Chapter Eighteen December Second
Pine Ridge, New York
Imogene spends the morning in bed, with Laurel sleeping on her chest. When Laurel moves, Immy’s hands curl around her protectively. When my phone buzzes, Imogene puts up her hand, a block.
My heart breaks.
The house is perfect. You’d never know anything went wrong. No blood. No gouges. New doors. Mr. Wickstaff said he’d pay for it. His insurance covers it.
No police show up. There are no suspicious holes in the yard.
Everything seems normal. Even Imogene’s arms and hands look better. There are just some faint lines and bruises.
I don't know if that's because of krampus healing, but I don’t want to ask Imogene. I feel like that word might cause some stress, and I hate that, because I don’t think you should lump a whole group together based on the actions of a few. Or even the majority.
At noon, Imogene is awake, somber, and eating eggs while feeding Laurel a bottle. “We can try rice cereal soon. The baby books say so,” she murmurs.
“Da! Mama!” Laurel announces around a nipple.
I stop at the foot of the bed.
Imogene looks like the weight of last night was magically lifted. “Mama?” she whispers.
“Mama mamamama.” Laurel’s sweet coo turns into a string of mms and aahs. It’s utterly adorable.
“She said Mama. To you. She knows who her mother is.” I beam and kiss both my girls.
“Mama. She said it. I’m Mama! I’m a mom.” Imogene beams and her eyes fill for the hundredth time in twenty-four hours, but this time, I think they’re happy tears.
I almost suggest a celebration. I almost remind her that today’s the day we were supposed to meet Alban Wymark to take care of marriage license stuff. But I don’t. “You sure are.”
Imogene sits up higher in the bed. “I heard a car pull up.”
I peer out the window. “I think that’s Tessa. I’ll go.”
IT IS TESSA. AND ALBAN, and Mr. Minegold, who dashes into the house under a wide-brimmed fedora and his long black frock coat with the velvet collar turned up to shade him from the watery December sun.
“We’re here with information—and a grasshopper pie from the River House. We heard about the dinner that wasn’t to be. Has she eaten at all?”
“Eggs and toast. Laurel said ‘Mama,’ today,” I welcome them in with a confused smile. “Thank you for the pie.”
Alban Wymark pats my shoulder. “Can we see her? It’s important that she knows she isn’t alone.”
“And I want to talk about the wards.” Tessa winces. “I don’t know what you must think of us, but I promise we did do our best. If we’d known where he was—”
“Ah, and that ties into what I have to say as well!” Mr. Minegold raises one slender finger. “May we see her?”
I WANT TO CURL UP AND hide. I’m not a hero. I don’t feel like the victim. I just feel... broken. Unsafe in my safe place, and my happiness is fractured. I guess I’m afraid of what happens next.
Mr. Minegold, Tessa, and Alban all hug me, and something warm and rich coats my heart and soul.
The outpouring of concern, of physical affection and touch, is alien.
And I’ve been “bad.” That’s when Barton would scream the most, then lock me in my room, or ignore me more than usual.
I guess my mind isn’t sure what happens when I feel bad, but then don’t get “punished” in some way.
“This is all our fault. Well, half our fault!” Tessa cries, squeezing me hard. “Those wards should have worked.”
“Ah, Tessa, that is what I have been researching. As you know, I’ve been trying to find a few old friends I had back in Europe who were krampuses or krampusse, if you want to use the German plural, and it’s been a very long time.
I was finally able to get hold of Hilda’s sons last night, and they had much to tell me—they also wanted you to know, Imogene, that they were horrified that you met Blase, and that he doesn’t represent modern krampuses.
They gave me their emails and phone numbers.
You can contact them anytime. One will be visiting in the new year, and he’d love to meet you and the little one. ”
I nod in a daze. “Good krampus?” I murmur, feeling as shy and awkward as I did on the day of my escape from Barton and my old life.
Mr. Minegold nods as we all sit in the living room.
“Let’s go over a bit of what they told me first, and then how it goes along with Tessa’s wards, which are excellent.
” He gives the redheaded witch a reassuring glance.
“Blase is a member of a sect of Bavarian krampuses who are what we would call extremists. Purists. Their numbers are dwindling as more and more krampuses meet and mingle with humans and learn that there are other ways to instill order and discipline in those that need reform. Krampuses are drawn to order and eliminating what is flawed. Some legends say the first of their kind were dark, demonic demi-mortals, a counterpart to Saint Nicholas, instilled with a hellish delight in punishment. Over time, most enlightened ones have realized that acting like murderous demons and killing children puts evil into society, and that’s the opposite of their intention, as in those barbaric acts should be punished.
But the purists and extremists believe humans are inferior, that they deserve to be hunted, and that Krampusnacht is a ritualistic night of hunting and sacrifice.
Members of this sect kidnap and kill children, and they also ‘punish’ adults.
In the modern world, when an adult goes missing, they’re often easily traced, and no one believes they’ve just ‘run away from home,’ so they have to be creative.
This idea of seducing a ‘bad’ woman and then having her give birth to a half-krampus child is a favorite way to bring shame and humiliation, and eventual madness.
When one of these purists finds a human they like, they bring them back to live with them in their colonies—deep underground places scattered through Bavaria and a few other parts of Europe.
But, those humans are basically servants or pets, and the children they produce are regarded as trophies, proof of a human’s submission to the superior krampus. ”
I nod. “Blase said something like that.”
“Most krampuses now live in the modern world, and they prize order and goodness, and try to find careers where they can eradicate those in need of punishment in legal ways, or to correct the ‘naughty’ before they become adults. An astounding number of krampuses work in education, social services, and law enforcement, apparently.” Mr. Minegold smiles and reaches out to gently pat my hand.
“You can correct with love and guidance. With your gentle nature, Imogene, I could see you being a loving, nurturing mother or teacher. Children would aspire to be good around you, to earn your approval and praise. A stern look from you would rebuke them better than any whips or chains.”
“So, Blase was in one of these extremist sects. Why was he here?” Artie demands, scooting me closer to him on the couch.
“Krampusnacht is becoming popular around the world, but it is all in revelry. People are in costumes, dressing up, shaking bells, dancing... These purists despise that. They send members to areas where there are big Krampusnacht festivities to wreak havoc and take captives, to find and bed women to make more besch?mtenmannskind. That translates to ‘shamed-man’s child.’ What’s more, the women who fall victim to this seduction and subsequent shame begin to go mad.
The only cure? To be taken in by the krampus who bedded her and serve him. They increase their ranks in this way.”
“But why do they even need humans?” I whisper. “They don’t like them.”
“Because most krampuses refuse to have anything to do with these bastards any longer,” Mr. Wymark pipes up. “Without some humans in the mix, this sect will die out. And since most people wouldn’t willingly enter into a partnership with a creature who hates their kind, trickery is used.”
“Trickery and the krampus’s peculiar power. You might wonder why, in this day of airline travel and oblivious humans, a krampus would arrive in New York weeks ahead of Krampusnacht.”
“It’s expensive to fly without a reservation?” Artie hazards. “No, no. I guess since it’s the same night every year, they could make reservations months in advance.”
“Hunting their prey. Once a krampus chooses a child or human adult as a target, he can always find them. It’s like the homing instinct certain birds and animals have, a sick form of imprinting mixed with an uncanny ability to find whoever they’ve chosen as prey.”
I shiver, but Tessa’s jaw drops open. “What?”
Mr. Minegold nods. “Your wards did an amazing job keeping him at bay for days, Tessa. But as Krampusnacht approaches, the wards grow weaker, and they were already set to allow half-krampuses in. A very strong krampus with magical access to Imogene, combined with the closeness of the day... He was probably just waiting for the wards on the house to weaken when someone went in or out to make his move.”
“It is my fault! I never should have left the house!” Artie wails.
“Babe, we were all going out together,” I point out, jiggling Laurel on my knee.
“And he would have fought you inside or outside, as soon as he had the chance. Don’t blame yourself, Arthur.
And Tess, you are not to blame, either. If you had directly placed wards or binding spells on Blase himself, it would have worked—and that’s why he remained hidden until he was ready to strike.
And now that we know more about how krampuses who still cling to the old, evil ways act, we can offer different protections, can we not? ”
Tessa thinks, then snaps her fingers. “Untraceable Charms. Binding the inner eye of the hunter and proactively putting untraceable charms on people that could be prey will help. Well. I guess the coven will be working overtime this holiday season—just in case.”