us, and that
memory vitalizes us.  For a short time, I feel alive.  I'm cold,
but even feeling cold, and knowing that there's an alternative is
good enough for me."
     Roman absorbed that over the next two deliveries, then
finally commented, "But that still doesn't explain your Santa
suit."
     "No.  No it doesn't.  One night, I had an important letter
to get to Ballard.  I walked in as he was writing in a journal. 
He slammed that thing shut so fast, that I knew it was important. 
So I broke into the house and read it.  The bastard keeps a
running tally of his victims.  Name, address, date of death,
whatever.  He's got what they called refined tastes.  As a
banker, he fed off of the poor, and now as a dead bastard, he
still has to feed off of those who can't afford safety.
     "That was wrong, and I knew I had to do something about it. 
The only problem was that Ballard was good for the city.  I'm not
some myopic revolutionary.  If Ballard's not in the picture, then
things are gonna get real ugly.  The only thing I could do was
give back a fraction of what he took, from his own pocket. 
Remember that mall heist last year?"
     "Yeah, Mr. Ballard was pissed something fierce -- hey, that
was you?"
     "Yup.  This isn't the first year.  I collected a list of
those names, and had a friend check up on them.  I delivered
presents to only a few, right from Ballard's stores, but I wasn't
organized.  Not like tonight.
     "Two months ago, I broke into his office, and made a copy of
the journal, and passed out a list to some of my friends in the
sewers.  They watched the children and family of the victims. 
They came to them in the night, and asked them what they wanted. 
They gathered this information, and then they put pleasant dreams
in their heads.  Now sometimes I can't get what they want right
on, but I can get close, and they also get some cash for
groceries.  About two month's worth.  Right out of Ballard's
secret Swiss bank accounts.
     "I also called in a few more favors, and got a way of
figuring out not only the best route to deliver all this stuff,
but also how to look like Santa, and not just another thieving
white man.  And yes, it hurts, but it's a good pain.
     "That last bit's the greatest miracle.  In my selfish quest
for equity, I managed to unite forces that would normally be at
each other's throats.  We're young, too young to be properly
jaded and indoctrinated.  I think that those shamans did it on
purpose, so that we could hold onto our humanity that little bit
longer.
     I think I'm going to hate my winter sleep."

     "Who's next?"
     "There's two of them.  They live in the same building."
     "Convenient."
     "Mr. Kenton?  Can I help you?"
     "Roman!"  Kenton feigned surprise.  "I'm shocked.  Besides,
I don't think you can pour yourself through a keyhole.  It might
be a bit hard."
     "I have my picks.  Mr. Ballard has us sew them into the
lining of our overcoats, in case we get grabbed.  I think I can
get in.  I just need to know what it feels like."
     "Okay.  you take...James, and I'll get the two kids on the
other floor."
     They both jumped out of the front seat, and opened the back
doors.  Roman was astonished to see that it was almost empty.  He
had lost track of just how many people they had visited.  Could
it possibly be so many?
     Kenton grabbed the manifest.  "James wants a Batman playset,
and Roshanna wants a makeup kit.  Here's the playset.  I'll have
to dig in the back to see where the makeup is.  What does Imani
want?"
     Roman glanced at the top page, and swallowed hard.  "Her
father."
     Santa's face grew hard and dark.  "Damn.  I don't think
she'll settle for 'My Little Pony.'  Why did that prick put
_that_ on there?  What am I supposed to do?  He's the one who
could have looked just like her father.  He looked terribly
discouraged, and Roman wanted to say something, but nothing came
to mind.  "Deliver the package, Roman.  I'll figure out
something."
     He walked toward the three flat, noting the rusted heap on
blocks in front of it.  This playset and the envelope that went
with it would be a drop of water on a burning tongue.  It was
almost like teasing.  Maybe it would do more harm than good?
     He pushed open the door, and immediately the stench of urine
and suffering clawed at his nostrils.  It was wretched, and yet
he sensed people lived amidst it every day.  He wanted to be
sick, but how could he be weak amidst such strength?
     Each step groaned and cracked with his weight.  He came to
the first flight, and chose between a burned out shell and a door
with multiple locks.  It took him three minutes of diligent
poking to finally get the door open.  The locks were cheap --
probably more for show than protection.  It was useless to spend
money on security in a neighborhood like this.  No matter how
much money your poured into locks, someone would always find a
way in if they really wanted to.  The secret, then, was to have
nothing to take.  A lot of people in this neighborhood seemed to
be in on the secret.
     He stepped into the main room, and regarded the tv, table,
and couch which was their living area.  There was a kitchenette,
and the smell of a backed up toilet told him just how close
the bathroom was.  He set the playset by the tv, and set the
envelope on top of it.  More than anything in the world, he
wanted to get the hell out of here.
     Back on the landing, he relocked the doors, and heard a
faint sound from up above.  Was that Kenton in action?  It
sounded like...crying.  Despair.  Mechanically, he walked up the
stairs to check on it.
     The door was opened, and he had no idea why.  Kenton was
standing in the middle of the room, two packages under his arm. 
He was frozen by the sight of a door -- a bedroom door --
opening.  In the poor light, Roman was almost invisible, but
there was no place for Santa to hide.
     It was a large man, and he stared Kenton down with fear and
ferocity.  Roman half expected Kenton to drop the presents and
bolt, until he noticed that Kenton's foot was twitching slightly. 
There was something wrong about all this, and he closed his eyes
to listen and smell.
     The sound.  The sobbing.  It had increased as the bedroom
door opened.  Someone in there, a young girl, was crying quietly. 
The smell.  Sex.  Violent, brutal, quick sex.  And some blood,
but not as much as before.  Roman opened his eyes, and only saw
red.
     Santa dropped his packages, and raised one of his ridiculous
black mittens.  There was a tearing noise, as diamond sharp nails
ripped the stiff material.  The man stepped toward another
bedroom, but Santa intercepted, and drove the sharp package into
the bastard's chest.
     Roman anticipated the squeal of a stuck pig, a sweet sigh of
dying agony, but Santa deprived his prey of even this luxury. 
The other mitten came up, and pierced his throat.  Nothing,
not even a death rattle, would be coming out of there ever again. 
Santa tugged a little here and there, and the man stopped
thrashing.  With a yank, the talons were freed, and the molester
fell to the ground in a heap.  Kenton stood over the body, the
red suit and black gloves nicely camouflaging the carnage. 
"That's why they call me Santa Claws," he whispered to the
corpse.
     Roman turned and marched down the stairs.  He let the cold
wind blow through his coat, not bothering to fasten a single
button.  The cold cell of the cab seemed pleasant, and just
wanted to move on.  He told himself that they all weren't like
this, that this was an aberration, a terrible terrible
aberration.  Their father was gone, so their mother sought
security in the company of another man, an abusive bastard who
was now properly punished for his crime.  Kenton had done a great
good, righted a great wrong.
     But who had wronged that family?  Had the father been there,
would the boyfriend be there?  Who was ultimately responsible for
that little girl's pain?  Ballard.  Directly, his hunger killed
mounds of people.  Indirectly, his existence caused hundreds, if
not thousands to suffer.  Something small and brittle snapped
inside of Roman, a door long nailed shut.  A cool fluid poured
from that place, and filled the void left by his questions.
     Full five minutes later, Kenton emerged.  He carried a large
sack over his back, and seemed every bit the archetype of a jolly
elf, with rosy red cheeks, and sooty clothes.  He tossed the bag
into the bag with an ungracious thunk, jumped behind the wheel,
and started the truck.
     "Roman.  Marini, that was bad.  I didn't want to wish that
on anyone.  I'm not really like that.  I don't kill
so...callously.  If you want, I'll drop you off where you can get
a taxi, and you can sleep off tonight in a hotel or a church or
something."
     "No.  We need to go on.  There's more names on the list.  So
many names.  So many who've been taken from, and need to receive. 
I've got forty years of receiving under my belt.  Now maybe I
need to start giving."
     That was perhaps the last thing either said that night. 
They moved with a seamless quality, Roman pointing silently, and
Kenton instantly responding.  Each house was visited and serviced
with a minimum of fuss and bother.  Kenton didn't have to linger
on any other houses.  Perhaps it was an aberration.
     At last the list was finished.  Roman looked at his watch
while he rubbed the stiffness out of his joints.  It read 4:34. 
"That was pretty good work, wasn't it, Doug?"
     Kenton looked at him with a strange sadness.  Roman tense
for a moment, but sighed when he caught the smile poking out from
underneath the whiskers.  He knew then that things were going to
be okay.
     Outside, snow began to fall in great white clots.  They
seemed to explode upon hitting the ground, spreading whiteness
like a sheet.  Heh.  Maybe it was going to be a white Christmas
after all, that warm fuzzy sensation of the ideal Christmas,
spawned from a misspent childhood.
     That feeling lasted for all of four seconds.  Then Kenton
cold-cocked him, and he was out like a light.

     Waking up a third time that night, Roman groaned at the
intrusion of sunlight.  He was lying on the couch, back at the
living room.  One of the tall bay windows had been shattered by a
terrible force, and glass fragments dusted almost every surface. 
Most importantly, however, every package under the tree was now
missing.
     "So that's where he got them from..."
     He sat there on the couch, rubbing his chin.  When it
stopped aching, he took out a cigarette from his pack, dragged
over one of the larger pieces, and used it as an ashtray.  This,
he knew, was forbidden.  It was also the least of the sins now on
his head.
     The door swung open, and Carlos, Ballard's daytime Number
One walked into the room with four others.  "So you're up, you
glass jawed piece of shit."
     "Glass jawed --?" Roman thought.  Then they didn't know. 
They probably thought someone broke in and knocked me out!"
     He put out the cigarette in a terrible hurry, and stood up
like he had sat on a pin.
     "This is comin' out of your salary, an' you're not going
back out there until it's paid off.  Christ, I've got little kids
out there, bawling their eyes out 'cause Santa Ballard don't have
no presents for them.  All you had to do was watch a damn tree,
and shoot anyone that came near it.  Did you do something useful,
like maybe seeing what he looked like?"
     "No."  He rubbed his jaw.  Some of Ballard's guards could
read minds, or so he heard.  Still, the only thing that came to
mind was Kenton in that damn Santa suit, claws dripping with
gore.
     "Santa?  Marini, you're one sick fuck.  Get housekeeping in
here, and get all this glass up."
     Two of the assistant broke off and headed in separate
directions.  Carlos looked at Roman long and hard.  "I've got
this feeling you're not saying everything.  Whatever.  Mr.
Ballard wants to have a chat with you."
     Ballard?  The sun baked his back with its sudden intensity. 
He didn't want to move, because he knew he'd be safe here. 
Ballard wasn't supposed to be up, but even if he did, he wouldn't
come here.  Roman wanted to collapse in a little ball, and lie in
the sun forever.
     "C'mon, Marini!  The old man's acting weird...weirder than
usual.  I wouldn't keep him waiting."  Carlos walked out of the
room in disgust.  The two remained behind.  He was no longer
trusted, apparently.
     Roman sighed and began walking toward the hidden panel that
led to the lower levels.  Ballard had invested a small fortune in
his own safety, but often said that the weakest point in his
defense was the weakest mind of one of his employees.  At that
second, Roman agreed.  He'd sell every goddamn password and
camera location for a cup of coffee and a cheese danish.
     He knew the way to the bedroom, and gave the correct knock. 
The door opened, and the assistant who opened it took the escorts
back up the stairs.  He was alone now with Ballard.
     "Come in, Roman.  I hear we had a break-in last night."
     "Yes sir."  Always personably.  Always sociable.
     "Care to tell me about it?"
     "Something was wrong with the dogs.  I went to see what it
was.  When I returned to the building, I was knocked out.  I woke
up about five minutes ago."
     "Yes.  That's what we've been able to piece together. 
Roman, I take my personal safety very seriously.  I assume you
share those feelings."
     "Yes sir.  I do."
     "Good."  He just stood there, absorbing the silence into his
mass, like a conversational black hole.
     Convinced the conversation was over, Roman asked, "May I go,
sir."
     "One thing first.  May I have my journal back?"
     Roman stood stunned.  Journal?  A sudden mass in the lining
of his coat, where the picks should have been, announced its
presence.  Kenton had framed him.
     "Sir...I..."
     "Give me the book, and leave.  Your services are no longer
required here.  Carlos will give you final payment on the way
out.  I don't care for those who would steal from me, especially
those who I have cared for over the past forty years.  Leave
before I do something rash."
     Roman ripped the book from the lining of his coat, and held
it aloft.  There was so much to say to the bulbous freak in front
of him.  He knew what the final payment would be, and it was now
a simple matter of how much he could say before it was
administered.  He wanted to tell him about the trip, about Doug,
about the people's faces as he roared past them.  He especially
wanted to talk about Imani and that sound, coming from the room. 
Instead, a clear thought manifested in his clouded, confused
mind.
     "Maria."
     "What?"
     "You killed my wife, Mr. Ballard.  I never thought that was
wrong, but every day for the past thirty five years, I never
understood why I never thought that was wrong.  Something
happened last night.  Thirty-five years of grief and sorrow
poured through me, and I miss her more than anything in the
world.  You took her from me.  You took my grief over her from
me.  I hate you in ways you cannot imagine.  I hate you not for
what you are, as she did.  I hate you for the decisions you make. 
You can't tell me that they are the only decisions to make,
because I've seen the other side.  Your way is the easy way. 
It's the selfish way.  It killed my wife.  And now it's going to
kill me.  
     "I think, however, that my hate will outlive me.  It'll find
a new home, where it will lurk in some other blind heart, until
someone else comes along, to wake it up.  It'll come back to you,
Mr. Ballard, because you can't deal with it.  You'll kill me, but
I'll come back.  I'll come back until you can do something about
my hate."
     Ballard took three ponderous steps, and took the book from
his hand.  "Give my regards to Mr. Kenton.  He's much better than
I ever gave him credit.  You were, perhaps, my most loyal
servant.  Now look at you.  You're not obsequious, not bile-
filled, not a sobbing wreck.  You've forged your emotion into a
sword with a razor edge.
     "I've made assumptions about life.  Bad ones.  People
suffered because of them.  A leopard, however, cannot change its
spots overnight.  But he can change them one at a time, ever
so slowly.  Consider yourself changed, Roman.  Now leave before I
have you erased."
     Roman knew he should leave, but one question was left
unanswered.  "The children...aren't you worried about how you
look to the children up there?"
     "No, Mr. Marini.  Look at them as you go out.  Each of them
are the children of one of my employees.  They are well fed, and
well clothed.  Their wants are provided for, and if they are
not, I find people willing to accept the responsibility.  Perhaps
it is good, once a year for them to go hungry, to want, so that
they do not make the mistakes I did in isolating myself."
     Roman nodded.  He stuck his hands in his pocket, and felt
the packet of cigarettes and the lighter.  He knew in one months
time, forty years would begin to catch up with him.  He would
have to start worrying about cancer and emphysema, about dying
from something other than loyalty.  He took them from his pocket,
and threw them on the bed.  "Merry Christmas, Mr. Ballard."
     The bulbous man stared hard, trying to divine his meaning. 
At last, he understood.  "'It is only when we confront death on
its own terms that we truly stop fearing it.'  Merry Christmas,
Mr. Marini."
     Halfway up the stairs, he made up his mind.  Before he
walked out that front door, he would pass by some of the tykes
still waiting for their presents, and tell them that Santa was
dead.
     He was, after all.