Krampus

Chapter Nine Blood Bath

From the rear seat of Chet’s Chevy Avalanche, Jesse watched the gate grind open along its rusty track. The rain had picked up, and the darkening sky painted everything gray. Chet pulled into the General’s compound and up to the motor bay followed by Ash in Jesse’s truck. The gate rattled shut with a clang that echoed in Jesse’s head like a death decree. Cinder-block walls, barbed wire, steel outbuildings, rusting diesel parts, and dirty snow—Jesse couldn’t picture a more desolate setting to meet his end. He watched the water drops gather and slide down the windshield, remembered how as a child he’d pretend they were eating each other, tried to pretend he was sitting in the back of his daddy’s car now heading over to Grandma’s for dinner. He fought to control his shaking, the fear in the pit of his stomach. The fear came not from knowledge of his impending death; he was more than ready for that. He’d lost everything, Abigail, Linda, and now the only thing he had left—his music. His left hand was utterly ruined; he would never play again. His fear came instead from knowing his death was going to be long and bad . . . very, very bad. He squeezed his eyes shut. Please God, make it quick. I don’t have the strength for this. You know I don’t.

Chet got out, came around, and opened Jesse’s door. He dug Dillard’s keys out from his jacket and uncuffed Jesse from the armrest. Chet tucked the cuffs away and hauled Jesse out, bumping his injured hand. A fresh jolt of pain shot up Jesse’s arm and he fought not to cry out.

“Get used to hurting,” Chet said. “ ’Cause you got a world of it ahead of you. As a matter of fact I can without a doubt state you are the very last person I’d care to be right now.” Jesse saw Chet meant it, caught genuine pity on his face.

There came a click, an electrical hum, and the bay door rattled upward, revealing first boots, then legs, and finally a row of men. The General stood, his arms across his chest, eyes set on Jesse, his face stone, staring so hard as to appear never to blink. Behind him stood close to a dozen men, all Boggses and Smootses, all the General’s kin of one sort or another. The whole clan turned out, Jesse thought. A family reunion just for me. And the reason why wasn’t lost on him. He knew the General meant to make an example of him, to show these men what happens when someone betrays Sampson Ulysses Boggs.

“Bring him on in,” the General said, his voice dry and dead as his face.

Chet and Ash each grabbed one of Jesse’s arms. “You’re in a world of shit, Jesse,” Ash said. “A world of shit.” They dragged him into the auto bay. The men moved aside, revealing a single steel office chair in the middle of the room. They sat him down.

The General plucked a roll of gray duct tape off the peg board, tossed it to Chet. “Make sure he can’t squirm loose.”

Jesse made to rise, and two sets of hands sat him back down hard, held him tight while Chet strapped his ankles to the front legs of the chair and his arms to the back.

Ash came in, carrying the Mac-10 Dillard had taken from Jesse. He handed it to the General along with the additional clips and cash they’d found in Jesse’s jacket.

The General looked the gun over, nodded. “You’re right, Chet. It’s one of mine.” He sat the gun down on a tool cart and began to count the cash.

“There’s eight hundred dollars there,” Chet said.

“Eight, huh,” the General said, scratching at his thick beard. “I believe that’s at least forty thousand short.” He looked at Jesse, wagged the cash at him. “Someone stole this out of my safe . . . without even opening it. Can’t wait to hear the secret to that trick.

“Ash. Shut the bay will you?”

Ash hit the switch. The bay door rolled down and Jesse watched the gray day slowly disappear from view, and it felt to him as though someone was closing the lid on his coffin.

Everybody stood in silence, waiting for the General’s next move. Jesse never felt more alone in his life. He heard a muffled train whistle from somewhere far off and wondered if Abigail could hear that same whistle, realized he didn’t even get to tell her good-bye, to tell her one last time how much he loved her. He could still hear that scream, his sweet little girl screaming with fear and pain all because of him, and it burned into him like a brand. He gritted his teeth, blinked back hot tears. He was ready, ready for it to all be done.

Chet rolled over a tool cart. An array of tools sat along the two shelves: saws, hammers, pliers, a hand drill, a nail gun, and even a blowtorch. Jesse did his best not to look at any of it.

“Don’t much care for the way Dillard’s treating Linda and Abigail,” Chet said, speaking to the General.

“Why, what’d he do?”

“Bloodied Linda up a bit.”

“That so?” the General said.

“Yanking that little girl around by the hair.”

“I guess them girls is his business now.”

“Don’t make it right,” Chet growled.

“There’s a lot not right around here,” the General said and set eyes on Jesse. “A lot of shit needs getting to the bottom of.” He pulled a shop stool over and took a seat in front of Jesse. “Jesse you’re already dead. You know that and I know that. So you’re probably asking yourself why you should bother answering any of my questions. I think your answer depends on how bad a death you wanna have.” He pulled a silver snub-nose revolver out of his belt, leveled it at Jesse. “You answer my questions straight up, then I’ll take this here gun and shoot you in the head and it’ll all be over. You have my word on it. And you know I’m good for my word.” He sat the gun down on top of the tool cart, leaned over, and tugged something out from the bottom shelf. He held it up and Jesse found himself staring into the milky, dead eyes of the severed cow head. The General dropped it on Jesse’s lap; the cold wetness soaked into his pants, the stink saturating his nostrils.

The General flipped off his hat and the overhead fluorescent gleamed off his bald scalp. He set the hat on the tool cart and picked up the nail gun. Held it in front of Jesse’s face. “Now, on the other hand, if you give me the runaround, lie to me even once, then things are gonna get real ugly, real fast.” The General pointed the nail gun at the floor and hit the trigger. A nail blasted out of the front and bounced off the concrete floor with a spark and a loud ting.

The General pressed the nail gun against Jesse’s kneecap. “Now, tell me, Jesse Walker. Just how did that there cow head come to find its way into my safe?”

Jesse closed his eyes, tried to prepare himself for the pain, because he knew whatever he said would be the wrong thing, that he’d never be able to convince them of the truth, and there was no lie he could possibly come up with that would make any sense. There was no way out, and no one to hear his screams, not out here, and if they did, they’d know better than to call the police about it. I’m fucked and that’s all there is to it.

“I got twenty-four-hour surveillance,” the General said. “I watched the tapes, and from the time I left till the time I came in the next morning, weren’t no one anywhere near this place, let alone in my office. That safe weren’t broke into and nobody knows that combination but me. So tell me Jesse . . . tell me how you done it?”

Jesse opened his mouth, tried to come up with something, anything.

The General tapped the nail gun against his knee. “Now think real hard before you answer, because you want to get this right the first time. Trust me on that.”

“I used the Santa sack.”

The bay fell dead quiet.

Chet let out a snort.

“Come again,” the General said.

“The sack. The fucking Santa sack. The one in my truck.” Jesse’s voice kept rising. “I used it to empty your safe. It’s magic, all right? All right!” he yelled. “You can fucking believe me or fucking not!”

The nail gun hissed. Jesse felt the kick as the piston drove the nail deep into his kneecap. A half-second later the pain hit. “Fuck!” Jesse cried. “Fuck!” The General bounced the nail gun up Jesse’s thigh, hit the trigger again, and again, and again, driving three more nails into Jesse’s leg. Jesse screamed, bucked, would’ve knocked the chair over backward had Chet not caught him and set him up straight.

The General grabbed the cow’s head by the ear, tossed it aside, shoved the nail gun hard into Jesse’s crotch. Jesse groaned.

“Jesse, do you really want to spend the entire evening doing this? I know I don’t. I just want some answers. Want to know about this gang you been running with. Who they are? Where they live? So here’s the place where I give you one more chance. You work with me here, and this can all be over. I can go home and watch some TV and you can be dead. Now tell me Jesse. How’d you get into my safe?”

“Look . . .” Jesse said, barely able to get the words out. “Just . . . bring me the sack. I . . . can show you.”

The General shook his head, pulled the trigger. Jesse felt the nail tear into his groin. “No!” Jesse screamed as the General punched two more into his gut, the nails penetrating deep into his lower abdomen.

“Oh, God!” Jesse screamed. “Oh, for fuck’s sake! Stop! Stop it!” He swooned, almost blacked out. “Listen,” he gasped, trying to get the words out between sobs. “Listen . . . hear me out. You want your fucking money back, right?” He gritted his teeth, tried to focus through the pain. “I can . . . get it back. Your drugs . . . all of it. Right now. But you gotta hear me out. God, what the fuck you got to lose? Just hear me out.”

No one spoke; the only sound in the bay was Jesse’s groans. Jesse watched the blood darkening his pants along his leg and crotch. Tried not to think of the nails inside his gut, the holes they’d punched into his lower intestines. He’d always heard a gut wound was the worst way to go, slow and painful, he could certainly attest to the pain.

“Okay, son. Shoot.”

Jesse raised his head, tried to blink away the tears, tried to hold the General’s gaze. “Your drugs . . . are still under . . . fuck . . . under the front seat of my truck. Exactly where your dumbass nephew . . . left them. I can get your money back . . . but I’ll need the sack. I know you think I’m full of shit. Look . . . look at me. Do I look like I’m fucking around?” Sharp pain made Jesse squeeze his eyes shut, he let out a deep grunt, opened them again. “What the hell do you have to lose? Just bring me the goddamn sack and I’ll show you.”

The General paused, seemed to mull it over, and Jesse dared to hope that he just might have a chance. The sack was open to the church, the money was there, but more important, so was the rest of the General’s guns.

“Chet, go get that stupid sack.”

“What? Really, I mean how the fuck can a sack—”

“Shut up and just go get the damn sack.”

“Ash,” Chet said. “Go get that damn sack.”

“No, Chet,” the General said. “I told you to get it. I’m the one that gives the orders around here.”

Chet gave Jesse a dark look, then headed toward the side door.

“And the drugs,” the General called. “See if the drugs are there.”

The men waited, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, looking at the tools, at the overhead fluorescents, at the flickering Christmas lights over on the stairs, anywhere but at Jesse, at the nails protruding out of his leg and gut.

Jesse fixed on the sack, trying to push the pain from his mind by thinking about what he’d do if he could just get a hold of one of those guns. God, if you were to grant me a last wish. Please, give me the chance to send as many of these motherfuckers to Hell as I can.

“Praying ain’t gonna save you, son,” the General said.

Jesse started, wondered for a second if he’d been thinking out loud.

The General sat the nail gun down. “The truth. That’s your only salvation.”

Chet came in, carrying the sack over his shoulder and the packet wrapped in duct tape. “Well, I’ll be damned. He weren’t lying about the drugs. Here they are.”

The General’s brow tightened. “That don’t make no sense. Why—” He paused. “Shit, ain’t nothing making sense. Here, hand me that blasted sack. We’re gonna get to the bottom of this nonsense, and right now.”

The General held the sack, seemed to weigh it. “Not much to it.” He laid it on the floor, stepped on it, watched it slowly reinflate. “Tell me that ain’t strange.” He pulled it open. All the men stepped forward, leaned in, trying to get a look. “Can’t really see nothing.” He pulled the mouth of the sack open as wide as he could, tried to angle it so the overhead fluorescence would illuminate the insides. “Kinda smoky, huh?” The General looked up and the other men all nodded.

“Chet, here. Reach in and make sure he’s not hiding nothing in there.”

“Are you fucking nuts? I ain’t sticking my hand in there. No telling what’s in there. That smoky stuff could be some sort of poison.”

The General scratched his beard and looked around; there were no volunteers. “Well, it is a bit creepy I guess.” He held the sack upside down and shook it. Nothing fell out. He took the sack and pushed the air out of it, folded it once, started rolling it up, tighter and tighter, until it was as tight as a bedroll. “Don’t think you could hide any sort of weapon in that. Couldn’t hide much of nothing.” He set hard eyes on Jesse. “This better not be a game. If it is . . . I can guarantee you’ll regret it something awful.” He dropped the sack on the ground in front of Jesse. Everyone watched as it slowly regained its shape.

“Now, tell me how to make it work.”

“Can’t.”

“Can’t?”

“No, it won’t work for you. It’s like a magic hat, you have to know the trick. I have to show you.”

The General squinted at him. “You’re trying to tell me you used a magic trick to steal from my safe.”

“Yes.”

“That’s a bunch of bullsnot,” Chet put in. “He’s just trying to make us look stupid.”

“You’re telling me if I let you stick your hand in here,” the General continued, “you can pull out my cash?”

Jesse nodded.

“Well,” the General said. “That’s one magic trick I wouldn’t miss for the world. Cut his arms loose.”

Chet let out a disagreeable grunt but slipped his knife out from the holster on his belt and slit the tape. Jesse freed his arms, cradled them to his chest, careful to avoid touching his lap or leg.

“Don’t you try nothing,” Chet said and pressed the knife against his neck.

“Hell, Chet,” Ash said. “What’s he gonna do, get blood on your shirt?” Ash snickered. “Christ, if you don’t sound like a little girl sometimes.”

The men chuckled and Chet turned red. “Fuck you, Ash. Hell, if you don’t sound like a little bitch when you’re choking on my goddamn pecker.”

“Both of you shut up,” the General said. “And Chet put that knife away before you hurt yourself.” The General picked up the sack and sat it beside Jesse. “Okay, son. We’re all waiting.”

Jesse tugged the sack up and balanced it on his good leg. He held it in place with his left arm, careful not to let it bump his broken fingers. The men watched his every move. He swallowed. Okay, God, time to pick your team. He closed his eyes, thought of the guns, and inserted his good hand. No delay this time, the sack was still open to exactly where he’d last been; his hand hit the stack of cash, he patted over and bumped metal—one of the .45s. He opened his eyes, found everyone leaning in, all trying to see what he was up to. He pushed the safety off and slipped his fingers around the grip, licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. He started to slide his arm out and felt Chet’s hand on his shoulder, his knife against his back. “I’m watching you.” And this time no one gave Chet a hard time, the mood had changed; Jesse could sense their nervousness.

Shit, Jesse thought, this won’t work. He almost pulled the handgun out anyway, just went for it, but stopped. No, if you do this right, you just might get out of here. He sat the .45 down, picked up as many bills as he could hold, and slowly inched his arm from the sack.

“That’s it,” Chet said. “Nice and slow.”

Jesse eased his hand out, revealing the rolls of bills. There came several audible gasps, and Jesse felt every bit the stage magician. He handed them to the General.

The General scrutinized the cash, shook his head, and smiled. “Well, slap me silly!”

Grunts and grins of approval, someone even clapped; Jesse wondered if he should bow. Instead he slipped his hand back in and pulled out another handful, then another, dropping the cash onto the floor, watching, waiting until they were all taken in by the trick, discussing, joking, and staring at the money. He felt the knife leave his back, saw Chet staring in stupid wonder. Now, Jesse thought and found the gun again, wrapped his hand around the grip, his finger on the trigger. He twisted round, bringing the handgun up quick, intent on dropping Chet before he could stab him. But the gun sight snagged on the lip of the sack, causing Jesse to fire before the revolver cleared the sack. There came two muffled reports, but the bullets didn’t punch through the velvet and Jesse understood with horrifying clarity that he wasn’t firing at Chet at all, but into the church.

“Oh, fuck!” Chet cried as Jesse shook the gun free. Chet drove his knife into Jesse’s back, shoved Jesse, chair and all, forward, toward the pile of money. Jesse landed face-first into the cash, Chet already on top of him, stomping down on his hand before he could raise the gun, crushing the weapon and Jesse’s fingers beneath his boot. The gun went off, two rounds hitting the concrete floor. Men scattered as sparks and ricochets bounced about the bay. Chet stomped again. Jesse heard his fingers snap, and on top of all his other pain, his brain found room to bear this fresh assault in full glory. Jesse screamed and lost hold of the gun. Chet kicked the weapon across the room.

Jesse lay in the pile of money, his legs still strapped to the toppled chair, cradling both his broken hands to his chest. Someone was yelling, but it was hard to make out over the ringing in his ears. Chet yanked the knife out of his back and Jesse gasped, choking as he struggled to breathe.

I’m dying, Jesse thought, and found great comfort in this.

“HOLY SHIT!” CHET yelled. “Holy freaking, fucking shit!”

The General sat on the stool staring at Jesse, at the sack, the cash, the gun, trying hard to make sense of any of it, of any of the strange events over the last couple of days. He wished Chet would shut up and stop stomping around. The General leaned forward, tugged the sack out from under Jesse. There was blood all over the sack. The General felt sure the kid was on his way out.

“What do you want to do about this turd?” Chet cried.

“Stop yelling, Chet,” the General said. “I’m right here.”

“Fucker almost killed me! Almost killed everyone!”

“Yep,” the General nodded as he pulled the sack open and peered into its smoking depths.

“Hey, you ain’t thinking about sticking your arm in there are yah?”

The General nodded absently. “I think I am.”

The men began to pick themselves off the ground, checking themselves for holes. Apparently, no one caught any of the ricochets and they gathered back around, all eyes glued on the sack.

The General slipped his hand in, all the way up to the wrist, waited. The air in the sack felt cooler, but other than that nothing happened. He pushed his whole arm in. His hand hit something. He gave it a light pat, knew exactly what it was. He pulled out a handful of hundreds. “If that don’t beat all.” He grinned. Shoved his hand back in, only this time his hand didn’t find any cash—instead, something found his hand. The General’s grin fell from his face. His eyes grew large. Something had a hold of him.

“What?” Chet asked. “What the fuck now?”

The General let out a yelp, tried to yank his arm free, when that something gave him a tug, pulled his arm, shoulder, and entire head into the sack. There came a blink of darkness, then he found himself face-to-face with . . . the devil. The General screamed. The devil pressed its nose right up against his, grinned, its hot breath coming through jagged teeth, its eyes, its red, glowing eyes staring right into him. The General screamed again, felt hands grab hold of his legs and waist, hauling him back into the bay. Only the devil didn’t let go; no, it held tight to his arm and came right along with him.

“What the fuck is that!” Chet yelled.

The devil was halfway out of the bag, halfway into the room, looking like a kid in a sack race. It let go of the General and stepped out of the sack.

The General tried to scream again, but had no air left in his lungs and emitted a pathetic squawk.

The thing stood to its full height, towering above them, at least seven feet tall, all wiry muscles and veins and black, glistening skin and fur. A wild mane of ink-black hair framed twisting horns as wide as its shoulders. It looked around at the men, grinning from ear to ear, its red, slanted eyes gleaming. It began to chuckle.

Everyone froze.

“Time to be terrible,” the devil said, and snapped its tail like a whip. The men stumbled back and the beast let loose a roar. The booming sound shook the steel walls.

Chet snatched the General’s snub-nosed pistol off the tool tray, but the beast moved almost faster than the General could see, slashed its claws across Chet’s chest, opened him up to the bone, and sent him tumbling into the men.

Men scrambled in every direction, into each other, into the tool carts, into chaos. A gun shot went off and another, but the beast was gone, leaping across the room. It hit the overhead fluorescents and the tubes exploded in a shower of sparks, throwing the room into the red glow of the Christmas lights. More gunshots, and in the muzzle flashes the General saw the beast tearing men apart, slashing and ripping. Men were screaming, crying, bawling.

The General crawled on his hands and knees toward the door, his hands slipping and sliding in the blood—in all the blood. He climbed over two bodies, his hand tangling in something warm and squishy—a man’s stomach, his very guts. A bullet caught the General in the leg. He let out a cry and crumpled. Someone fell atop of him—Ash, clutching his neck as blood spurted between his fingers. Howls echoed, coming from everywhere, crawling beneath the General’s skin. The General pulled his knees up to his chest, hugged them tight, squeezed his eyes shut. “Please, God, please, Jesus,” he whimpered. “Please, don’t let Satan take me.”

JESSE TRIED TO reach his ankles, tried to tear the tape off, but his broken fingers couldn’t do the trick. He grunted, let out a groan, and fell back. The pain in his stomach, legs, hands, back, it all made the slightest movement unbearable. His eyes grew accustomed to the dim glow of the Christmas lights, their shine casting long shadows across the dead and dying. He focused on the carnage, on Krampus, trying to push the pain from his mind.

Krampus straddled Ash’s quivering body. The Yule Lord was taller, larger, and so much more imposing than when Jesse had seen him last. His horns were now mighty weapons, unbroken and curling upward from his head, his eyes glowed boldly, his movements quick and powerful. Krampus punched his hand into Ash’s chest, cracking bones and tearing tissue, to come away with something Jesse guessed must be the man’s heart. Krampus held the organ heavenward and let out a triumphant howl. Squeezed the heart and let the blood run down his arm and drip into his mouth. His chest heaved and a deep growl full of strength, of vitality, of life escaped his throat.

The Yule Lord tossed the heart away, surveyed the room, the carnage, cocked his head this way and that to better take in the moans of the mangled and dying. And he was grinning; even in the gloom Jesse could clearly see that grin. His slanted eyes fell on Jesse. “It is good . . . good to be terrible,” Krampus said, licking the blood from his hand.

Jesse shook his head, focused on breathing.

The Yule Lord frowned. “You do not look well.”

“Been . . . better.” Jesse coughed. “Think I’m dying.”

Krampus walked over, knelt down next to him, looked at the growing pool of blood beneath him. “Yes, I believe you are.” He cut the tape loose with a quick slash of his fingernail, gently propped Jesse up against the tool cart. “You’ve been very naughty.”

Jesse nodded. “Yeah. I have at that.”

Krampus smiled. “You may be dying, but you still have your spirit.”

Someone moved behind Krampus—Chet, struggling to sit up near the door. He still had the snub-nose, held it in his shaking hands, trying to level it at Krampus. Jesse opened his mouth to utter a warning when the pistol went off with a deafening bang. The bullet hit Krampus in the horn. Krampus leapt to his feet. The gun went off again, the bullet sparking off the concrete floor several feet to their left. Chet’s arms fell; he slumped against the door frame, dropping the gun into his lap. Krampus strolled over, squatted before him.

“Fuck, fucking devil, fucker fuck!” Chet spat, blood running from his mouth. He tried again and again to lift the gun but couldn’t.

Krampus glanced over his shoulder at Jesse. “This one has spirit as well. Might make a good soldier.” Krampus plucked the gun from Chet’s hand and tossed it away. Grabbed hold of the man’s arm and bit him on the wrist.

Chet let out a howl, yanked his arm away. “You bit me! What the hell is that shit?” He stared at the bite. Even in the dim light Jesse could see the skin around the bite darkening, the stain spreading up Chet’s arm, and understood that Krampus had turned him.

“You are mine now. You will sit here and wait until I tell you otherwise.”

“Fuck you!”

Krampus left Chet leaning against the wall, rubbing his arm and slowly turning black all over. He walked to the sack and picked it up. “You deserted me,” he said to Jesse. “You broke your oath. I owe you nothing now.”

“I know.”

Krampus held up the sack. “You took something that did not belong to you.”

“Sorry about that.”

“I should kill you.”

“Too . . . late.” Jesse tried to laugh, but choked on his own blood.

“Yet, I bear you no grudge.”

Jesse shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“I am being sincere. Your distractions have made the difference, for all I know they have made all the difference. See, I was trapped in a riddle.” He closed his eyes, his face falling into deep concentration. He inserted his hand into the sack. “There . . . the ship. All is burned . . . the bones, boards, masts, and treasure. And, and, yes.” He smiled. “The answer, so plain I could not see it.” He withdrew his arm and pulled out a spear, broken midway along its shaft and blackened from age and fire. “I was searching for an arrow all this time. So fixated I could see nothing else. Pushing the sack to find a thing that did not exist. But now you see . . . it was not an arrow.” He wiped the spearhead clean of the soot and grime and it gleamed gold, like the strange ore of Krampus’s chains back in the cave. He walked over to Jesse so that he could see the mistletoe leaves and berries delicately inlayed along the blade. “See . . . see the answer? It is a spear, not an arrow.” He let out a great sigh. “The answers to all riddles seem obvious once you know them.”

He turned the blade round and round, as though transfixed. “Baldr,” he whispered. “It is death I hold in my hand. Your death.”

Jesse tried to clear his throat, worked to breathe. Coughed and spat up more blood. The pain all but blinded him, forced him to nearly double over.

Krampus sat down next to him, lay the spear across his lap, and pulled the sack over. He reached in and a moment later held one of the ancient flasks. He tore off the wax.

“Odin’s mead I hope?” Jesse forced a smile.

“Yes, mead. Now drink.” He lifted it to Jesse’s lips. “It will not save you. But it will make the dying easier.”

Jesse drank, several deep gulps—the mead warm and soothing. His vision became fuzzy, dreamlike, his breathing easier, and the pain receded. His eyelids grew heavy, he leaned his head back against the cart, looked at all the dead men. Too bad, he thought. Too bad Dillard hadn’t been here. He forced his head up, clutched Krampus’s arm. “Dillard . . . he still has them!”

“Dillard?”

“He’s got my wife . . . my little girl. He’s a murderer.” Jesse tried to hold the thought, he needed to make Krampus understand, but things were becoming murky, his thoughts befuddled. “He’ll hurt them . . . I know it. We gotta do something, gotta stop him. Krampus . . . I’m begging you . . . go kill that bastard.”

Krampus admired the spear. “Perhaps one day,” he said distractedly. “But this day there is another villain that needs to be dealt with.”

KRAMPUS RAN HIS finger along the blade, watched the red Christmas lights flicker off its edge, thought of the high sorcery that went into the crafting of such a weapon. “Still as sharp as the day it was forged.” He held it out for Jesse to see. Jesse’s eyes were closed, his chin down. Krampus tapped him lightly on the shoulder with the spear.

Jesse’s eyes fluttered open. “What?”

“The blade, see. It still holds its edge.”

Jesse squinted at the blade. “That’s . . . fucking wonderful.” His words were slow, slurred.

“Soon, it shall put an end to this Santa Claus charade forever.”

“Why . . . why the hell you wanna go and kill Santa Claus for . . . anyhow?” Jesse muttered, his words barely comprehensible. “He’s fucking Santa Claus. Hands out presents to children . . . bunch of nice shit like that.” He coughed. “Fuck. Give me another swig of that stuff.”

“He is not Santa Claus,” Krampus said, lifting the flask to Jesse’s lips. “Santa Claus is a lie. He is Baldr. I told you that. Do you not remember?”

“Yeah, Baldr. Okay.”

“You do not understand. You know nothing of him, nothing of his treachery.” Krampus felt his blood rising. “His treachery to me, to all of Asgard. How he brought ruin to all.” Krampus fell silent, listening to Jesse’s labored breathing. “Are you not curious?”

“What?”

“Of Baldr’s treachery?”

“No . . . not so much.”

“Well, you should know. Everyone should know.” Krampus took a deep drink from the flask, wiped his mouth on the back of his arm. “His villainy, his real villainy . . . it began when he came back, after his rebirth, just after Ragnarok swept through Odin’s realm, somewhere around eleven hundred years after the Christ child was born. Are you listening?”

Jesse shook his head.

“That was when Asgard fell beneath war and flame, when all the old gods perished. But no thundering apocalypse consumed the earth as foretold. No, mankind had their new gods by then and barely noticed the passing of the old. And us earthbound spirits found ourselves abandoned and alone in a world that had turned unfriendly to our kind. Over the next several hundred years, men were taught to fear us, to drive us or those who still worshipped us away. Our shrines were burned and desecrated. Without tributes and offerings most gave up, faded, were forgotten, and to be forgotten is death . . . the only true death for my kind.

“My shrines were abandoned as well. By the early 1300s, a new tradition by the name of Christmas had wormed its way across the land and as more and more turned to celebrating this miserable holiday, Yule and Winter Solstice were becoming lost. I could see that soon I, too, would be lost.” Krampus took in a deep breath. “And I almost gave up. But as I walked amongst the winter nights, seeing the splendor of Yuletide perverted by the new religion, my blood began to burn. I was Krampus, the great and terrible Yule Lord, and I vowed that I would no longer suffer such insult, that I would remind them that I was still here, that I would make them believe. And thus began my rebirth. I humbled myself by traveling from house to house. Loki had left to me his sack and I brought it along, offering rewards to those who remembered, who honored me properly. But for those who did not . . . well, for those I was terrible.” Krampus grinned. “I would thrash them with birch rods and for those that would commit evil upon my fold, those I would put in Loki’s sack and beat them until they could not walk.

“And the name Krampus began to mean something again. And if Baldr had not come along, who knows . . . maybe it would be my face on all those cola ads, my balloon floating along on the Yule Day Parade, my Belsnickels ringing bells on the street, demanding tribute, or sitting in department stores and making promises to little boys and girls that will never be kept. Maybe, maybe, but only if I had not taken pity on that soulless creature.”

He glanced at Jesse. Jesse’s chin was back down on his chest. “Jesse?”

Jesse didn’t respond.

Krampus reached over and wiggled one of the nails protruding from Jesse’s leg.

“Ow, fuck!” Jesse cried. “Watch it. Goddamn, what’s wrong with you?”

“You still live.”

“Yeah . . . I still live. Lucky me.”

Krampus nodded. “Good . . . now, where was I? Ah yes, Baldr’s rebirth. It had been prophesied that Baldr would be reborn onto the earth realm after Ragnarok, an earth cleansed of darkness by an all-consuming fire, Baldr reborn a god of light and peace, a just god, to watch over the world of men. But of course there came no cleansing flame and the Baldr I found stumbling in my forests did not even know his own name. Draped in filthy rags, he looked lost, starved. And being that there were so few of us left from the old lineage, I felt a kinship, a responsibility. So I brought him into my domain, dressed him, fed him, plied him with drink. Yet never did I see him smile, not then. But there were times when I would catch him staring at me, his face dark, as though blaming me for all his woes. I should have taken heed to this, but the truth of it was I harbored guilt, guilt for what my mother and grandfather had done to him. I suffered under the delusion that my charity might in some way absolve my lineage of these crimes.

“I offered him brotherhood, gave him a place at my side. Together we took the task of spreading Yuletide. But he seemed ever in a state of brooding, and made only a halfhearted effort at best. One night, as I ravished a house honoring Saint Nicholas, I saw Baldr pocket a small book bearing the saint’s mark upon its cover. I should have taken it from him, thrown it into the fire, but my pity made me weak. It was not too long thereafter that he began to don the red and white, to mimic Saint Nicholas in dress. Still I held my tongue, hoped it was but a passing fancy. Then I found the cross. It sat brazenly upon the mantelpiece in his room, the sight hitting me as a slap to the face—the very symbol of my torment in my house! This was more than I could bear. I stormed into his room and threw the cursed item into the fireplace. I tore open his coffer, intent on finding and destroying this book. I did not find that book, but I did find a treasure trove of artifacts and scrolls filled with the dead saint’s teachings. I tore them apart, threw the shards at his feet, and demanded explanation. Asked him how he could embrace such evil. He showed no emotion, his face like stone as always. He told me then that the old ways were dead. That I was too blind to see that the ancients’ time upon earth had passed. He snatched the smothering cross from out of the fireplace, held it before me as though it were a great talisman. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Here is the world we now live in. And unless you learn to serve it you will soon be a relic.’

“I knocked that cross from his hand and slapped him across his face. He hardly flinched, just stared at me with those cold eyes. Enraged, I hit him again, a blow that would have felled an ox. Nothing, it was as though he did not even feel it, and it was then that I did first see him smile. A smile of pity. Pity, for me. The way one would look at a misguided child! This disparaging look, it burned into me and so I snatched up the iron poker from the fireplace and struck him soundly across the face. He laughed, a sound that I can still hear to this day. It went into my brain and drove out all sane thought. I struck him again and again, meaning to murder him . . . yet I made no mark. It was as if I were beating stone and still he laughed, the sound seeming to multiply in my head. It was then that I truly saw him for the monster that he was, that I understood that he had been playing me all along, that even though he had been reborn into flesh, Odin’s spell still held protective power over him. Still I would not stop; I beat him until I could lift the poker no more. He took the poker from me as easily as from a child, knocked me to the floor, kicked me and struck me upon my head until all began to fade. I fell into darkness with his laughter ringing in my ears.”

Jesse coughed, leaned forward, clutching his stomach.

“Yes, it is a hard story to hear. I know.”

“What?” Jesse muttered.

“Here, another sip.” Krampus held the flask for Jesse. “Drink yourself silly. There are worse ways to pass on to the afterlife.”

Jesse sipped. “God, you . . . sure like to . . . talk.”

“What?”

Jesse grimaced, closed his eyes.

“Talk? Yes, at times.” Krampus took another sip as well and continued. “I awoke in my own cellar with chains around wrist and ankle, shackled to a great oak beam. He sat upon a chair, my chair, staring at me with that stone look upon his face. Loki’s sack sat in his lap like a trophy. He offered me my freedom if I would but teach him the secret of the sack. As you know there is no secret, one has to be of Loki’s direct blood. I knew of no other way, the sack was not my magic but Loki’s great sorcery. I did not reveal this, as I feared it would spell my doom, instead acted as though unwilling to tell.

“He took my great house in the forest for his own, left me in the cellar to rot without sun or moon in hopes that time would change my mind. Decades crawled by with nothing for nourishment but slugs and stagnant water. I withered, became but a frail shadow of myself, but my spirit held. I knew even then that if I could but hold on, that the time would come for my revenge.

“He did not wait for the sack to pursue his ambitions. His obsession with the saint grew, and though Saint Nicholas had died over a thousand years before, Baldr took his mantle, stole his name, growing long his white hair and beard, dressing and adorning his robes all in ridiculous imitation of the dead saint.

“His betrayal of the ancient ones, of his own heritage, seemed to know no limits. Even with my captivity, Yuletide still held its place in the land, but that all began to change once Baldr started his reign, began to visit homes far and wide on Christmas Day in the guise of Saint Nicholas, handing out gifts and charity, preaching his gospel of lies. It was not enough for him to simply usurp Winter Solstice—he was not happy until all things Yule were buried, lost. He was trying to make the people forget, forget where the traditions came from, forget Yule and the Yule Lord.

“And how easily he fooled them, how easily he had them eating poison from his hand. For when Baldr was out amongst the people he did play the role of the kindly saint as though born to it. They flocked to him, could not resist his charm, his gracious manner, embraced his words of kindness and charity as he played on the popularity of the Christ God. He became a master of public manipulation. He printed and distributed glorified fables of his charitable deeds and soon his fame spread far and wide, as did the popularity of Christmas.

“But it was all lies, one great ruse, for even as he preached Christian virtues he was delving into the sorcery of the ancients. From my cell I watched him unearthing the dark arts, secretly pursuing the very things he publicly condemned as heresy and demonography. Trying, always trying to break the spell of Loki’s sack. Even then on the track of blood, as he bled me almost dry in hopes of manipulating the spell with my blood. He tracked down the last of the old peoples, mostly elves, a few dwarves; put them to work serving his purpose. They fortified my forest home with buttress and stonework walls topped with spikes, dug out the cellar into a great vault from which he pursued his sorcery and wicked ambitions. And while leaving me to rot in that cellar, he went—”

Krampus’s voice trailed off, he glanced at Jesse. Jesse’s head lay on his shoulder, his eyes closed; there came no sign of breath.

“It appears I am talking to myself.” Krampus crossed his arms atop his chest and grunted. He looked around at the dead, inhaled deeply, drank in the smell of blood. It had felt good to kill the wicked. He had not felt so alive in over a thousand years. He thought of the bad man Jesse had spoken of. Who is this wicked man, Jesse? This Dillard? Do his deeds truly merit death? I, for one, would like to know.

He poked Jesse. Jesse didn’t respond. Krampus leaned over, sniffed him, and smiled. “Jesse, your spirit is strong. You hold on when you should be dead.” He looked at the man’s mangled hands. It would be a shame to lose one gifted with song.

“Would you like to come along with me? Would you like to kill the Dillard yourself?”

There came no response from Jesse.

Krampus drummed his long fingers on the spearhead. “I think you would. Yes, most certainly.” He lifted Jesse’s arm and bit him on the wrist.