Page 11 of Never Kiss a Krampus
“You are… committed to a theme.”
Jingle Bells, who had been dozing on the back of the sofa, sat up at the sound of Bastian’s voice, his white fur bristling. He let out a long, mournful yowl, his eyes wide with a terror I completely understood.
“Oh, hey, Jingles,” I said in my most soothing, ‘you’re-a-good-boy-and-not-about-to-be-eaten’ voice. “This is Bastian. He’s staying with us for a little while.”
The cat’s yowl escalated into a furious hiss. He arched his back, looking like a furry, angry crescent moon, and then bolted from the room, a white streak of pure indignation disappearing into my bedroom.
“Wise creature,” Bastian said calmly, still surveying my living room with the same critical air he’d used in the attic. “Plastic,” he added, touching a string of lights. “You decorate with plastic.”
“It’s affordable and festive.”
“It is an abomination.” He moved to my tree—my beautiful, if slightly lopsided, tree—and studied it with the intensity of an art critic at a gallery. “No soul. No magic. Just manufactured cheer in convenient, disposable packages.”
“Some of us can’t afford hand-carved German ornaments,” I snapped defensively. “Some of us work with what we have.”
He turned those burning eyes on me. “Yes. I am beginning to see that.”
I couldn’t tell if it was an insult or an observation. Possibly both.
“If you’re going to stay here, we need ground rules,” I said, trying to regain some semblance of control over the situation. “No scaring customers. No judging me out loud in public. No… whatever it is you do to punish people.”
“I drag the wicked to the underworld and leave them to contemplate their sins until they are ready for redemption.”
I stared at him. “That’s a joke, right?”
“It is tradition.”
“We’re going to need a lot of ground rules.” I moved to the kitchen, needing something to do with my hands. “Do you eat? Drink? Sleep?”
“I require sustenance, yes. Though not the same kind as you.”
“What kind, then?”
“Fear. Shame. The tears of the guilty.” He paused. “Also bread. Good bread, not the processed foam you placed in the offering bowl.”
“I’ll add artisanal bread to the shopping list, right under ‘explain demonic house guest to neighbors.’” I filled a mug with water and drank it down, trying to dilute the schnapps still fuzzing my brain. “This is insane. This whole thing is insane.”
“You performed the ritual.”
“I know I performed the ritual!” I set the mug down harder than necessary. “I was desperate and drunk and stupid, and now I have a Krampus in my living room telling me he’s going to judge whether I deserve to keep my shop or lose everything my grandmother built. Forgive me if I’m having trouble processing.”
Before he could respond, my phone buzzed and I grabbed it, my heart pounding. A text from my mother. She tended to forget the three hour time difference between the coasts.
Honey, did you get the email I forwarded about that management position at the department store in the city? The benefits package is excellent. We’re worried about you.
I groaned and rested my forehead against the cool granite of the countertop. Of course they were worried. They’d been worried since I’d inherited the shop. Worried that I was throwing away my business degree. Worried that I was wasting my life in a town that was dying. Worried that their daughter was a failure.
And maybe I was. Maybe Mr. Grinchly was right. Maybe I was just stubborn.
“Worried?” Bastian’s deep voice was right behind me. I jumped, spinning around to find him looming over me, closer than I’d realized.
“You’re too close,” I squeaked, backing into the counter.
“The binding,” he said, not moving. “It creates a certain pull. A desire to be near the source.” He gestured in my direction. “To you.”
The warmth spreading through me at his proximity had nothing to do with the schnapps. It was a dangerous, unsettling awareness, like standing too close to a fire. “My mother is worried,” I said, shoving my phone back into my pocket. “She thinks I should sell the shop and get a real job.”
“She is not wrong to be concerned.” His gaze flickered to the window, and for the first time, I saw something other than disdain in his expression. Curiosity, maybe. “This street. This town. It is… fading.”
