Page 23 of Happy Krampus Xmas & the Meet Not Cute
“He’s your lawyer,” I state. “The Devil’s advocate.” It’s supposed to be a joke, but it’s quite perfect for my ritual.
Ollie opens his mouth again, but I cut him off. “I know you find all this to be madness since you didn’t miss a single chance to express your unwanted and close-minded opinions. So, let’s chant together and put an end to this. Krampus will show his presence, I’ll continue with my groveling plan, and I’ll be free.”
Everybody nods reluctantly and takes a look at the pieces of paper I handed out before. It’s a ritual in Latin to summon Krampus—I printed it off the Internet from a website called Devil Rebel.
“Oi, U fudn’t fing.”
“Lose the fangs.” Bez snorts at me as his hand palms my furry ass.
Bollocks! I spit them out.
“Ollie, you just read. No need to chant.”
“Why?” He narrows his eyes at me.
“Because your singing should be a special event you perform only in your shower…alone,” I shamelessly explain. Rague covers his smiling mouth, while Sari open his lips in shock.
“That's a pathetic, subtle way to tell me I’m a terrible singer!” Ollie retorts with gritted teeth.
“Subtle? I’ve told you a thousand times your voice reminds me of a cat choking on shattered glass.”
“Okay, this is the day where I’m going to kill you. You’ll meet Krampus face-to-face in hell. Problem solved.” Ollie takes a step toward me.
Sari talks before I can. “Where are the hooved shoes?” He stares at my red fishnets-clad feet. The black cherry nail polish looks absolutely stunning.
“The only way you’d get me in a pair of shoes as heinous as hooves is if you’re wedging them onto my corpse,” I explain.
“So tempting!” Ollie lets out a mock grunt.
“I’ll come back to haunt you. I’ll add you to the afterlife list of pricks I want to terrorize,” I counter.
“Let’s just get this over with.” Rague yanks Ollie into his arms. Santa hugging the Devil, that’s a sight you don’t see every day—it’s sort of hot and kinky as shit.
I brush Gran’s tiny urn around my neck. She would’ve loved this, or perhaps not. The uncertainty hurts, because I can’t ever know.
Gabe reaches for me as we start chanting, pressing his palm on my lower back. Ollie sings as well, unfortunately. If Krampus doesn’t come to hear me out, he’ll do it to shut him up.
“Te iterum humiliter voco, O domine. Nostram deprecationem audi. Oro ne sinas hanc pestem manere. Te remunerabo cum novam damnatam sanguinem.”
We repeat the chant six times—the number of Satan. Wednesday—in horror movie fashion—suddenly flaps her wings until she gets to the highest roost, staring down at us. Looming, with her red, unblinking eyes on me. The air around me feels suddenly too thick and heavy the more her unwavering gaze focuses on me.
“Libera me. Libera me. Libera me.”I recite the freeing words alone, raising my hands above my head—as the black magicguruon the Internet told me to do. Is Krampus listening to this?
I lower my paper near the—pumpkin spice—candle and let it catch fire. It burns quickly when I drop it in the small plate on the altar.
When it turns to ashes, the flame of the candle suddenly trembles.
“Look!” I whisper, smacking Ollie’s chest with the back of my hand. “Just like last time.”
“Pretty sure it was my husband panting. He’s frying like a sunny-side-up egg under the heavy Santa costume.”
Rague’s face looks red. I thought it was his way to get in character. I even praised him a few minutes before, when it was all a physical reaction. So disappointed.
“Lori turned up the thermostat,” Gabe tells them.
“Blabber mouth,” I mutter. “I don’t like feeling cold.”
“Cover yourself, then,” Rague states, starting to take off the outfit, followed by Ollie.
