Cherie Noel
This story is dedicated to N.J. Nielsen, Tracy Tucker Faul, Val Hughes, Amara Devonte, for each and every little thing they do… and of course, to the evil urchin who sparked off the idea for the Rescue Twinks by spilling glitter all over my house. Thanks, kidlet!
...and as always, every story I will ever write is for my Balthazar, and the sweet, wild, half-fae wench who led me to his door. Yes, yes, I do mean you, naughty Countess J.
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It takes the author’s hard earned ducats (that’s greenbacks to you) right out of their pockets.
Just don’t do it.
Cover Artist: A.J. Corza
Editor: Val Hughes
The Counterfeit Claus © 2012 Cherie Noel ISBN # CN001
Attention Readers: This book uses Ameriglish. English
speakers from other countries should consider themselves warned… there will be donuts rather than doughnuts.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission of the publisher. All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental. The Licensed Art Material is being used for illustrative purposes only; any person depicted in the Licensed Art Material is a model.
PUBLISHER: Rocking Rooster Publications
~~yes, yes… we’re a wee little house, but we’ve got the rockin’ cock-a-doodle-doo~~
TRADEMARKS ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Jeep: © 2012 Chrysler Group LLC
Starbucks: © 2012 Starbucks Corporation Dunkin’Donuts: © 2011. DD IP Holder LLC. YouTube: © YouTube LLC.
Danger Mouse: © Nickelodeon, originated by CosgroveHall
***
Additional Acknowledgements: Names
Justin Bieber
Michael Clarke Duncan Ft. Leonard Wood St.Nick
Chapter One
The sound of Justin Bieber’s twinkish tenor crooning his latest hit carved a jagged little hole into the velvety silence cocooning Devon. He groaned, flailing one long arm towards the pesky little voice. What the hell was Justin Bieber doing in his bedroom anyway? A high note reverberated in his ears, exhorting him to just open his eyes and—Devon snagged his cell phone, flipping it open.
“Sot—” The thick southern twang combined with the use of his last name—or at least a portion of it—told Devon who his caller was before his sluggish brain caught up to the irony of a Bieber song announcing anything to do with “the one and only Michael Rose, badass extraordinaire.”.
“Rose, you are so fucking dead.” Devon’s voice crawled up out of his chest like a snarling, slavering beast. “You know I worked the show up on campus last night before my regular job. Christ man, I musta told you five hundred times how geeked I was to finally get a gig with campus security, even if—”
“Sargent So—” The silence after Rose’s bitten off
utterance had Devon rubbing at his eyes and trying to figure out why in the hell Rose would be calling him at the ungodly hour of ten-thirty am.
Well, it was ungodly for someone who’d been at work until well after seven in the morning. Devon lost a good fifteen seconds musing about how he should have gone straight to bed when he got
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