Page 20 of Christmas Eve with Krampus

And third?

The massive building I’m standing outside isn’t the cozy wooden cottage with the thatched roof where Ruprecht brought me on the twenty-third. Nope. it’s about ten times the size, with three large smokestacks that billow grey smoke into Blackmoor’s shadows. The roof is so hot, the snow isn’t sticking to it, while the frame itself is a mockery of the sort of building you see on a Christmas card.

Snowy trim, red garland, Christmas lights… and a hand-painted sign that proclaims this is the Toymaker’s Workshop.

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.

How did I get here? Did Ruprecht want out of fucking me so bad that he picked me up, dropped me off in front of the Toymaker, and washed his claws of me? I thought… I thought we had a connection. He wanted me to believe I was his ‘mate’, and he certainly seemed to enjoy my mouth on him and his on mine… so what the hell is going on here?

And then, as though he was getting tired of waiting for me to notice him, a male’s voice says, “Merry Christmas,” and I nearly shit myself.

There’s a tall, lean man standing on the other side of me. How long he’s been there? No clue. I didn’t notice him, but now that I see him, I can’t look away.

Something about his face is so familiar. He has thick white hair that’s cut short, and a perfectly manicured beard that’s the same color; it’s cropped to his jaw, showing off the chiseled planes of his features. Despite the hair color, his handsome face is ageless. He doesn’t look old at all, and when you add that to the toned body, you’d put him at forty, tops.

Like Krampus, he’s shirtless. His hairless chest is not as muscular, his belly trim, and there’s a white happy trail that disappears into his blood-red pants. His feet are covered in shiny black boots, but there aren’t any footprints breaking up the pristine white snow around my fallen body.

Not mine. Not his. Not even the cloven hooves that would’ve meant that Ruprecht was here before he ditched me.

But, if there aren’t any, how the hell did I get here?

“Who are you?” I demand, even though I know the answer. “How did I get here? Where’s Ruprecht.”

Lifting his unusually slender fingers, the Toymaker ticks off his answers one by one. “I’m the Toymaker. During Christmas, I rule the forest. How did you get here? My magic. Without the chains tethering you to him, and his eyes closed, Krampus couldn’t keep you any longer. As for him, he’s probably just noticing that I stole his mortal out from his nose.”

Okay. On the one hand, I feel a whole lot better knowing that Ruprecht didn’t have his fun and then pass me off to another one of the beasts of Blackmoor. On the other?

As I push myself up and off the ground, grateful that this guy’s magic at least managed to summon me in my gown and my heels so I don’t have to tromp around in the snow barefoot, I have one more question.

“Why did you bring me here?”

“Don’t you know? After the busy night I had, it’s only fair that I got a Christmas wish, too. You’ve stayed away from me long enough.” Moving toward the front door, the toymaker shoves it open. “Come into my workshop. I’ve been dying to get to know you.”

Oof. I really don’t like the way he says ‘dying’ like that…

Now, I knew something was off with this Toymaker when he sicced his vicious little elves on me. That they were so insistent on dragging me away to be his damn bride that they pulled my hair and bit me… I knew then and there that I didn’t want to meet their master.

That I can see at least ten of them currently poking their pinched faces and their pointy ears and their sharp teeth at me as the Toymaker holds open the door, inviting me inside… yup. Still don’t want anything to do with this guy.

But what can I do? I don’t have Krampus to back me up. No weapons handy, except for maybe the heel of my shoe, and even if I had another orange, that’s a Krampus thing. Not?—

I swallow, and because I can’t think about any other alternative, I trudge me and my gown inside of his workshop.

Just survive, Josie. Do what you have to to wind down the clock. You were warned the monsters were dangerous, but if he was so hellbent on grabbing you that he used some kind of Christmas magic to steal you from Ruprecht’s bed, I highly doubt that he’s going to kill me outright.

He might make me wish I was dead, but so long as I’m breathing, I can get out of this.

Right?

The workshop smells of burnt chocolate and curdled milk, and the Christmas elves scamper around like roaches as the Toymaker puts his hand on the small of my back and gives me a tiny shove inside.

He kicks the door closed behind him with his booted foot, then strides past me so that he’s in the center of the first room.

There is shit everywhere. Wooden craft tables and wrapping paper stations, boxed and boxed of who-knows-what, and handmade old-fashioned toys—wooden soldiers and dolls, jack-in-the-boxes and tops—fucking everywhere. I see teddy bears, stuffed and unstuffed, a pile of fluff in the corner that’s as high as a small mountain; it’s tempting to dive into it, and if I wasn’t so terrified of the dark look on the Toymaker’s face, I might’ve.

Along the wall, there’s this massive paper towel roll holder at least four feet wide. Parchment is wrapped around it tightly, with a tail of the yellowed paper stretching across the floor. Names scrawled in dark red ink cover it.

I don’t even want to know what that’s about.

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