Page 22 of Christmas Eve with Krampus

No.

“Where’s the red suit, huh? The cap?” I’ve never been one to shame anyone based on their size—especially when I’ve been judged due to my disability—but come on. “Where’s the big belly like a bowl full of jelly?”

He rubs his obviously flat belly. “It takes a lot of calories to make my Christmas run. But don’t you worry. You’ll spend the next year as my bride making enough cooks to fatten me back up like the kiddies expect.” His eyes glitter, turning black as he gazes at me. “And you’ll make sure to give me just enough exercise to keep up my stamina.”

Ew. Perv.

I can only just imagine what kind of exercise he has in mind.

Hang on?—

Bride, again? He was serious about this Mrs. Claus bullshit?

“I’m not your bride,” I scoff.

“Yes, but, you see… you are, Josephine.”

“Don’t call me ‘Josephine’,” I snap. I was named after my asshole dead, and while I never minded us being Joseph and Josephine before the accident, once he was dead to me, I insisted that everyone use my childhood nickname. “I’m Josie.”

His grin widens, as if he’s found something amusing.

It hits me a second later. “Wait. How did you know my name at all?”

Did Ruprecht tell him?

I don’t get the chance to voice my suspicious before the Toymaker says in a sing-song voice, “‘He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake’... With powers like that, it’s a snap to know the names of every boy and girl who believes in me.”

And that’s because this buff, leering man with the white beard and the darkening eyes who goes by the Toymaker really is Santa Claus.

Oh, hell no.

“I have to go.” My survival instincts are kicking in. This is edging toward fight or flight. “This is crazy… I’m going and you can’t stop me.”

The Toymaker—Nicklaus—sighs. He flicks his fingers at the door. I turn just in time to see a flood of elves scampering toward the door, blocking me from going.

As on, they bare their little piranha-like teeth at me.

I glare over at Nicklaus.

He shrugs easily. “I told you, Josephine. I need a new missus.”

Mrs. Claus.

Behind me, I hear something odd. Something strange.

Something that has the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

It starts out as a chittering noise, like mice. It gets louder. Rougher. A dark edge to what might possibly pass as laughter.

And then high-pitched voices ring out through the workshop.

“He plays,” says one of the elves.

“Too hard.”

“It was fun.”

“So much fun!”

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