Page 13 of Never Kiss a Krampus
The last thing I heard before exhaustion finally claimed me was the soft jingle of chains and a low voice speaking words I didn’t understand, in a language older than English, older than Christmas, older than anything I could comprehend.
And despite everything, despite the terror and the impossibility, I felt strangely safe.
Which was probably the most concerning thing of all.
CHAPTER 6
Iwoke to the smell of coffee.
For one blissful, confused moment, I thought last night had been a fever dream induced by too much peppermint schnapps and holiday stress. Then I remembered the attic. The ritual. The circle of salt and the being who’d emerged from smoke and shadow.
The being who was apparently making coffee in my kitchen.
I sat up, disoriented. Sunlight streamed through my lace curtains, and Jingle Bells was curled at the foot of my bed, purring contentedly. The clock on my nightstand read 7:47 AM. I’d slept through the night without waking once, which was unusual given the circumstances. I grabbed my phone, half-expecting a dozen missed calls or texts about the apocalypse, but there was nothing. Just a reminder that I needed to open the shop in thirteen minutes.
The shop.
I scrambled out of bed, still wearing yesterday’s clothes, and yanked open my bedroom door.
Bastian stood in my kitchen, looking impossibly large next to my small stove.
“You made coffee,” I said stupidly.
“You require it to function. The binding made that abundantly clear.” He gestured to the counter, where a steaming mug sat waiting. “I took the liberty of preparing it to your preferences. Three sugars, excessive cream, a sprinkle of cinnamon.”
I picked up the mug with trembling hands. It was perfect. Exactly how I liked it. The knowledge that he knew that—that the binding had told him that—made something twist in my chest.
“Thank you,” I said, because manners were important even when dealing with ancient supernatural beings.
“Do not thank me yet. You are late opening your shop.”
“I know, I—” I paused. “How do you know about my schedule?”
“The binding,” he said again, as if that explained everything. “I am aware of your routines, your obligations, your small rituals. Just as you will become aware of mine.”
“I don’t think I want to know your rituals.”
“Wise.” He moved past me towards the living room, and I caught that scent again—smoke and winter and spices. “You should change. You slept in your clothes.”
I looked down at my rumpled hoodie and yoga pants. “I was tired.”
“You were drunk and terrified.”
“That too.” I took a long sip of coffee, letting the warmth settle in my stomach. “Are you going to follow me to the shop?”
“I must. The binding requires proximity. Any distance greater than the span of your building will cause discomfort.”
“How much discomfort?”
“Enough that you will not wish to test it.” He settled onto my couch—or tried to. His bulk made the poor thing creak alarmingly. “I will remain here while you prepare. But make haste. The day is wasting, and there is much to observe.”
I wanted to argue, to tell him that I didn’t need observing, that I was perfectly capable of running my shop without demonic supervision. But I was also acutely aware that I’d summoned him precisely because I wasn’t capable. Because I was failing.
The truth of that stung more than I wanted to admit.
I didn’t have time for a shower, but I washed my face and brushed my teeth, then changed quickly, throwing on a festive red sweater with embroidered penguins and my favorite pair of jeans. I braided my hair and added a ribbon—green today, to match my last name—and tried to make myself look less like someone who’d accidentally summoned a supernatural being while drunk.
When I emerged, Bastian was still on the couch, but now he was reading one of my books.A Christmas Carol, naturally.
