Chapter 6
Iwoke to the smell of coffee.
For one blissful, confused moment, I thought last night had been a fever dream induced by too much peppermint schnapps and holiday stress. Then I remembered the attic. The ritual. The circle of salt and the being who’d emerged from smoke and shadow.
The being who was apparently making coffee in my kitchen.
The shop.
I scrambled out of bed, still wearing yesterday’s clothes, and yanked open my bedroom door.
Bastian stood in my kitchen, looking impossibly large next to my small stove.
“You made coffee,” I said stupidly.
“You require it to function. The binding made that abundantly clear.” He gestured to the counter, where a steaming mug sat waiting. “I took the liberty of preparing it to your preferences. Three sugars, excessive cream, a sprinkle of cinnamon.”
I picked up the mug with trembling hands. It was perfect. Exactly how I liked it. The knowledge that he knew that—that the binding had told him that—made something twist in my chest.
“Thank you,” I said, because manners were important even when dealing with ancient supernatural beings.
“Do not thank me yet. You are late opening your shop.”
“I know, I—” I paused. “How do you know about my schedule?”
“The binding,” he said again, as if that explained everything. “I am aware of your routines, your obligations, your small rituals. Just as you will become aware of mine.”
“I don’t think I want to know your rituals.”
“Wise.” He moved past me towards the living room, and I caught that scent again—smoke and winter and spices. “You should change. You slept in your clothes.”
I looked down at my rumpled hoodie and yoga pants. “I was tired.”
“You were drunk and terrified.”
“That too.” I took a long sip of coffee, letting the warmth settle in my stomach. “Are you going to follow me to the shop?”
“I must. The binding requires proximity. Any distance greater than the span of your building will cause discomfort.”
“How much discomfort?”
“Enough that you will not wish to test it.” He settled onto my couch—or tried to. His bulk made the poor thing creak alarmingly. “I will remain here while you prepare. But make haste. The day is wasting, and there is much to observe.”
I wanted to argue, to tell him that I didn’t need observing, that I was perfectly capable of running my shop without demonic supervision. But I was also acutely aware that I’d summoned him precisely because I wasn’t capable. Because I was failing.
The truth of that stung more than I wanted to admit.
I didn’t have time for a shower, but I washed my face and brushed my teeth, then changed quickly, throwing on a festive red sweater with embroidered penguins and my favorite pair of jeans.
I braided my hair and added a ribbon—green today, to match my last name—and tried to make myself look less like someone who’d accidentally summoned a supernatural being while drunk.
When I emerged, Bastian was still on the couch, but now he was reading one of my books. A Christmas Carol, naturally.
“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.”
“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 first customer 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.”
“I’m so glad.” I gently guided her towards the register. “And I added a little extra detail—see the fishing line? It has actual silk thread.”
We completed the transaction quickly, Mrs. Carmichael chattering about her grandchildren’s visit for the holidays. The whole time, I could feel Bastian watching us.
My judgment had begun.