Home > A Fashionably Dead Christmas (Hot Damned #5)(8)

A Fashionably Dead Christmas (Hot Damned #5)(8)
Author: Robyn Peterman

I gaped in dismay at the entire left side of the Great Room. All of my beautiful Christmas decorations were now covered in black glitter which was definitely not one of the colors I’d chosen for my Christmas theme. Satan, dressed in his typical all black Armani, paced in agitation as he ran his hands through his dark hair and muttered to himself.

“What part of ‘you’re invited for Christmas day’ didn’t you understand?” I asked the rude King of the Underworld.

Satan stopped short and grinned. Damn, he was something to behold. I rolled my eyes and tried not to laugh. My Uncle’s redonkulously sexy smirk had brought thousands of women to their knees over the years, but not me. He might be pretty, but at the moment he was nothing more than a thorn in my boxer brief clad rear.

“I’m confused,” he said as he purposely stepped on and crunched a lovely manger scene I’d bought at Target. “Why is it most of the civilized world celebrates my nephew’s birthday and no one celebrates mine?”

Mother Nature’s quick intake of breath was not lost on me.

“Maybe because Jesus represents goodness and love and you’re just a destructive gaping butthole,” I suggested.

The shocked look on the Devil’s face was priceless. No one back talked Satan and lived to tell it —except me and his mother.

“Interesting concept,” Satan replied smoothly as he regained his composure. “However, I must disagree.”

“Not surprising,” I shot back. “What’s your theory?”

My uncle stopped pacing and seated himself on the divan. Patting the space to his right, he waited for me to join him. Ethan stiffened and hissed low in his throat. He didn’t trust Satan, and quite honestly as much as I adored my uncle, I didn’t quite trust him either. He was Satan after all.

I squeezed Ethan’s hand and released it. It was time to give the Devil his due. Not because he deserved or had earned it—nope, I was going to humor him so he didn’t coat the rest of my festive room in deathly black.

“He has songs,” Satan complained as I seated myself.

“Who has songs?” I asked.

“Jesus has songs,” he huffed and threw his hands in the air. “I want songs too.”

I pulled my dress down as I realized the fucking monsoon in my closet had shrunk it. It was dry clean only. Pressing my lips together so I didn’t spew obscenities at the Devil, I decided to treat him like a child because he was certainly behaving like one.

“Now I’m confused. What are you talking about?” I inquired calmly as I yanked on my hem some more.

“Silent fucking Night. Away In A Damn Manger. O Holy Goddamned Night. The list goes on and on,” he whined as he stood up and flailed his arms. “I need a song.”

“Um… ” I said, trying not to laugh. “Do you have any in mind?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he replied curtly. “I think Running With The Devil is catchy and Sympathy For The Devil would work in a pinch.”

“How about The Devil Wears Prada or Happy Holidays You Bastard?” I suggested.

“Are those real songs?” Satan asked, intrigued as he stood and resumed his pacing.

“Yep, and then if you’re feeling trans-sexual, there’s Devil In A Blue Dress.”

“Hmmmm… not sure that would help my reputation with the ladies… not that I need help,” he added with a chuckle.

“And of course, there’s the really famous, Ding Dong The Devil’s Dead,” I informed him as he got dangerously close to my Christmas tree.

“Now I know that’s not a real song,” he said as he narrowed his eyes at me.

On any other day Beelzebub’s squint would have made me quake in my platform shoes—but not today. I was wearing men’s underpants, my dress was slowly but surely shrinking to Barbie size, and there was a fucking harmless baboon somewhere in my house playing with my son.

Satan’s hissy fit was nothing compared to the volcano inside me that was about to erupt.

“You are correct,” I said as I stood up and stared him down. “However, it’s going to be the story of your life if you put even one finger on my Christmas tree.”

“Astrid, did you grow a penis?” my Uncle asked, forgetting his dilemma as he stared in surprise at the unsightly bulge poking out of my ever-shrinking attire.

“No,” I shouted as he blanched and backed away. “I am wearing Ethan’s underpants and they’re too fucking big, so I cinched them.”

I glanced down at my lump then violently grabbed and shook it menacingly as both men in the room jack knifed forward as if I’d racked them.

“And if I’d grown a penis—which is not gonna happen in my lifetime—it would be a Hell of a lot bigger than this.”

“Just clarifying,” Satan whispered as he bit down on his lips, trying to stifle his mirth.

“If you laugh at me, I swear I’ll remove your pecker,” I threatened as black sparkling glitter began to cover my arms in preparation for a beheading—pun intended.

“Oh Sweet Hell on Earth,” Mother Nature cut quickly in before I castrated the Devil. “Don’t do that, Astrid. He defines himself by that thing. We might be looking at the end of the world if you make your uncle a castrado. Besides, removing a penis is not very Christmassy.”

“Fine,” I huffed and let my magic recede. “He can keep his wiener, but if you cover any more of my decorations in black glitter, you’ll be singing soprano. We clear?”

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