Page 3 of Wrapped and Tapped

“Sure you can,” I said, injecting some verbal oomph to the non-suggestion.

“Just, you know, leave the way you came. Walking? Driving?” Another peek out the window told me they couldn’t reasonably do either, but I was trying to come across as an outraged homeowner, not the thirsty holiday hoe currently threatening my better judgment.

The vibrant pink-haired man shook his head, crossing his arms over his broad chest, stretching the material of his green sweater to its breaking point—and mine. “I’m sorry, Neve. It’s not that simple. You see, we’re?—”

“How the hell do you know my name?” I gasped, cutting him off and fumbling my way around my lone armchair, needing to put furniture between me and my unexpected non-guests.

Had they been stalking me? Going through my things?

My heart flipped, brain shuffling frantically through unlikely possibilities. “What the hell is going on?”

“We really don’t mean any harm, I promise,” Tinsel repeated, his gentle voice breaking through the alarm bells screeching in my head.

Something about him was so comforting, so personable.

It was like I’d known him for a long time, even though I was fairly confident I’d never seen him before.

“We can’t leave because we’re bound here, Neve.

Buzz,” he nodded at the guy with pink hair, “—North and I are here as a punishment, and we can’t leave until we’re given a reprieve by the King of the Winter Court. ”

“King? Is this…is this like a LARP thing? Like ren faire stuff or something? Because I am not playing, you assholes picked the wrong house and I will call the police.” I tried to sound threatening as I gave a quick, anguished glance towards my phone on the distant kitchen counter, currently blocked off by a wall of weird holiday hunks.

Get rid of landlines , they said. You’ll never use them , they said. Fuck my life .

Blue hair—North?—finally spoke up in a deep, commanding baritone, giving a puzzled repetition of what I’d just hissed at them.

He tilted his head, reminding me of my cousin’s German Shepherd every time we had to spell out W-A-L-K to prevent zoomies.

“Larh-rrp? Is that a…food? A cake eaten at this celebration of Ren?”

I raised an eyebrow, currently clutching the back edge of the couch in a death grip of anxiety. “What? No! It’s…like a big play-acting thing. You know, swords, fair maidens—” I gestured angrily at their delicately pointed ears. “ Elves ?”

Their expressions brightened at my exasperated answer, each man nodding to himself.

Tinsel beamed at me. “So you know of us! That will make things easier. You undoubtedly know, then, of the Winter King’s infamous temper, particularly where his dau—” North frowned and shook his head pointedly at Tinsel, whose expression shuttered as he obediently fell silent.

My death-grip on the back of the couch loosened slightly, the men’s open, cautious body language and hesitancy eroding a smidgen off my high-alert status.

“ Right . So you guys are the real elves, huh? I thought you were supposed to be short. Santa must be—” The sarcasm dripped from my voice like gutter icicles, but at the mention of Santa , the men all reflexively dropped to a knee and touched two fingers to their forehead, closing their eyes and muttering something foreign in a reverent tone.

I glanced at their downturned heads, then at the sliver of the kitchen counter I could see.

This was my chance . I sprinted like hell for the kitchen.

As I shoved between the kneeling forms of Tinsel and Buzz, a sweet, fragrant cloud of clove and Christmas cookies confused my senses along the way.

Were these fuckers wearing festive cologne to a burglary?

Head spinning, I grabbed my phone off the counter without stopping, nearly dropping it in the process, and booked it back down the hallway to my bedroom—the only space with a locked door, unless you counted my en suite bathroom.

I threw myself through the door frame, slamming and locking the cheap pressboard door behind me.

My hands were shaking with adrenaline from my sprint, and after two attempts of 9-1-2 and 9-3-3, I managed to get the right numbers in.

A surprisingly bored-sounding older woman answered on the fourth ring as I kept my eyes on the locked doorknob, walking backwards until my back hit the closet door.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“H-hi, hello, I have intruders in my home, strange men that say they’re elves, I can’t get out because of the snow, I need h?—”

Irritation and static crackled along the line. “Ma’am, this line is for emergencies only . I get that you want to make Christmas magic for your kid, but false reports are a crime.”

“No, please! I’m serious! They have colorful hair and pointed ears! My address is—” I squeezed the sides of my phone, desperation leaking into every word.

“Listen, it’s Christmas Eve and that’s the only reason I’m not flagging your number. People have real emergencies tonight and this isn’t funny. Don’t call back, and lay off the eggnog, lady.” A cascading beep sounded.

I pulled the phone away from my sweaty ear and looked in growing horror at the “call ended” screen, eyes flicking to the low battery notification.

A bright green flash lit up in the distance beyond my snow-dusted bedroom window, followed by a muffled “pop.”

The house plunged into darkness.

Fuck my life .

Again.