Page 16 of Never Kiss a Krampus
“I’m so glad.” I gently guided her towards the register. “And I added a little extra detail—see the fishing line? It has actual silk thread.”
We completed the transaction quickly, Mrs. Carmichael chattering about her grandchildren’s visit for the holidays. The whole time, I could feel Bastian watching us.
My judgment had begun.
CHAPTER 7
Mrs. Carmichael had barely left when the next customer arrived. Mr. Bumble pushed through the door, bells jingling cheerfully, already talking about needing ribbon for his daughter’s gift. He made it exactly three steps before freezing mid-sentence.
“Is that—” He blinked. Adjusted his glasses. Blinked again. “Are those real horns?”
“Prosthetics,” I said quickly, moving to intercept him before he could flee. “Bastian is helping me with a holiday marketing campaign. You know, bring in some authentic European Christmas traditions.”
“European.” Mr. Bumble’s gaze traveled over Bastian’s considerable form—the horns, the fur, the tail that was currently coiled behind him like a sleeping serpent. “That’s… that’s one way to put it.”
“The Alpine regions have rich folklore,” Bastian said calmly. “Krampus, Perchten, Frau Holle. The old gods of winter were not always kind.”
“Right.” Mr. Bumble swallowed. “Well. That’s… educational. Do you have any red velvet ribbon? Three yards should do it.”
I grabbed the ribbon, relieved that he hadn’t run screaming. As I measured and cut, Mr. Bumble kept stealing glances at Bastian, who had positioned himself near the window display and appeared to be cataloging every dust mote in the shop.
“Is he going to be here all day?” Mr. Bumble whispered as I rang him up.
“Probably.”
“Might want to warn people. My heart can’t take many more surprises.” But he was smiling as he said it, and when he left, he actually waved at Bastian.
Bastian inclined his head in response.
“Well,” I said into the silence that followed. “That could have gone worse.”
“He was frightened.”
“A little. But he stayed. He bought something. That’s more than I expected.”
“You expected him to flee.” It wasn’t a question. “You thought my presence would drive away your customers.”
I had thought exactly that. Still did, honestly. But before I could respond, the door opened again.
This time it was the Kowalski twins, eight-year-old tornadoes of energy who visited the shop every Saturday with their mother. They burst through the door arguing about Pokémon cards and stopped so abruptly they nearly collided with each other.
“Whoa,” breathed Mason, the older twin by three minutes.
“That is the coolest cosplay I have ever seen,” Madison said, eyes huge.
Their mother, Sarah, appeared behind them, already apologizing. “Sorry, they’ve been wound up all morning—” She spotted Bastian. “Oh. Oh my.”
“It’s okay,” I said quickly. “He’s part of my new marketing campaign. Very authentic. Very… European.”
“Mom, can we take a picture?” Mason was already pulling out his phone. “Please? The guys at school are never going to believe this.”
Sarah looked at me, uncertain. I looked at Bastian, who had turned his burning gaze on the children. For a horrible moment, I thought he might refuse, might say something about judgment and consequences and the naughty list.
Instead, he lowered himself onto one knee, bringing his face closer to their level.
“You may,” he said. “But first, tell me: have you been good this year?”
The twins exchanged glances.
