Free Yuletide Immortal (The Immortal Chronicles Book 4) by Gene Doucette

much easier to live in.
    I could have gone back up into the stands and told him what I’d learned about the cherubic little scam artist he thought he was helping out.  I could have proven I was right and he was wrong, in other words.  It was the only story I knew how to tell.  And when Bacchus Doubtful lost for the umpteenth time, the point would have been driven home.
    But I couldn’t do it.  I’ve done enough awful things in my life already and I didn’t want to add “ruining Christmas for Santa Claus” to that list.
    Instead, I chickened out and left him at the track.
    This was probably not the best way to handle the situation, but it was the way I went with.  Honestly, dropping and running to cope with a problem is one of my more popular solutions.  It works particularly well when people in town decide I’m a witch, but also for those uncomfortable times when I’ve cuckolded someone more powerful than I realized, or when I’ve inadvertently insulted a king, or when someone asks me to marry them, and so on.  I outlive everybody, so acting like a total bastard and running away until everyone I’ve angered or disappointed has died is a legitimately viable option.
    This was what I was telling myself as I packed up my room.  The hotel, as I said, was not memorable or particularly clean, but it did have a dedicated private bathroom I much appreciated, and the rats were generally very polite.  It had served nicely as a place to call home for the past couple of months, but now that winter was coming I was getting the distinct notion I’d overstayed my time in New York City.  Plus it was difficult to find a bar in the neighborhood where I was sure not to run into Santa.
    I didn’t know where I was going.  According to the papers, snow was on its way, and I wanted no part of it, so I was thinking someplace tropical.  Beyond that, I had no plans.
    I also forgot it was Christmas Eve.  After paying for the room, I ended up in the lobby, in a beat-up old chair waiting for a taxicab to show up to take me out of town.  Taxi service was turning out to be less than optimal, however.  I really only needed a ride as far as, say, a bus station or something—I hadn’t decided—but getting a cab to show up wasn’t working out, either because of the holiday, the oncoming storm, or the fact that I was calling from a seedy hotel in a crummy part of town.  For whatever reason, I ended up sitting in that chair for a couple of hours with my bags and an old steamer trunk, watching the lobby clerk/building owner finger through the race tables in the newspaper.
    And of course that got me thinking about the kid again, and how frustrating it was to have been scammed by a ten-year old.  An unreasonably clever and worldly ten-year old, but a child nonetheless.  It was sort of humiliating.  And I was giving up on a friendship because of this kid.  I felt horrible about that.
    If it had been anybody other than Santa I probably would have been getting drunk with him right at that moment, as we complained about the nature of kids these days .  (This has been one of the most popular subjects in bars since there have been bars.)  But he was entirely too cheerful to commiserate with over something like this.  Also, if there was one thing I could think of that was worse than complaining with Santa, it was listening to the only reliably upbeat person I knew having his idea of the world dashed on the floor.
    “Beautiful Pete,” I muttered, shaking my head.  “Can’t believe I bought any of that.”
    “What was that?” the owner asked.
    “Sorry, nothing.  Just thinking about a story I heard recently.”
    “Good story?”
    “Yeah, it was, actually.  It was a really good story.  Very believable.”
    The owner was a shrunken man with bad eyesight.  It was difficult to tell, most times, if he was sitting behind the desk or standing, because there wasn’t any apparent height difference.  He had a sort of disapproving