RJ Purnell

About the Author

My passion for storytelling began in the quiet corners of the English countryside in Oxfordshire and has led me to Chicago. My journey has taken me from farmhand to cybersecurity, and these diverse experiences have fueled my passion for writing. Now, with my upcoming dark fantasy novel, I'm ready to share my stories with you.

My work often explores themes of courage, friendship, and the eternal struggle between light and shadow. When I'm not writing, I am travelling, sipping coffee, or getting lost in a good book—just like you.

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My Books

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An exciting dark holiday fantasy meets high stakes thriller.

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Preview Chapters

Silent Bite - Chapter One

Under a pale sun, untouched snow stretches towards vanishing peaks. Most turn back, never knowing how close they come to a place that is wrapped like a gift. They call the spell that conceals its secrets ‘The Wrapper’, like the colourful paper that hides presents. Satellites lose signal. Compasses spin. The majority see only endless white.

Those with wonder in their hearts watch the aurora part like a curtain, revealing the impossible: Santa’s village, bustling beneath the Northern Lights. Sometimes, the wind carries a familiar chuckle.

For those who still believe, the air grows warm with the scents of cinnamon and peppermint. Ice formations curve into deliberate arcs—candy cane towers and snow globe domes surrounding a patchwork mansion. Windows glow against the Arctic night. A network of covered walkways connects the buildings, offering protection from the elements.

Inside that shimmering perimeter, the North Pole roars with life. Santa Claus stands at the railing of a wrought-iron balcony that circles the entire chamber. Below him swirls a controlled chaos.

“Five hours until launch!” he says. His voice booms.

Elves scatter. The air smells of sawdust, magic, and stress.

As he pulls the cord, the list flows down, and his gloved finger glides over the parchment. His brow furrows in patient concentration, though the weariness runs deeper than the page.

“Timothy Abernathy,” he says in a hushed tone. “Requests a blue bicycle. Status: nice... but wobbling. Frog in his sister’s backpack.” Making a crisp mark with a peppermint-striped pen, he says, “One more chance.” For centuries, he’s offered last chances.

The register of kids and their behaviour spools into the rafters—a living record of dreams and mischief hangs overhead.

Workstations surround him in circles, each dedicated to a type of gift. Bicycles and scooters spin into existence on a mystical production line at the transportation station, their wheels turning. In the stuffed animal section, bears and bunnies receive stitches. Gadgets blink; the electronics crackle with coded life.

Hundreds of elves—short and tall, thin and chubby, young apprentices and veterans of countless Christmases scurry between stations. Packages move in rapid motion, punctuated by nods, hand signals, and the whoop of triumph.

“We need more stuffing material in the teddy bear section!”

“We need cleanup in the wooden toy station!”

“We need more spray paint for the bicycle area!”

The calls bounce off rafters adorned with year-round garlands and fairy lights. To most, chaos. To Santa, rhythm—a squeaky symphony, just as it should be.

Ellie Sparkleberry marches through the workshop with a clipboard gripped like a general’s baton. Where others bustle, she strides. Her emerald eyes scan every detail. Colour-coded sacks, the ribbon tangled at one area, the elves using antlers to hang tags.

Elves part for her, not out of fear, but the sheer force of her precision.

On her way through the flurry of activity, she stops at one station. She takes a moment to adjust a tag, then tweaks it again—a glimmer of doubt masked by ritual.

Jingles appears at her elbow. His hat tilted, threatening to slide.

“You know,” he says, sidling closer, “that label was perfect the first time.”

Ellie’s shoulders tense. “It wasn’t straight.”

With a smile, he stacks the goodies. Seventeen presents piled high as he attempts to carry them. “Totally under control!” he chirps—before stepping on a ribbon spool. There’s a yelp. Gifts burst upward in a spray of glitter. A heavy bowling ball spins, wild and fast, veering towards the ornament table.

Santa watches and waits. Everyone stares. Jingles slides like a curling stone and snags the bowling ball mid-air. Packages land in a clumsy halo of triumph.

“Planned that,” he grins, panting.

For a moment, no one moves. Santa’s laugh booms—a belly-shaking rumble that starts in his boots. It’s contagious. First Ellie snorts, trying and failing to maintain her stern demeanour. Other elves join in until the rafters ring with laughter that makes the bells on the walls chime in sympathy.

“Well done,” Santa says once he catches his breath. “Perhaps in the future, carry only what you can see over?”

Scrambling to his feet, Jingles almost drops the bowling ball on his toes. “Right! Got it!” the elf beams, oblivious to the ribbon now tangled around his legs.

The workshop exhales, returning to its rhythm. At the far end, someone adds another log to the fireplace, and it crackles, sending warmth rolling through the building. Beyond frost-blurred windows, the frigid night presses in. Stars flicker like candles in the black sky.

The huge room glows—a haven of comfort and purpose. Ellie pauses beside Jingles, who is gently re-arranging his gifts. Her voice softens, despite her stern expression.

“That was a good recovery,” she admits. “But next time—”

“Next time, I’ll double-check the stacking strategy Miss Sparkleberry,” he wilts under her raised eyebrow.

With the bustle rising again, Santa watches them—discipline and mayhem, side by side. Pocketing it away, he saves the moment of simple joy. It doesn’t require perfection to warm him against the crushing logistics of the long night ahead.

Although for now—work.

The boss of the North Pole Operations claps, sleigh-bell crisp. Elves snap into motion. “Back to it, everyone! Those toys won’t deliver themselves!” For a moment he ponders, and says with a twinkle in his eye, “Though that’s not a bad idea for next year...”

Santa stands calm at the centre of the whirlwind. He glances at the great celestial clock on the wall, its hands sweeping relentlessly towards launch time. He doesn’t see the victory of a deadline met, but the billions of deliveries yet to be made.

The workshop hums and time blurs by with focussed energy. In 24 hours, joy will circle the globe—and everybody knows it. Elves carry out testing, slamming cuddly toys against walls, simulating toddler meltdowns. Others hunch under the blue glow of magic screens, eyes narrowed in total focus. Ellie stops by, checking in to get a status update. One of the toymakers pops a party popper near the electronics station to celebrate another milestone,

“Miss Sparkleberry,” Santa catches her eye and beckons her over. “We’re getting close to the time. How are we looking with the preparations?”

She pauses. “We’ll be ready.” Ellie’s voice falters. Her knuckles are white around the clipboard.

Meanwhile, the workshop rumbles on, focussed and relentless—a heartbeat in the Arctic night. Workers build, test, and load toys onto Santa’s sleigh with precision.

In the middle of the flurry, there’s a flash of silver—Holly Snowflake darts past. Swift and exact through the toy production chaos. The subtle chime of the bell on her red cap announces her presence. “Excuse me. Pardon. Make way.”

Her soft tone carries surprising authority—elves three times her size step aside. She clutches a ribbon, shimmering in colours unnamed by any spectrum. She tends to the smallest wishes and the tiniest of hopes. As she reaches her workstation, its domain is immediately apparent. While other stations overflow with standard size and larger presents, hers contains treasures that require small, delicate hands to wrap. With calm focus, she adds the final touches to each gift.

“Just right,” Holly whispers as she ties a bow.

Amidst the festive chaos, something feels different.

“Twenty-three minutes to go,” Ellie anxiously announces, checking her stopwatch. “Time to get ready.”

He nods and strides towards the awaiting crowd.

Outside, the sleigh waits on the launchpad. He stands tall beside it—suited, crimson, and prepared. The reindeer paw impatiently beneath a glistening sky. Santa swallows hard. His vehicle for the night brims with gifts. Heavy with hope.

“Something wrong, Boss?” Ellie’s at his side, clipboard clutched tight.

“Everything’s...” the words catch in his throat. Tonight, doubt seeps in like frost under a door, as he runs a gloved hand through his beard. “The world’s different. Too fast. Too polished.” His mind drifts, reminiscing. “I used to sense children's wonder from continents away. Now their letters resemble shopping lists.”

Ellie studies his face. “Perhaps wonder appears differently now.”

“Or maybe it will disappear altogether.”

She sets her checklist down on the sleigh’s edge. “The world changes. We still believe. That matters. You matter.”

“It’s more than that.” Santa’s eyes fix on the distant horizon. “When a child grows up and stops believing in me, that’s natural. But now...”

He pulls a letter from his pocket—not a crayon drawing or glittered note, but a printed list. Hyperlinks. Instructions. Neat. Joyless.

The reindeer snort, impatient frost clouds rising from their nostrils. Dasher paws the snow, eager to fly.

“If they stop having faith in magic—” his voice catches. “What happens to hope itself?”

“Boss—”

'A single gasp of joy used to light the sky', he thinks to himself, casting his memory back. From L.A. to London, from disbelief to wonder—the crimson saint always shows up. However, lately, the spark feels dimmer.

Santa captures his reflection in the sleigh’s polished side. Doubt flickers—then, something shifts.

“WAIT!”

A small sound cuts through the clamour. From the crowd—movement. A blur of silver and red. Holly, the tiny but fierce elf, bursts forward, waving one last, glimmering gift. She lifts it aloft with the enthusiasm of a child on Christmas Eve.

Santa’s gaze sweeps across the crowd and lands on them. Jingles turns the package the correct way up and steadies it in Holly's hands, grinning despite the ribbon still tangled around his boots. Ellie straightens the bow on Holly’s ultimate gift, her fingers precise and automatic. Holly bounces on her toes, childish delight lighting her face as she waits to place it in the sleigh. Three different elves. Three different approaches. One perfect moment.

He watches the interaction between the three elves. Something clicks.

“Well I’ll be—” For centuries, he’s chased flawless execution. But magic doesn’t live in perfection—it lives in the space where order meets disorder, in the realm of imperfection.

“Santa?” Her voice breaks through his thoughts. “We should go.”

With a genuine smile crinkling his eyes, he says, “You’re right. But first—” He pulls them close. “Thank you. All of you.”

“For what?” Jingles asks, still tangled in ribbon.

“For always believing.” There’s a pause, then he stands taller, the weight still on his shoulders—but wonder lingers too. He steps towards the sleigh. Elves huddle, faces glowing with anticipation, eyes sparkling with excitement—a pulse that spreads through the crowd like a warm current.

Glancing at Holly, he winks. “Perfectly on time.”

Without a pause, Holly scrambles up the side of the sack full of presents, places the gift with the rest of the packages, and almost tumbles in. She catches herself and scurries down to join the group.

Settling into the driver’s seat, Santa raises the reins.

“Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen!”

The sleigh bursts upwards, trailing gold light and laughter, hooves pounding like distant thunder. Cheers erupt below, the air fills with cinnamon and peppermint. Ellie wipes a snowflake from her rosy, frosted cheek and smiles up at the sky.

The sleigh swoops down one last time over the cheering spectators; its trail glows like comet dust. Santa Claus swings his hat and calls out—

“Ho ho ho!”

Then—gone.

Silent Bite - Chapter Two

The North Pole fades behind them, a warm glow against the Arctic night. Santa can still see Ellie and Jingles waving from the launchpad, Holly’s tiny form jumping with excitement. Their belief has renewed him—reminding him that magic lives in imperfection. However, now comes the actual test. Billions of deliveries, and not all of them in safe, peaceful homes. The magical world holds wonders, yes—but also dangers most children never know. He pushes the thought aside. Tonight is about joy.

They cut through the clouds like scissors through gift wrap, leaving trails of frost in their wake. Leaning forward against the current, his beard whips in the air. A cluster of lights nestled in a valley of pristine white comes into view. Sweden. His gloved hands stiffen on the reins, and the reindeer respond with a synchronised dip, circling for the perfect landing. His pulse pumps with excitement. The first drop of the season. A familiar doubt stirs: ‘What if he can’t reach everyone in time? What if the wonder fades?’ Everything else fades; his eyes glaze over as the questions race through his mind.

Scrunching his eyes to refocus, he grips the bridle tighter and feels the reindeer’s confidence flow through his fingers; everything becomes natural again.

“Silent night, indeed.” The sleigh touches down on a sloped roof without a whisper. The tiles creak beneath the runners. Dasher snorts, her amber eyes gleaming in the darkness, scanning for threats that don’t exist in this peaceful Swedish hamlet. In a flash of red, he’s down the chimney with familiar ease. Within a few moments, he’s back on top of the house. The reindeer paw, snorting clouds of frost.

After settling back into the driver’s seat, he checks his timepiece. What seems like minutes is merely seconds.

“Time to move on,” he utters. Urging them on. Dasher nods. Comet and the rest of the herd follow in agreement. Santa glances back towards the chimney. He can feel the children—their excitement a beacon of joy, feeding the very magic that fuels his journey. Warmth flows through his chest, steadying his hands. With a jolt of his arms, he snaps the reins. The sleigh lifts, whispering skyward once more. They arc over Europe—over rooftops in Berlin, past Parisian windows, across snow-laced bridges, straddling the London Thames. The rhythm and the ease of repetition help his confidence return.

He places gifts in minutes that would take others days. Santa moves with practiced efficiency, guiding the team in tight spirals and controlled dives. Sliding down chimneys, through mail slots, unlocked openings and doors. His entry methods vary with every single type of dwelling. What mortals don’t realise is that his ability to access homes isn’t merely skill. It’s an ancient spell born of faith itself. Each child’s belief and joy from the festive spirit drives the enchantment. Years of magical evolution woven into his very fabric. This allows him to change shape into a mere wisp. Squeezing through the smallest of gaps as he approaches each home. Christmas drives belief; belief fuels the magic.

They fly through cities and across continents. They bank west, gathering pace. The night is young, and Santa Claus is right on schedule. Dasher glances back, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“I know that look.” A smile crosses his face. “Let’s see what you’ve got.” They rocket over the Atlantic Ocean. Santa’s beard lashes against his face as they hit top speed. The night crackles with wonder. He takes up the reins.

Manhattan glitters, spilling light in grids. As he weaves between skyscrapers with fighter pilot manoeuvres, he guides them lower. Santa brings the sleigh to a halt. He chuckles. “Not as scenic as the Alps, but New York has its charm.”

Santa approaches the rooftop door. The stairwell yawns before him, narrow and steep, descending into shadow. His form shifts again—not quite invisibility. He descends through the open staircase. Physics yields to Christmas magic. In a glimmer, he slips through the keyhole, his bag somehow following without a snag. Elves weave everything he wears with the same magic, to shift into a wisp.

He finds what he’s searching for as he reaches into the sack full of gifts—a fire truck with all the sights and sounds to entertain a child, expertly wrapped. The tag reads:

“James,

Merry Christmas.

Love, Santa.”

Santa props the toy vehicle beneath the tree—first in line for the young boy to find. From his collection of gifts come other packages—a computer game for James’ older sister, a fountain pen for their father, a designer handbag for their mother. Each present arranged with artistic precision—a silent tableau of hope. An infant sighs in their sleep; the apartment settles back into silence. The last gift he reaches for is a jewellery box, for their grandmother. Quickly, he places it beside the other presents. Backing towards the door, he’s careful not to wake anyone. He slips through in a fluid motion. Outside the door in the hallway, he pauses and listens. A tiny figure in flannel pyjamas pads into the parlour. Not wanting to stall the night, he smiles and vanishes to the rooftop, where the reindeer wait. He glances at the list and checks it. The names glow green after he delivers their gifts. Millions more remain. From Philadelphia to Pittsburgh, from rooftops to terraced homes, the sleigh follows glowing titles and golden coordinates. Time dilates. Children dream. The world sleeps. Santa delivers.

“Next stop,” checking the location that appears beside a gleaming name, his eyebrows rise. “New Orleans. The Magnolia Street Orphanage.” Something about the notation alongside this entry on the navigation gives him pause.

“Interesting. Well, let’s not keep them waiting,” he says. They continue rising, banking south. He turns his gaze towards warmer climates, where ancient magic sometimes takes forms unfamiliar even to him.

As they approach, The Crimson Star—a rare warning—flashes without explanation. A strange sensation crawls up his spine, cold sweat beading on his brow. A deep line forms between his eyebrows. His gaze darts between the signals and dials on the dashboard. The sleigh’s enchantment senses kindness like a flame in the dark—soft, undeniable. Tonight, it’s flickering. As they draw closer to their next delivery, the blinking becomes more urgent.

New Orleans air hits him like a warm, wet blanket after the crisp winter further north. The sleigh descends through layers of mist that taste of river water and spices, the reindeer’s hooves cutting through thick clouds. Below, lamps and their light bleed into fog that coils around wrought-iron balconies and crumbling brick. The French Quarter sleeps beneath, but he guides his team towards a quieter neighbourhood where the Magnolia Street Orphanage hunches behind rusted gates. Its Spanish-colonial facade streaked with decades of rain and neglect.

A swell of unease rises in his chest. He strives to steady his hands as the nerves try to take over. The list, often forthcoming, remains vague. He recognises a name he’s spotted before, Isabelle. He’s watched her grow up. From a baby living with her parents to the tragedy of them both dying. After the dreadful car accident three years ago, she ended up here at the orphanage. Despite the trauma she has endured at such a young age, she always keeps a kindness. This year, something is different. The list usually glows with names, gifts, and goodness or mischief… now it’s neutral. Silent. “Something’s not right here,” he says, studying the notation.

The sleigh’s dashboard glows with a thousand tiny lights: scarlet buttons labelled ‘Delivery Progress’ and blue toggles for ‘Speed Boost.’

“What do you make of this, old friends?” He wonders aloud. The reindeer snort restlessly. They can sense it too—something wrong permeates the air. Santa tugs at his beard, his re-found confidence wavering. The Crimson Star seems to throb with each beat of his heart, as if trying to communicate a danger he can’t quite comprehend. Doubt creeps in, and he considers skipping this stop. The thought of orphan children waking to empty stockings and no presents under the tree tightens his chest. ‘We’ve faced worse,’ he tells himself, though he’s not convincing anyone, least of all himself. As they push on, New Orleans looms closer.

The sleigh touches down on the street beside the orphanage. No rooftop landing this time—the structure appears to be too fragile to support even magical reindeer. The warning light in the cockpit blinks frantically now. Santa secures the reins, patting Donner’s flank.

“It’s alright, girl,” he says to his team, voice tight. “Stay alert.”

He approaches the rear of the children’s home on foot, with his bag slung over one shoulder. Weighed down not by the bag, but by the encroaching dread. He has visited here many times before; however, this time feels different. The wrought-iron gates loom ahead of him, twisted and rusted, hanging askew from crumbling stone pillars. They part at his touch, hinges shriek in protest—a sound that seems deafening in the night, yet the building remains dark and still.

Magnolia petals litter the path to the veranda; their sweetness turns sour in the damp air. Ivy creeps up stucco walls, forcing its way amid peeling layers. The structure exhales, settling into its foundations with a sigh of rotting wood.

Above the door, the light flickers, creating more shadows than light. The doorknob turns easily—no locks here, no barriers between the kids and whatever might wander in from the New Orleans night.

The door swings open with a soft moan. Santa steps into a vast hallway and continues up a flight of stairs, towards a large room on the left that serves as a dormitory. Rows of metal cots line both walls, each one occupied by a slight form under threadbare quilts. Ceiling fans hang motionless, useless against the clinging dampness. His throat tightens. He longs for the North Pole’s frostbitten quiet. Even its cruel winds feel kinder than this heat-drenched silence. The youngsters sleep; some curl into tight balls. Beside many of the pillows lie hymn booklets, their pages dog-eared. No toys. No personal possessions beyond the occasional faded photograph.

Santa moves stealthily between the rows, joy dampened by the starkness. He reminds himself, these children still believe. Despite everything, they’ve kept faith. Their names glow on his list, each qualified by some small kindness. The common room extends off the dorm, marked by a stone fireplace and mismatched chairs. A spindly pine tree leans in the corner, its branches sagging under the weight of paper chains and scavenged tinsel. Tilting to one side and covered in cobwebs, a single string of electric lights hangs from it, half the bulbs burned out, the remainder a dull flicker.

Santa places his bag on the floor. From within, he retrieves packages covered in bright packaging. A baseball glove. Coloured pencils. Warm socks and scarves. Toys and books. Each chosen specifically. The distant drip of water marks time as he arranges the presents around the tree. The gifts shimmer in the darkness as he pulls them out—but one resists. Like something unseen pushing back. He reaches into the sack for the final parcel—larger than the others, wrapped in scarlet wrapping with a silver ribbon. A particular gift for Isabelle, who shared her only blanket with a new arrival last winter. As he places it beneath the tree, the air turns cold—not freezing, but a deeper chill. The warning symbol on his wristwatch pulses urgently.

He stills. The dormitory remains quiet, but the silence changes. It’s expectant, too calm for an orphanage of young children before Christmas. A shadow moves. Not towards the gifts, but towards Santa. Faint, gliding, more liquid than solid.

“Hello?” Santa’s voice is gentle, though his instincts scream. “It’s alright. I’m just leaving presents.”

No response.

A small figure steps into a patch of moonlit room. A girl—only seven—with pale skin and dark ringlets. The white nightgown hangs on her thin frame loosely. Her eyes reflect light like a cat’s in the pale light. Her stillness and the unnatural focus in her gaze hint at something beyond human.

She blocks his path, like a predator cornering its prey.

“Isabelle?” Santa asks, recognising it’s her.

She says nothing. Her eyes track him with eerie concentration. She smiles a sinister smile. Her incisors protrude.

“I brought something for you,” he offers. “For sharing your blanket. That was kind.”

No response. Her expression drops. She creeps forward another step. Her bare feet make no sound.

Unease prickles Santa’s spine. He crouches at her level. “Are you alright, child?”

She lunges. He reaches out to embrace her.

Pain knives into his thigh—fast and deep. Blooming with expanding terror. Isabelle steps away. Her mouth stained, her eyes full of something like fear. Afraid and shimmering.

His hat falls as he crumples in agony. Blood darkens the red of his trousers.

He presses the wound. Crimson soaks the cloth in seconds. He collapses to the floor, leaning against the cold tile for support. Santa reels, dazed. Her bite carries more than punctured skin. Something ancient. A curse unravelling in his veins.

His breath comes in short, ragged gasps as he tries to focus, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. The world around him blurs, and he shakes his head, attempting to steady himself and make sense of the chaos.

Isabelle stands frozen, terror and confusion rising in her eyes. Slowly, the enormity of what she has just done creeps over her face, and she retreats. She takes one slow step, and another. Santa watches her, wondering how this could have happened. How did she end up like this? He tries to fight it in case she might attack again—but more than that, whoever turned her might still be nearby.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to.” The words catch in Isabelle’s throat as her stomach aches with emptiness.

He lifts a trembling hand but can’t find the strength. He wants to comfort her. To forgive. But the words won’t come. Only the cold does.

She disappears into the shadows.

He crawls back the way he came, clawing and gasping. With his grasp reaching out for the bed frame, he hauls himself upright. He scoops his hat from the floor. His body aches with every movement. Limping down the stairs, he clambers towards the exit. Unsteady and bouncing off walls, he stumbles into the night, the orphanage at his back.

His hands feel numb. He removes his gloves as he makes his way back to the sleigh. The veins in his hands pulse blue under his skin—ice-bright, unnatural.

The truth crashes down. Isabelle isn’t just a child anymore. Not human. Not alone. Not just cursed—recruited. She’s a vampire. Newly turned. Still innocent enough for the Nice List, but no longer in control. Deep down, she is still a kid; she still believes. It must’ve happened recently. The signs are fresh—confused hunger, lingering fear. Whoever changed her hasn’t stayed to guide her, or wants her to thirst. Yet the force of vampirism is undeniably transforming her. The name glows not for her body, but for her soul—still kind, still having faith. Trapped between what she was and what she’s becoming. Santa’s magic reads only the essence. And Isabelle’s is still good. His greatest strength—believing in goodness and kindness—now seems to have become his downfall.

Each step burns. His vision narrows; skin grows clammy, breath ragged. The reindeer paw nervously, sensing something wrong.

“We’ve got... we’ve got a real problem here.” His voice is a slow, slurred murmur.

His legs buckle. The world tilts. Knees hit stone.

He must warn them, but the thought slips away, like southern raindrops evaporating on the leaves.

He falls, the stars overhead smudging like wet ink.

She’s not just a monster—she’s still Isabelle. Yet the cold is spreading.

The sleigh looms in the distance.

Magnolia petals. Blood on his hands. The atmosphere is thick with silence. Then—nothing.