Page 21 of Christmas Eve with Krampus

Honestly? I don’t really care, either. This is like a twisted version of Santa’s workshop, down to the cookie crumbs under my heels, and it seems almost sacrilegious to be here on Christmas Day itself. Besides, as a survivor, I’m already plotting my escape.

There are no windows. In the large room, I can only make out a single exit: the door behind me. There’s a fireplace, with a roaring fire that’s adding to the burnt scent; it’s nothing as warm and inviting as Ruprecht’s cottage. I’m sure there are more, considering there are multiple smokestacks on the rooftop, but I can ‘t tell where. At the end of the hall leading off the far side of the workshop, maybe?

Is there another way out back there?

Possibly. If I can’t get past the Toymaker, it might be worth it to try busting out that way.

I will. No way am I being stuck here with a guy who sent his elves after me?—

“Look around. This is my workshop. From now on, it’ll be your home.”

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

Whirling around, nearly tripping over this damn gown, I get my first good look at the Toymaker. Inside, his features are still somewhat handsome-ish, if not exaggerated. His lips are thin and curved just a touch mockingly, his nose a little more bulbous and decidedly red in the middle.

It’s his eyes that weird me out the most. Almost as pale as his white hair, he’s staring at me with such a lust expression, I feel naked even in this twenty-pound dress.

A nervous lump lodges itself in my throat. I force it down, then tilt my chin up at him.

“Um. No. Sorry.”

His voice is part-genial, and even more mocking as he says, “No, no, no. I should apologize. I didn’t realize I made that sound like a request. Let me fix that. You will be staying.”

That’s what he thinks.

“It’s Christmas day, I get to leave once it’s over.”

“Then it’s a good thing I have you now. I’ll get to work convincing you to stay with me.”

Wait… staying is an option?

“Of course, you won’t be leaving at all. I have no intention of losing my Mrs. Claus. But the rest of Christmas will be a lot more pleasant if you don’t fight me on this.”

If there’s one thing for sure, I’m a damn fighter. However, the second he mentions Mrs. Claus, I can’t keep myself from barking out a laugh.

The workshop.

The ominous nickname.

These freaky elves…

“Oh, come on. Are you fucking serious? You want me to believe you’re Santa?”

“To the mortals, I am. To my elves, I’m the Toymaker. But that’s not my real name. That’s?—”

“Let me guess. Nicholas?”

“Close,” he says. “It’s Nicklaus. But only my family calls me that.”

Okay. Hard stop.

Family? Hang on… didn’t Ruprecht use that name when he was talking about the Toymaker and his elves?

No.

Despite all evidence to the contrary, there’s no way this guy is fucking Santa Claus—or that he is somehow related to Krampus.

To Ruprecht.

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