Chapter 5
Itrudged down the stairs to find Bastian standing in my living room, taking up an absurd amount of space, his horns nearly touching the ceiling. He was examining my Christmas decorations with an expression that somehow managed to be both disdainful and fascinated.
“You are… committed to a theme.”
Jingle Bells, who had been dozing on the back of the sofa, sat up at the sound of Bastian’s voice, his white fur bristling. He let out a long, mournful yowl, his eyes wide with a terror I completely understood.
“Oh, hey, Jingles,” I said in my most soothing, ‘you’re-a-good-boy-and-not-about-to-be-eaten’ voice. “This is Bastian. He’s staying with us for a little while.”
The cat’s yowl escalated into a furious hiss. He arched his back, looking like a furry, angry crescent moon, and then bolted from the room, a white streak of pure indignation disappearing into my bedroom.
“Wise creature,” Bastian said calmly, still surveying my living room with the same critical air he’d used in the attic. “Plastic,” he added, touching a string of lights. “You decorate with plastic.”
“It’s affordable and festive.”
“It is an abomination.” He moved to my tree—my beautiful, if slightly lopsided, tree—and studied it with the intensity of an art critic at a gallery. “No soul. No magic. Just manufactured cheer in convenient, disposable packages.”
“Some of us can’t afford hand-carved German ornaments,” I snapped defensively. “Some of us work with what we have.”
He turned those burning eyes on me. “Yes. I am beginning to see that.”
I couldn’t tell if it was an insult or an observation. Possibly both.
“If you’re going to stay here, we need ground rules,” I said, trying to regain some semblance of control over the situation. “No scaring customers. No judging me out loud in public. No… whatever it is you do to punish people.”
“I drag the wicked to the underworld and leave them to contemplate their sins until they are ready for redemption.”
I stared at him. “That’s a joke, right?”
“It is tradition.”
“We’re going to need a lot of ground rules.” I moved to the kitchen, needing something to do with my hands. “Do you eat? Drink? Sleep?”
“I require sustenance, yes. Though not the same kind as you.”
“What kind, then?”
“Fear. Shame. The tears of the guilty.” He paused. “Also bread. Good bread, not the processed foam you placed in the offering bowl.”
“I’ll add artisanal bread to the shopping list, right under ‘explain demonic house guest to neighbors.’” I filled a mug with water and drank it down, trying to dilute the schnapps still fuzzing my brain. “This is insane. This whole thing is insane.”
“You performed the ritual.”
“I know I performed the ritual!” I set the mug down harder than necessary.
“I was desperate and drunk and stupid, and now I have a Krampus in my living room telling me he’s going to judge whether I deserve to keep my shop or lose everything my grandmother built.
Forgive me if I’m having trouble processing. ”
Before he could respond, my phone buzzed and I grabbed it, my heart pounding. A text from my mother. She tended to forget the three hour time difference between the coasts.
Honey, did you get the email I forwarded about that management position at the department store in the city? The benefits package is excellent. We’re worried about you.
I groaned and rested my forehead against the cool granite of the countertop.
Of course they were worried. They’d been worried since I’d inherited the shop.
Worried that I was throwing away my business degree.
Worried that I was wasting my life in a town that was dying.
Worried that their daughter was a failure.
And maybe I was. Maybe Mr. Grinchly was right. Maybe I was just stubborn.
“Worried?” Bastian’s deep voice was right behind me. I jumped, spinning around to find him looming over me, closer than I’d realized.
“You’re too close,” I squeaked, backing into the counter.
“The binding,” he said, not moving. “It creates a certain pull. A desire to be near the source.” He gestured in my direction. “To you.”
The warmth spreading through me at his proximity had nothing to do with the schnapps. It was a dangerous, unsettling awareness, like standing too close to a fire. “My mother is worried,” I said, shoving my phone back into my pocket. “She thinks I should sell the shop and get a real job.”
“She is not wrong to be concerned.” His gaze flickered to the window, and for the first time, I saw something other than disdain in his expression. Curiosity, maybe. “This street. This town. It is… fading.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. That’s why I need help.”
He moved closer, and I forced myself not to retreat. He studied my face with unsettling focus, and I wondered what he saw there. Fear, definitely. Exhaustion, probably. Maybe a little bit of hysteria bubbling just under the surface.
“You are afraid,” he said.
“Of course I’m afraid. You’re terrifying.”
“Not of me. Of failure. Of being found wanting.” His expression softened slightly—or at least I thought it did. It was hard to read emotions on a face covered in fur with literal horns. “That fear will serve you well in the days to come. It will keep you honest.”
“I’m always honest.”
“We shall see.” He turned away, examining my bookshelf now. “Ten days, Noelle Green. Ten days to prove your worth. I suggest you begin by sobering up and getting some sleep. Tomorrow, your judgment truly begins.”
I turned away from him, needing a moment to process this absolute disaster. How had I gone from trying to save my shop from bankruptcy to hosting an ancient supernatural being in my one-bedroom apartment?
One bedroom.
The realization hit me like a freight train loaded with fruitcake.
“Where exactly do you plan to stay?” I asked, though I already knew the answer, already felt it settling in my bones like the chill that had followed him from my attic.
“Here, of course.”
Of course he is.
“I mean, umm, where are you going to sleep?”
“I do not sleep as you do. I will remain here and observe your dwelling.”
The idea of him prowling around my apartment while I slept should have been terrifying. It was terrifying. But I was also exhausted, wrung out from fear and schnapps and the sheer impossibility of the last hour.
“Don’t break anything,” I said weakly. “And don’t… I don’t know, drag any souls to the underworld while I’m unconscious.”
“I make no promises.”
I couldn’t tell if he was joking.
I retreated to my bedroom, closing the door and leaning against it. My heart was still racing, my hands still shaking. Through the door, I could hear the soft jingle of chains as he moved through my living room, exploring my space, judging my life by the trinkets and decorations I’d chosen.
My cat was huddled under the bed, a white, trembling mound of pure feline betrayal.
“It’s okay, baby,” I whispered, crouching down. “He’s just… very tall. And furry. And he has horns.” The list of Bastian’s alarming features did not seem to be having a calming effect. “But he’s bound by ancient magic to be here. So he can’t hurt you. Or me. Probably.”
Another shiver that was not entirely fear went down my spine.
Ignoring it, I reached under the bed and stroked Jingle’s soft fur.
After a moment, he stopped trembling and allowed a tentative purr to rumble in his chest. A small victory.
I sat on the floor, leaning against the bed frame, and tried to process the events of the last hour.
This was real. This was actually happening. I’d summoned a Krampus, and he was going to spend the next ten days deciding if I deserved saving or condemnation. I looked at my bed, piled with festive throw pillows and draped with fairy lights, and wondered if I’d ever feel safe in my own home again.
Through the door came his voice, low and rumbling. “Your thoughts are loud, little human. Sleep. You will need your strength.”
“Can you hear my thoughts?” I called back, horrified.
“Only the loudest ones. The binding works both ways, remember.”
Great. Wonderful. I’d summoned a mind-reading Christmas demon.
I climbed into bed fully clothed, pulling the covers up to my chin. The fairy lights cast gentle shadows on the ceiling, and I focused on them, trying to calm my racing heart.
Tomorrow, I’d figure out how to deal with this. Tomorrow, I’d come up with a plan. Tomorrow, I’d prove to Bastian that I was worthy of the aid I’d asked for. Tonight, I just needed to survive until morning.
The last thing I heard before exhaustion finally claimed me was the soft jingle of chains and a low voice speaking words I didn’t understand, in a language older than English, older than Christmas, older than anything I could comprehend.
And despite everything, despite the terror and the impossibility, I felt strangely safe.
Which was probably the most concerning thing of all.