Page 41 of The Krampus' Queen
“I know,” I say, quietly swallowing the ‘for now’ in my head. My fingers drift lower, combing through the beard that reaches his chest. At the edge, I wrap it around my hand and give a little tug.
His jaw drops, but the eyes glow hot under the shadows. Using his beard, I pull him to me. Krampus is willingly led to my waiting lips. As I ruffle through his fur and take his horn, he kisses me.
The red door opens.
Impenetrable white light waits beyond the threshold. It hides the answers to all of my questions.Can I go with him? Will I remember? Will it take me from his side? Will it take all of him?
With a grunt, Krampus uses his staff to rise to his towering height. He heaves his empty sack over his shoulder and makes one step toward the door. It would be easy for him to run on through and leave me behind—make the choice for me.
But he pauses and holds out his hand.
“My queen?” He bows his head.
Putting every fear aside, I tug up my coat, slip my fingers through his palm, and step beside him. As he wraps an arm over my shoulders, I lean against his chest and whisper, “Time to punish some very naughty boys.”
CHAPTER 17
MR. DAMIEN DEVERE the second flips off the light in his son’s room. His pride and joy slumbers away, dreaming—no doubt—of tearing the wings off of sugar plum fairies. It’d been a long night. He touches his cheek and winces. She put up more of a fight than the others. But—in the end—it all worked out.
Taking his time, he inspects every room, locking doors that aren’t needed and shutting off lights until only the fireplace remains. He pauses at his room just above the main parlor where the festivities will take place. After being banned by every babysitting service, he had to rely on other means to procure the bait.
A cook who claimed she was a chef. The meal was so-so for Christmas Eve. He didn’t feel a pang of regret as he empties out her purse and—one by one—tosses her things into his blue fireplace. Flames shift to red and white as they chew up her credit cards and driver’s license. The phone he places in an envelope to be mailed to a PO box where one of his associates would dump the contents into a lake.
For ten years, he’s done this to evade the Krampus’ wrath. And he will continue it for twenty more to guard his namesake. Imagine the laughing stock the DeVeres would become if one of theirs was taken by the Christmas god of punishment and forced to do menial labor. He couldn’t show his face at the club for years.
“No one’s going to miss a cook,” he declares, hurling her knockoff bag into the fire. Poking at the ashes, he hears a jangle below. She must have woken. Good. He probably likes his bait wriggling.
Leaving the fire to purify his sins, Damien pops open a bottle of schnapps and pours himself a full glass. A loud thud breaks from downstairs. He takes a sip and smiles. “Showtime.”
In his younger days, he would watch the beast furrow its brow and fight over whether to come for its prey or take the bait. It always chose the half-naked woman. Older and not able to flee as quickly Damien prefers to sit in his room sipping waiting until the all-clear. The moment the monster is gone, he will load his son into their BMW and take off for the airport. They’re due in Aspen by the morning.
A second thump hits the floor. That must be the beast scurrying down his chimney.
Damien raises a glass for another year. He starts to take a second drink when the staircase creaks.That can’t be…
Listening so hard his jaw aches, he hunts for any sign of the monster daring to break into his son’s room. Was the cook not to his liking? She was rather old and doughy. Damn it. He knew he should have demanded another.
In a panic, Damien slams his glass down and reaches for his poker. A cool wind shoots across the floor, banging his door shut. The fire vanishes.
Darkness.
Panic sets in and Damien swings the poker around, hitting nothing.
Stop this. You’re a DeVere. We don’t act like children.
A muffled sound echoes down the hall followed by the noise of a door closing in the direction of his son’s room. “No one steals from me!” Damien roars. He fumbles his way to the doorknob, but it won’t turn. The damn thing’s stuck. Just as he tries to wedge the poker in for leverage, small cries of terrified children leech through the wood.
“Son!” he shouts and bangs on the door. “So help me, if you’re kidnapped I’ll disown you!” He digs the metal into the doorjamb and starts to pull.
A floorboard creaks from the edge of his room.
The poker falls from his hands. Damien scrambles to find the source. He fights with his phone until a single halo of light parts the darkness. His son is forgotten. All that matters is his safety.
“Where are you?” he shouts, shaking his flashlight all around the room. His bed, the window curtains, the dresser, the…
A lurking brute of black hair stands in the corner. Yelping, Damien struggles to keep it in the light as he fumbles for his poker.
“Mr. DeVere,” a voice rumbles from the shadows.
