As the bell rang twelve times, signaling the beginning of Christmas Eve, a jingling sound broke out in Santana’s office, as he unhooked his belt buckle and took his belt off before tossing it to the hardwood floor, where it landed with a thunk.

“You know, I forgot how good you make that look,” said Befana, taking her seat in Santana’s chair and whipping Santana with his own cat o’ nine tails that he’d left on the floor. “Let’s see — you’re just like your eight reindeer.”

“Oh?” asked Santana.

“Don’t tell me you forgot that silly thing I used to say,” said Befana. “Used to drive everyone nuts with how ‘adorable’ we were.”

“Oh, no,” groaned Santana. “Don’t do that.”

“You’re a dashing dancer,” listed off Befana. “You like to watch me prance because I’m your —”

“Vixen,” finished Santana.

“Still got four more left, big guy,” teased Befana. “I didn’t need to wish on a comet or wait for Cupid to match us up — the sparks between us were like Donner and Blitzen — thunder and lightning.”

“I remember,” said Santana, shaking his head. “I’m just surprised you remember.”

“How could I forget about the boys?” asked Befana. “Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen — Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen. Everyone knows the name of Santana’s eight flying reindeer, at least, anyone who believes in Santa Claus.”

Befana didn’t mean anything by it, but her words stung Santana. After all — Befana knew the names of the reindeer, but she didn’t believe in him.

Befana was the one who didn’t believe in Santa Claus. Santana thought about that fact as he unbuttoned his shirt.

Befana didn’t have to believe in him. She didn’t even have to love him. What they were going to do was based on one thing — desire.

That was the lie that both Santana and Befana believed — that neither of them was still in love with the other, that they hadn’t been in love for decades.

Befana stood from the chair. At first, Santana thought she was going to leave. Befana walked right up to Santana and pulled his shirt open and looked at his broad, firm pecs. They were covered with a layer of salt-and-pepper white and gray hair, a coloration he’d always had, but even through the chest hair, which reminded Befana of a staticky television set, she could see the mark.

Turned out Santana wasn’t the only one with ‘magic ink.’ Just as Santana’s lists, full of The Naughty and The Nice, were written in magical ink, Fate’s quill was loaded with something magic indeed — something with the power to bring fated mates together, something that could create mate marks.

The mate mark — the one thing all shifters had, regardless of whether they were mere humans, or whether they were more magical beings.

The mate mark — the mark that appeared when a shifter gained their shift, the mark that would lead them to their fated mate with some clue.

The mate mark — the mark that would do something special when a shifter claimed their mate, when the shifter and their mate came at the exact same time and bound not just their bodies, but their hearts, as one.

The mate mark — the mark that, if left unchanged, would let its bearer fall vulnerable to coming down with mate madness. The mate mark could only keep the shifter’s shift at bay as long as the unspoken contract between all shifters and Fate was kept — as long as the shifter found their fated mate within a reasonable amount of time, and claimed and kept that mate.

The contract was unspoken, but it wasn’t exactly unwritten, as Fate had left her signature on every shifter, and that signature varied based on her whim.

There, on Santana’s chest, was the mark — the mark that had led him to Befana in the first place, the black mark of a curvy witch on a spindly broom.

“It changed,” said Befana, running her hand down Santana’s pecs. “Or I guess, to be more accurate…it didn’t change. It unchanged. It reverted.”

“Well, a mate mark only changes if a shifter claims their mate,” said Santana. “You left. I didn’t claim you after all.”

“So Fate made a mistake?” asked Befana.

“I don’t know,” admitted Santana. “Does it matter? Do we want to have this conversation here, tonight?”

“No,” conceded Befana. “Santana…the last time you danced with a woman, was it really that night? All those years ago?”

“It was,” answered Santana. “Why?”

“When was the last time you…you know,” said Befana.

“Made love? To a woman?” asked Santana. “That very same night.”

“You mean…I was the last?” asked Befana.

“Well, we didn’t have a threesome, now, did we?” asked Santana, to which he received a stern glare from Befana. “No — there was never anyone else, after you. And you?”

“What about me?” asked Befana.

“Other men?” asked Santana.

“Do you count my vibrator?” asked Befana.

“Only if he cooks you eggs in the morning, like a real man,” said Santana, quirking a brow.

“Then no,” said Befana, blushing. “Not that there weren’t opportunities!”

“Of course there were,” said Santana. “Nobody would ever doubt that. I’m just surprised you’re like me — single and ready to jingle.” Santana took Befana’s breast in his hand and rolled it. The feel of her soft skin beneath his fingers just felt so right, even if he knew what they were doing was just a teeny tiny bit Naughty.

Okay, it was really Naughty — and they both knew it.

Befana reached up and grabbed Santana’s pec.

“Well, how do you like that?” asked Befana, squeezing Santana’s chest.

“You know how I like it,” growled Santana. “Same way I know how you like it.”

“Well, I have my doubts about that,” said Befana. “After all…we saw how you danced. You’re a little rusty, aren’t you?”

“Lube me up and find out,” challenged Santana.

“With what?” asked Befana.

“Don’t you always keep some on your person?” asked Santana.

Santana picked Befana up. She wrapped her arms around her ex-lover’s shoulders. Santana rubbed the tip of his cock against the crux of her wetness, finding it with ease. Some things, some places, some motions, could be forgotten by the mind, but never by the heart.

Befana felt the tip of Santana’s stiffness rubbing against her entrance. Santana lowered her down, her thick, soft thighs rubbing against the sides of his firm waist as the tip of his cock entered her. She let out a gasp as Santana slowly pulled the tip out of her. Santana lowered her again, but this time, he lowered her all the way the floor.

Befana’s back hit the soft fur of the fake polar skin fur rug that lay in front of the fireplace in Santana’s office, a fireplace that was already lit and roaring. Santana waved his hand and the rest of the lights in the office turned off, leaving Santana and Befana lit only by the warm glow of the warm fire.

Befana ran her hands through the luxuriously soft rug and then, up Santana’s arms, feeling her shifter’s own ‘fur’ beneath her hands.

“I missed this,” admitted Befana.

“My arm hair?” asked Santana.

“Your everything,” said Befana, leaning back and raising her hips from the ground, giving Santana a mischievous wink.

Befana had never cast a love potion on Santana before, or any other sort of charm, but Santana was as hypnotized by the jiggling curves of her body as he had been the first night he’d found her. He grabbed her thick hips and, as Befana continued to undulate beneath him, he entered her, slipping right inside the woman he’d once called ‘mate’ and now, didn’t call at all.

“Oh, fuck,” moaned Befana, arching her back as Santana stuffed her stocking. She lifted her butt up into the air and Santana grabbed it with both his hands, pulling her thick ass cheeks apart as if he were tearing open a Christmas cracker from both ends. Befana bounced in Santana’s hands as if her two butt cheeks were jingle bells held by a caroler. Befana was moaning, not singing, but her sighs were sweet music to Santana’s ears.

“That’s right — show me how you like it,” demanded Santana, as Befana’s canal wrapped around his package like wrapping paper tightly wrapped around a present.

“You said you knew how I liked it,” challenged Befana.

“And I know you like to tell me what to do,” retorted Santana.

“And I know you like doing whatever it is you damn want,” answered Befana, running her hands through Santana’s hair and pulling his face close so that their foreheads touched while Santana pummeled in and out of her. “And you know…that I…and…”

“What?” asked Santana.

“You always make me forget how I want it,” said Befana.

“Because I just give you every last thing on your damn Christmas list,” answered Santana. “I thought you’d know that by now. When you’re with me, well, every night’s like Christmas Day.”

“Oh, Santana!” moaned Befana, as she felt Santana stiffen one last time before releasing inside of her. Her nails raked his back, but she let go of his back once she realized what was going on with his front…and it made her jaw drop. Befana was a witch, but she could only describe what was going on as magic beyond her own understanding.

Befana could tell you why folks left her offerings of red wine on Epiphany Eve.

She could tell you what Homer meant when he described an oinops pontos — a wine-dark sea.

She could tell you why Krampus was more popular than Perchta, and why his farts smelled of sulfur and her burps smelled of brimstone.

She could tell you why stockings were first hung, why Christmas trees were first raised, and how carols were first sung.

She could tell you where to find the sweetest almonds for amaretti — and where to find the best amaretto to sip with your freshly baked cookies.

She could not tell you why Santana’s chest was throwing a rave for a party of two.

As Santana and Befana came at the same time, something magical happened — again. That magical thing had happened once before, the very first night they’d met, all those years ago, the night that Santana had found her, ripped his frikkin’ shirt off, and told her she was his, his fated mate.

The mark started to glow. At first, the area around the witch on Santana’s chest burned red, then green, then blue, then pink, then orange, then all colors, then colors Befana couldn’t name, blinking and flashing and glowing.

At that moment, Befana learned why Christmas lights had been fated to glow in a rainbow of colors ever since they’d first been dreamt of.

A round white circle appeared on Santana’s chest, masked only by the imprint of the witch on his chest. The ring glowed the same crisp white as the symbol it was based on — a full moon, shining down through the sky, a moon that Santana and Befana had both seen many times over the years, often at the same damn time.

“Santana, I —” started Befana. “I don’t understand.”

“I claimed you once, and lost you,” said Santana. “And now…I’m finally claiming you again, Befana.”

Santana pulled Befana close. Even through her closed eyes, Befana could see the bright white glow of Santana’s chest, brighter a white than the fur that lined his red hat. She placed her hands on his chest and felt his heart beat beneath her palms.

“Santana,” whispered Befana as her orgasm subsided. “I…I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything,” said Santana, pulling out of Befana.

Befana took a deep breath. She couldn’t believe what had happened. The events of the night had been so strange, but nothing had felt more normal than being in Santana’s arms.

Well, everything was relatively normal for The North Pole — except for one thing.

Santana’s ass was glowing like a firefly’s butt. To be more accurate, it was glowing the bright pink of a firefly shifter’s butt, a color that the butt might glow when the firefly went on spring break to Cabo and had one too many Tequila Sunrises with its sorority sisters. It was shining brighter than the ‘love potion’ Befana had once brewed that just made her love eating chocolate more.

Befana frowned. This was new. A lot of things were new, at The North Pole, but this, well, this wasn’t just new, but it was odd.

She stood up and moved to see what was glowing.

One word, a four-letter word, beginning with ‘N,’ and it wasn’t ‘Nuts.’

The word was ‘Nice,’ and it was almost hard to read, as it was surrounded by butterflies done in a rather spiky tattoo style. The tattoo was glowing bright pink, although shades of black and white served to outline and highlight the word ‘Nice.’

“Hey,” said Befana. “When did you get that?”

“Get what?” asked Santana.

“Uh, that giant pair of bright-pink ass-antlers reading ‘Nice,’” said Befana. “Let me guess — drunken dare from Krampus?”

“Something like that,” said Santana.

“Oh?” asked Befana. “You can’t leave a girl hanging like that!”

“Krampus and I made a kind of deal last year,” said Santana.

“A bet to see who could get the stupidest looking tat?” asked Befana.

“No, not exactly,” said Santana. “Over the years, Krampus had never found his fated mate. He’s a demon, but he’s also a shifter, and he’s basically a straw goat that came to life with demoncraft. Anyway. He started ‘leaking’ straw everywhere, and a bunch of people noticed, including me. I told him he needed to try and find a mate — and he did, in the form of Avery, who he was obviously meant to be with.”

“What does that have to do with you?” asked Befana cautiously.

“Well…he only agreed to do it if I made a deal,” said Santana. “I told him that if he could do it, I’d try and claim my mate. Of course, he knew I already had a mate…a fated one. With demoncraft, he put ‘my ass’ on The Naughty List. That meant I couldn’t fly my sleigh, which meant that to save Christmas, I had to claim my mate, to get back on The Nice List, and —”

“I think I’ve heard enough,” said Befana angrily, getting up from the floor and waving her hand in the air, assembling her outfit in midair, stepping into it, and shaking her hand again so that her clothing was fully wrapped around her body…although she did have an underwear wedgie, and her bra was on too tightly. She adjusted her bra hooks and waved her hand again to get her broomstick.

Santana saw Befana’s broom fly to her hand…partially because the bristly end of the broom hit him in the frikkin’ face as it flew over his head.

“Befana? What are you doing?” asked Santana, standing up and slipping on his underwear again. He groped around and found his pants. He put them on and didn’t bother trying to find his shirt or his shoes.

“I’m leaving,” said Befana, making sure not to look at Santana’s nude torso, not to look at the mark that had tricked her for a second frikkin’ time. She was obviously not Santana’s fated mate. He must’ve had some sort of illusion mark that had just made it appear as if his mark glowed when he’d had sex with her. Who’d ever heard of someone’s mark glowing after they’d claimed their fated mate? Glowing years after they’d claimed their mate? What kind of a sick fuck would try to trick someone into believing Fate meant for them to be together?

“Why?” asked Santana.

“What woman would want to stick around after the man she slept with admitted he was just using her for work, all because of a deal he made with a demon?” asked Befana. “I didn’t come here to be used — but I don’t know what I expected. I never thought you, of all people, would want to use me like this. You were a lot of things, Santana, but you were never a user. I guess a lot of things changed since I left The North Pole, and I’m not just talking about your workshop. You changed, Santana. You aren’t the same man I fell in love with.”

Befana turned her heels into sneakers so she could walk away from Santana even more quickly.

“Befana, wait!” said Santana. “I can explain everything.”

Befana clicked the express elevator button and tapped her feet, waiting for it to arrive.

“Befana,” said Santana. “Please.

Befana was silent. The elevator arrived, and she entered. Of course, Santana followed her into the elevator.

“Befana…” started Santana. “Just, let me say my piece.”

“No, Santana,” said Befana, turning around. “There’s nothing to say. I know what this was.”

“You don’t,” said Santana.

“I don’t care then,” said Befana. “You know what? This entire night, this was a mistake. I guess things always get turned topsy-turvy on Halloween, and this year, Halloween just happened to fall on Christmas Eve.”

The elevator dinged and its red and white striped doors opened. With that, Befana got on her broom and took off down the halls of The Workshop. Santana ran after her, through the front doors of the workshop.

Befana could barely see the red glow of the gumdrop above the red and white striped candy cane as she took to the air. She waved her hand, causing a magical display panel to appear in front of her, and set a course for a place north of home and south-east of the place she’d once called home, for a time — The North Pole, a place she hoped never to visit again.

“Befana!” cried out Santana, but it was too late. The woman he’d loved — the woman he’d never truly fallen out of love with — had left again, and this time, he had to watch her fly away.