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About A Christmas to Fight For by Jessica Frances
Title: A Christmas to Fight For
Author: Jessica Frances
Genre: LGBT, Holiday Paranormal Romance
As the last of my kind, I’ve long lived in the shadows. But, with the death of my father, I have a dying wish to fulfill, and I can no longer keep quiet. I can no longer stand back and watch as the Santa Claus Organization takes everything from us. So, I launch an attack that was doomed from the start. I am but one krampus up against the cruelest organization in the world. I knew it was a long shot. I knew I would likely die.
Then something surprising happens. The most recent Santa Claus comes into my life, and I don’t know what to make of him. He wasn’t what I was expecting. He’s supposed to be a puppet. A heartless, despicable Santa. But he’s not. He’s … a good person?
Do I have things wrong? Have I had them wrong all along? Or am I falling for the biggest con in the world?
Either way, change is coming for North Pole, and this is sure to be the deadliest Christmas on record and a time that no one will ever forget.
Excerpt from A Christmas to Fight For
© 2021
Jessica Frances
“Son …” Father’s voice is weak as he attempts to wave me over to him. However, his hand can barely lift from his bed, and his fingers only briefly twitch. He’s been sleeping most of the day, and now that he’s awake, I realize how much worse he’s doing than yesterday. There hasn’t been a doubt about this fact in months, but looking at him now, it’s undeniable.
My father is dying.
“Father!” I cry, dropping the half full pitcher of water into the sink then rushing over to him.
“I’m sorry, son. But I cannot …” He coughs, and I wrap my arm around his back, lifting him to sit up and wait until the rattling cough ends.
“Just breathe, Father. Just keep breathing,” I beg, my voice wavering under the intense emotion choking me.
I don’t want to lose him. I don’t want him to die. But my father’s once vibrant red skin is now a dull pink. His once strong, virile horns are now wilted and soft to the touch. The man who was so imposing when I was a child is now stuck in a body that has become only lifeless skin and bones. Even his tail barely twitches anymore.
“I’m sorry, but this is the end for me,” he finally gets the words out.
“No!” I immediately deny, refusing to let him leave me. He can get better. There has to be a way. There has to be a cure.
“Yes,” he counters. “But you must continue to fight.”
I scoff but bite my tongue on telling him that fighting is futile. Our once strong resistance is now just me. Most of our people died, and those who weren’t killed left without so much as a goodbye. They have given up, and I can’t say I blame them. As much as I loathe the SCO—Santa Claus Organization—I understand how tiring keeping up this fight is. After years of being made redundant, the naughty lists my people compiled, being ignored and thrown away, we lost our means of working and usefulness, which means we have no money on which to survive. We became pariahs in the Santa community and had to run just to survive their genocide of us. The surrounding woods around North Pole are our savior.
We hoped hiding would have been enough for them. We hoped the SCO would just leave us alone. They didn’t. Instead, they sent out their best assassins to kill us all off.
Just six months ago, my father was shot by one of their assassins. I managed to get him away to our hidden cabin, attempting to nurse him back to health, but it has been a futile endeavor. He never recovered from the wound. Instead, it became infected.
It has taken six months to overwhelm his body. His injuries have eaten away at him, killing him from the inside. Leaving this cabin to attempt to get help has been impossible, given what awaits us out in the forest to kill us both. I have been sentenced to stay in this small cabin and watch my father slowly die.
“Promise me you’ll fight,” he begs, his gaze pleading with mine.
How can I deny him his dying wish?
A big part of me wants to do what so many others did—run away and leave this burden that he’s placed on me behind. There is no way out of our predicament. The SCO are too big, too powerful, too impossible to defeat. And there is only me to take up this fight.
It’s a suicide mission. There is no hope that I can take down the SCO on my own. Maybe even having a full army behind me won’t be enough.
I glance over at the board we made, the rough plans pinned to it, ones we made while Father rested. Most of it is filled with wild ideas that I know will never work. Many things laid out would never be possible. Nevertheless, it gave Father hope and something more to live for, so I wrote down his ideas and mapped out plans based on old building blueprints that we managed to scrounge up. Many of these might not even be accurate any longer. Still, each day we planned was another day Father kept breathing.
Now he wants me to go through with it. He’s willing to sacrifice his only son to this war.
I stare over at a small mirror propped up on the other side of the room. It’s more a broken shard at this point. Reflected in it is my father, his weakened state undeniable. And then there is me. I’m not sure how old I am, since age has never been a milestone we have celebrated. I’m much smaller than Father.
Before he was shot, he used to tell me that I was just a youngling with much still to learn. I used to wish I could be fully grown like him. I yearned to be older. Now he insists I’m of an age where going to war is acceptable. Shamefully, I find myself wishing I’m too young for something so big and scary. I don’t feel ready for this.
“Please, Claw, you are the last remaining krampus. This is your destiny.”
I’m not sure why I’m surprised by his demand. Of course my own dreams of being able to live a life away from certain death and war is absurd. To even think I could live years into a mature age is asking for too much. And any imagination about having a family or partner is only a silly fantasy.
Clearly, it’s my destiny to die this way. But maybe I can take down some of the SCO with me. Maybe I can cause them just a small amount of the pain that they have brought onto me.
That would only be fair, right?
My father has always said that our duty is always to find the naughty children of the world and make sure they aren’t rewarded for their bad behavior. Is there anyone naughtier than the SCO?
No, I don’t think there is.
“I promise, Father. I will take down the SCO, and I will kill Santa Claus.” Or die trying.
His smile is weak, yet I see the relief buried in his gaze.
“I’m so proud of you, my son. You have been my light throughout so much darkness.”
“Father …” I choke out, my throat closing up under the onslaught of emotions I cannot handle.
Losing Mom when I was just a small child was unbearable. Knowing she left us was almost worse than if she had died. Father always stuck by me, though. He never abandoned me.
Until now.
“I love you, Claw,” he says, his voice barely a whisper as his eyes close and his body falls limply against me.
“No! Father? Father!” I cry, shaking him much too hard, but he doesn’t stir. He doesn’t open his eyes.
He’s gone.
I blink my tears away and focus on the pinboard across from him.
Anger ignites inside me, a never-ending burning flame that I know will only be snuffed out with my dying breath.
I will avenge my father.
I will avenge my people.
I will take down the SCO.
And I will kill Santa Claus.
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About Jessica Frances
Jessica lives in Adelaide, South Australia. When she is not writing, you can find her reading, napping or watching excessive amounts of TV. Connect with her on Facebook and Goodreads.
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