Page 74 of Never Kiss a Krampus
He didn’t wait for a reply. He descended the stairs, and a moment later, I heard the click of the shop door opening and closing, followed by the unnerving silence of an empty building. I hurried to the window, but there was no sign of him on the street. He hadn’t walked out. He had simply… vanished.
The lock on the apartment door felt flimsy and inadequate. I slid the deadbolt into place, then leaned against the wood, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. The apartment, which had felt so safe and warm just minutes ago, now seemed vast and echoing. Every creak of the old building was a potential threat. The silence wasn’t peaceful; it was a held breath.
I needed a distraction. I tidied up the remnants of our impromptu dinner, the gingerbread crumbs and empty mugs a testament to a happiness that now felt very far away. Jingle Bells, sensing my distress, wound around my legs, purring a loud, rumbling comfort. I scooped him up, burying my face in his soft fur.
“It’s okay, little guy,” I murmured, though I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince. “He’ll be fine. He’s an ancient, powerful being. What could possibly go wrong?”
Everything. Everything could go wrong.
I carried him to the couch and sat, pulling the down comforter around my shoulders. The lights on the Christmas tree twinkled, a cheerful, meaningless dance. I tried to focus on them, to lose myself in their simple beauty, but my mind kept replaying his words. Pathways. Ley lines. Sewage in a pristine spring. What did that even look like? What kind of creatures might he encounter? The binding had been insistent, he’d said. A primal scream for justice. What if the temptation on those unseen pathways was too great? What if he gave in, not just to punish Grinchly, but to save himself from the magical pressure?
And what, I wondered with a sickening lurch, would happen to me if he was unmade? The bond was a two-way street. Would I feel it? Would it hurt? Or would I just be… empty again?
Time stretched, thin and taut. Every minute that passed was a small victory, a sign that he was still out there, still fighting. I got up and paced the length of the apartment, my bare feet silent on the rug. I looked out the window, but the street remained empty, bathed in the cold, white light of the single streetlamp.
I couldn’t just sit here. I was a person of action, of hopeless plans and stubborn optimism. Being an anchor wasn’t a passive role. It was a job. And I was going to do it right.
If I was his anchor to this world, to the light, then I needed to be as bright as possible.
I went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. While it boiled, I gathered every candle I could find and placed them around the living room, on the mantelpiece, the windowsills, and the coffee table. I lit them one by one, the warm, steady flames pushing back the oppressive dark. The soft, flickering light filled the room with a sense of purpose.
I poured hot water into my favorite mug, the one shaped like a smiling snowman, and added a spoonful of my strongest, most festive herbal tea. A blend of cinnamon, orange peel, and something my grandmother had always called “good tidings.” I carried it back to the living room and sat on the floor, cross-legged, right in the middle of the candlelight.
I closed my eyes and focused. I pictured Bastian, not as the terrifying predator who had roared, but as the tender being who had brought me hot chocolate and bandaged my knee. Who had reorganized my stockroom not out of obligation, but because my chaos caused him “psychological distress.” I poured every ounce of my hope, my affection, my stubborn belief in him into the bond. A silent prayer to a universe that might not even be listening. Come back to me. Come back to the light.
A jarring, metallic clatter echoed from downstairs.
My eyes snapped open. The mug in my hand trembled. Jingle, who had been dozing beside me, shot upright, the fur on his back bristling. The sound came again—a heavy thud, followed by ascraping, dragging noise. It wasn’t the gentle jingle of the shop bells. It was the sound of an intrusion.
CHAPTER 24
Grinchly.
The thought was ice in my veins. Bastian’s warning echoed in my head. Don’t let anyone in. Especially not Grinchly.
I got to my feet, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I grabbed the heaviest thing I could find—a heavy brass candlestick from the mantelpiece. It was absurd, a flimsy weapon against a magical threat, but it was better than nothing. I crept to the top of the stairs, my bare feet silent on the wood.
The sounds from below were clearer now. The distinctive scrape of a key in the shop’s lock. A click. The door swinging open with a soft groan.
He had a key.
The realization was a shock, but it quickly gave way to a cold, simmering anger. Mr. Grinchly, the man who was trying to ruin my life, had a key to my shop. My grandmother’s shop.
I peered through the railings, my knuckles white around the candlestick. A sliver of light from the streetlamp cut acrossthe darkened shop, illuminating a figure moving with purpose towards the back counter. It was definitely Grinchly, his expensive suit a dark silhouette in the gloom.
What was he doing here? In the middle of the night?
I watched, my breath held tight in my chest, as he bypassed the cash register and went straight to the tree in the bay window, our beautiful, magical tree.
Kneeling next to the tree, he pulled a wooden box out of the briefcase he was carrying—a small box, perhaps six inches square. He very carefully unlocked then pulled out something that glinted dully in the faint light. A snow globe. Not one of mine. This one was old, made of dark wood and heavy glass. Inside, a single, barren tree stood in a field of snow. No houses, no smiling snowmen, no tiny skaters. Just a desolate, lonely landscape.
As he lifted it from the box, the atmosphere in the shop shifted. The air grew thin and cold, the kind of deep, soul-numbing cold that had nothing to do with the weather. The strands of tinsel on the tree drooped, their sparkle extinguished. The cheerful reds and greens of the ornaments seemed to dull, fading to muted greys.
It was a parasite. Just as Bastian had said.
Grinchly cradled the snow globe like it was a holy relic, a look of grim satisfaction on his face. He didn’t seem to notice the sudden, oppressive chill, the way the shop’s light was being swallowed by the object in his hands. I couldn’t let him leave it there. I couldn’t let him taint my shop with the source of all the town’s misery.
My mind raced, searching for a plan. A distraction. Anything. My eyes fell on the string of bells over the door. An idea, reckless and born of pure desperation, sparked in my mind.
