Page 14 of Never Kiss a Krampus
“Dickens understood,” he said without looking up. “The spirits of Christmas are not gentle. They are confrontational. Demanding. They force change through fear and revelation.”
“That’s a cheerful interpretation.”
“It is an accurate one.” He closed the book and set it aside. “Shall we begin?”
“Begin what?”
“Your judgment, Noelle Green. Day one of ten.” He stood, and the morning light caught his horns, making them gleam like polished obsidian. “Let us see what you are truly made of.”
“Are you really going to go down there looking like that?”
He glanced down at himself—all seven feet of fur and horns and otherworldly presence. “Like what?”
“Like a Christmas demon who eats naughty children.”
Or naughty girls.The thought popped into my head before I could prevent it, and heat rushed to my cheeks. I quickly turned to the mirror by the door to swipe on some lipstick that matched my sweater. But when I looked up, I found him watching me in the mirror, that burning gaze focused on my mouth. This time he was the one who turned away.
“Your customers will not be troubled by my presence,” he said calmly.
“Have you seen yourself?”
He looked back, amusement flickering in his eyes.
“Trust me.”
Somewhat to my surprise, I did. I finished my coffee in three large gulps, set the mug in the sink, and grabbed my keys from the hook by the door. This was fine. Everything was fine. I was just going to open my shop with a Krampus in tow and pretend it was normal.
Fake it till you make it, my grandmother used to say.And if you can’t make it, at least fake it with style.
I opened the door to the interior staircase that led down to the shop, and Bastian followed, ducking to avoid hitting his horns on the doorframe. The stairs creaked under his weight—they’d never creaked under mine—and I made a mental note to check if ancient supernatural beings were covered under my insurance policy.
Probably not.
At the bottom of the stairs, I paused before the door that led into Noelle’s Nook. On the other side was my shop, my livelihood, my last connection to my grandmother. And now, apparently, the stage for my judgment.
“One question,” I said, not looking at him. “This judgment of yours. What happens if I fail? What happens if you decide I’m not worthy?”
There was a long silence. Then, softly, almost gently: “Then you will receive exactly what you deserve, Noelle Green. No more, no less.”
That wasn’t comforting.
I pushed open the door.
The shop was exactly as I’d left it yesterday—twinkling lights, carefully arranged displays, the lingering scent of cinnamon and pine from the candles I kept burning. It looked magical in the morning light, cozy and inviting and full of promise.
Bastian stepped inside behind me, and I heard his sharp intake of breath.
“This is your legacy,” he said, and there was something in his voice I couldn’t quite identify. “This is what you are fighting for.”
“Yes. Can it be saved?” I asked. “Honestly?”
He looked at me, his amber eyes searching my face. The air between us pulsed with something I couldn’t read.
“Perhaps,” he said. “But it will require more than wishful thinking and peppermint schnapps. Something is wrong here.”
“Here as in… my shop?”
“Here as in this place. This town.” He gestured vaguely towards the window. “The season is… unbalanced.”
