Chapter Nineteen Last Christmas #4
He stepped closer, eyes glassy and faraway.
“Those people… the ones I helped? They were already broken. Tainted. I gave them peace. Purpose. I made it right. And for once, she saw me. My mother saw the man I could be. Saw that I was worthy.” He locked his gaze on Aaron.
“Then you came along. All soft eyes and leash-trained smiles. And I couldn’t believe it.
You? The Cain Howell. A descendant of the same rotten blood I came from. ”
Jonathon’s lip curled. “But instead of becoming what you were born to be, you curled up in the lap of the man who put your parents in chains. You let him tame you. Praise you. Let him fuck you.”
He took another step forward, heat pulsing off him like a fever.
“Then Blackwell?” His voice pitched higher, more frayed, and he waved a hand at the unconscious man passed out on the chair.
“He touched you and I watched it all. You ran. Fell apart. I hoped it would crack your pretty mask. And I waited. Waited for you to show me who you really were.” Jonathon’s mouth twisted, hateful.
Eyes bright, wild, consumed. “But you never did. Because you’re not a survivor.
You’re not strong. You’re a whore in obedience drag. ”
Aaron’s breath caught. Rage, revulsion, and panic colliding in his chest. “You sick fuck—” No clinical diagnoses now. Raw truth.
Jonathon lunged.
Aaron barely got his arms up before Jonathon crashed into him, a force of pure, snarling fury. The dart gun hit the floor with a hollow clatter as Jonathon drove him back, slamming him hard against the edge of the desk. Pain cracked through Aaron’s spine, stealing the breath from his lungs.
Then iron-hard fingers locked around his throat.
Aaron bucked, thrashed, kicked wildly, panic surging through him like fire. He drove his knee into Jonathon’s groin, but the bulk of the Santa suit absorbed the blow, thick with padding. Jonathon didn’t flinch.
He snarled.
And tightened his grip.
Callused fingers pressed into Aaron’s windpipe with surgical cruelty, thumbs grinding down until stars burst behind his eyes.
“You don’t deserve him!” Jonathon spat, his face twisted, flecks of saliva catching in his beard. “You don’t deserve to be loved!”
Aaron’s lungs burned. His pulse thundered in his ears. Vision blurring at the edges. And he shoved hard. Wild. Instinctive. But Jonathon was stronger. Not in size, but in sheer, fanatical purpose. And Aaron saw him slip his hand into his coat pocket to retrieve the braided paracord of his lanyard.
“It’ll be over in a minute,” Jonathon said. “It has to be twelve. Twelve days. Twelve disciples. Twelve offerings. That’s how redemption works.”
Aaron’s panic detonated.
He twisted, kicked, fought like a man drowning, because that’s exactly what this was.
Drowning on dry land. He thrashed his legs, connecting once with Jonathon’s knee.
Enough to loosen that grip. Then he rolled off the table, and scrambled, sprinting blindly down the kennel corridor.
Breath ragged. Blood in his throat. He heard the footsteps behind him. Heavy, fast, relentless.
Santa’s boots scrunching forward.
Then—whip—
A cord looped over Aaron’s head. Tightened.
The ID card dropped to the floor, detached, as Jonathon yanked the wire around Aaron’s throat pulling him back mid-stride, hard enough to lift his feet off the ground then fall forward on all fours, knees slamming onto the concrete.
Pain exploded up his arms and legs but Jonathon was over him, straddling him, breath rancid, hands locked on the garrotte as if reining in a beast.
Aaron clawed at the cord. His fingers fumbled, slipped. It dug in deeper. Each gasp narrower than the last. His world shrank to heat and pressure and the blinding knowledge that this was it.
Among barking dogs, he was going to die.
Then he glanced sideways. To a kennel door. The lock. Choking, eyes bulging, he fumbled in his pocket for his own ID card. His vision darkened. Tunnelled. As if he were falling into a pit he couldn’t climb out of. But he got the card on the reader and click.
The door opened.
But Jonathon reeled him up again, hard, and Aaron’s back slammed into Jonathon’s padded chest, the cord cinching so tight he couldn’t make a sound anymore.
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Only the high-pitched shriek inside his skull and he clawed uselessly at his neck. His legs gave out. His body sagged.
Fuck. Fuck, this is it.
He was dying. Really dying. Choked out in a kennel, like one of the shelter’s forgotten dogs. This was how it would end. And it was so fitting. Right. Because it was true.
Aaron was unrehomeable.
Jonathon’s breath ghosted his ear as if delivering a twisted prayer. “You were never meant to survive this world, Cain. Neither was I. But I made peace with it. You should too.”
Aaron’s eyes rolled back. The edges of the world pulsed black. There was no air. No time. Only the cruel bite of wire, the tremble of his limbs, the pounding silence in his skull.
Until movement.
A flurry of wind whispering across his skin.
And a growl ripped through the corridor.
Elemental. A snarl so deep it crawled up from hell.
The weight on Aaron suddenly vanished. The cord slackened.
And he collapsed to the cold tile, sucking air like a newborn.
Gasping, hacking, lungs screaming for oxygen.
His chest heaved as he rolled onto his side and blinked through the blur.
Lucky.
The lurcher had bolted from the cage and sunk her teeth into Jonathon’s arm, deep and furious, blood splashing across the floor in vivid arcs. Jonathon thrashed, tried to shake her loose, but Lucky held tight. Growling, snarling, every inch of her vengeance in fur and muscle.
Jonathon tumbled into the open pen and Aaron dragged himself upright, coughing, ribs burning. He reached for Lucky, wrapped a shaking arm around her chest, and hauled her back with everything he had left. Then, with a guttural cry, he shoved Jonathon deeper into the pen and yanked Lucky out.
SLAM.
The gate crashed shut. The lock clicked. Buzzed. Secured.
Jonathon lunged. Bloodied. Wild-eyed. He grabbed at the bars, pawed for the lock, but it was done. Aaron stumbled back, clutching Lucky to his chest, the dog’s limbs dangling from his arms, his heart pounding so loud it drowned everything else out.
Everything… except, “Last Christmas…” Playing faintly from the radio in the corridor. Skipping slightly, warped from a bad connection, as if mocking the carnage with lullaby sweetness.
Aaron slid down the wall, exhausted, splaying his legs out, staring at Jonathon with Lucky curled into him, trembling.
He couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. The sound of the bars rattling was almost…
soothing. Rhythmic. Familiar. And he closed his eyes, mouthing the words along with George Michael under his breath, half a laugh, half a sob.
That maladaptive, dissociative corner of his mind decided he’d just lost Whamageddon.
Jonathon crouched at the back of the kennel, trembling, breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.
An animal cornered in the dark. His tears came fast, unfiltered, breaking through whatever performance had held him together.
Then, in a sudden frenzy, he clawed at his own throat, trying to choke himself, to become the final offering.
An end. A penance. But his body betrayed him.
His grip faltered. He slumped forward, thudding his head once…
twice… against the wall, and mumbling through cracked lips, “Bad boy. Bad boy. Bad boy.”
And Aaron sat there, frozen, memory dragging him under like a rip current.
He’d never believed in Santa. Hadn’t been given the chance.
Christmas didn’t exist in the Howell house. Not in the way it had for other kids. No lights. No magic. No gifts. He hadn’t even known what Christmas was until after. Until the police, the foster homes, the questions. By then, the damage was done. The lie had already calcified.
Santa hadn’t brought him anything.
And now?
Now that lie had teeth.
And it was sitting in front of him. Barefoot, tear-streaked, behind bars. Aaron felt something twist hard inside him. Because the lie didn’t live in fairy tales anymore. It breathed. It broke. And it bled.
He wasn’t sure if it was irony or not.
But the distant sound of sirens made him leave that thought there. Along with the pounding of boots. Doors crashing open. Then his own saviour, ragged with fear, calling his name. His real name. “Aaron!”
He forced his eyes open.
“Baby…” Kenny dropped to his knees, checking Aaron’s throat, brushing sweat-damp hair from his face with a gentleness bordering on desperation. “Are you okay? Talk to me.”
Aaron met his gaze, resting his head limply against the wall. He swallowed hard around the pain burning up his throat. Tried to smile. And somehow, he didn’t know how, but he was able to rasp out the words through his bruised windpipe:
“Grinch Grinch.”