Krampus

Chapter Eleven Dark Arts

Krampus held the sack wide-open; Jesse watched the darkness shift and swirl. The Yule Lord nodded and Makwa set one foot in, then the other, slid down to his waist. Krampus tugged the sack up over his head and just like that, the big man was gone. The brothers, Wipi and Nipi, followed without hesitation, needing no command. Isabel went next, and Vernon, who gave Krampus a look of utter contempt but went in without a word.

Krampus looked at Chet and the General. The General took a step back, his fear plain on his face. He shook his head. “No, sir, I ain’t going in there.”

“You’re all hot air, ain’t you?” Jesse said with a sneer. “Always figured you weren’t much of nothing without your kin backing you up.”

The General seemed not even to hear him, just stared at the sack.

Jesse shoved the General aside and stepped up, ready to get this show done and over with. The mead warmed his blood, making him feel a bit crazy, a bit mad, and he liked the feeling. He stuck a foot in, sucked in a deep breath—he was still having a bit of trouble breathing, but the pain was fading. He slipped in the other foot.

Krampus sat a hand on Jesse’s shoulder. “Time to put things to right.”

“Just don’t get us killed,” Jesse said and slid down into the sack. There came a moment when he felt nothing below his feet, a sensation not of falling but more like sliding down a velvet chute. A second later he found himself on his butt in soft dirt and scattered hay. He blinked and the world came into focus. It was night, the air warm. Jesse had never been to the ocean, but knew that must be what he now smelled. He heard the distant sound of waves crashing on rocks and stood up.

“Get down,” Isabel whispered, grabbed his arm, and tugged him into a stall. The Belsnickels were crouched against the inside wall, sharing the stall with an old green sleigh. They peered out into a courtyard surrounded by white stone walls, at least twenty feet high. They saw not a soul, but there were gas lanterns flickering about every fifty feet along the wall. The stall butted up against a larger structure. Jesse smelled hay and manure and guessed it to be a stable. Across the courtyard stood a stately house of arches and turrets, built of the same white stone as the walls and stable but topped with a red-tiled roof.

A cowboy boot connected to a leg suddenly appeared out of thin air right in front of Jesse. A moment later the General sat on his backside in the dirt. The General glanced around wild-eyed, pointing his handgun in this direction and that. Jesse, fearing the man would begin shooting randomly at any second, leapt forward, pulled him into the stall. Shortly after, Chet and Krampus arrived. Krampus stood tall, right out in the open, hands on hips, surveying the courtyard. He spotted the old sleigh, walked into the stall, and ran a hand along its weathered sideboard.

“This is mine,” he said in a low tone. “He stole it. One of many things he stole. One of many things I have come to reclaim. Come.” He left the stall and walked along a cobblestone path; the Belsnickels followed. He stopped in front of the stable, looked it up and down. “This will do.” He slid one side of the tall carriage doors open a crack and peered in. “Yes, perfect. Chet, I want you and your little troll friend to stand guard out here. Give us warning if any should come. It is my command.”

Chet nodded, but the General seemed lost, his eyes shifting this way and that. Jesse felt sure the man was going to blow the whole operation, couldn’t understand why Krampus would leave these two out here alone.

Krampus entered the stable; Jesse, the Shawnee, Isabel, and Vernon all followed. Two gas lanterns flitted from their perch inside, casting long shadows down the stalls. A second-story loft, stacked with hay, ran the length of the structure. The middle lay opened all the way up to the ceiling. The stalls began about midway in, leaving a large, open space for loading, unloading, hitching, and other tasks. Krampus strolled into the middle of this space and, standing there, spear in hand, he struck Jesse as some devilish gladiator awaiting challenge.

“Find cover,” Krampus said, pointing with his spear to a set of stalls. “All on one side, so as to avoid shooting one another.” Jesse got the feeling Krampus had things more planned out than he let on. He hoped so, anyway. Jesse started to follow the other Belsnickels when he caught movement in the loft above. He squinted into the shadows, found his newly acquired ability to pierce the darkness amazing, but still saw nothing or no one. He glanced at Krampus. Krampus nodded. “There are eyes on us. Have been since we first arrived.” Jesse swallowed. Things were getting very real, very fast.

Jesse slid behind a large wall post and waited, having no idea for what or for how long. Isabel and Vernon found cover behind a stack of crates, and the Shawnee crouched in an empty stall next to Jesse. Somewhere a goat bleated. Jesse glanced behind him. Several reindeer looked back at him from their stalls, snorting and stomping in agitation. Jesse leaned his rifle against the post in easy reach, pulled the revolver from his belt, started to check the chamber, when a blast of gunfire came from outside, followed by a scream. Jesse jumped, almost dropping his pistol. He managed to get a hold of the grip and pointed it toward the door just as another round of shots rang out. A second later something hit the doors with a loud thud. Chet rushed in, fell, and tumbled across the ground, losing hold of his weapon. “Fuck,” he screamed, snatching his gun back up as he scrambled to his feet. Krampus grabbed him, held him.

“He’s out there!” Chet cried, looking backward over his shoulder, trying to twist away from Krampus. “Shot him. We both did. Shot him right in the chest . . . in the head. Didn’t do a thing! Not a fucking thing! Didn’t even slow him down!”

“Go, stand with the others,” Krampus said and let him loose. Jesse was struck by how calm Krampus sounded. Chet dashed for the stables, slid in behind the giant post next to Jesse. “We’re fucked, man,” Chet said, his chest heaving, his breath coming hard and fast. “That thing, there’s no stopping it. It’s a monster. A real live monster!”

Jesse found his own breath speeding up, found himself badly in need of another shot of mead. He heard the patter of little feet above them, caught sight of a few boyish figures dashing about in the rafters.

“Shit,” he said, switching to his rifle. “They’ll get the drop on us.”

But no fire came from above, only the occasional eyes peeping down at them.

“Don’t like this,” Jesse said, keeping a bead on them. “Not one bit.”

Something flew through the door, hit the ground, and rolled across the straw-littered dirt, coming to a stop at Krampus’s feet. It was the General’s head—the neck cut clean, the eyes gone. Jesse’s mouth became dry, his heart drummed in his chest, he forgot about the figures above, could only stare at the gory sockets that used to be the General’s eyes.

“Fuck me,” Chet whimpered.

“Krampus,” a voice thundered from outside. “Your time is done.”

Krampus smiled, glanced back over his shoulder. “Hold your places. Watch the rafters. And don’t waste any bullets on our dear old friend Santy Claus.”

Jesse caught sight of a dark shape approaching the carriage doors. Far too wide to slip through the gap, it gripped the massive doors and effortlessly shoved them apart to arm’s length. It was him, there could be no doubt, Santa Claus, Baldr. He stood there in the flickering lantern light with a look of supreme confidence on his face. Not as a man coming to battle for his life, but a man coming to stomp upon vermin. He was as far from the image of the plump, jolly Santa Claus of vintage Coca-Cola ads as Jesse could imagine. Jesse even had a hard time making this be the same man he saw running across the snow so long ago in the trailer park. This man looked more like a Viking lord. Gold hoops in his ears, his white hair tied into a topknot, his long beard braided and running down his bare barrel of a chest. He wore red leather britches with stockings and curled-toed shoes adorned with big brass buckles, thick leather wristbands, and a wide harness studded with brass rings atop white fur. Much shorter than Krampus, but stout, solid, hard-packed muscle like a bull, thick through the neck, wrist, and ankle. Hands and forearms that looked able to easily tear apart phone books. He held a broadsword, blood dripping from its long, wide blade. Jesse could see the smoke burns from the gunfire, they ran across his chest, his face, but found no trace of any wound.

Santa Claus slid the heavy doors shut behind him, pulled the slide bar in place, barring them all in. He shook his head, a look upon his face of a man who has a distasteful chore before him. “Krampus, you have become most tiresome.”

DILLARD FLIPPED THE deadbolt and opened the basement door. Linda sat midway down the stairwell, her back to him with Abigail sleeping in her arms. Her lip was swollen and an ugly bruise was blooming along her cheek. He tried not to look at it, tried to pretend it wasn’t there. He let out a deep sigh. “How about we give this another try? What’d you say?”

She didn’t answer, just slowly got to her feet, cradling Abigail. Abigail woke, saw Dillard, and pressed her face into her mother’s chest. Linda marched up the steps, tried to push past him.

Dillard didn’t budge.

“Move!” she hissed.

“I think it’d be good if we talked.”

She pressed her back to the wall, refusing to look at him. He could see her trembling, fighting to control her temper.

“I need you to understand I done what I done because I had to . . . to protect you, to protect that little girl of yours. Jesse, now he’s the one that fucked up. What he got, he done to himself. You know it. He crossed a line with the General. That’s done and over with . . . ain’t nothing you, nor me, nor anybody but Jesus can do for Jesse now. Time to think about what’s best for you and Abigail.”

He reached out, stroked Abigail’s hair. “Linda, you need to understand that the only reason that little girl of yours is here safe and sound is because of me. The General, well, he had other plans, wanted to use her to get at Jesse for what he’d done, and it weren’t easy to convince him otherwise.”

Linda glared at him. Dillard saw the fire and blinked. “What you done,” she said, “amounts to murder. No different than if you done it yourself.”

Dillard ground his teeth, fought down the heat rising in his chest. “I need to make something clear to you . . . absolutely crystal-clear. The General, he gets dangerous when he thinks someone might start gabbing about his business. And if you were to get it into your head to talk about what went down with Jesse, so much as a single word, there wouldn’t be a goddamn thing I could do to keep you and Abigail safe. And after what you said in front of Chet and Ash, about the sheriff, they’ll be watching you, you can count on it.”

She stared at the wall, shaking her head.

“Christ, Linda. Can’t you see I’m doing my damnedest here to keep you two safe? Can you not try and understand?”

He waited for a response, some sign that all was not lost, but she continued to stare at the wall as though he wasn’t there.

“Why are you making this so hard?” he asked.

“Really? Are you kidding me?” The venom in her voice surprised him.

Dillard made himself look at her swollen lip. Why do things always have to go this way with me? “I’m . . . sorry,” he said. “Sorry I lost my temper. About as sorry as I can be. Do anything I could to take that back. I mean it, Linda. Things got out of hand . . . won’t ever happen again. I swear it. Swear to God.”

Linda’s lip began to tremble and she wiped at her eyes.

Dillard thought maybe some part of her understood. He hoped so. “You got every right to hate me right now. But I’m hoping you won’t. That maybe after a bit you’ll come to forgive me. All I ask is that you try and remember I made my decisions, right or wrong, for you, baby.”

He gave her another minute, hoping she would say something. She didn’t.

“Listen,” he said. “However you might feel about me, I still need you to stick close for a few days . . . until things with the General calm down a notch. That will give me a little time to convince him you understand the ways things are. If you want to leave me after that . . . well . . . I won’t stand in your way. But, Linda . . . I’m hoping you won’t. I’m still hoping we can build a life together.”

Linda’s face was stone, he saw nothing for him in her eyes, nothing. Ellen had worn that same look, like part of her was turned off, dead. He couldn’t stand it another minute, afraid he’d start tearing up. “I have to go out. I won’t be far. If you see any of the Boggses driving by, you be sure to call me right away.”

Dillard left them on the stairs, slipping on his jacket. He patted the pocket, making sure Linda’s keys were still there, and headed out the door.

“WHY DO YOU come here?” Santa Claus asked, his voice deep and low.

“You know too well the answer to that, my dear old friend,” Krampus said, his tail swishing back and forth like that of a cat on the hunt.

“You could have lost yourself in the wilds. Lived out your existence in the forest.” Santa spoke softly, but his words resonated. “Instead you must make a nuisance of yourself . . . force my hand. Make me kill you when I have no desire to do so.”

“Kill me? That sounds a bit presumptuous. Would you not agree?”

Santa shook his head. “Why does the blood of Loki know only vileness? I showed you charity, tried to show you the truth, tried to save you from yourself. Gave you every chance.”

“Being chained beneath the earth did not feel very charitable.”

“Pity made me weak. I see now that I should have killed you and put an end to your suffering. But, you see, I spent an age in your mother’s prison. That time in Hel gave me the chance to better understand myself, to meditate on the consequences of my choices. My hopes were that solitude would give you that same chance. A chance to see beyond yourself for once.”

“Shit spews from your lips as from the ass of a pig. You did not find yourself in Hel, you were lost. It was I who tried to save you, that brought you into my very home, tried to give you purpose, to heal the great wounds in your heart. The truth is you chained me in that pit for one reason, the hope that I would be forgotten and fade away, and the spirit of Yule would fade away with me.”

Santa shrugged. “Yule is dead. It is the past. Men need a path to enlightenment, to be set free from trivial earthbound concerns, to see beyond the limitations of flesh and blood. Life is fleeting, but the hereafter is eternal. I see no greater calling than to help illuminate that path. I offered you a chance to assist.”

“You worship death. You and all the One Gods. They seduce mankind with their promises of glory attained in the hereafter, thus blinding men to the splendor before them here on earth. One can never expect to achieve enlightenment if one does not first live life to its fullest.”

“Your words only serve as proof that there is no longer a place for you on God’s earth.”

“Earth belongs to no god! Mother Earth is god. Have you forgotten everything? Do you pretend not to see that she is dying beneath your feet? Or do you not care? She needs rebirth, needs the spirit of Yule to heal her. You talk of enlightening men, but there will be no men without her!”

“Foolish beast, earth is nothing more than a rock in space.” Santa shook his head. “The world has moved on and left you behind. You have become nothing but a pathetic relic of days long dead. What I must do now is a mercy, so let us not prolong this. I have you, there is no escape. Kneel now before me and I will give you a quick death.”

“A very gracious and tempting offer, indeed,” Krampus chuckled. “But I believe it is you that should kneel.”

“This is madness, you know you cannot harm me.”

Krampus laughed.

Santa frowned. Krampus could see his mirth annoyed his rival, and laughed the harder.

“It appears five hundred years in that pit has addled your mind.”

Krampus sneered. “Five hundred years in that pit has made all things clear. Clear as spring water in Asgard. Or have you forgotten Asgard? Forgotten the face of your mother, your father? Forgotten your own name? Well, I have come to help you remember.”

Santa’s mouth tightened.

“You have blood on your hands,” Krampus said. “How much? How many did you murder in order to bend Loki’s sack to your will?”

“I have grown weary of your prattle,” Santa said and sprung forward, brought the great sword to bear, swung it high and down hard, a strike meant to cleave Krampus’s head from his shoulders. Krampus skipped aside, the blow intended for his neck instead striking deep into the soft dirt.

Santa appeared surprised by Krampus’s agility. He yanked the blade free, hefted it, ready to strike again.

Krampus made no move to retreat; he pointed the spear at Santa. “It is time I reminded you who you are.”

Santa shook his head, appeared almost bored. “Why must you put us through this? Surely you know your efforts are futile? Save yourself some dignity.”

“You have much to learn,” Krampus hissed. “Much to answer for. I am here to see that you do. For Huginn and Muninn, Geri and Freki, for all those you used then tossed aside, all those you betrayed, who bled for your ambitions. But most of all . . . for me.”

Santa charged, a great sweep of the blade. Krampus ducked, swept beneath the sword, came up as Santa went barreling past, lashed out, one quick strike, and slipped away.

Santa turned, prepared for another lunge, then hesitated, appeared unsure, his face twisting into something approaching befuddlement. He lowered his sword, looked at his arm. A small red line ran just beneath his shoulder, growing thicker as he stared at it. A crimson drop pooled and slid down his arm. Santa touched the cut, looked at the blood on his fingers. “What trickery is this?”

“Your face,” Krampus said. “It is worth all my days below the earth.”

Santa tasted the blood. “Impossible.”

“A house built on lies has a weak foundation, my dear old friend.”

Santa looked at him, still not comprehending.

“You do not see? Have you lied to yourself for so long that you have forgotten the truth? Think. Remember.”

Krampus saw it, confusion turning to alarm. “Yes. Yes,” Krampus jeered. “Santa Claus might be untouchable, but . . . Baldr . . . he is not.” Krampus held the spearhead up so that the lantern light caught the ancient ore and flickered across Santa’s face. “You can fool the world, you can fool yourself, but you cannot fool this.”

Santa squinted at the weapon, his brow tightened. “How? It was destroyed. Odin ordered it destroyed.”

“Apparently, he did not. I found it at the bottom of the sea, there amongst your bones. Amongst Baldr’s bones.”

Santa’s eyes grew wide, confusion turning to betrayal, and then, for the first time ever, Krampus saw fear on Santa’s face. Santa fell back a step, glanced toward the great doors.

Krampus laughed, loud and full. “Who? Who is trapped now?” The Yule Lord raised himself to his full height, inhaled deeply, felt his heart drum with the sweetness of his own wrath. He peeled back black lips, exposing long, sharp teeth. His tongue flashed from his mouth, he snapped his tail back and forth. His laugh turned into a snarl as he leapt at the white-bearded man.

Santa seemed to be in shock, a man in deep water who has just forgotten how to swim. He raised his sword, but too late; Krampus drove past his guard and caught him across the forearm, not a nick this time but a deep slash, cutting all the way down to the bone.

Santa let loose a howl, a sound of outrage, of complete incredulity, and stumbled against the railing, struggling to keep hold of his sword.

Krampus spun away, almost dancing. “How sweet the taste of revenge. How very, very sweet!”

Santa clutched the wound, face aghast at all the blood pumping from between his fingers.

Krampus hopped from foot to foot, prancing on his toes, grinning and tittering.

Santa kept his sword pointed at Krampus as he backed away, edging toward the double doors. Krampus followed, stalked him around the ring, allowing him to reach the door. Santa struggled to maintain his guard while attempting to slide the latch with his injured arm.

“Where are you going?” Krampus asked. Santa wet his lips, sweat beading on his forehead as he inched the slide over.

“You are a beast!” Santa cried. “Not but a low-caste demon. And that is all you shall ever be!”

The Yule Lord snorted and feigned attack. Santa lashed out with his sword, a wild, aimless swing, catching nothing but air. Krampus dashed forward, striking Santa atop the wrist and knocking the sword from his hand. The sword landed in the dirt between them. Santa made to grab for it when Krampus slashed the spearhead across Santa’s thigh, the mythical blade cutting easily through his britches and muscle, biting into the bone. Krampus yanked the blade free and Santa collapsed onto one knee, cradling his leg as he screamed through clenched teeth. Blood from his forearm, his wrist, and the deep slash to his leg spilled onto the ground and turned the blond straw red.

Krampus kicked the sword away, stepped up to Santa. “It is time you faced yourself.” All the play left Krampus’s voice, his tone became somber. He pressed the spearhead against Santa’s neck. “What is your name?”

Santa closed his eyes, began to shake.

“What is your name?”

“Santa Claus,” he mumbled.

Krampus kicked him, knocked him onto his side, planted his foot on his neck and set the spear into his gut. “No, it is not Santa Claus, it is not Kris Kringle, not Father Christmas, nor is it Saint Nicholas.” He pressed the blade into Santa’s flesh, an inch—two inches. Blood pooled beneath the spear tip. “What is your true name?”

“Santa Claus!” Santa cried. “My true name is Santa Claus!”

Krampus kicked him hard in the stomach. “No!” he yelled, unable to hide his outrage. “The charade is over! Your name is Baldr, the son who betrayed his own mother and father. Betrayed all the ancients. Claim your true title—Baldr the thief, Baldr the liar, Baldr the traitor, Baldr the murderer. That is who you are! Now you will claim it!”

Santa opened his eyes, glared up at Krampus, a steady resolve set into his face. “No, I am not Baldr. Baldr and all Baldr was is dead. I am Santa Claus. I serve a god of peace and love.”

Krampus squinted at him. “You serve only yourself. A world of lies contrived to hide your wicked deeds.”

“Whoever I might once have been, that person is dead, has been left behind. I have been reborn and have found my redemption through compassion and charity to others.”

“No!” Krampus spat. “No! No! No! What utter bile. One does not get to forgive one’s self. You cannot just walk away from your guilt. Forgiveness can come only from those against whom you have trespassed. Only they can absolve you of your crimes. Perhaps in the afterlife, after they have ripped the skin from your bones a thousand times, then and only then may you beg their forgiveness. And now, unless you claim your name, beg my forgiveness, then I will send you to them here and now.”

“I am Santa Claus. I answer only to God.”

Krampus stuck the blade into Santa’s chest, pressed slowly downward, toward his heart. “Claim your name.”

Santa grasped the blade, the edge cutting into his fingers. “Your efforts are in vain,” he gasped. “Santa Claus cannot die . . . he lives forever.”

Krampus saw that Santa believed it, believed it to his very soul. Krampus hated the solace it seemed to give him. “We shall see,” Krampus sneered, gave the blade a heavy shove, felt ribs snap and flesh rip, watched the blade sink deep into Santa’s chest.

Santa’s eyes grew wide, blood bubbled from his lips. “God will be wrathful, there will be . . . no place . . . you can hide.” Santa Claus fell still, his eyes staring ever upward toward the heavens.

Krampus yanked the blade free. “There. There. You are dead!” he spat. “And this time you shall stay dead!” He raised the blade, brought it down with all his might onto Santa’s neck, over and over he hacked—blood and gore spattering across his face with each strike. He hacked until Santa’s head rolled away from its body. The Yule Lord jabbed the spear into Santa’s skull, lifted it skyward, and shook it. “Where is your great god now? Where is his wrath? Nothing! For you are nothing but one monstrous lie!”

KRAMPUS THREW SANTA’S head into the courtyard, watched it bounce across the lawn, and then just stood there in the doorway for a long time, studying the stars.

Jesse stared at the body, tried to accept what he had seen, what he had been through, all of it, any of it—that there could truly be a Santa Claus at all and, if so, that this headless body lying in the dirt could be him. And if not Santa then what? He knew he should be shocked, horrified, but felt only a grim numbness. He’d seen too much, been through too much, knew on some level if he looked too hard he would have to question his own sanity, and for now all he wanted was to hold it together long enough to get through this madness and somehow make it back to Abigail.

He caught movement in the rafters. The little people, whom Jesse assumed to be elves, had left their hiding places and were peering down in horror and disbelief. Jesse glanced around, found Vernon, Isabel, Chet, all with the same shell-shocked expressions upon their faces.

Makwa left the stall, walked over to Krampus, and pointed to the elves. “What of them?”

Krampus strolled back into the stable, called up to the elves. “You are free. Return home to the wilds where you belong. Reclaim your spirit. But do so now, as I intend to burn this stable—and all that belonged to the traitor—to the ground.”

The little people glanced about uneasily but, one by one, began to slip away.

“Jesse,” Krampus called. “Open the stalls, free all the beasts. The rest of you, move those bails there, the barrels, that cart, anything that will burn, against the center post.”

While Jesse freed the reindeer, Krampus walked down the length of the stable, peering into each stall, stopping near the back. He opened a gate and led two goats out. “Jesse, bring those two harnesses there and follow me.” Krampus led Jesse and the goats outside to the green sleigh. He strapped on their harness, speaking kindly to them as he hitched them up. He guided them well away from the structures and tied them to a bench near a garden.

Krampus returned to the stable, looked over the pile of wood and hay, appeared satisfied, then grabbed Santa’s body by the leg and dragged him over. Together with Makwa, he tossed the body onto the pile like one more scrap of wood.

Krampus lifted one of the oil lamps from its post, threw it atop the pile. The lantern shattered, setting the wood and hay ablaze. The fire crackled and spread.

“Come,” Krampus called and led them out. They crossed the courtyard, went through a topiary full of shrubs cut to resemble mythological creatures, then across the garden surrounding the main house. Jesse watched the reindeer joyfully munching on the rows of flowers. Krampus stopped in front of a single-story building that ran the entire length of the main house. Two statues of rearing white horses stood astride a wide, double-door entrance. Krampus walked up to the doors and gave them a tug. The doors were unlocked and they entered.

It appeared to be a warehouse of sorts, with rows of shelves all the way to the ceiling and stacked with all manner of items, mostly toys, but Jesse also noted rows of children’s shoes, coats, and other articles of clothing, even a row of crutches and basic medical supplies. It took him a moment to put together that this must be where the sack had been open to, back when he’d first put his hand into it. He shuddered to think what might’ve happened if he’d been caught and pulled through.

Krampus ignored the toys, walking along the wall, opening each and every door he came to. Jesse had no idea what he might be looking for. Krampus opened one door, shut it, then paused, seemed to reconsider. He walked back, reopened it, and went in, came out a moment later with a bundle of colorful clothes. He tossed them onto the floor, and then brought out more. Shirts, pants, jackets, boots, all made from fine leathers and fabrics, in deep emerald greens, golden ochers, and dark crimson reds. “Lose your drab rags and don this finery. Those that serve the Yule Lord shall hide in shadows no longer.”

The Shawnee weren’t the least interested, but Isabel appeared delighted. She dug into the pile with obvious spirit, admiring one piece after another, holding the rich textiles up against her small frame for fit. Jesse guessed it must’ve been tough on her, spending the last forty years wearing nothing but grungy, ill-fitting pants and jackets.

Some of the items appeared to be well-worn work clothes, but most were flamboyant and ornate, rich velvets and corduroys, they reminded Jesse of movie costumes, the sort of thing they wore back in the seventeenth or eighteenth century, or whatever century men used to prance about in ruffles and powdered wigs.

Vernon seemed glad to shed his ragged coat and filthy pants, had no trouble finding suitable replacements for his small build.

Jesse had lost his boots and jacket at the General’s, his shirt and pants were torn and covered in dried blood. He wasn’t too sure about the selection, but at this point most anything would do. He quickly realized most of the items were too small, sized to fit children or elves perhaps, but he managed to find a shirt and a pair of leather britches that laced around the calves, and quickly slipped into them. He dug through the shoes until he found a pair of boots that fit, they came almost to his knees but he didn’t care, it was good just to have something on his feet again. The only coat he could find that fit was long-tailed with a high velvet collar, burned gold in color with copper buttons running up the lapel and along the oversized cuffs.

“Oh,” Isabel said. “That’s very romantic.”

Jesse groaned.

“No, really. You look dashing.”

Chet snickered. “You look like a queer.”

“Chet,” Jesse said. “You have a way of growing on people . . . about like a fucking wart.”

Isabel ended up in a fancy turquoise velvet long coat, the sort of thing a pirate might wear. Jesse felt her panda cap gave her costume that last needed touch of lunacy.

Krampus picked up a lavender crushed velvet coat with swirling gold trim, something that would’ve been right at home in any glam rock band. “This one is simply splendid,” he said and held it out to Makwa. “Do you not agree?”

Makwa crossed his arms over his chest and looked in the other direction. Krampus pushed it toward the brothers and they both stepped back as though from a snake. Chet snickered, and Krampus’s eyes fell on him. He held the lavender coat out to Chet.

Chet shook his head. “Oh, hell no. I ain’t wearing that.”

“Put it on. It is a command.”

“Fuck,” Chet said, and did as he was told, making a face like he’d been made to eat mothballs.

Jesse snorted and Chet locked eyes on him. “Say something, you little twat,” Chet growled. “Go on. Break your fucking jaw. See if I don’t.”

Jesse blew him a kiss.

Chet’s lip curled and he started toward Jesse, murder in his eye.

“Stop,” Krampus commanded. “This is not the place.”

Chet halted, glaring at Jesse.

Jesse gave him the finger and grinned. Chet’s face turned red, looked fit to burst.

Krampus found a red ribbon and tied his long hair back out of his eyes, and inspected his Belsnickels. He nodded and smiled. “Yes, elegant, dashing . . . as servants of the Yule Lord should look.”

From where Jesse stood, he couldn’t figure how they could’ve possibly looked any more ridiculous.

Krampus continued down the building until they came to an archway containing a door of solid iron. Krampus twisted the handle and gave it a shove. The heavy door slid inward, revealing a short hallway that emptied into darkness.

“Fetch me a lantern,” Krampus said.

Isabel pushed past, hit a switch on the wall, and the hall and the room beyond flooded with light. She smiled at Krampus. “Some things have changed for the better.”

Krampus examined the switch, flipped it off and on a couple of times. “Perhaps.”

The short hall opened into a large oval room with a beamed cathedral ceiling. They entered. Jesse glanced around and immediately thought of a mad scientist’s laboratory, the sort of place where Doctor Frankenstein might go about bringing the dead back to life.

Krampus moved down the rows of wooden tables, past beakers and flasks filled with iridescent liquids, past tall shelves of jars containing all manner of dried creatures: frogs, lizards, snakes, squid, metallic colored beetles, jar after jar of powders, leaves, herbs, roots, and mushrooms. The Yule Lord pulled at his chin hairs as he peered into sinks, trays, flipped through books, poked, prodded, sniffed, and tasted his way from one station to the next. He stirred his finger through a tray of sprouting crystals, plucked out a few of the larger specimens and held them up to the light. “Alchemy.” Krampus appeared impressed. “Diamonds, rubies, sapphires. All of the highest grade. Someone has uncovered many of the ancient secrets.”

Krampus dropped the gems back into the tray and moved on, losing himself in a ragged book of hand-scrawled symbols and runes, leaving the Belsnickels standing about gawking like children in a curiosity shop. Jesse peered into the hollow eye sockets of what appeared to be a baboon skull, painted red and stuck full of nails. Jesse decided that jolly old Saint Nick wasn’t exactly the person he’d always believed him to be.

Chet slid over to the tray of gems, scooped up a handful, and slipped them into his coat pocket. Jesse started to follow suit when Isabel nudged him. “Wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“What? Why not?”

“Might be poisonous.”

Jesse took a closer look at the dusty gems, bit his lip, and started to take a few anyway when Krampus slapped the book shut with a loud clap. Jesse jumped and snatched his hand back from the tray.

“Here, look here,” Krampus called, leading them all over to a tall shelf. The Yule Lord hefted a cotton sack about the size of a bag of sugar, untied the sash, and scooped out a handful of brown grit, letting the fine grains sift through his fingers and back into the sack.

“Sleeping sand. Baldr used it to keep nosy parents and bratty children from interfering with his pursuits.” He tied the sack closed, pulled a second one off the shelf, and handed both of them to Vernon. “Carry these. Be sure not to get them near your face, or you might be in for a long nap.” Vernon looked even less pleased than usual.

“And here, look here. See this?” Krampus plucked a key ring off a hook. Six keys of various sizes and shapes hung from the ring. “Skeleton keys,” Krampus said, delighted. “They can open most any key lock. They were mine, a gift from Loki. They are mine again.” He looked closer. “Interesting.” He examined the smaller, more modern-looking designs. “There are three new ones. Jesse, come here.”

Jesse did as he was bidden.

“You shall be my key-bearer.” The Yule Lord slipped the keys into Jesse’s coat pocket and gave them a pat. “Seems dear old Saint Nick was not sliding down chimneys after all—”

Krampus stopped. His face grew stern. He walked over to a table upon which sat a goat skull, its horns cut off at the base. The horns and what must be its bones, fur, and hooves were stacked beside it, all cleaned and dried. Next to them stood a device with a large crank; it reminded Jesse of a sausage-grinder. Krampus gave it a crank and chunks of finely ground gray matter fell from the bottom and into a waiting bowl. He pinched the grounds, put them to his nose.

“This is dark magic,” Krampus growled, his face grave. “These bones are those of a Yule goat. So few remain and now we have one less, nothing more to dear Santa Claus than ingredients for his potions. The Yule goats were beasts of the gods and flew of their own magic. He has butchered them for that magic. I suspect it is from this that his flamboyant display of flying reindeer have come.”

Krampus snatched up a large flask and hurled it across the room, crashing into the wall of jars, startling them all. “Is it not enough that you stole my traditions!” he cried. “Distorted them for your own selfish design. Now you twist the very life, murder the very soul of Yule itself for your own glory!” His voice dropped, little more than a whisper. “There is so precious little magic left in this world . . . so little. Why must your ambitions come at such a cost?”

He picked up another flask and threw it after the first, another, and another. “Blood, bones, and death . . . that is the truth behind Santa’s Christmas magic!” The jars shattered and crashed to the floor, the ingredients spilled and mixed together, sizzling and bubbling. Flames bloomed and spread, noxious smells and fumes of colorful gas began to curl upward into the rafters.

“I am done with his depravity . . . the world is done!” Krampus shouted and led them from the room, down the long rows of toys and back out into the night. “All is not lost. There is still time to undo his great injury. Time for me to bring back Yuletide, to spread its magic and heal Mother Earth!” He grinned, his teeth set in a grimace, eyes afire. “Time to help mankind find its spirit and remember whence it came. Yuletide shall reign once again, and I . . . I the Yule Lord shall lead the way.”

They crossed through the garden and into the courtyard, back to where the two Yule goats stood tied. The stables were now completely engulfed in fire. Giant flames leapt skyward, bathing the entire compound in an orange glow. They stood and watched the cinders spin and dance about them.

“Beast! You shall burn in Hell!” came a sharp cry from behind them.

Jesse started, spun round. They all did, and found six women standing within the wide arch leading into the topiary garden. Five of them were dressed in flowing white gowns, young, plump women with long hair and full, curvy figures. They watched the flames, tears streaming down their faces. The sixth one was not crying. She stood in front, whip-thin, hard of face and mouth drawn. Impossible to gauge her age, but something in her eyes made it plain she was older, much older. She wore a full-length dress of dark crimson trimmed in gold swirling snakes, and her wavy white hair flowed down past her hips, billowing about her.

“And who might that be?” Vernon asked.

Isabel shrugged.

“Maybe it’s his wife?” Jesse said. “Y’know, Mrs. Claus.” And if indeed she was, Jesse thought she was a far shout from the sweet grandmotherly soul he’d always imagined. This woman looked like she would cut out your liver and eat it raw.

“What about them?” Vernon gestured at the girls. “Think those are his daughters?”

“Daughters.” Krampus snickered. “Those are all his wives. Baldr was a man of large appetites.”

“Wives?” Vernon marveled.

The plump women pointed at Krampus and began to wail, their volume rising to shrieks, screaming in tongues the way Jesse had heard the Pentecostal women do. Except he decided these weren’t prayers but curses.

Krampus pulled the whip from the sleigh and smiled, baring his teeth. “It has been a long, long time since I have had the pleasure of spanking a few bratty bottoms.” He cracked the whip and took a step toward them. The shrieking dropped down to hysterical sobbing and the girls fell back, but the woman—she did not flinch. Krampus took another step, cracked the whip again. Still the white-haired woman held her place. She raised an accusing finger. “Beast, you dare sully these grounds with your foulness? Bring murder to this house? Santa Claus is the beloved son of the gods. Cherished for his grace and selflessness, a noble knight of charity, a celebrated stalwart of—”

“Poppycock.”

“It is truth!” she cried. “You saw his warehouse, not just toys, but shoes, clothes, basic necessities for those without. He toiled every day into the late hours to make Christmas more than just a festival, but a magical time of hope. He traveled the globe spreading charity in the wish that his example would inspire people to be kind to one another, that this kindness would spread, would elevate their souls.”

She appeared to grow taller. Jesse realized she was floating, looking down at them with glaring, glowing eyes. The snake designs in her dress came to life, began to hiss, swirling about her, snapping at them with dripping fangs. Jesse fell back.

“Santa Claus spreads hope,” she hissed, her voice the same as the snakes, echoing about the grounds; the very air felt alive, chilling Jesse’s skin. “What do you bring, demon? You wallow in flesh and debauchery, demand tribute and sacrifice in your name. Death and blood is all you know!”

Krampus snapped the whip, catching her across the cheek. “Enough of your deceit.”

Jesse blinked, and the snakes were just designs once more, the woman firmly on the ground, clutching her hand to her cheek.

“I have seen enough of his charity this night,” Krampus growled. “There is blood and murder aplenty in his laboratory. Or do you pretend not to see?”

Her eyes burned. “Everything comes with a cost, as you are soon to find out. God will not sit back and allow such a wicked deed to go unpunished.”

Krampus laughed. “Baldr is dead. It is the end of it.”

“He has died before.”

The mirth left Krampus’s face.

“He is God’s chosen servant.” She stepped forward, her finger and entire arm shaking with her wrath. “The Lord will send the Valkyrie and Santa Claus shall rise again before morning. And,” she cried, “together they will hunt you down and slay you, beast!”

Now Krampus was the one who fell back, and for the first time that Jesse could remember, the Yule Lord looked unsure.

The woman spun about and stormed away, the girls trailing in her wake.

Krampus stared after her until she disappeared from sight. “This place is full of wickedness.”

The warehouse now burned as well, the flames spreading toward the main house. Jesse and the other Belsnickels batted the raining embers from their clothes and hair. Krampus appeared in a trance.

“We should go,” Isabel urged. “Don’t you think?” She touched Krampus on the arm.

“Yes,” Krampus said. “Just one last thing.” He walked rapidly out into the courtyard, stooped, and retrieved something off the ground. He returned, carrying Santa’s head in one hand, the spear in the other. “He will never return so long as I possess these.” He slid the spear into the whip mount and mounted the head atop the blade.

“Load up,” Krampus called and they did, all squeezing into the small sleigh. Krampus stepped up onto the front bench, stood a moment longer, scanning the flames and destruction. “It is good to be terrible,” he said and patted Santa’s head.

“Away, Tanngnost! Away, Tanngrisni!” Krampus cried and the goats pulled the sleigh forward step by step, and all at once Jesse realized they were climbing skyward. He clutched tightly to the rail as the sleigh rose above the flames. They circled the inferno once and then headed out over the sea, the wind buffeting the small craft as the Yule goats picked up speed. They skimmed along the waves heading west, the bright moonlight glistening off the whitecaps below.

“It is Yuletide!” Krampus bellowed. “It is time for the world to celebrate the return of the Yule Lord!”

He set back his head and laughed and laughed as they chased the night across the Atlantic.