Page 15 of Never Kiss a Krampus
“Unbalanced how?”
“I cannot fully articulate it in terms you would understand.” His brow furrowed, clearly frustrated. “The magic that governs Yuletide, that calls me forth each year—it is diminished here. Like a hearth fire that has burned too long without tending.”
I thought about Main Street, about the half-hearted decorations and the empty storefronts. About Mrs. Haversham’s sad smile when she’d talked about how the town used to be. He wasn’t wrong, but I wasn’t going to give up.
I moved to the counter and started the morning routine—turning on additional lights, adjusting displays, checking the cash register. “My grandmother built this place from nothing. She made it a home for anyone who needed a little Christmas magic, any time of year. I can’t let it die.”
“Why?”
The question stopped me cold. “What do you mean, why? I just told you?—”
“You told me what your grandmother built. Not why you are so desperate to preserve it.” He moved through the shop, examining ornaments and decorations with the same critical eye he’d used in my apartment. “What is your stake in this, beyond obligation to a ghost?”
“It’s not just obligation,” I said, defensive. “I love this place. I love what it represents.”
“And what does it represent?”
“Hope. Joy. The belief that magic still exists in the world, even if it’s just the magic of finding the perfect gift or making someone smile.” I straightened a display of hand-painted nutcrackers, my hands trembling slightly. “My grandmother used to say that Christmas wasn’t about the day. It was about the feeling. The possibility that things could be better, kinder, more beautiful. This shop is that feeling, made tangible.”
He picked up one of the nutcrackers—a small wooden soldier with a crooked smile and slightly misaligned eyes. “This is flawed.”
“It’s handmade. Mrs. Taylor makes them in her garage. They’re not perfect, but they’re made with love.”
“Love,” he repeated, as if the word tasted strange in his mouth. “Humans place great value on this emotion.”
“Don’t you?”
“I am not human.” He set the nutcracker down carefully. “I am a force of balance. Of consequence. Love is… irrelevant to my purpose.”
There was something desperately sad about that statement, but before I could respond, the bell above the door jingled. My firstcustomer of the day stepped inside—Mrs. Carmichael, bundled in her usual purple coat and carrying a plate of cookies topped with a bow.
“Noelle, dear, I brought you—” She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes going wide as she took in Bastian’s considerable presence. “Oh. My.”
I rushed forward. “Mrs. Carmichael! Your ornament is ready, let me just?—”
“Who is your friend?”
“Mrs. Carmichael, this is… Bastian. He’s a… consultant. For the shop.”
“A consultant,” Mrs. Carmichael repeated, her gaze traveling from his horns to his hooves and back again. “How wonderfully unconventional.”
Bastian inclined his head slightly. “Madam.”
“Oh, he has manners too. How refreshing.” She set the plate of cookies on the counter and patted my hand. “I’m glad you’re getting help, dear. The shop deserves it.”
And just like that, she was examining the new consignment display as if there wasn’t a seven-foot-tall horned creature standing in the middle of the shop.
I looked at Bastian, who looked at me, and I could have sworn I saw amusement flicker in those burning eyes.
This is going to be a long ten days, I thought.
His voice echoed in my mind, not quite telepathy but something close:Indeed it is.
“I’ll just get your ornament,” I muttered, and fled to the back of the shop to grab the custom ornament I’d made for her—a delicate glass sphere with her late husband’s favorite fishing spot painted inside. When I returned, she was still browsing peacefully and Bastian was still standing exactly where I’d left him. I did my best to ignore him as I turned to Mrs. Carmichael.
“Here you go, exactly as you requested.”
She took the ornament, her expression softening as she examined it. “Oh, Noelle. It’s perfect. Edward would have loved this.”
